Mad bulls and wild kites

We would fidget in excitement while waiting outside the rusting gates or staring through the wooden-barred windows away from the shimmering heat, anxiously looking for our faithful kite maker.

Every Easter weekend, we laughed in loud relief when our father’s best friend, the easy-going Uncle Kamel strolled in smiling, as we dashed across the thirsty stretch of cracked earth to greet him with news of our design selection usually the “star point” or “pointer tips.” He had come from the nearby “green” turned brown in the dry weather, to sit and stay with us until late, chatting and labouring with Dad to create the medium kites or gentle “singing engines” we so loved.

Ensuring everything was neatly laid out on the spotless desk that usually served as our chaotic dining and homework table, my three siblings and I hovered impatient and  ready to point out our single pair of heavy iron scissors swiped from the manually pedalled ancient Singer sewing machine, long abandoned in a dark corner by our father, who had trained as a tailor while a teenager. When the apprenticeship ended, Dad shuddered, immediately decided he was unsuited for a life of careful cutting and custom clothing, and fled to a career in carpentry and construction.