COMING TO CONCLUSIONS

The Autobiography of Peter Tristan Stuart

by

Gene C. McCoy

CHAPTER 14

After spending a weekend in Rome where I walked - walked - walked to visit the Sistine Chapel, La Fontana di Trevi, the Forum and Colosseum, as well as have a drink in Harry's Bar, eat fettucini in Alfredo's and sip coffee on the Via Veneto, I boarded an Alitalia plane for the three hour flight to Tripoli, Libya. It was high noon when I walked off the plane into a blinding white hot blast furnace of midsummer desert heat to enter the un air conditioned immigration and customs shed of the dilapidated Tripoli airport; it was the first of many times over the next twenty years that I would walk into hostile and xenophobic third world airports in Africa, the Middle East and Asia. I had been warned that Arab Immigration Officers, even though they might be illiterate, could lock on to an Israeli visa with the surety of radar, and that they thought all diplomats were agents of the Mossad. I waited patiently while the Libyan inspector carefully turned and examined every page of my diplomatic passport, compared the photograph to me, then, finally, brought his "ADMITTED" stamp down hard on the page; he closed the passport and pushed it toward me without a smile or any other form of recognition that I existed. I looked at the stamp; I had been admitted for seven days. The stamp included instructions that if I should wish to extend my visit, I must request permission from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs fourteen days in advance of the expiration of my current permission. A neat trick that I imagined the embassy would know how to handle.

The customs inspector was no more friendly. It is a reciprocal courtesy extended throughout the western world to admit diplomats without a physical inspection of their luggage, and when my bags arrived, I pulled them off the rack, lugged them to the customs inspector and showed him my diplomatic passport. He motioned with his hands that I should place the bags on the counter and open them.

"Diplomat," I said and pointed to the passport.

He nodded his head indicating that he understood and again with sign language told me to open the luggage. When I complied he proceeded to go through each bag like a cyclone, inspecting everything as though he suspected that I might be smuggling guns, dope or Israeli propaganda before placing his chalk mark on the side. After I managed to get the bags closed I was ready to move on to Currency Control and Health Inspection.

I have always been good about selecting the appropriate clothes for what ever occasion or role I find myself playing in life, and for this event I had dressed in a crisp Brooks Brothers-cotton khaki suit, over a fresh blue oxford cloth shirt with a predominantly red regimental striped tie. I thought I looked like a seasoned Foreign Service officer on my way to take up duty in a North African outpost. Halfway through the admissions ordeal I had removed my coat, and by the time I walked out of the customs/immigration/currency/health no man's land my shirt was wringing wet with perspiration. I was immediately surrounded by a mob of nightshirted, turbaned Arabs who waved their arms and shouted, "Hey Mister - Taxi - Hotel." I looked for some indication that I was being met, and as I pushed through the crowd a swarthy suntanned man approached me. Dressed in a white linen suit he was straight out of central casting for Casablanca.

"Mr. Stuart?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied and breathed a sigh of relief that I would not have to bargain with the shouting, arm waving mob of hustlers for a taxi.

"I'm Aristotle Cyro from the Admin Section of the American Embassy," he said and held an identity card in his left hand while offering his right to shake. "My friends and everyone in the embassy call me Tote, and this is Abdi, our driver." With a Muslim greeting gesture Abdi touched his right hand to his breast over his heart, then offered his hand before taking my bags to walk toward the door.

Tote Cyro, he pronounced his last name so that it sounded like Zero, was one of the legions of Foreign Service National employees that the State Department has around the world who make things happen. American Officers may exercise power, influence and have prestige but they come and go. FSN employees stay on, and they know who to contact in what ministry to get which stamp on whatever document, as well as a myriad of other practical details that are required to keep our embassies operating smoothly. Mike Chang had the same job as Tote in Madrid.

Tote, I would find out, was a Cairo born Greek, some forty years old; he spoke English, Greek, Arabic, French and Italian, and he knew every hotel, pension, and restaurant from Tripoli to Amman Jordan, as well as half the tradespeople, craftsmen, politicians and Civil Servants who kept the governments and economies of Libya, Egypt and Jordan functional.

Parked in a space reserved for cars with diplomatic tags, and under the watchful eye of a soldier with a machine gun hanging across his chest the embassy car was running with the air conditioning turned on. Tote and I slipped into the cool of the back seat and it was soothing to be out of the sun and heat.

"Okay, first things first," Tote said. "You have a choice as to where you want to stay. Most Americans like to stay in the BOQ on the base, but if you prefer we have a room reserved for you at the Libya Palace Hotel here in town."

"How's the hotel?" I asked.

"Good, fairly new," Tote replied.

"The hotel, then," I said. "I've spent all the time I want to spend on air bases."

Speaking Arabic Tote told Abdi, the driver, to go to the Libya Place Hotel.

"The next thing is that your assignment has been slightly changed," tote said. "Mr. McPhail in the USAID Mission will give you the details."

"Who's Mr. McPhail?" I asked.

"He's the Director of the USAID," Tote replied

. "When can I see him?"

"Anytime today, he's waiting for you," Tote replied. "Oh, by the way, after you get checked into the hotel I'll need your passport so I can get started on your visa extension. You have to work fast to beat that fourteen day requirement when the time started running a week before you arrived," he laughed.

By the end of the day Don McPhail, an ex journalist Kennedy political appointee, had briefed me on the changes in not only my job, but the status of the base agreements and the whole American foreign aid program in Libya. Feeling the flush of new oil money HMGOL (His Majesty's Government of Libya) decided that they no longer needed nor wanted foreign technical advice; under the direct orders of King Idris, just a week before my arrival, the Government unilaterally expelled all foreign technicians working for the Libyan American Joint Services (LAJS). LAJS was a hybrid Libyan - American organization created to administer the U.S. aid money received in exchange for our rights to Wheelus Air Force Base. The day after I had departed Madrid HMGOL through their embassy in Washington had notified the State Department that HMGOL wished to terminate the Base accords and under the terms of the agreements served a one year notice of intent to terminate. The base renewal negotiations had, accordingly, been scrubbed.

Our embassy in Tripoli had cabled Madrid that my TDY should be cancelled. Madrid cabled back that I had already departed. While I was sightseeing in Rome several other cables were exchanged and it was decided that I would be used to supervise two FSN Auditors with Marshall Plan experience who were being dispatched from Rome and Vienna to try and piece together, sort out and determine what had happened to the money which had been advanced to LAJS.

I was assigned a temporary office in the USAID, given a stack of files to read and told that Hans Mueller from Vienna and Bruno Cavaioli from Rome would arrive in Tripoli by the end of the week. Phyllis Jordan, an attractive young woman who was bright, but quiet and reserved, would be my part time secretary.

That night I was invited to a small staff potluck get together where everyone drank too much and groused and complained about Tripoli, Arabs, Muslims and Africa in general. Phyllis, I learned was from Pasadena, a town in California not far from my hometown of La Crescenta, and she was on the verge of resigning from the Foreign Service to go to work for the Air Force in Europe. I cornered Tote Cyro to pump him for information about how to not just survive in Tripoli, but enjoy it. One of the first things I wanted to know was where I could live besides the Hotel Libya Palace or the Wheelus BOQ.

"There's a pretty good Italian pensione run by an old colonial couple named Biagini on the Sciara Benghazi. It's clean and has good food," he said. "It handles about ten or fifteen people, mostly Italian, but a few Brits, and other Europeans, too. If you want I can check to see if he can take you."

"Sounds good," I said. "Check it out for me and if there's room I'll go with you to see it tomorrow."

The next morning I moved my things from the hotel to a small room in the Pensione Biagini on the corner of Sciara Benghazi and Avenue Omar Muktar. Late in the afternoon Tote took me into the casbah to a small dusty shop, cluttered with every kind of merchandise and run by an old Italian where I bought a spear fishing gun, a pair of swim fins and a face mask for snorkeling.

The following day Tote accompanied me to help me join the Italian Beach Club on a temporary diplomatic membership, and set me up in the diplomatic store which was operated by the Libyan Government where I could buy duty free cigarettes, and booze.

The Air Force commissary facilities on the base would not be available to me. "Even though it's an American Base and an American PX, His Majesty's Government Of Libya allows only people on permanent assignment in Libya to use the commissary and AFEX," the prissy embassy personnel officer said while looking at me over the top of her half frame reading glasses. By the tone of her voice I could tell that she was not in agreement with the policy.

"Not to worry," I replied "I'll just use the diplomatic store." By the end of the week I was sipping Johnny Walker Black and playing bridge in Italian with my new companions in the Pensione. Parked outside was a VW Bug which I was able to rent from the USAID; I was on the verge of spending one of the most delightful summers I have ever had in my life.

In Tripoli everyone worked by the Muslim calendar and kept working hours that coincided with the hours of HMGOL; we worked straight through from seven AM till three in the afternoon on Sunday through Thursday; Friday and Saturday constituted our weekend, and Saturday was, for most people, like Sunday. It was the family day, or the day when one slept in. I saved my airmail edition of Sunday's New York Times to read on Saturday morning the same way that I read it on Sunday morning back in the States or Madrid. Most members of the official American community used the beach club at Wheelus Air Force Base; but depending upon their nationalities or employers, other people gathered on the terraces of the Underwater or Italian Beach Clubs, and those who were affiliated with the United Nations, World Bank and other international organizations flocked to the U.N. Club.

The Underwater Club had the best skin diving area, but was mostly for oil company Americans; it had a clear, though unstated, preference for an all white membership, but they allowed the one or two black members of the U.S. Mission to belong. The blacks, however, clearly preferred the United Nations or Wheelus Air Base Clubs.

The Italian Beach Club was the oldest and most exclusive of all of the clubs in Tripoli and its foundation dated back to pre-independence colonial days. The membership included all of the old Italian colonial families as well as the more recent arrivals who worked for the Banco di Roma, Alitalia, the Italian Embassy and the few Italian Civil Servants who had been detailed to work in the HMGOL. The handful of French nationals, who were mostly associated with the French Embassy, had no club of their own, and they divided their time between the Underwater and the Italian clubs, but they seemed more at home with the Italians because of their continental affinity.

The ambience of the Italian Club was much different from that of the oilfields redneck, honky tonk Underwater Club. The atmosphere in the Italian Club was boisterous, chaotic and lively, but it was, like Italy, a somewhat ordered anarchy where husky, well nourished grandmothers sat in the shade wearing cotton print dresses fanning themselves while keeping an eye on small children. The older men gathered inside the clubhouse to sip red wine or Strega while they played dominoes and cards much the way they would in a small rural village in Italy. The younger men strutted bare chested around the sun deck with gold chains and medals around their necks, or they clustered together to talk about soccer games back in Italy, business, farming or the latest restrictions on foreign exchange imposed by the Libyan Government in what the ex-colonials feared was a policy to squeeze them out.

The younger Italian women pranced around the sun deck in Bikini bathing suits and high heeled sandals, and alternated their time between gossiping, flirting with an occasional stray man and caring for their children. Families and groups of close friends pulled several small tables together to make one large table around which they congregated to eat huge Italian style lunches that included prosciutto, melone, pasta, and both fish and meat courses, all of which were washed down with several bottles of red wine and acqua minerale. The conversation was always lively, rambunctious and well punctuated with energetic and frequent hand and arm gestures.

Just below the club's sun deck was a wide expanse of white sand where Libyan beach boy attendants put up umbrellas and sun chairs; a few hundred feet offshore was a reef where one could-snorkel and skin dive.

Among my bridge playing companions in the pensione Biagini were Gianpaulo, a Roman who worked for the Banco di Roma, Carlo, a Neapolitan civil servant engineer who had been seconded to the Libyan Ministry of Public Works, and Alesandra, a Siciliana who was a secretary in the Banco di Roma; all of them belonged to the Italian Beach Club, and we frequently lunched, drank and played bridge together on the club's terrace overlooking a transparent Mediterranean Sea.

In that summer of 1962 Mid East terrorism, kidnapping and other violence against Americans had not yet reached epidemic proportions, and I felt perfectly free and safe to move around in all parts of the city and countryside at all hours of the day and night; I loved the exotic smells, sights and feel of the street scenes and the contrasts between the European and North African cultures. Libya was at that time one of the Arab countries where women were totally veiled; they wore white shroudlike sheets called baracans which covered them from head to toe, and I heard it joked one time at a cocktail party that Europeans of both sexes used baracans to carry out their liaisons. Maybe it was not a joke; but it was a striking contrast to see the heavily veiled Arab women on the streets, and then enter the beach club where European women dressed in scanty little bikini bathing suits pranced around the deck and frolicked on the beach.

Covered horse drawn surreys were still used as taxis, and I recall one day seeing an elegant old Arab gentleman dressed in a brilliant white robe riding in a surrey while smelling a spike of jasmine which he carried in his hand. Four times a day, in the morning and at night, the Muezzins calling the faithful to prayers could be heard over loudspeakers placed in the minarets rising over the mosques, and there were simple unpretentious cafes in the casbah where we could go at night to have thick Arab coffee and watch belly dancers; I had the feeling that I was truly in a foreign environment.

But the most spectacular of all the things about Libya were the magnificent Roman ruins at Leptis Magna and Sabratha. I had seen the Roman ruins in Merida, Torredembarra and Rome, but nothing impressed me so much as the majesty of these two North African cities with mosaic tiles, arches, columns and amphitheaters rising up out of the desert overlooking the white beaches and blue Mediterranean Sea. It was breathtaking to think that two thousand years ago these places had been bustling centers of trade, commerce, agriculture, theater and the arts. During the height of the Roman period Libya supported a population three times as large as now, and exported olive oil, grapes, wheat and wine back to Rome. One of the high points of my visit, indeed my whole life, was a trip I made to Leptis Magna with my pensione pals during which we went skin diving for artifacts in the old Roman port. They all laughed when I was so thrilled about finding two or three shards which fit together to form the neck of a small jug. For my Italian friends a few shards did not constitute an archeological find. They had been born and raised amongst not just shards or even complete amphoras and buildings but entire cities that were ancient artifacts of history.

The magnificence and sophistication of these ruined desert cities caused me to think long and hard about the nature of development; this introspection was increased when I learned that one of our aid projects was to rebuild and rehabilitate intricate water gathering systems to fill cisterns that along with the gathering and distribution network had been built 2000 years ago in Roman times.

I don't wish to over romanticize Tripoli; there were many inconveniences and discomforts. It was hotter than hell; there were flies everywhere; the pensione had no air conditioning, and was cooled only by late afternoon sea breezes and overhead fans; there was no hot water in the bathroom on my floor in the mornings; entertainment was limited, and several times during the summer the ghibli, hot winds off the Sahara Desert that fill the air with a fog of fine silty sand, blew for several days at a time.

It was during my first ghibli that I met Anna, a friend of Alesandra. We were all stuck in the pension during the afternoons when we usually went to the beach club; Gianpaulo had gone to Rome on business, and Alesandra invited Anna to play bridge with us. By evening the wind had died down, and Carlo, Alesandra, Anna and I decided to go out to dinner at the Piamontessa Restaurant, a favorite place among the ex-colonial Itaalians.

Anna worked for an American oil company and like Alesandra she was a Siciliana except that Anna had been born and raised in Tripoli. Her father, a doctor, had come over from Sicily during the first years of Mussolini's experiment in creating a new Roman Empire. There was chemistry between Anna and me; a week later I rented a little Sunfish sail boat, and I invited her to lunch and sailing on Saturday at the Italian Beach Club. She stopped by the pensione to pick me up in her little Alfa Romeo spdyer and together we drove out Omar Muktar Avenue in her car to the Club in the Georgimpopoli section of Tripoli.

Anna, of course, knew everyone, and she was like a cheerful and sociable butterfly as I followed her onto the deck to a folding chair where she dropped her beach basket. I waited while she unbuttoned then removed her sun dress then pulled a Mediterranean sailor's, blue and white striped cotton shirt over her bikini. She slipped her feet into a pair of white, high heeled, leather sandals. "I've reserved a table over in the corner away from some of the hubbub," she said and smoothed her hair. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," I replied then walked beside her across the deck to a small table shaded by a Martini and Rossi umbrella. "I'm glad you had the foresight to reserve a table," I said. "I hadn't thought of it."

A white jacketed Libyan waiter, who wore a cocked red fez on his head, took our orders for drinks, and said the luncheon special that day was scampi Fra Diavalo with riso a la Milanesa i insalata. When the waiter returned with Campari and sodas, we both ordered the special.

I raised my glass to Anna in a toast and sipped the cool bitter drink. "I'm glad Alesandra brought you to the pensione, Anna. It's been nice to meet you, and not spend so much of time talking to other diplomats; to tell you the truth, other diplomats bore me to tears."

"What do you like to talk about?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. The things you like. Your car - your work - that surrealistic trip I took to Leptis. Anything that is not high policy, earth shaking and precedent setting."

"Ciao, Anna."

I looked up to see a tall handsome, suntanned man, whom I knew was in the Italian Embassy standing beside our table. I had spoken to him at a cocktail party at the American Ambassador's residence and I was surprised when he told me that he also owned a farm outside Tripoli. Diplomacy and farming do not usually mix.

"Ciao, Antonio," Anna replied and held her hand out for him to kiss. "You know Pete Stuart, don't you?"

"Yes I do," he replied. "Pete, it's nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, Antonio. How are things in the embassy?" I said and shook his hand.

"Oh they're just fine. We just finished a large policy review in Rome, and I decided to come back to Tripoli before heading South do some hunting with Mario Bianchi."

"That sounds like fun," I replied.

"Do you want to come along. We have room for one more in the plane," he said.

"Thank you, Antonio, but no. Not this time, but keep me in mind for the future."

"I will," he said. "You know you have a standing invitation to come down to my farm anytime you like."

"That sounds like fun, too," I replied. "Maybe I can get Anna to drive me down in her flashy race car."

"Do it," he said then took Anna's hand again to kiss it before saying goodbye. "Ciao."

Antonio walked away, and Anna leaned across the table with a conspiratorial smile, and spoke softly. "Can you keep a secret?"

"What do you mean, can I keep a secret. I'm a diplomat, and-that's all we do is keep secrets," I said and smiled at her.

"I shouldn't tell you this, but I love to gossip."

"Tell me what?" I asked.

"It's about Antonio," she said in the same soft conspiratorial tone of voice.

"What about Antonio?" I asked.

"He's having a love affair." she whispered.

"So? From what I hear that's all anybody does out here," I said. "In fact, by this evening people will probably be saying that you and I are having a love affair."

"Do you think so?" she said with a wicked little grin. "I hope so."

"Yes, I do," I replied. "But tell me more about Antonio. As you can see I love to gossip, too."

She took a sip of her Campari. "I really shouldn't tell you this but I'm going to anyway. He's having an affair with an American woman."

"An American?" I said. "Who?"

"Maggie Chandler," she whispered and smiled.

"Maggie Chandler!" I blurted.

"Shh," she said and held her fingers to her lips while nodding her head.

I was stunned. I had met Maggie at a cocktail party. She was the wife of an economic officer in the embassy and was the All American girl, the epitome of stability; a loyal and dedicated Foreign Service wife and mother who could always be counted on when the chips were down. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she said as the waiter served our lunch.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Carlo knows Antonio's sister in Rome, and she told Carlo. Antonio is really in love with Maggie and he wants to marry her," Anna said and picked up a fork.

I was surprised by the intricate, spider web like network of gossip that reached all the way to Rome.

"Does anybody else know about it?" I asked.

"Most of the Italians know," she said.

"Then the Americans must know about it, too," I said. "I was just talking to her husband Greg this morning down at the embassy and I don't think he knows about it; at least he didn't act as though his wife were having a love affair."

"Maybe he's having one, too," Anna said with her impish conspiratorial smile.

"Maybe you're right," I said. "Obviously, I'd be the last person to know about it if he were."

It was almost two thirty by the time we finished lunch, and after Italian espresso coffee and a Strega I asked Anna if she wanted to sail up the beach with me.

"Of course," she replied. "Just let me put my beach basket in my car and I'll meet you down by the boat."

I walked down to the beach and mobilized one of the Libyan beach boys to help me with launching the boat by promising him some baksheesh later. Once the boat was in the water I dropped the keel and raised the sail, then turned it into the wind to let the sail luff while I waited.

In a few minutes Anna ran barefoot across the hot, fine coral sand, and waded into the water. Grasping the mast with her hand she slipped up on the lee side of the bow, and we set off on a starboard tack toward the northwest. The boat heeled over under the strong afternoon wind, and Anna, without being told, shifted her position to the windward side. "You've sailed before?" I shouted to her.

"Yes, and I love it" she shouted back to me. The tide was rising. The waves were now breaking over the reef, and the wind churned up the water so that we pitched to and fro in the whitecaps. It was not long before Anna's face and hair were wet with the spray, and to me she looked like a Mediterranean sea nymph with the strands of her long black hair plastered to her suntanned cheeks.

I sailed as close to the wind as I could but the direction was such that we had to make long zigzag tacks between the beach and reef, so it took more than an hour to make it to the westernmost point where the rocky limestone cliffs jut out to join the reef and pinch off the beach near the Underwater Club. There was a window between the rocks and the reef through which you could sail on up the coast to a small secluded beach that was part of the Underwater Club.

"Do you want to go on to the beach?" I called out to her.

"Yes," she shouted back to me.

I came about, and we sailed ahead of the wind on a reach straight through the window; both Anna and I were soaked as we rode the little boat through the surf to the beach.

Leaving the boat I took Anna's hand in mine and we walked together across the sand to a small grotto under the overhanging lava rock cliffs. The waves broke over the rocks and surged under the surface to fill a deep transparent pool of water. The beach was completely secluded and the only way into it was though the window by boat; we had it to ourselves. We stood beside the pool and looked in. "We could bathe in there," she said.

"Yes, we could," I replied.

Reaching behind her she pulled the strap of her bathing suit top to untie it, then let it drop to the sand. "Why don't we take a swim together," she said and let her arms hang loose beside her.

"You are filled with wonderful ideas, Anna," I said then walked to where she was standing to slip my arms around her. I pressed my body against her bare, firm breasts and kissed her. She opened her mouth and ran her tongue over mine and pressed her pelvis against me. "You have bewitched and enchanted me, Anna."

"Good," she said. "Come on let's swim."

We both pulled off our bathing suits, and I took her by the hand to slip into the transparent waters of the pool. I drew her close to me and rubbed my fingers over her long purple nipples so that they became erect and hard. She then took me in her hand to stroke me to erection. After this beginning things led to their natural conclusein, and when we had finished, we pushed out of the pool to lie side by side on the sand; she turned on to her side, with her face away from me, and I held her close and pressed my body against her back. I kissed her shoulders and stroked her breasts as, for what seemed a long time, we lay quietly with just the sounds of the wind blowing through the grotto and the sea breaking over the reef.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"I'm thinking that if we're going to get back before dark we better go," I said.

"How romantic," she said and laughed a husky throaty laugh. We pulled on our bathing suits and sailed back to the Italian Club where we sat on the terrace for sundowners.

Anna invited me to her home, where she lived with her family, for dinner, and we sailed up to the beach a couple of times, but we never again found it empty the way we had that first day. Several times she picked me up at the pensione and we went for long drives in her little Alfa sports car out into the desert or to Leptis and Sabratha, but we never had a place to be alone, to make love. Anna was afraid to go to a hotel; she said that HMGOL had spies everywhere, and that they were always looking for excuses to deport Italians. One day we were driving in the desert, and she said "I guess I'll just have to come visit you in Madrid if I want to make love to you again." She turned to look at me and smiled.

"Anna," I said, "I'm married and I have a wife and two children in Madrid."

She turned her head to look out across the desert then back to me. "Why should I believe you?" she said.

"Why would I lie to you?" I replied.

Anna stopped coming around to the pension, but I did see her again to say goodbye before I left Tripoli.

My assignment in Libya was not all sailing, skindiving, playing bridge and flirting with women; I had to work, too, but the changed assignment was much easier than the preparation for base negotiations would have been. When Hans and Bruno arrived they moved to the Pensione Biagini; we also shared the office in the Aid Mission, so we had plenty of time to consult with one another.

After their arrival and further consultations with Don McPhail it became clear to us that what he wanted was short, concise evaluations of the projects which had been in progress at the time that HMGOL had expelled the foreign technicians. The expulsions had occurred on McPhail's watch, so to speak, and he wanted documents to cover his ass should there be any further investigations or repercussions.

Hans, Bruno and I made an inventory list of the projects, estimated how much work would be required to evaluate each, then divided them up between us. While my instruction had been to "supervise" Hans and Bruno, no supervision was required. They were both seasoned professionals with many years of experience in the evaluation of aid programs under the Marshall Plan in Europe; our relationship was one of professiona l collaboration. There was an interesting personal twist to their assignments, though. Hans had served in the German Army and had been in Rommel's Afrika Korps. Likewise, Bruno had been in the Italian Army in North Africa. Both had been captured by the Brits, Hans at El Alamein, and Bruno at Tobruk, and although neither of them knew one another at the time, they spent most of WW II as POWs in Cairo. For both of them this TDY was filled with nostalgia, and I found both Hans and Bruno were likable and interesting companions.

One of my projects for assessment was a National Public Health program that required a good bit of travel; during the review I travelled to Benghazi twice and drove all of the way to the Egyptian border and Tobruk through more interesting ruins at Apolonia and Cyrene which were even older than Leptis and Sabratha. I also learned about some interesting aspects of the Libyan lifestyle and economy.

One of the first things that I discovered was that a VW Kombi Van which had been bought for the project had been registered in the name of the then Minister of Health who at the time of my review was using the vehicle for his personal use.

On one occasion I had to make a visit to the Tripoli General Hospital to verify that some expensive X-Ray and other equipment had actually been installed. In the course of my visit I had occasion to go into the laundry where I was surprised to find that the entire laundry was operated by some Italian nuns still dressed in their habits, and with their sleeves rolled up like laborers. With all of the Libyan women in purdah there were none available for such jobs as running the laundry, nursing, domestic help, telephone operators, office work and maids in the hotels. All of these jobs were performed by foreign women. It so happened that in the Libya Palace Hotel all of the maids were Spanish.

Although King Idris may have thought that Libya did not need technical assistance, the truth of the matter was that almost all jobs requiring technical expertise were performed by foreigners. All of the doctors and engineers were either Italian, Spanish, Eastern European or Egyptian, and all skilled tradesmen such as carpenters, electricians and plumbers were foreign, mostly Italian.

When I returned to Tripoli after my second trip to Benghazi it was the end of September and the weather was getting to be like Spring or Indian Summer. The Italian Club was having its annual dinner and dance party to celebrate the end of summer and all of the Pensione gang had taken a table together.

During the time that I had been gone Phyllis, our secretary in the office, had accepted a job with the Air Force in Germany, and she was leaving on an Alitalia flight on the morning after the night of the dance. I invited Phyllis to the dance, and I was stunned when we showed up at the table to find that Anna had also joined our party. There were a few tense moments before I asked Anna to dance.

"I guess you'll be leaving soon, too," Anna said.

"Yes, " I replied. "I'm leaving in about two weeks for Rome, then catching a ship to Spain."

"How exciting," she said. "Pete, you can relax. If I ever come to Madrid I won't embarrass you. I'll say goodbye to you tonight."

The music stopped and we returned to the table where Anna picked up her purse, then turned to me. "Goodbye, Pete. Thank you for everything." She kissed me on the cheek.

"Goodbye, Anna, and thank you," I said and kissed her hand.

She turned to walk to her car.

Phyllis and I stayed at the party until about midnight then I took her home to spend the night in her apartment. It was the first night I had slept in an air conditioned room in almost three months and I was cold. I awakened about three o'clock in the morning and got out of my bed to slip in bed with Phyliss. I snuggled up to her; she did not object, and we made love. The next morning I drove her to the airport in the little rented VW. "Goodbye, Phyllis, and good luck," I said and kissed her.

"Goodbye, Pete, thanks for everything. Maybe I'll see you in Madrid one of these days," she said and went through exit customs, immigration, currency control and health inspection into no man's land.

Over the next few days Hans, Bruno and I completed our reports then presented them to Don McPhail. He was satisfied that his ass was covered if the GAO or any other investigative agency should become interested in Libya.

Two weeks after Phyllis left the three of us were ready on a Friday morning to catch the same Alitalia flight to Rome. All of the gang was standing on the curb to wave goodbye to us as Hans, Bruno and I piled in the back of a embassy van to leave for the airport with Tote and Abdi. Just as our van turned out from Sciara Benghazi onto Omar Muktar Avenue, I saw Anna's little red Alfa. The top was down, and she waved and blew a kiss to me. I blew a kiss to her.

I held my breath as the immigration inspector again went through my passport page by page before bringing his "EXIT" stamp down next to my "ADMITTED" stamp. After the rest of the exit procedures I waited by the window in no man's land for the plane; in just about fifteen minutes I heard the high-pitched whine of the Alitalia jet coming in low over the sea. It turned to fly downwind, banked again onto its final approach, then touched down, right on schedule. The engines roared as the pilot reversed the thrust then the plane turned to taxi back and park beside an Air Egypt Viscount.

An eternity passed as the passengers disembarked and the plane was serviced - then, finally, the flight was called, the gate was opened and I walked in the already blistering sun across the tarmac; when I boarded the plane I had for the first of many times a wonderful sensation of relief as I entered the cool of a European airplane, and heard the flight attendants speaking a European language. I watched out the window while the ground handlers pulled the stairs away; then the engines were started. The plane taxied to the end of the runway and finally took off over the sea then turned north toward Rome. I looked out the window and I could see the Italian Beach Club. I leaned the seat back and closed my eyes to enjoy the anticipation of returning to my own culture.

When I walked off the plane in Rome's Fiumincino Airport Marsha was waiting for me. With cables, letters and telephone conversations I had obtained permission to return from Italy by ship to Spain. After I had the approval in hand I worked it out with Marsha so that she would arrive in Rome from Madrid just before my arrival. Bruno's wife was also waiting for him, and after all of the introductions we said farewell to Hans then rode together in a taxi to the city.

The sensation of reentry to a familiar environment only increased as we drove through the traffic, then stopped in front of the hotel. After three months in the blinding white heat of the North African summer the blue peninsular skies of Italy were a welcome relief, and I appreciated Rome even more than I did on my first visit. I knew that I was back in my own culture when I strolled past the sidewalk cafes and boutiques along the Via Veneto. It was pleasing to see women in high heeled shoes, skirts and blouses rather than being covered from head to toe as they were in Tripoli.

Over the years I experienced this same rush as I returned to Europe after a long period of sensory deprivation in Africa or Asia. Whether it was Athens, Rome, Madrid, Paris or London the sensation of joy was always the same, and it never diminished over time. It was always the rush of rebirth.

Marsha and I had dinner with Bruno and his wife that night, then spent the next two days sightseeing in Rome. For Marsha it was a dream come true since Rome was the only place that she ever truly had a yearning to visit.

On the morning of our third day we rented a little Fiat 1500 convertible Spyder and drove south to Naples, Sorrento and Amalfi. We visited Pompeii and Capri, then turned the car back in Naples and boarded the S.S. Cristoforo Colombo, the flagship of the Italian Line's Transatlantic passenger service, for a three day cruise to Spain with black tie dances and dinners, lazy sunfilled days and food that was almost sinful. We arrived in Algeciras on October 21, 1962, my thirty-third birthday. It had been quite a year.

We dropped anchor just as the sun was rising and I walked up on deck to look across the bay at Andalucia on one side of the straits of Gibraltar, and Tangier on the other. In my mind I composed a little verse of poetry:

Andalucia, te veo de lejos al mar.

El sol que viene de Africa

brilla en tus montañas.

Andalucia con tus caras arabes

figuras romanas, techos rojos,

pueblos blancos, te quiero.

END OF BOOK ONE

GO TO BOOK TWO CHAPTER 15

Gene McCoy © July 1998

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© 1997 g inofso@gte.net

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