The Arabian Nights Revisited II: The Kalendar Prince Rides Again

Wendell Phillips (second from left) stands with Yemeni men, including Sheikh Al-Barhi (center), a leader of the Bal-Harith tribe, and a child in the desert. (Credit: American Foundation for the Study of Man)

The next morning, I stormed the chairman's office. His secretary grinned and waved me in. The chairman leaned back in his blue leather chair. Wreathes of cigarette smoke spiraled above his head. "Well, what did you think of Wendell Phillips?"

I thought for a moment. “P. T. Barnum goes to Yemen.”

“Not bad, not bad,” the chairman smiled and then frowned. “He destroyed the site, you know. His team dynamited ancient structures. They dug up precious artifacts haphazardly. They smashed and grabbed. They were worse than Carter's men at Tut's tomb.”

“I thought he was an archaeologist.”

“You thought wrong,” the chairman leaned forward. “I will tell you a story.” He stuffed out the cigarette and steepled his hands. “Listen well, my young friend.” I sat back in my chair. “Phillips claimed to have graduated from Berkeley with a degree in archaeology, but Berkeley doesn't have an archaeology department. He promptly sought out the CEO of Chrysler Motors and convinced him to finance an expedition to the gulf, saying he would trace the voyages of Sinbad the Sailor. The CEO was entranced and financed the expedition.”

“Scheherazade whispered to him,” I said.

“Indeed so, but, alas, they dropped a Range Rover into the drink at Basra, and the expedition went nowhere.”

“Mash 'Allah.”

“Good accent.”

“What do you expect after a year in Cairo?”

The chairman smiled and lit another cigarette. “I'm told that your mastery of Arabic curses is unmatched, but that your endeavors in classical Arabic were below our standards.”

“No one is perfect.”

“Indeed, my son. Now let me enlighten you with the strange tale of Wendell Phillips.”

"Hold on, I didn't travel half the length of England to put flowers on Lawrence's grave just to hear Phillips nonsense, and I didn't crank up one cold morning and goose the machine until the tires screamed on that empty straight-away where he died just to see this guy in Arab dress.”

"You are impatient, my son. Listen to my tale, it has the magic of the Arabian Nights itself.

"Phillips spent a few years in the Merchant Marines and then made his move into archaeology. His first expedition to find Sinbad was a bust, but he tried again and got Chrysler to finance a second expedition to track down Ali Baba. Again, there were no results, for obvious reasons, but Phillips was on his way. He created a research foundation and spent most of the 1950s exploring the Arabian Peninsula.

“Phillips was an incredible showman. He could talk his way into anything, and he had no qualms about speaking to kings, sultans, or shaykhs. He was the Kalendar Prince writ large. He styled himself Doctor Phillips, took to wearing a kufiyah, and strapped pearl-handled six-guns to his waist. He surrounded himself with beautiful women, and there were rumors that he actually had a harem. The Beni Harith made him a shaykh, and then the Sultan of Oman granted him an oil concession.

“Now pay close attention, my son, because the oil concession was a turning point: he went from humble scholar to oil magnate. He became what is known as a ‘six percenter.’ He traded his concessions for oil revenues in the Middle East and Latin America and became one of the world’s richest men.”

The chairman stuffed out his cigarette. “So when that violin begins Scheherazade's theme, listen closely. She may stretch out her hand and make you the hero of some magical tale.” He leaned forward and waved me out. “In the meantime, I believe you have a class in pre-Islamic poetry.”