It’s a Small World (But I Should Not Wish To Paint It!)

There was a time, as I recall, when the world was still being shaped by volcanoes erupting everywhere so that the air smelt of sulphur and burnt rock; asteroids and meteors crashed into the Earth’s crust creating more dust that shielded us from the blistering rays of the sun’s heat.

The atmosphere was mostly carbon dioxide that shimmered, when the sun could be seen, in vast waves of distortion—heat that, for the most part, came off the ground.

That ground was barren, rocky and water free. Everything was dry and arid

I, too, was young then—just in my mid-fifties, my formative years. But my time in Sudan had come to an end and I returned to the cold, sub-arctic, conditions of Scotland.

The poverty in Sudan has been mentioned in a ‘Blog’ previously so we shall not belabour that point again; perhaps because it is, even now, quite a painful recollection.

There were other things, odd things, that were in Sudan that deserve a mention including one odd thing that has recently been repeated. Something that made my head turn inside out.

Let us set the scene.

While working in Khartoum, Sudan, I had occasion to wander around during the weekends to view various places and sample the local cuisine.

Our hotel was the Hilton at (al-)Moghran, which means ‘The Confluence’. Indeed, it is where the White Nile and the Blue Nile join forces and advance towards Egypt as ‘The Nile’.

The very first weekend after arriving there, I set off to have a look at this ‘joining of the rivers’ because I had heard that the two waters do not mix for a very long stretch.

On arriving at the bridge over the Nile I was greeted by a small soldier in a big uniform carrying an AK47 assault rifle.

He made me understand that there would be no taking of photographs or my camera would be confiscated.

Apart from the fact that I wasn’t carrying a camera there was just the tiniest principle that we, the British, had built the bridge and that the plans were, very likely, extant in London somewhere so the prohibition on me taking photographs was somewhat pointless.

This concept was wasted on the soldier, whose English was limited to ‘Halt’, so I returned to the hotel to get my camera and wallet in order to get a bus into Omdurman.

The following Friday I was invited by a couple of my stalwart students—Abdurrazeem and Mutaz, to go to the Masjid in South Khartoum for Friday prayers.

The Masjid (Mosque) we attended was way out in the wilds somewhere. A great drive through the countryside and flocks of goats and people.

Always poverty.

On arrival, the Masjid was plain. Nothing hugely decorative about it, just blank sandstone surrounded by a wall.

An old man came to me, introduced himself and said that he would be my interpreter. How kind. He looked old enough to have known Abraham personally but he was a lovely person who dropped me deep into trouble later*!

While we were chatting a person of Pakistani origins approached us. He spoke to me.

“Name?” he said.

“David Leyman,” I replied.

He frowned and walked off, back to a group of fellow Pakistanis. All of whom, it was explained, lived here in the Masjid quarters.

A few minutes later he returned.

“Naim?” he asked.

“It is still David,” I assured him.

The old man interceded to ask the Pakistani why he wanted my name. There was a lengthy conversation that resulted in the old man telling me that my name was not the query. I was being asked if I knew ‘Naim’ (Naa-eem).

Further information revealed that this Naim person was a long-time school friend of the Sudan based Pakistani who had recently travelled to Scotland.

I tried to explain that Scotland was, as places go, not very big but that I do not know everyone there. The response was that Naim had gone to Dundee.

Light bulb goes on in my head.

“Is he,” I wanted to know, “the Ustaz [Teacher] at the Masjid in Alexander Street?”

“Yes, Yes! That’s it,” uttered with great joy.

“I know him well,” I told the Pakistani fellow, “He is teaching my son and I how to read the Qr’an in Arabic.”

Travelled all the way to Khartoum to meet a Pakistani from Lahore who was a school friend with my teacher in Dundee, Scotland!

Sometimes you just have to wonder!

Just now I mentioned Egypt. It is the place where the two Niles, in concert, flow to in order to spread water for agriculture and horticulture.

My neighbour, here in Kuala Lumpur, is a splendid fellow from Egypt. He is called Ali, his wife—a sweet lady, is called Fatimah.

He does not live here all the time, rather he holidays here in the house he has bought beside mine. He is chatty, witty, intelligent and, therefore, great company.

Today I met him for the first time following his return to these shores yesterday. We chatted, as you do, outside the gate under the trees where there is a light breeze and shade.

I explained to him that I have sent many e-mails to him because we were concerned for them following the recent troubles in Egypt; there had been no reply—fuelling our concerns.

“Oh, no,” he told me, “We are perfectly safe. It is that we have moved to Karachi in Pakistan so we have been out of contact for a while.”

“Karachi? I have a friend from here who works in Karachi. He is called Saffian.”

“Yes, Saffian,” Ali tells me, nodding, “He is from near here—Wangsa Maju.”

My brain started to gel into something like sago pudding.

“Are we talking about the same Saffian? His wife is Juliana?”

“Indeed,” he says, “He is coming here soon—December, probably, because his daughter is getting married. He is my colleague at work in the Karachi office.”

And so. An Egyptian neighbour of mine, now living in Malaysia, moves to Karachi in Pakistan and works with a friend of mine from two miles away from here in Kuala Lumpur.

Unbelievable.

Does this happen to everyone?

[* See next 'Blog'!]