Eid al-Adha, the cheery Festival of Sacrifice, is upon us here. This is not the jolly Eid that marks the end of Ramadan, this is the one that commemorates Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son, Ismael, as an act of obedience to God. Ismael may have survived that particular request but the sheep of Tripoli (much like the turkeys of Norfolk) continue to get it in the neck – quite literally – many years later. Prior to the festival empty pick-ups can be seen desperately criss-crossing the city in search of live sheep. Wild-eyed, tethered sheep totter around the back of careering, battered trucks and vans as their drivers then go in search of knives and charcoal. The plaintiff bleating of livestock, held in high walled concrete yards, hangs in the still evening air throughout the city. Little Leafy spied Moftah’s, the landlord, five sheep (“no daddy they are goats”) through a hole in the wall and formed an instant attachment with the wretched creatures. We forced our way into the yard and stood, at a safe distance of course, for what seemed an age examining the finer details of their anatomies. We were, in turn, examined in as much detail by the silent horde of Moftah’s doe-eyed grandchildren; was this, I wondered, a Libyan Stand-off? The ‘goats’ were later introduced to Mrs L. and were the subject of many engrossing conversations throughout the day; “Why is Moftah keeping goats in his garden?”, “You be a goat daddy, and I will be Moftah.” and “Could we have one on the balcony?”
The following morning I observe, from the balcony that Little L. had earmarked for rearing livestock, a small pit being dug in the yard directly below by a large sweaty man. Five imbecilic sheep stare at the activity with interest. “Daddy what is that man digging for?” My voyeurism was abruptly interrupted. Later in the day each of the sheep was led to the pit, tipped over and pinned to the dusty ground by a pile of squirming grandchildren. Moftah’s eldest brother wielded the largest knife I have ever seen and with a flick of his wrist, as if it were an envelope, opened the sheep’s neck. Blood poured into the large pit. “Daddy is that goat asleep?” Good-grief, where can a man watch a butchering in peace and quiet these days?
Soon afterwards billowing clouds of smoke replaced the bleating sounds as barbecues are fired up and the smell of roasting meat is, for a while, stronger than the smell of offal. As the day drew to an end West African immigrants emerged from side-streets with blow-torches and the heads of the butchered sheep and proceeded to burn the hair from the skull before they become useful. How a hairless sheep’s head is used I have yet to discover, but am currently quite comfortable with my ignorance.
Weight loss
The battered car stopped beside me and the window was wound down. “Could you help me sir?” came the request from the driver within. I bent down to see who needed my help. A man wearing glasses that were so thick it would probably be safest if he was not driving. He patted his large stomach. “I am 140 lbs, I want to be 80. What should I do?”
“Well, what about swimming?” I ventured, not sure what elaborate trap, cunningly disguised as a benign question, was being set for me. Would I be bundled into the back of the car with a blanket over my head to the screaming newspaper headlines Another falls victim to the weight question!
“No, I cannot swim. Am I eating too much?”
“Possibly. What about running or cycling?” I continued tentatively.
“I don’t have a bicycle, but I can run. What else?”
“Football is something I play,” I meekly offered.
“Football? How long should I run for? One hour?”
“Well perhaps not straight away. Try fifteen minutes to begin with and build up to an hour over time.”
“Fifteen minutes? How many times a day?”
“Just the once to begin with I think.”
“Excellent and what should I eat?”
Was there no end to this? “Fruit and vegetables are good.”
“I don’t like apples though.”
“OK. What about other fruit?” I asked in an increasingly exasperated tone.
“Yes I can eat other fruit. What is your name?” I told him my name. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?” I convinced him I was happier walking. “You have been very helpful my friend. Have a good evening.” And with that he sped off in a cloud of dust clattering into every pothole his poor eyesight could not see.
Indignant
We took Mrs L. to have her hair done recently. Little L. and I dropped her and Baby L. off and then went to our favourite cafe. From the terrace, if you keep your head tilted at 45 degrees upwards, all you can see is the deep blue of the Mediterranean, and not the derelict seafront behind the large white constructor’s fence. Luxurious leather seats, cool jazz and delicious fruit juices have us beating a path towards it most weeks at some time or another. Little L. and I sat talking about goats and Lego, listening to Herb Alpert whilst sharing a strawberry juice and slice of cheesecake. The cafe is not cheap, but I was confident that I had picked up enough cash even for a place like this. I was wrong. I explained to our waiter that I was embarrassingly short, by one Dinar, and would not be able to settle the entire bill. As is always the way here my embarrassment was waved away. “No problem, no problem. Next time.” I thanked him and the proprietor, who was sitting behind the till, for their generosity and made to leave. Our mustachioed waiter caught us at the steps down to the street. Tapping his wallet pocket in a conspiratorial manner, he said “Sir, if you are short of money I have plenty and would be happy to give you some.” Being suddenly exposed like this, on an emotional landscape that was not at all familiar, was unsettling. Feeling both touched and indignant I said, probably too loudly, “No, no! I have plenty of money at home! I just came out with too little. That’s all. Many thanks all the same!” I grabbed Little L’s hand and hurried off. In all likelyhood too quickly.
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