Jerusalem: My very first ever air travel was pre 1967 when half of Jerusalem was part of Jordan and it had its own little international airport. I was a thin and lanky teenager whose idea of travel did not extend beyond car or bus rides between local towns and villages. One day, my father decided I should go and visit my brother who was at university in Egypt. I was both excited and apprehensive as in those days air travel was the exclusive domain of the rich, famous, diplomats and very senior government figures. The build up to the trip was excitement enough not just for me but the entire family and circle of acquaintances in our town. In fact I had a convoy of cars accompany me to Jerusalem Qalandiya Airport. I was treated like a celebrity and I thought I finally claimed my rightful place amongst the glamour set!
This story however mostly concerns my father who throughout his life had elevated the art of dominance to new heights. Just as he decided I was going to visit my brother, to which I was grateful, he also decided what I should take for him by way of presents, including an extra stipend to cover the cost of entertaining me for a few days. Most of what he decided I should take was “reasonable”, cash in US Dollars, which I had to hide carefully from would be thieves and Egyptian authorities, warm clothes, socks, underwear, sweets, a variety of roasted nuts, and finally, olive oil! Not a bottle, not a litre, but a large cubic can that took at least TEN litres in volume.
There were two problems to overcome. Firstly, it was illegal to carry combustible substances such as olive oil. Setting aside legal technicalities, father overcame that little problem by wrapping the can as though it was a box of baklava and since the wrapping paper he used was requisitioned from a baklava store, it logically followed, to his way of thinking, that the contents of the package were indeed baklava. The second problem was where to fit the container since my suitcase was by now bulging with my own clothes and the presents he had accumulated over the previous days, it was not possible to fit the olive oil in the suitcase. Finally, he hit on the brilliant idea that I would take the package as a “carry on” item.
First, he tied a string round the package for me to lift it with. Three new problems arose: the package was so heavy, the string sliced through my young skin; my arm stretched a couple of centimetres as a result and finally; the string broke a number of times while we were experimenting. Now getting frustrated but not beaten, my father applied further logic to the matter.
Father (rhetorical): Look, who carries a box of baklava by a string? They carry it in both hands or under their arm
Me: But this is not baklava, it is heavy olive oil
Father: Don’t be stupid, it is baklava and that’s what you have to claim
Me: Claim to whom?
Father: Never mind that, just do as you are told
Me: I can’t carry it in both hands and walk; I might fall over
Father (reasonably): No, of course not son. You carry it under your arm, like this
Me (trying his latest suggestion): Oh, it hurts so much!
Father: Don’t be a girl, every time your arm hurts, just swap it round to the other arm
Me: It will not work! I don’t want to go to Egypt, send someone else
Father: Shut up! You will go to Egypt and enjoy yourself you ungrateful, ill-mannered donkey.
I did not dare point out that had I been a donkey, polite or otherwise, the problem would not have arisen, as the donkey would have carried the olive oil without much trouble.
The day of departure arrived and I was driven to the airport by my father with a retinue of half the neighbourhood who wanted to be splashed by glamour, albeit through being associated with a thin pre-pubescent boy who was more concerned about the heavy lifting ahead than enjoying a once in a lifetime experience of travelling to Egypt.
Check-in was basic, no security in those days and people (passengers and well wishers) walked up to the plane steps to say their farewells. My suitcase was taken away and my father used both of his beefy arms to retrieve the dreaded olive oil can from the boot of the car and positioned it under my stronger left arm. His parting words to me were as follows:
“Walk as though you are carrying a light box of baklava or I will break your head, God be with you”.
Not wishing my head or any other part of my anatomy to be broken, I tried to walk with a swagger of someone who is carrying a balloon under his arm. I walked up the stairs leading to the plane and by the third step I was convinced my arm would fall off before I reached the top of the stairs. By the time I reached my seat, I had swapped the damn container between arms about 7 times, thus rendering both arms paralysed for the duration of the flight. I have no idea how I managed to eat the in-flight food I was served.
Cairo Airport presented a different challenge. It was big, very big! I had to carry the consignment of olive oil through immigration and customs, I had to retrieve my suitcase and I had to walk out with one suitcase in one arm and the olive oil under the other arm. So, swapping the two items between arms only changed the muscle group fatigue I was suffering, rather than provide temporary relief to either arm. After many, many stops and heavy item swaps, I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life as a paraplegic person who had to learn to eat with his foot. I finally emerged into the hall where eager welcomers were waiting. When I finally saw my brother, I dropped my two heavy items on the floor and refused to have anything to do with them thereafter.
My time in Egypt was a memorable experience and I had a great time with my big brother but, all the time I was there and for weeks thereafter I had excruciating pain in both my arms, which somewhat diminished the positive image I had of my virgin flight.
To this day, I hate carrying stuff, any stuff.
