Aden Investigation Section
Maalla
CHUKKA BOOTS, BEGGARS AND
GOATS (and camels) 
I
had been in Aden before. On troopships to and
from the Far East.
Hazy pictures clung to
my mind of rubbish-strewn roads, goats jostling
for space with Arabs in tatty, faded gowns,
disabled beggars – and healthy ones too.
Haggling shopkeepers wearing false smiles. Not
forgetting an awesome sight – black-robed
lepers shaking hand bells to warn off the fit.
A small corner of the
canvas, I told myself as the noisy “Whispering
Giant” Bristol Britannia winged its droning
passage down the Red Sea.
Back in England, night
still cloaked the green fields as we glided
across Tawahi Bay, sparkling in the early
morning sunshine, in March 1964, to bump gently
down at Aden airport. As the aircraft captain
– a mythical figure no one ever saw –
announced, Aden time is three hours ahead of the
UK.
 The
first tangible thing to prove I had arrived came
when the plane’s doors swung open. A wave of
oven-hot air rushed into the cabin – just as
if a furnace door suddenly opened in front of
you. Off came the jacket and on went the sweat.
The passengers looked ridiculous in thick
tweeds, pinstriped suits and coloured braces.
The first Aden
serviceman to heave in sight was a RAF Movements
corporal. My eyes popped and I shook my head in
disbelief. He wore khaki drill and suede
footwear. I had met my first pair of chukka
boots. It was not long before I was wearing them
myself but I still remember my military mind
rebelling at that first encounter.
There followed an
amusing interlude. All passengers were herded
together behind locked doors in the airport
buffet. Dumb talk and wild gesticulations went
on through the windows between the
“prisoners” and those outside who had come
to greet them.
The door flew open, a
corporal of the Royal Engineers strode in and
planted himself ceremoniously behind a table. We
waited, wondering where we had gone wrong. Sighs
of relief were heard when the corporal asked for
all officers to produce their vaccination
certificates. Then it was the warrant
officers’ turn, then senior NCOs, and then
corporals followed by (I had a wide grin on my
face by then) all sappers. The prestige of the
Royal Engineers was on the line. Next came
troopers, gunners, craftsmen and finally, almost
as an afterthought, privates.
It crossed my mind that
the bloated corporal never mentioned RAF. I
doubt if any of them on the flight ever escaped
that room.
Of course, the
ridiculousness of the whole rigmarole was
highlighted by the fact that no one was allowed
out until all vaccination certificates had been
produced. I never did work out the logic of
running down the seniority list.
When freed, I tossed my
baggage aboard a Landrover and set off. Next to
the bronzed, fit-looking RAF driver, I felt as
puny and white as a shelled hard-boiled egg.
Heat wilted me; my trousers stuck to my legs and
sweat patches broke out all over my non-iron
drip-dry nylon shirt.
I learnt, unsolicited,
from the driver that I had landed at RAF
Khormaksar, the busiest RAF airfield in the
world.
Across a stretch of
muddy water on the shore of the Gulf of Aden,
Slave Island dozed in the heat. Dhows are built
there, using the same methods as used in
biblical times. Which reminds me – Aden is
reputed to be the site of the Garden of Eden.
Someone’s idea of a joke, I reckon.
Further on we sped
along the concrete canyon of Maalla, a road
lined with modern flats occupied by service
families. Aden council built modern homes for
the locals and the Arabs kept their goats in
them. More useful than people, I suppose.
 Past
Maalla, on towards Tawahi, one of Aden’s
characters had made his home in a pile of rocks
and tin sheets on the seafront, near the Mobil
petrol station. He was the knight of Aden, with
armour consisting of a punctured bucket helmet
and a rusty oil drum breastplate. Hardly a
knight in the old shining but amusing
nonetheless.
A motor-cyclist in a
white helmet and long traffic sleeves roared
past. A speed cop, explained my driver.
Considering the general malaise of Aden
residents, they were the only drivers who
speeded.
We swept round a curve,
past BP storage tanks and ran into Steamer
Point, the Aden of my memory. Plenty of goats,
listless Arabs, still some beggars; the
higgledy-piggledly shops with soiled bargains
and false-grinning owners. Stalls with bait to
persuade occasional tourists and naïve
servicemen to open their wallets. But something
was missing…what? Of course – the sound of
lepers’ bells could no longer be heard. Now
the state looked after them.
Past the Prince of
Wales pier, where tenders land ships’
passengers. Tarahyne looked new. Oblong
utilitarian barrack blocks with air-conditioners
dribbling brown stains down the walls, gaunt
boxes of married quarters, the NAAFI Mermaid
Club, rebuilt on strictly functional lines. You
can never accuse the architecture of service
buildings of being ostentatious.
 Up
and down, winding and horn-blowing at goats, the
Landrover crawled along the twisting, narrow
track to Fort Gold Mohur. Cable & Wireless,
pink and white in the sun, passed by on the
left. Across Telegraph Bay, the admiral’s
roundhouse settled down on a finger of rock
jutting into the sea.
Through a cutting
between harsh rock walls to the causeway which
looked as if it couldn’t support a dog cart
but survives anyway. Elephant bay danced and
twinkled in the strong sunshine. We skirted a
spit of crumbling lava, rolled alongside the
white sands of Gold Mohur Bay where, a hundred
yards out, porpoises played tag on the gently
heaving surface. Finally negotiating a steep,
bottom-gear slope I arrived.
I wondered what Aden,
hot, dusty, full of strange smells, stirring its
loins to claim independence, had waiting for me.
I would soon find out.
END
Mixed bag on parade
Two dangers were sunstroke and getting shot
Note:
"The primary object of an efficient police
is the prevention of crime: the next that of
detection and punishment of offenders if crime
is committed. To these ends all the efforts of
police must be directed." Sir Richard Mayne,
1829
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