suggzy

I’ve just about seen off a bout of jetlag, after quite a couple of weeks, all told.

This time two weeks ago, I was rattling around my apartment here in Doha, feeling rather like I was living at the bottom of the Sea, having dealt with the rather time-warping arrangement that is a flight from Washington to Qatar (13 hours), and an eight-hour advancement of the clock.

In many respects this would not have presented the difficulty it did, had I not been wrested out of sleep at 3.00am last Saturday morning by sounds of devilment and partying from the somewhat dreadful shower of young men who appear to have taken up residence a little down the hallway. This crowd moved in at the start of the year, and this is the third incident of partying the rest of us have had to endure. Loud music, shouting, slamming doors, and the absolute honk of cigarette smoke. Bunch of gits – I feel most particularly for my neighbours, and their four-months-old baby. At some stage I am going to serve up a splendid revenge upon them, but for now I shall simply ‘dob them in’ to the front desk. At the time, as they pulled me out of my jet-lag-correcting slumber through two shut doors and from under my pillow, I had thoughts of something a little more drastic.

Alas this rather set the cycle for the next few days, and I have spent more time than I would like staring at my bedroom ceiling, awaiting the first Call to Prayer and the initial stirrings of the Doha day. However, the normal pattern of events, such as they ever are normal, is at last returning, and it’s been an okay week, really. But why was I suffering in the first place?

Current employer has a hearty allowance for staff to spend on personal training, with a cheering attitude as to how and where it is spent. They stop short of a tasting tour of the better wine districts of the world, of course, but to my delight were happy enough to spring for me to go to a conference in Washington DC, a city I had not previously visited. The fact that the conference packed up halfway through my Birthday was no small bonus, either. I booked it all some time ago and was looking forward to going. The twist on all of this, as I shall describe, was that I finished up agreeing to take three dogs with me, to be re-homed in the wider Washington area.

Of course, I didn’t just go about in a taxi rounding up unsuspecting strays with a lasso fashioned from a curtain cord. It transpired through conversation with a number of American colleagues during the daily commute that there was a charitable organisation in town that brought the whole thing together, setting one up as a Flight Buddy to squire unwanted dogs and cats over to the Land of The Free, there to live out a life of comfort, free from hunger and abuse. Dogs, in particular, suffer rather over here, being somewhat in disfavour, and you’ll no doubt remember the evening when I was mugged by a binfull of stray kittens, shortly before having a chat with the man with the AK47? The germ of the idea grew in my mind to get involved – life’s too short and all that – what could go wrong? A little bit of worry and disorder for me, but a life of happiness for man’s best friend – a no brainer, for sure. As I very much miss our dog, Milo, when out here, it was time for an adventure and to do some Good Work.

I asked around, and got put in touch with the good folks from Desert Hound Express: http://dhex.org/

In no time at all it was agreed that I would take responsibility for the safe transfer of Phoenix and Sophia, with the later addition of a young lady called Juliette. Here are some inevitable pictures- these two of beautiful Sophia, prior to and then on her big day:

Lovely, eh? Arrangements were made, and we were all set up for a 6.00am liaison a couple of weeks later, where we would do a little light paperwork and I would squire the furry three onto their flight, before heading for the biped entrance. I managed to lose my mobile phone on a short break to Muscat, just before we were due to fly, but matters came together alright in the end, and human and hounds met for the first time that morning. Two chilled out ladies, and a young man less than at ease with the world, attempting to dig his way through the carrier and down to the Arrivals hall below. He and I eyeballed one another briefly, and he gave me a little look that suggested that this was Far From Over. And he was correct. The lad played the long game like a pro.

It would not be a tale of my travels without some manner of digression into the past, now would it? I was not without nervousness about something going wrong, and in fairness I have some form. I have already recounted for you how I almost lost an expensive academic gown in the Czech Republic, and, of course, there is always the long hot Summer of ’99 to look back on, when I was called upon to make some deliveries of a different sort, which went rather off piste.

A lot changed that year, as I moved from a life of going from temporary to contract, and eventually fell into the line of work that has come to fill almost two decades since. But back then it was a case of waiting for a call to hear what one was going to do next. And, in this case, one Thursday afternoon with a break of employment threatened on the horizon, I was asked if I would like to do a spot of delivery driving? Fine, I said, and reported for duty the following Monday, to begin three weeks behind the wheel.

I appeared in an office in an industrial area of suburban Cambridge, and was given a photocopied map with a load of scrawlings on it, a mobile phone (and again, let’s just remember we’re going back 19 years, here) that appeared to be switched off, bearing a mighty crack across it, and £20 in cash.

“That’s for petrol mate – not fags” said the fellow I had reported to. I suppose I must have been carrying about me a nicotine-deprived shiftiness? Doesn’t sound like me, but there we go.

“It’s already loaded – be careful, as it’s rented. Drive to the address on the map and unload the trolleys – ask for Bill, okay? You’re coming back empty – we’ll load it from the other end when all the scripts have been marked.”

This didn’t mean an awful lot to me, I confess. I was working for the same examinations company I had been all Summer. You’ll perhaps recall the footprint on the loose page of a script that I found in a cellar, a few weeks before, the day I chucked a jug of water over a job interview? Same crowd. The gist was that the fouled exam papers were being marked in some hothouse in Brum, and I took the work up there and the marksheets back at the end for processing at the end. No problem.,,

I got the Transit working in the end, after pulling at a few levers and stamping on a few pedals. A bit like my Dad when he plays an organ, I suppose. I lurched out of the Cambridge are and made for the A14 and then the M6. The sharper turns led to an amount of thumping and bumping behind the cab, but I just tried to ignore it, and fiddled with the radio and periodically glanced at the map, and convinced myself that, of course, I would have no problem with Spaghetti Junction and my natural sense of direction would lead me to this Mill Wharf place in good time.

Nope.

Most of the known world had decided to go for a spin through the Midlands that Monday morning. By about half ten it was hoofing it down with rain and I was in a massive tailback in the inside lane, peering out between the wipers for what I imagined would be my junction. I had the notion of calling ahead and letting this Bill character know I was going to be a smidge late, but the ‘phone was dead as a doornail. I had no phone of my own, of course, so I just had to forge onwards.

After an eternity, I was heading South on the A38, and on track, if not on time. After a few missed exits, and some stupendous bouts of swearing, I was doing a three-point-turn at a bowling club somewhere in the environs of Bromsgrove. With roughly the same screw-ups repeated the other way ‘round, I was then back out the other side of the M6 and driving around Star City, trying to find an exit.

This went on for a while. I stopped and pleaded with a couple of people, and they at least got me as far as the exit I actually needed. I was sort of zeroing-in, mile by mile. Sweat was pouring off me, I was an hour late, but suddenly a sign appeared that told me where I needed to be. I lurched off a roundabout and down a narrow side road, parallel to the building at which I was to perform my drop-off. A tight right turn brought me into the car park at the rear, and then the true horror of the picture emerged, when I realised I would have to pull up behind the place, all the way along the middle of an avenue of parked cars. Lovely shiny company vehicles, all awaiting a good scrape, bump and scratch from an inaccurately propelled Transit. The option was there to reverse in and then drive straight out afterwards, but I was truly shot away, needed a pee and feared the worst.

I drew the wagon to a halt, and emerged onto the tarmac with the wobbly marathon-runner legs of a fat man who’d spent four hours behind the wheel. My hopes of a piddle and a calming ciggie vanished when ‘Bill’ appeared at a rate of knots to greet me with some urgency. He was very polite, but not a little exasperated.

“Goodness. We had thought you might be here some hours ago” he said. Code, of course, for “fuck have you been?”

I unpacked for him my tale of woe so far, to which he listened patiently, whilst trying to get the tail lift thingy to work. I assured him, now I new where this Brigadoon-like facility was, that I would be on time the next day – whatever on time actually meant, in this case. After a while we were not exactly brothers in arms, but we had managed to get the four heavy wheeled upright trolleys of exam papers down to ground level. We each departed downhill into the building with one, at a quite alarming speed.

Soon enough we were in a sort of lobby with the hopes and dreams of a lots of 18-year-olds in the dry, and awaiting consideration.

“I’ll take it from here” said Bill. “Perhaps you could get them to give me a call, tomorrow, to let me know you’re underway?” Code for: I trust you as far as I could throw you (not very far at all). I agreed, shook hands, ducked into the Gents to open the flood gates, and hopped back into the vehicle. I played with the phone for a bit to try and get it working, to let them know that, despite everything, I was on my way back. At which point I realised it had a mighty crack across one side, and was never going to be functioning again. I figured I knew the way back, at least, and had a bit of a play with the gearbox, in search of the promise of Reverse. After a time something seemed to clunk into place, and I inched backwards.

To an observer, it must have looked like a video of a slalom skier going back up the hill at 1/10^th speed. Two wing mirrors, a shaking driver and a lot more swearing and nervous farting later, and I had navigated back to a point where I could leave. Into first, and the thing shot forward like Milo does when he’s off the lead. I appreciated, for the first time, that once the van had disgorged its treatises on Narrative Authenticity in Wuthering Heights, Causes of the First World War, and The Structure of the Human Circulatory System, then its performance level took a rather lively upswing.

I jerked to a halt just out of sight ‘round the corner, smoked three fags on the bounce, and drove back to Cambridge at only just under the speed of light. My spirits lifted – I even got the radio tuned in along the way. By the time I had dropped in a few quid’s worth of petrol, I was back before 4.00pm.

“Alright mate?” said my mentor (let’s call him that) for the contract. “You’re back good and early – went alright then?” I sighed, inwardly, nodded, and made for the door.

“Actually mate”, he continued, “if you want a bit of overtime, there’s another little job wants doing while we’ve got the van”.

I raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“Bunch of old pallets out the front. Rotting a bit – they want taking up the tip so they can go on the fire there. I’ll chuck ‘em on the forklift and lump ‘em on the van for you – you drop them up there, alright?”

I had nowhere to be, the sun was shining, so why not indeed? A hand-drawn map was provided, which this time proved to be rather more accurate. A few minutes later I drew up at the edge of some facility to do the necessary.

I swear to you that I could never find that place again. I start to wonder if it actually existed, and whether it was just the product of a feverish dream. However, as I recall it was a big slope, littered with all manner of degrading junk, that led down to a sort of open cave – yawning, black and frightening, containing an enormous and deadly fire. Surrounding it, a group of exhausted and shirtless men periodically strained themselves to hump bits of ‘stuff’ into the blaze. It looked like one of the punishments in Botticelli’s Mappa dell’Inferno. They may well have been there doing that since the dawn of time. What was going on?

To my shame, I never found out. I’d had enough. I simply wrenched the pallets out onto the ground and drove away before anyone could quiz me on the provenance of my cargo. For all I know they are still at it, wondering if their salvation would ever come. Truly, as first days go, it had been a strange one.

However, as is the case with almost any job, after a while things settled down, and a pattern of collect, deliver and return soon became the norm. Happily I was never again required to glimpse the Mouth of Hades.

In fact on one occasion I was so far ahead of schedule (Bill was still brushing his teeth and in his bedsocks when I arrived), that I thought I would drop in to Corley Services on my way back, and treat myself to a spot of lunch. Typically it was not a lunchtime without oddity. Having parked up, I wolfed down a burger and chips and then returned to the cab with a bottle of pop and a newspaper. I dabbled with the quick crossword, and, yawning, decided a few minutes shuteye were in order.

I can’t have been asleep long when there came a thud on the window. I was thrust back into wakefulness, and to my right saw a man in substantial jacket waving urgently at me. I suspected I had made some manner of parking infraction, and so wound down the window.

“Awroite maaayte?” enquired the Midlander.

“Good afternoon” I responded. What fresh madness was this?

“Listen” he said, unbuttoning his garb, “I was just wondering if you fancied buying a watch?”

He swung open the inside of the jacket to reveal a number of gold watches swinging merrily in the sunshine. Frankly, this is the sort of thing that happens on the telly, is it not?

I peered incredulously at him for a moment, before poking my left wrist out of the cab and pointing to the wristwatch there with the index finger of my other hand.

“Actually” I responded, “I’m alright for a watch for today”.

Fellow looked back at me a bit mournfully, raised a conciliatory hand and said “faireeynuff maayte”, rebuttoned his shop, and wandered off into the distance.

Odd.

Soon it was the final day. Nothing to take up, but many panniers of results books to be brought back to HQ. My mentor pointed out to me that there were a number of ratchet straps placed in a bag in the back of the van to secure what he promised would be a considerable load. No lesson into how to actually use these was given, but I blithely assumed I would just work it out as I went.

Fast forward a couple of hours to sunny Brum, and Bill and I were wheeling about a dozen trolleys onto the van. He muttered something about a meeting, and wandered off, seemingly not to return. I upended the bag of straps, and spent some time separating them, like a load of carelessly packed fairy lights from the Christmas before.

I spent forever and a day getting the first trolley in place, and strapped in, through tying the things onto a metal bar that was screwed into the length of the van. I looked at the rest of the job and reasoned that it would take aeons to get the rest of them similarly secured. The straps looked pretty long, so I figured I could just loop them ‘round three or four at a time and be on my way in no time. Fine, they might jostle a bit, but I had plenty of time and would have to go gently anyway, due to the weight on board. Soon enough, I had two lines of six, one down each side. I struck up a working man’s whistle and made for Cambridge, thinking of a few Friday-evening beers.

Which I did have, some hours later, although rather more in a shaky attempt to forget what happened on my return journey, than in the pose of a job well done that I might have hoped for.

As I swung my steed through the first roundabout of the return journey, there was a considerable creak and a hollow but heavy thump. I reasoned that my load was just ‘settling’, and that all would doubtless be well. Through the straighter sections of the M6 and the A14, nothing happened, but with every corner that had to be turned as we got closer to base, there were unmistakeable sounds of heavy items on the move. And a clear sense of something splintering a bit. Oh dear.

I figured I would be best just getting back. Primary objective was to get all the marks back, after all.

Eventually I rolled up into my parking bay, and was instructed to unload the trolleys and roll them up to the side of the building where staff on site would deal with them. So, I popped down the tail lift, swung open the doors, and was greeted by a rather altered scene that had existed at the start of the final run.

The trolleys had formed themselves into sort of pentagram in the middle of the lorry. Around them lay shards of straps, like unwanted spaghetti at the side of a child’s dinner plate. All of the paperwork was still in place, but it was an unruly arrangement, for sure.

I gulped, and just tore into the work at a rate of knots. Moments later I knocked at the back door with the first of the trolleys. A chap came out, and I told him there were 11 more to follow. I walked back to the van and the trolley seemed to follow me!

“Whoa!” said the bloke, kicking a sort of triangle of metal next to one of the wheels through 90 degrees, halting the progress of the thing immediately.

“Put the fuckin’ brakes on ‘em, will ya!?”

Ah – so it transpired they had brakes on them, then? Who knew? Not I.

I blocked all of this out for a few minutes, and busied myself with prising the remaining trolleys apart and dropping them where I was bid. As I left the last one behind me, I moseyed back to the van, thinking that I had got away with this rather well.

Until I looked back up into the empty van. And stared in horror at what had once been the neat tie-bars down either side. The weight of the shifting load had torn them away from their moorings, and fashioned them both into a pair of sort of giant corkscrews. I was wondering how this really quite visible alteration to the appearance of the van might affect the excess on the hire policy. Considerably, I concluded. Torn straps dangled from this piece of modern art, completing the appearance of a job less than well done.

What did I do, you might ask? Well, I closed up the van, popped the keys and the ‘phone back into the office, and stood there for a moment. No one was coming.

I strolled back out to the van. I opened the door of my car, parked just across the street… and drove away from the scene as fast I could.

Back, then, to my more recent episode of delivery.

Everyone from the charity waited patiently whilst I checked-in, and the documents I had been given to cover the dogs were pored over. Eventually everyone seemed satisfied that matters were legitimate.

“Just the local security check to come” said my new friend Elaine.

We waited. Phoenix whimpered and I eyed the clock. I was given a photo of the chap I was meeting the other end, and we all agreed this was a job worth doing. Warm and fuzzy – all that stuff. Lovely.

Eventually a chap with a gun appeared. I specialise in brief engagements with armed officialdom. A rather bored fellow, he was. He satisfied himself that there were three dogs, meaninglessly counted the crates, nodded, and left to get himself some breakfast. Security check was done, it seemed.

We shook hands, and the hounds went one way and I went the other.

We were an hour in the air before I could stop thinking about them. Whilst I was pleased about what I was doing, I couldn’t help but think 14 hours in the hold with water and a blanket would probably not make much sense to a dog. It lacked a selection of movies and a heartening breakfast, for sure. However, they would not do it were it not safe, tried, and tested. Soon enough all three would be tearing around a field in Maryland, and all would be right with the world. I settled back, and got on with crossing the Atlantic.

It was a long flight, and largely uneventful save for one curious gent, who seemed unable to remain seated for very long. Like most people, I understand and indeed feel the need to stretch my legs now and again. Don’t want any of the major blood vessels going awry when all around one there is only sky, now do we? However this fellow took the matter to extremes. He seemed determined to get his 10,000 steps in, and nothing would stop him.

His family just slept, but he set out on a seemingly endless odyssey. He was tall, and fat. Possibly Nigerian, or Ghanaian – not sure. Big bald head and possessed of two large, smiling eyes. He wore a bright maroon shirt, pulled taught over his tummy, and topped the ensemble with a polka dot bow tie. In many respects he looked like he was about to referee a 1950’s boxing match. He clasped his hands behind his back, stooped forward and walked and walked and walked. He dropped into my eyeline now and again, and smiled broadly at me. Harmless and eccentric, but I feared, very much, for the beginning of a conversation that I might not leave until the wheels touched down. I did my best to feign disinterest for his lumberings, whilst being inwardly fascinated. Not a film buff, I supposed.

Hours later, as I wondered how the pooches would cope with landing, the wheels dropped onto American tarmac, and we taxied to the stand. With greater efficiency than I had previously known on trips to the US, I was through the immigration phase in under an hour, and emerged at the carousel, looking for my bag and for a porter (as had been promised) to assist me. I asked around, and at least fathomed that my friend would emerge from a door at the far end of the building. Porters came and went – it was just a case of grabbing one.

My bag appeared and I hastened to the aforementioned spot. There was a young woman there, and I took a punt by asking her if she, too, was awaiting a dog or a cat or two.

“Shurrr – six of ‘em” she said.

“Six?” I responded.

Americans – you always have to do things bigger and better, don’t you? My trio suddenly seemed quite small beer. However, it wasn’t long before a succession of crates appeared, and I was delighted to see my furry friends were all in good order. I popped a finger into the crates and got a reassuring lick back. Phoenix eyed me with suspicion.

It seemed polite to let my dog whisperer friend deal with her pack first. Not one but two porters appeared to assist her, and as they wheeled off into the distance I asked them to come back for me when they were done. I reasoned that as one dog was a bit more angsty that it would be better for him to travel on one trolley with the two girls on the other. All very logical.

Soon, we were left alone, and the airport seemed to be emptying, rather. I imagined they may be a while, so I thought it would be a charming thing to do to take some pictures and send them back East to assure my partners in this venture that all was well. I was just leaning down, ‘phone in hand, to take the first snap, when over my shoulder a voice shouted:

“Sir!? Sir – NO sir!”

I looked up to find a dumpy fellow advancing on me, dangling manacles, pepper spray, radios, and the ubiquitous gun. He had one of those black uniform on that the Cousins seem to favour, with more badges off official office stitched into it than you see on the most assiduous of Boy Scouts.

“Ah, hello” I responded – figuring that the slightly dreamy Englishman Abroad act would soon have us ‘shooting the shit’ together.

“I was just taking a couple of pics of these dogs fo..”

“No SIR! AbsoLUTEly not Sir! NO photos to be taken in the baggage area SIR! Understand?”

Arms were folded. And, I suspect, a modest erection was forming.

“Oh very well” I replied, and pocketed my mobile.

“Good day SIR!” And off we waddled.

This exchange had drawn us some looks, but worse than that had served to rather stir up young Phoenix. He returned to a campaign of trying to dig his way out of the crate. Checking that the security fellow had popped off for a burger or something, I leant into the cage to offer some words of calm.

And then the barking began. Big, solid, woofy, insensible barks. Again and again and again.

I was fast becoming the rule-breaking Brit with the dangerous dog. I stepped away, and surreptitiously texted everyone to say it was going okay – ish.

Phoenix was still going bananas 15 minutes later, when one porter returned with but one trolley. Bugger. He appeared to be mute, and immune to my protestations as he formed a pyramid of dogs on the trolley, and veered off to the exit with them.

I hurried alongside him, and nervously pressed down on the top crate to try to ensure it did not fall off, freeing an escaped animal, presumably bursting to do what dogs do. The barking was now louder, and rung around the concourse, from a height of about seven feet. If our uniformed friend reappeared I imagine he would simply have just taken us all out in a single hail of gunfire, and lawyered-up. It was not a happy situation. Heads were shaken in the crowd. Not good at all.

We turned a corner, and there was a man called Paul. He was dressed head to foot in fleece, and was largely beard, glasses and dog hair. He was rather disappointed that he had to tip the porter (I had no currency, at this stage – imagine how I would have copped it had I abandoned the dogs?) but soon he ushered me follow him out into the cold air at Dulles, to his station wagon, parked helpfully about three miles away in the farthest corner of the parking lot.

He talked incessantly. I am almost certain he had no idea of my name, and still doesn’t. His principal concern was the size of the crates.

“Man those are big” he said, again and again.

“Gotta hope I can collapse one of ‘em” he said, as we drew up to the brown and monstrous motor he had brought for the gig.

He pulled out a large knife, which worried me a bit until I realised he was simply setting about the ties on the first of the crates.

“We’ll deal with Mr Barky here last” he said, gesturing toward Phoenix, whose protestations did not yield, even at knife point.

Ten minutes later we had uncaged, walked and re-caged two very civilised young ladies, and huffed and puffed and got them aboard.

Phoenix? Well. I leaned inside his cage and hooked on a lead, before he burst free and took me on a tour of the surrounding area. Strong doggie, he was. We reached some grass and he flew into an all-too-familiar position before, well, before taking a Massive Shit Everywhere.

At which point he was, frankly, a different animal. Tongue lolled out, he skipped back to the van and hopped up onto the back seat, next to his now flat-packed crate. All smiles. On went the seatbelt, and Paul drove him and his lady friend away to a new and a better life.

I suppose it’s true. When you gotta go – you gotta go!