Welcome To The Barren Rock

Doreen Robinson

The transport plane, big bellied, like myself (seven months pregnant) was packed with service wives and overflowing with their children, on this day, in the early sixties, on our way to join our husbands in Aden.

My husband had applied for Singapore, known as a 'plum posting' but as a result of being 'carpeted' for an alleged insubordination had been earmarked for the notorious 'hot spot' in the middle east.

When he left I was three months pregnant with our third child and when finally scheduled to join him was coming up to a bulky seven months, the limit by which the service allowed me to fly.

Always fearful, myself, of flying I was instructed by my husband to sit in the tail - the safest place. Whether that meant that in the event of a crash people sitting in the rear would arrive on earth intact or whether experience had shown that the toilets in the tail were always found to be relatively undamaged, I wasn't sure. He had the reassurance in his flying of the use of an ejector seat.

Awaiting our instructions, with my four year old daughter and two year old son we had spent a peaceful four month sojourn on a dairy farm in Somerset.

The day of departure, the noisy train, preceded by much bustling preparation, completely unnerved my two year old (normally a happy child) who cried for most of the journey to Stanstead where we were to depart. Both grandparents were seeing us off and his grandad's noisy attempts to distract him made things much worse. I was sharp with my father which I immediately regretted, after all we would not be seeing them for at least another two years.

Having said a tearful farewell at the departure gate, the ascent up the aeroplane steps saw me carrying my son, kicking and screaming and losing both his shoes in the process. My daughter was much more relaxed having already moved four times in her short life.

During the long journey with apprehensive mothers and restless children whose needs meant frequent trips to the rear where I was dutifully sitting, I became increasingly worried about so much activity going on. Sometimes there seemed to be several mothers and children trying to squeeze into the confined space of the toilets. As I sat with my fretful toddler perched on my 'mound' I instinctively leaned further and further back in my seat as if to redistribute the weight of those tripping up and down the aisle.

There was a kind of contagious rapport between the younger children, especially the babies, as once one began to cry, the sound then swelled to a mixed crescendo of individual screams and screeches as if they were communicating shared anxiety.

After many hours of increasing claustrophobia and fitful attempts at sleep we were informed that were about to arrive at our destination. The descent into Aden triggered co-ordinated bouts of 'throwing up' by the toddler contingent, though not, thankfully, mine who were beginning to perk up at the thought of seeing Daddy again.

We stayed on the runway for some time as one official after another welcomed us in the name of each of the three services. This was followed by an army sergeant in tropical kit, khaki shorts and shirt, who reiterated many instructions contained in a green hard backed manual entitled ADEN which we had all received with our travel documents. How to behave, how to dress, what local customs it was absolutely essential to adhere to. When at last we were released from the confines of our virtual prison, on stepping out, the heat that hit us like a solid mass was overpowering, heavily impregnated with the smell of the 'dhobi' washing lines. A distinctive, stale, sun baked, starched soap odour that pervaded every corner of the place.

If my physical appearance had altered somewhat over the four month separation so had my husbands, waiting on the tarmac with the other dads. He was wearing a multicoloured beach shirt with Bermuda shorts. He was deeply tanned with a close shaven head and sporting a black patch over one eye, the result of an attack by a stingray, the previous day. Our toddlers newly gained confidence deserted him completely as he took one look at what was supposed to be his daddy and the hysterics broke out again. This instant rejection was not the kind of reunion my husband had been looking forward to either. He led us to a waiting, black, rust edged, Morris Minor with its windows missing. When I remarked on this he replied "who needs windows in Aden?" He had bought it for ten pounds from a mate who was returning to U.K.

We called on some squadron friends and their wives at the base who were due to return home next day. They updated me on life in the Middle East. How to combat prickly heat and monsoon blisters, what areas not to venture into. The advice ended with offers for me to tale over their ayahs to look after my children.

Finally, at the end of what had been a long and tiring day, we rode through the main thoroughfare towards our rented flat. The air echoed to the sound of the calls to prayer from the mosque and from the windowless car I caught sight of beggars, many of them children propelling themselves along on wheeled platforms to support their deformed legs. Some of them deliberately broken to prepare them for a life of begging.

We had arrived! The smells, the sounds, and the sights like nothing I had ever experience before.