The crowd of passers-by in the streets were compounded
in the same curiously mixed fashion; a few Europeans,
generally in white, and then a variety of Arabs, Egyptians,
Somalis, Berbers, East Indians and the like, each in
his own gaudy or graceful costume. It speaks well
for the accuracy of feeling, anyway, of our various
“Midways,” “Pikes,” and the
like of our world’s expositions that the streets
of Port Said looked like Midways raised to the nth
power. Along them we sauntered with a pleasing
feeling of self-importance. On all sides we were
gently and humbly besought—by the shopkeepers,
by the sidewalk vendors, by would-be guides, by fortune-tellers,
by jugglers, by magicians; all soft-voiced and respectful;
all yielding as water to rebuff, but as quick as water
to glide back again. The vendors were of the
colours of the rainbow, and were heavily hung with
long necklaces of coral or amber, with scarves, with
strings of silver coins, with sequinned veils and silks,
girt with many dirks and knives, furnished out in
concealed pockets with scarabs, bracelets, sandalwood
boxes or anything else under the broad canopy of heaven
one might or might not desire. Their voices were
soft and pleasing, their eyes had the beseeching quality
of a good dog’s, their anxious and deprecating
faces were ready at the slightest encouragement to
break out into the friendliest and most intimate of
smiles. Wherever we went we were accompanied
by a retinue straight out of the Arabian Nights, patiently
awaiting the moment when we should tire; should seek
out the table of a sidewalk cafe; and should, in our
relaxed mood, be ready to unbend to our royal purchases.
At that moment we were too much interested in the
town itself. The tiny shops, with their smiling
and insinuating Oriental keepers, were fascinating
in their displays of carved woods, jewellery, perfumes,
silks, tapestries, silversmiths’ work, ostrich
feathers, and the like. To either side the main
street lay long narrow dark alleys, in which flared
single lights, across which flitted mysterious long-robed
figures, from which floated stray snatches of music
either palpitatingly barbaric or ridiculously modern.
There the authority of the straight, soldierly-looking
Soudanese policemen ceased, and it was not safe to
wander unarmed or alone.
Besides these motley variegations of the East and
West, the main feature of the town was the street
car. It was an open-air structure of spacious
dimensions, as though benches and a canopy had been
erected rather haphazard on a small dancing platform.
The track is absurdly narrow in gauge; and as a consequence
the edifice swayed and swung from side to side.
A single mule was attached to it loosely by about ten
feet of rope. It was driven by a gaudy ragamuffin
in a turban. Various other gaudy ragamuffins
lounged largely and picturesquely on the widely spaced
benches. Whence it came or whither it went I do
not know. Its orbit swung into the main street,
turned a corner, and disappeared. Apparently
Europeans did not patronize this picturesque wreck,
but drove elegantly but mysteriously in small open
cabs conducted by totally incongruous turbaned drivers.