JUST KEEP A BAG PACKED
A Memoir
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
One morning, when I was yet again between servants, I decided to embark on a trip to the vegetable souk to see if there were any fresh vegetables. We lived mostly on tinned everything. Nothing was date-stamped then, and rancid butter was accepted as normal. When I discovered tinned bacon, it was a red-letter day, and when it was well cooked you could hardly taste that it, too, was rancid. The driver of our Land Rover, a charming Bedouin – a bit fond of bhang, a drug derived from cannabis – spoke no English, but left me in no doubt he did not think the trip was a good idea. But we needed food. Whenever I had been driven past the souk it was always deserted apart from the stallholders, and I could think of no reason to worry. I knew the language of communication had to be Arabic, but the currency then was still Gulf rupees, with annas and pice as small denominations. My Arabic was expanding rapidly, needs must when it was important. The driver dropped me at the end of the market – four stalls in all – and climbed out looking anxious and ready to make a quick getaway. I proceeded to buy onions and potatoes, which was all there was on offer apart from a few shrivelled tomatoes. The souk was empty while the stallholder weighed things out in katis and told me the price in annas and pice. So I picked up my bags and turned to leave, and there must have been a hundred men surrounding me. Where had they come from? As I said, there was not much to do in Abu Dhabi. Then I had long blond hair, tied up because of the heat, and it seems I was the first blond ever to venture into the vegetable souk, so it was something of an event. There was no problem; they were all smiling and probably working out my value in camels or goats, and my Arabic was not up to that sort of conversation. I turned and walked to the Land Rover. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and the driver hurriedly drove off. I never had any problems with the local men. If our paths crossed in the souk, they smiled and moved aside. Their comments to each other were probably less rude that that of the average builder today.
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
Most memoirs are written by famous men—important men who have led successful lives. One hears little of their wives except a “thank you for your patience” or a dedication in the introduction. This memoir is nothing like that. I have been married for fifty-two years, but you will scarcely find a mention of my husband in this book. This is my story. It is the story of a girl who left the still-war-torn United Kingdom and entered the confusing world of the Middle East. New languages, new customs, and a quick shift from the life of a single girl in Regent’s Park to a mother with a tiny baby in an Arab village with no doctors or other facilities, not even a telephone to call home. A sense of humor was required to survive, so I hope the reader will find the story amusing.
About the Author
Edna Carr Green was born in 1934 in the North of England. Growing up during the Second World War meant life was difficult and pretty grim. There were bombings and evacuations, rationing and shortages. Education was pretty patchy, but girls were just supposed to get married. Married in 1960, her husband took her to Lebanon where she learned Arabic, then on to the Gulf where she was a founder member of the Club in Abu Dhabi, which is still flourishing. India came next for seven years, and among other things, she worked alongside local ladies in a charity shop in Calcutta. In Saigon it was the Society des Lepreux that involved her along with other minor charities. After returning to the United Kingdom, she became a Citizens Advice Bureau volunteer for several years and then did a psychotherapy course and became a Samaritan. Now she works as a volunteer for the Royal Academy and the Victoria and Albert Museum.