536
PAUL F. HOYE
the goatskin water bag of a Bedouin woman who was walking with two
children to a distant encampment. He had ignored dozens of similar pleas
prior to that point but somehow knew that in that case it was an
emergency.
From Sa'id we learned that Misfir came from a small village near the
Yemen border, that as a very young man he crossed the peninsula to
Dhahran, got a job with the Arabian American Oil Company (Aramco),
and began to go to school. He spent six years studying mechanics and
working in Aramco shops and then decided to strike out on his own. He
bought a truck and began to haul cargo over the rugged road to Yemen.
Later, he bought a second truck and has just added a service station to
his holdings. I would risk a small wager that it won't be the last
addition. . . .
I should add one more note. The other night Moody was explaining
that the reason we slept in the truck was that we'd been told that agharib
(scorpions) abounded in the region. Misfir looked surprised and then
laughed. "Agharib," he said contemptuously and pantomimed being bitten,
sucking out the venom and spitting it on the ground. He then deliberately
stretched out on the sand, wiggled deep into a comfortable position, and
closed his eyes. We did not join him.
Zummurrud
MARCH 4
Over the horizon about 2 hours ago there appeared an exciting sight.
It was a building—Zummurrud, a station on the old Hijaz Railway.
Somehow it was a surprise to find Zummurrud. We'd been jolting along
for hours on the faint rugged track that twisted through hills as black and
high as slag heaps by Pennsylvania coal mines, past stretches of flat sand
touched with tones of pink and green, and, at one point, by the whitened
bones of a camel. Then, unexpectedly, there was the station, a square
strong shadow standing in solitude on the empty plains. Moody nearly impaled himself on his tripod as he scrambled to the platform over the cab
to get distance shots of the structure. I can't say I blame him. For some
reason, reaching Zummurrud was an exciting moment—possibly because
it meant we had reached the Hijaz Railway with its inevitable suggestions
of the valor, the dangers, the battles of a bygone era (see Figs. 3 and 4).
We stopped to explore the station, of course, and afterward sat in the
shade for lunch and looked out at the empty plains and savored the silence
and began, inevitably I guess, to wonder what it was like 50 years ago
when the crews of workers and soldiers swarmed southward, mile by dusty
PAUL F. HOYE
the goatskin water bag of a Bedouin woman who was walking with two
children to a distant encampment. He had ignored dozens of similar pleas
prior to that point but somehow knew that in that case it was an
emergency.
From Sa'id we learned that Misfir came from a small village near the
Yemen border, that as a very young man he crossed the peninsula to
Dhahran, got a job with the Arabian American Oil Company (Aramco),
and began to go to school. He spent six years studying mechanics and
working in Aramco shops and then decided to strike out on his own. He
bought a truck and began to haul cargo over the rugged road to Yemen.
Later, he bought a second truck and has just added a service station to
his holdings. I would risk a small wager that it won't be the last
addition. . . .
I should add one more note. The other night Moody was explaining
that the reason we slept in the truck was that we'd been told that agharib
(scorpions) abounded in the region. Misfir looked surprised and then
laughed. "Agharib," he said contemptuously and pantomimed being bitten,
sucking out the venom and spitting it on the ground. He then deliberately
stretched out on the sand, wiggled deep into a comfortable position, and
closed his eyes. We did not join him.
Zummurrud
MARCH 4
Over the horizon about 2 hours ago there appeared an exciting sight.
It was a building—Zummurrud, a station on the old Hijaz Railway.
Somehow it was a surprise to find Zummurrud. We'd been jolting along
for hours on the faint rugged track that twisted through hills as black and
high as slag heaps by Pennsylvania coal mines, past stretches of flat sand
touched with tones of pink and green, and, at one point, by the whitened
bones of a camel. Then, unexpectedly, there was the station, a square
strong shadow standing in solitude on the empty plains. Moody nearly impaled himself on his tripod as he scrambled to the platform over the cab
to get distance shots of the structure. I can't say I blame him. For some
reason, reaching Zummurrud was an exciting moment—possibly because
it meant we had reached the Hijaz Railway with its inevitable suggestions
of the valor, the dangers, the battles of a bygone era (see Figs. 3 and 4).
We stopped to explore the station, of course, and afterward sat in the
shade for lunch and looked out at the empty plains and savored the silence
and began, inevitably I guess, to wonder what it was like 50 years ago
when the crews of workers and soldiers swarmed southward, mile by dusty