Papa's Raising Sultans...

Vit has just written a post on family trees and illustrated how hard it is to unravel branches and roots, etc...
I really do admire all those people who spend long years in libraries and record offices, meticulously sifting through mindnumbing archives in an attempt to trace their ancestry.

The BBC's popular series "Who do you think you are?" prompted many viewers to begin their own dig.

A few months ago, when I phoned him to enquire about the price of eggs in Algeria and how he was keeping, Papa, in his infinite wisdom calmly claimed:
"We are descendants of the last Sultan of Granada, you know!"
I was truly taken aback. Papa does not drink and he is a very rational man. It usually takes him days to mull over an idea before saying anything.
He is the kind of guy who would spend hours and days trying to repair a watch, stowing it the bathroom cabinet for months "just in case" before finally admitting defeat and discarding it.

I put his fantastic claim down to his 86 years and tried to humour him.
"I am telling you it's true! Why don't you check on your computer?"
What is the world coming to? Papa has heard of computers!

As soon as I got off the phone, I Googled and found out that our family name and that of this Moorish Sultan are uncannily close but for a spelling variation.

It sounds absolutely outlandish but could Papa be right?
Come to think of it, didn't the Alhambra car park attendant direct me to a well shaded spot when I visited in February?

But perhaps I should keep quiet about this... While Googling I came across a fundamentalist website blaming the Sultan for the fall of Andalucia and the demise of the Moors...

Could this be my new abode?

























Papa is 87 on Saturday!


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Papa's colourful languages...

When I young, Papa often reeled the few German words he knew to coax into eating our meals: "Come on, Kartoffeln are good for you!"

During the Second World War, after the Allied landings in North Africa, our quiet town was swamped with foreign soldiers. Being close to the Tunisian border, our local French military hospital housed injured soldiers and among them a few Germans and Italians. One of these, Papa recalled, was a Wehrmacht soldier who had been wounded around Bizerte and brought back as prisoner of war.
Fritz spent months convalescing in Papa's ward and a cautious friendship developed between them. Papa found a stray kitten to keep Fritz company. He sometimes gave him fruit and vegetables from our farm.
Papa also tried to teach him a little French and in turn tried to learn a few German words. They sadly lost touch with each other after Fritz was moved to a secure prison camp.

Then the American GI's came through our town on their way to Tunisia and Sicily. The locals often reminisce about these giant soldiers who doled out chewing gum and chocolate bars to the cheering swarms of children who followed the jeeps bare feet across town.

A few years ago Papa came over to visit me in the UK after my mother passed away. He spent most of his time alone in the garden, probably thinking of my mother.
But one day, after lunch, as we sat at the dining table while my wife prepared the coffee, Papa scratched his head and tried to remember the few English words he had picked up during the war.

"Ha mucha dates?"
"Ha mucha oranges?” He mumbled in a funny Texan accent.
He explained that the GI's had often stopped to buy fresh produce from his fruiterer friend.

He sat there scratching his head, screwing his face, trying to dredge up buried memories. All of a sudden his eyes lit up "I know how to say "Go away" in American, you know!"

Before I could stop him he shouted: "Fuck off!" just as Karen walked into the dining room.

Tiny miracles...

What is it that makes us want to cage birds?


For a time Papa kept budgies, bred them and often gifted them to friends and relatives. The birds were his pride and joy. Their cages were like Arabian palaces with the latest in birdbaths, feeders and perches. If you saw this hardened war veteran on his knees, poking his finger between the bars to be gently pecked, cooing like a baby to his feathered progeniture, awaiting a response and imagining one...

At night he brought them off the balcony into the warmth of the bathroom.
Every morning before work he wedged fresh lettuce leaves between the rails, changed the water and delicately blew away the empty husks from the seed trays.

One morning, Papa walked into the bathroom and awoke us with a heartbreaking wail.
All his beloved budgies lay dead at the bottom of the cages.
The cause, we later found out, was a bottle of antiseptic that had fallen out of the medicine cabinet during the night and smashed on the tiled floor, unleashing its deadly fumes on the helpless creatures.

Papa cleaned out the cages and gave them away. He never kept budgies again.

When I went to see him last year, Papa had acquired a couple of canaries which he knew by name.
Every evening he let them out their cage to fly freely around the room. They soared and fluttered until their tiny wings could no longer keep them up and then they came to land on this shoulder or outstretched hand.
Papa looked at me and winked, meaning:
"Son, you've just witnessed a "miracle".



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Wild life...

A few years ago, Papa was driving me to the airport in his old Citroën to catch a plane to Algiers and then England.
At 75 he still drove very adeptly, having spent most of his working life on the road as an ambulance driver. He was doing around 100 km per hour on a familiar road, listening to an imam reciting Koranic verses and nonchalantly giving me a wink each time he expertly avoided a head-on collision with an oncoming juggernaut.
The road to the airport is full of twists and turns, dips and humps but Papa kept pointing out the scenery.
“Have you got pine forests like this in England?”
“Wild flowers like these?”
“Can you smell the wild spearmint, eh? Do you have spearmint in England?”

All of a sudden a black shape jumped in front of the car. Papa slammed the brakes. Screech...Too late... Thump!!!

“Bismillah! In the name of God! Why? Why?”
I asked Papa what it was.
“Khanzeer!”
“A pig? I haven’t seen a pig since the French left Algeria in 1962!”
“A wild pig, I mean! A boar!”

We got out of the car and in front of it lay a baby wild boar. No sign of life or blood.
Papa checked his dented front bumper and cursed Satan.
“This must be a bad omen. I’m not sure you should get on that plane!”
I dismissed the episode as a simple accident but he went on mumbling.

“Qu’est-ce qui c'est passé?” A voice enquired. I turned round and recognised a French lecturer who taught at the local college. He had parked his car behind Papa’s and got out to see what happened.

“Papa a tué un marcassin!” Papa has killed a baby boar.
“I did not!” Papa shouted. “The bloody thing jumped in front of me!”

A second teacher got out of the car. The two picked up the animal, placed it in their car boot and drove off with the broadest of smiles.

My brother came to pick me up at Algiers airport. When I recounted the accident, he smiled and said: “Those French guys will probably be having a feast this evening!”

Any funny accidents or supersititions?

Photo: TrekEarth Laurent Vidalin.

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Memories...

Today, a friend of mine sent me the above photo.

It was taken when we were eight years old, which in old money makes it forty-six years ago!!

Being the inquisitive kind, I am sitting third from the right, leaning forward trying to fathom out how the camera worked.

Most of the kids in the class were French but for 7 of us. Well, it is not scritcly true because, Algeria at the time was considered another département français, so we too were "French".

The only difference was that our ancestors were Algerians and the others Europeans, mainly French.

It was taken during the Algerian war of independence from France which ended in July 1962. In the seven years it raged, one and half million people lost their lives and many were left maimed. Papa, who is now 86 suffered a great deal. He was arrested in 1956 for supporting the freedom fighters, sent to various concentration camps on the edge of the Sahara, then exiled from our home département for three years.

A school photo should bring back happy memories. The friend who sent me this one lives near Marseille (France).

Despite the hard times, all I can really remember is a totally idyllic childhood thanks to a wonderful mother.

More Algerian Scenes...

I think "higglety-pigglety" is an Algerian architectural style that has total disregard for urbanism!



















This is not a queue! Just men doing nothing, waiting for something to happen...















A quiet town square...















A quiet street...














A quiet street leading to the Old Mosque...



















This is not a pedestrian street!!! Eden? Definitely not!!!




















Strange building!



















The noisy mosque and Atlas mountains in the background...















The mosque between services...















Hurrying home from school...















"CLICK" on photos to enlarge them.

Papa's 85 today!

My darling Papa is 85 today! What a guy!
Papa had a hard time during the Algerian war against the French. (1954-1962)
Our farm was used as a meeting place for the Freedom fighters. The French authorities got to know about it, but although none of the fighters was caught, Papa ended up in concentration camps at the edge of the Sahara for about three years and then exiled from our "départment" for another three.
My mother, bless her soul looked after us five kids with my eldest brother's help.
When Algeria got its independence, Papa came back home. I was too young to understand what he had gone through. Seven ribs broken during interrogation, a back that is still black and blue after all these years and untold psychological trauma
He went back to his job as ambulance driver at the local hospital and worked there until his retirement.
The gentlest person I have ever had the pleasure to know, Papa has always got time for people especially children. He always keeps a supply of sweeties in his pocket to hand out to our young neighbours.
I honestly cannot recall hearing him complain about anything.
Well, actually maybe once. At the end of lunch one day he said to my mother: "You should use less oil in the cooking."

Nowadays he spends his days meditating at the local mosque* or going for gentle strolls around our small town where everyone knows and respects him.

Have a great day, mate.

*A funny anecdote


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