Cutting tales… by John Cutting.

The people in both countries had been brilliant and very hospitable towards me, which made my journey so much more enjoyable.  The medical centre  I visited after loosing my toe nail was an excellent facility and the satellite dishes on almost every house were perhaps the only visual evidence of modern living.  Most other aspects of life and industry had probably been the same for hundreds of years, so when I came across a tannery,   it was unbelievable to see them treating the hides with nothing modern about the process at all, it really was just like stepping back in time and amazing to see. My only disappointment was their treatment of animals.  The mules suffered the burden of pulling rickety wooden carts and some great loads in harsh hot weather pushed on by the use of a whip.  Not good to see, but I was a guest in their country and I don't think was this unique to Algeria.

My late  mum, Maureen, was very proud of being a Cockfield lass and often spoke of the exploits of brothers George and Jeremiah Dixon and the industries that took place on the fell.  George and his discovery of coal gas, where he blew up his shed on the fell and deemed it too dangerous to work with and there  is still evidence of his attempts to justify building a canal from the fell to the River Tees to transport the fell's products to the coast.  Jeremiah's world wide activities with the creation of the Mason-Dixon Line in the USA, which bears his name, the most famous.
How for hundreds of years coal had been mined on the fell with drift and Bell mines a very common sight.  The remains of the coke ovens, like a cluster of beehives are still to be seen.  With the need to get the coal out of the mines, coke and other materials on and off the fell I suppose my Cockfield ancestors may well have overloaded their mules in probably the same way.  My own Great Grandfather Billy Stirk would ride around the local streets selling fruit and veg from a horse drawn cart before Stirk's shop was built.  It had only been a hundred years previously, a Typhoid epidemic in Cockfield had claimed twelve lives.  The report, written by a government official sent from London to investigate, noted raw sewage in the streets and an upgrade to the system was demanded, so at that time, was the welfare of Cockfield residents really so much different? or even better than here in Algeria, perhaps not!
The work of George and Jeremiah and many other pioneers, in both engineering and industry locally. may well be the reason the Algerian people I met still had to rely on mules and other ancient skills as a way of life and we didn't.
There are obvious differences such as the climate, terrain, cultural and religious practices, but I suspect many essential life skills were not dissimilar to those used by my ancestors in Cockfield. Who knows, if coal had been discovered in their back yard and not Cockfield, they might be today thinking of us as third world, so can we really harshly judge them? probably not!

As I travelled along the long road towards  Nefta and Tunisia, I noticed a couple of abandoned and burnt out VW Combi vans, evidence to suggest members of other nomadic people probably from the Aussie or Kiwi tribes had been here before me.  I should now have been making plans for when I got to Tunisia, but my mind was focused on Maria, a French school teacher who without any sand, sea and certainly no ice cream, had become my Miss Saint-Tropez for a week at least. 
Arriving at this border post, a modern building was so much different than when entering Algeria.  The only problem was their generator had stopped working and they asked me if I could fix it and almost everyone else I suppose.  Just another reminder of how modern technology here, just like the digital watches, was not always the answer.
In this part of Tunisia cave dwellings are very common and I saw  many of them in the hillsides as I headed towards Nefta and onto my first night in a hotel,  but not one I had known the likes of before.  A traditional Berber Troglodyte underground building upon entering through a large cave opening, which led to the reception area with, at either side, a passageway leading to two circular pits dug to create a dining room, bar area and the other bedrooms with a difference.  The ground level offered dormitory cave accommodation with smaller caves located around the walls of the pit at various heights with a rope having to be used to climb up and gain access.  Maria and I missed out on a secluded cave, so had to make do with a dormitory to ourselves.  As we lay there, hotel security staff burst into the room.  My immediate thoughts were, now what have I done, have I offended someone, or violated some local custom?  Only for them to leave as quickly as they entered and return moments later and place a lighted candle on the shelf above our heads. I still don't know what that was all about but it was memorable. 

The following day's travel North  brought my first sight of Sousse, the coast and evidence of modern living with even a children's roundabout on the beach.  Unfortunately this was to be my last day with my Miss Saint-Tropez, it was the end of her holiday and she was flying to France the next day.  We kept in touch for a while, but all good things have to come to an end sometime and I didn't even know where I would be the  next month and Saint  Tropez must have a big beach.

Tunisia had obviously embraced the need to  exploit its culture to commercial tourism, but I don't think that included a driving test.  My experience of the roads on my travel north towards Tunis was like taking part in the Wacky Races, just crossing the road was a major event.  My last lift of day was in the back of a pick up with crates of freshly caught fish and chunks of ice. It took me to my to my next destination and camp site for the three weeks at Hammamet.  I really appreciated the lift, but every time we stopped or turned a corner it was a constant battle between me, my rucksack, the fish and ice being flung around.
The camp site was quite modern and right on the beach, but without a tent, I slept on the sand, something I had done for months, but this time I would wake up every morning with the bites of the sand lice all over my neck and face. Not pleasant, but not really intolerable and with free food from the sea, it would do me. There were a couple of other travellers, one Dutch who was waiting for a visa to cross into Libya, he must have been Catweasles twin. He was forever eating Almonds and said he needed the protein; strange fellow! Then there was an Aussie, Merv Day and his young family.  They had been travelling around Europe in a caravan and then followed a similar route to me through North Africa.  Talking to Merv had been my first conversation in English for some months and it felt quite strange.

The facilities on the site were excellent and I was enjoying the sun, sea and the rest.  When I left England I had left some money at home and arranged with Maureen to send it to me at some time and Tunisia was the first opportunity.  I needed to go into Tunis and find the British Embassy.  Merv told me about the train that ran regularly into the capital, but warned me to be careful of pick pockets and thieves.  On seeing the train approaching the platform I remembered watching a film called Gunga Din; it was set in India.  One scene showed a train with people on the roof, the engine and hanging off the side, in fact anywhere they could get. They were there and this train was exactly the same.  Like a school boys dream of sitting on a moving engine, but this was no dream, I was doing it.
I hadn't been this exited about being on a train since a group of us from Cockfield school went by train to visit Edinburgh Zoo.  We left from Cockfield Station on the former Bishop Auckland to Barnard Castle Line and crossing over the Viaduct on the fell didn't disappoint and was such a good feeling looking down on what was my play ground.  I think the line was officially closed by then and a special train was used for the trip.  I was sat with Judith Robinson and her mum, so we must have been some of the last people to cross the Land's Viaduct.  I can imagine the interest and excitement it would create if steam engines were crossing it today.
Once in Tunis, I now needed to find the embassy.  From the directions Merv gave me it was in, or near the old town.  Walking along what must have been their main street I passed the French Embassy, a massive imposing building set back in its own grounds, so ours must be near but no, Merv had got it right.  As I passed by a huge poster of what must have been the head of the country I was shocked to see two lads holding hands and giggling like a couple of lovers.  I had never seen that in Cockfield, Morocco, or Algeria and didn't expect to see it so openly here.  Tunisia certainly was adopting some western culture, or is there some truth in "Man born of man will be the next Mashiah" and they were giving it a go? 
I eventually found the embassy in the old town and it was nothing like the French, in fact I could have walked into a takeaway in Bishop main street!  If Humphrey Bogart had come to the counter and asked "what's a nice lad like you doing a place like this" I would not have been surprised.  No fuss, no security and a lot different than today's world.  The guy who did was very helpful.  He asked where I had been? “Across the Sahara.” I replied. “Which one?” he asked. So, that was something else I had learnt; there is no desert called the Sahara, its simply Arabic for desert and a term used in Arabic speaking countries when referring to deserts.
I suppose when the first European explorers arrived here, their Arabic speaking guides would point and say Sahara and the name stuck, well sounds right!
With my business sorted for now it was time to explore the Medina. I hadn't got very far when I stumbled into a sauna and what a nice way to get rid of all the sand off my body, but it wasn't what I expected.  I don't think the people in there were used to tourists as communication was a little difficult and I ended up with a massage as well.  I was led into a room and met by this squat fellow who looked a bit like a Chinese Buddha with a horse grooming brush in one hand.  He scrubbed almost my entire body, not what I would of called a massage, but afterwards it felt really good.  Now to the sauna, but not a pine like shack with wooden benches, but a hot steamy room  with a slabbed floor and a channel with hot water running through it.  I sat on the edge with my feet dangling in the water.  Not what I expected, but I was soon sweating and now for the shower to cool off.  At one end of the room there was a wooden door and on entering I was greeted not with a shower, but a bucked and a cold water tap. As for the rest room, the palliasse were quite comfortable, but I’m not quite sure if they were filled with straw.  This may have seemed a bit primitive, but most people living in Cockfield today will have some elderly relative that would have sat in a tin bath in front of the kitchen fire.  As young lad they were a common sight hanging in people's back yards.

Maureen had done really well for me, but it still took two weeks to receive my money from the embassy, during which I spent all my time at the camp site, riding the train and in Tunis where I found my first take away.

Walking through the Medina I came across a huge cauldron on the path in the street, with what I can only describe as the best tasting stew I have ever had. It was just simmering away and I don't know what was in it, but my god, it was good.
With my money belt replenished it was time to plan my next route, with Libya to East not an option and the journey through the war torn south probably to dangerous, Italy seemed the best choice. I said goodbye to my new friends at the camp site and made my way to La Goulette and my ferry to Sicily, but not before my last bowl of stew at the ferry port.  Once on the ferry I didn't know where all the people had come from, young travellers from all over the world. With so many travellers on board, after docking in Trapani, a stampede of hitch hikers headed for all roads out, but no rush for me, if there was a beach, I had a bed.
During my time in North Africa, I had felt completely safe and never once felt threatened by anything human, but here in Italy the mood changed.  I was soon to discover a different attitude and aggression.  When walking, it was common to have abuse and things thrown at me by youths from passing cars.

In early 1972 I was sent to Londonderry, Northern Ireland, a few months after Bloody Sunday and not a good place to be in an army uniform, or a young eighteen year old.  From day one, I had everything thrown at me from rocks, spit-al, abuse, petrol, nail bombs, anything that could be, was.  One day working at Rosemount Library, a couple of youths sent a 45 Gallon drum hurtling down a bank in my direction.  Although not unusual, I had a good reason to remember that was an eventful, but normal day.  At around 9am I heard the ping of what was probably an Armalite rifle followed by an excitable Scouse running around with his flack jacket in his hands.  The bullet had grazes the back of his jacket leaving a tear the profile of the bullet as it passed the outer skin.  Shortly after, a car bomb exploded in the city centre leaving a large plume of smoke rising into the sky.  A few hours later another gun shot rang out, but not in my direction and I later learned a young Gunner had been killed while on patrol within the city walls. Then, a second car bomb and another plume of white and grey smoke, but events for me hadn't finished.  I have no conscious memory of any sound from the rifle discharging, or as the bullet powered its way into the wood I was crouching on and no more than a couple of inches below my feet. My only memory is of throwing myself through the air to the ground below and Flipper our troop Staff Sergeant running over.  We called him that because he flapped, so much.  I will always remember him saying "Cutting, I have never seen anyone move so fast!" Too right, he hadn't.
This was a typical day of life on the streets in Northern Ireland in the early days of the recent conflict which was often referred to as "the wild west show" and for me there was worse to come. That was my first real brush with death in Ireland, but by no means my last, leaving me with memories that are going to stay memories.  If these wannabe Mafioso thought they could intimidate me, I don't think so, in fact where the tomatoes would smash on impact, the oranges were really sweet and it saved me acquiring them!

To be continued…