suggzy

Part One.

Hello all.

I’m ill again.

Throat infection, this time. Happily the symptoms are limited to my throat, and have not spread either upwards or downwards, so I am still in a position of suitable health as to knock out another missive from the Middle East.

The theory goes, from my friends at the Health Clinic, that I am suffering a delayed allergic reaction from the considerable dust that is to be found circulating around the little state of Kuwait, which I visited a fortnight ago. Of course, they managed to mis-diagnose matters last time I had business over there, and had me pour a gunge into my ailing ear that had roughly the affect of applying glue to it. Still, as is common out here, I have been supplied with the small matter of five different forms of remedy, and instructed to apply them for the next five days. Apparently, should my temperature reach 39 degrees, I might want to consider popping back for them to have another look…

My boss asked me the other day (or is he now my boss’s boss? I become growingly unsure – I do appear well off for bosses right now) if I had always been such a “delicate flower”? I took a certain amount of umbrage at this, at the time, but on reflection I have had a bit of a rough trot. Deaf, flu-ridden, and now rattling away like my time may be drawing near. Still, onwards ever onwards. I shall prevail.

So – Kuwait, then? A country I first became properly conscious of at the age of 16, when Saddam and Co. invaded it, and we watched the edited highlights of the reprisals on the telly. I find myself recalling that today, as I am watching the sad news that my country, the US and France are now dropping ordinance on Syria – the standard ‘sledgehammer to crack a nut’ strategy we seem so fond of. Particularly when, as politicians, we are attempting to deflect from our various problems at home. Be funny, if it was not so hideous.

Kuwait became part of my life once again when I was married to Sarah The First, and she was embarked upon PhD study. This involved three visits to the little island of Failaka, just off the coast of Kuwait City, to dig up some stuff, and then do stuff to it, that I never quite understood.

So, quite unexpectedly, Kuwait became stop number 53 on my lifelong World Tour.

The short trip began at the early hour of 2.45am, as I had allowed for one full and one half day in the capital, just to get a flavour. I was advised that there was not terribly much to see, but I was determined to go, all the same. And so it was, at the dawning of the day, that I found myself nursing a cup of coffee in the little bar at Hamad airport. Always a pleasure – and made more interesting by the automated grand piano there. Largely it sits there in complacent silence, but will occasionally strike up with a little something. On this occasion I think it was Au clair de la lune, but it was a trifle early, so we can’t rely on that.

It being so early, numbers on the ground were quite low, which is always a bit of a treat in a large airport. However, it wasn’t so long before, with not inconsiderable fanfare, one of the Cousins arrived, to my near right. He was armed with his modest hand-luggage (I, too, was traveling light), but for some reason he was bearing it on a baby trolley, the like of which one sees outside supermarkets, for the use of Little Old Ladies, buying no more than a few fondant fancies and some cat food. Quite why, I do not know. He looked about 48 or so, and in fine and ruddy form. Yet evidently he took great pride in the discovery of this labour-saving device, and proceeded to drive it, with some force, into various of the furnishings, before finally settling down to break his fast. When his repast arrived, he tore through it using only a fork (they do do that at times, I find) and was mopping up the remains of it in no more than the blink of an eye. All of which rather gave the lie to any condition that meant he could not just carry his bag like a normal person. However, I was probably being a little testy.

Only a short hop to Kuwait, from here. An hour up the Gulf, turn left, and there you are. My first flight with Kuwait Airways, and vastly superior to Pegasus Airways it was. They even fed and watered us a little bit – and I took my third coffee of the morning on board, which was the point at which the first disaster dawned.

I have shared with you before that, at times, the madness of early travel can cause my digestive system to go into an indignant shut-down. Indeed I have, on some occasions, had a nervous 24-hour wait before final taking my ease in whatever water closet was available. The same could not be said of this particular journey. Internal chemistry ground into gear, and I sensed a familiar gurgling from below. With time on my side, or so I thought, I sensed an opportunity to lighten my load a little before setting out to seize the day.

I rose up, and gave the seat in front a splendid whack in the process. This is now my standard punishment for folks that deem it necessary to recline themselves into my lap, as this latest miscreant had done. It wobbled back and forth quite agreeably, giving the chap lain across it quite a start.

“Terribly sorry”, I lied, and made confidently for the smallest room.

And so it was that the Universe conspired to take me down a peg or two. And here begins a description of the most unpleasant thing I have had to relate so far. The Worst Man In The World (remember him?) had nothing on this.

It is, of course, the case that the loo on a plane does not give much room for one’s chosen activity to take place. Heaven alone knows how the fabled Mile High Club members manage what they do. I can’t imagine it is a particularly romantic procedure – it has no appeal to me, and I can’t see SWK going for it, either. Quite apart from the cramped conditions limiting movement, there’s a consciousness of all of the umska that has passed through the location during previous flight. Not exactly crisp cotton sheets and Champagne.

So it was, that I was fairly determined to get through my business and stride jauntily into the Kuwait day. And everything went really very well, I can assure you. None of the old trouble – a smooth performance. There was, in the latter stages, a discernible drop in the pitch of the engine note, indicative of the commencement of the landing procedure. Unperturbed, I formed a crouch and began, well, er, ‘tidying myself up’. As I daydreamed as to what they day might hold, there came a sudden repeated thudding at the door, and an urgent voice shouted from mere inches away:

“Landing, Sir – we are to land! Retain your seat!”

This had put the wind right up me, and caused me to whirl to alarmed attention in what I have already described as an inconvenient convenience. Registering the commandment, I looked back to what I was doing, and realised to my horror that the fistful of lavatory paper I had been working with was no longer in the operative hand, but in fact was now attached to the bulkhead wall, by virtue of an adhesive that really can only make us all shudder and wish that I was not writing this.

I looked on, mouth agape, at this ghastly signature I had left. I had to return to my seat, but just could not leave such a calling card. I’d be banned from all further aviation, surely? There would be articles in the Gulf Times – grainy images of me with my hand obscuring my face.

And so it was, in the feverish 45 seconds that followed, that I found myself using loo roll, soap, spray perfume and elbow grease to effect what was the hasty redecoration of an aeroplane toilet. Dear God.

By the time I sprinted back to my seat, avoiding eye contact with anyone, I was pouring with sweat and shame. We arrived in Kuwait, and I was very much behind on points.

Upon entry into the airport, things did not really improve for me.

Nothing grisly occurred, but I was immediately plunged into geographical confusion. It seemed possible to walk pretty much anywhere at will – no sense of being directed to anywhere in particular. All gates were accessible, as were all shops. What I needed, was an entry visa so that I could enjoy my little City Break. I’d tried to sort it out online earlier in the week, but had met with predictable website confusion and no joy.

Having visited most of the airport, I returned to my starting point and made off in a different direction. This time, just past a sort of see-through TARDIS, in which about 17238 people were smoking, there appeared the promise of a via collection service. A sort of restaurant ‘specials board’ directed one off down a corridor that then opened in to a mighty annexe to the main building – roughly the size of the Grand Mosque.  Row upon row of seats, a man with a gun (there’s always someone with a firearm in my life) a battered pair of photocopiers, and a deserted row of desks, with delicatessen-type neon signs above them. And no staff.

I twigged that it was prayer time, and settled in for the wait. I was reading my book, when a man in orange trousers approached me, and asked in an American accent if I knew where the photocopiers were. I boggled rather, as they were the only real landmark in the otherwise bald aircraft hanger of a room. I pointed them out to him.

“Cool, man. Cool. Gotta pen?” I lent him a pen, which he failed to return. I returned to my book.

Finally, a group of surly souls put in an appearance and sat behind the desks. I got hold of a ticket and was pretty much first up. I strolled to the desk, best Englishman Abroad smile, and handed over my documents.

“Copies and form”, said the man, without even looking up.

“Form? I’m sorry, I didn’t see a..”

He whacked down a form, and pointed to the copiers, without looking up, once again.

Inwardly, I began to seethe, but figured a sleepless 30 hours or so in Kuwait Airport may be less than fun, so toddled off to the copiers and fished out a(nother) pen, filling out everything very precisely, and copying everything, passport included.

I returned, and handed everything over. This time I was met with a world-weary sigh. Goody – we’re becoming friends, I thought.  Painfully slowly, my interlocutor asked me to confirm some details and pecked away at a keyboard. After an eternity, a printer whirred, and a dual-language visa appeared on a piece of A4 paper appeared. He handed it to me. All the details were wrong – my name, the date… pretty much the only thing that was certain was that we were in fact in Kuwait.

“Where should I go next?” I asked sweetly.

A thumb jabbed to the left, where a bunch of uniformed chaps had appeared.

“Thanks very much for all of your help” I offered. My second lie of the day.

The uniformed guys didn’t stand on ceremony. One slapped his stamp all over my erroneous travel document, and another rifled through my luggage. They nodded, and a door slid open, freeing me back into the airport, roughly where I had been 40 minutes before.

This was becoming somewhat Kafka-esque. I headed this time to the Help Desk. Why not? I reasoned. Well, don’t rule it out, anyway

“Hello there” I said. “I have my visa now and I wanted to know..”

“Out this way” said another less than cheery and helpful man. This tine a thumb pointed downwards, in the manner of a Roman Emperor. There were steps behind him, and I descended them. I arrived at the back end of a mighty queue to clear immigration. Soon we were shuffling along, with the usual features of people breaking the line, needlessly loud conversations at 100 decibels, and very little progress whatsoever. I was, I confess, a bit zoned out, so a couple of times the queue in front of me moved ahead a few feet. I needn’t have worried, though, as they fat man in a nut-brown smock behind me helped things along by poking me in the back with his index finger.

I was really enjoying my holiday. However, I was closing in on the dubious prize of entering Kuwait itself when a voice came across the room, loud and clear:

“HEY YOU VISA!”

“HEY YOU VISA!”

This time an armed woman, and of course it was me she was calling to.

“You must leave now!”

“Come on!”

The rope went up, and I was ushered under it, like someone sneaking into a full night-club. No one checked anything, and I was out into the heady delights of the City of Kuwait. More by luck the judgement, and my paperwork made no sense, but what the hell, eh? I found an ATM, secured funds, another coffee, and headed into the Sun to look for a bus. I even had the exact fare, in the form of a Quarter Dinar note.

The obvious form of action seemed to me to stand next to the enormous sign painted on the tarmac saying BUS. I pointed myself towards the City, and waited expectantly for the every-ten-minutes service. I sneaked a cheeky vape, smiled at people, and waited.

And waited.

And, yes, waited.

No buses. But, after a while I looked the other way, outside of the canopy under which I was stood, and saw something not unlike a London Routemaster driving around. Abandoning caution, I strode through the carpark and made for it, just as it screamed off into the distance. However, chasing it suddenly revealed nothing short of a bounty of buses. None of them appeared to bear the number I wanted, but I wondered if I might be able to steal one.

“Yes Sir, please?” came a voice from behind me.

Oh good, I thought, an impromptu taxi driver has come to relive me of all my money on a circuitous route to my hotel. I turned to address him sternly.

“You need bus yes? Where going?”

“Ah well, yes, er, the City” I came back, realising I should give people a bit more of a chance, sometimes.

“City?” he quizzed. “What City, please?”

“Well, I thought Kuwait City, really” I replied.

“Hahahahaha” (this was funny, apparently) “please follow me”.

We reached the end of the Bus Rank, and he gestured me aboard, waking the driver who lurked within with a few words of sharp Arabic. Over went my 0.25D, and I sat down, wondering quite how scheduled a service this might be, and where it might come to a halt. It had Venetian blinds and air conditioning, and rather randomly-placed USB ports, one of which I used to charge my phone.

Ten minutes later, we were off. I was the only person on bus. We drove for some time, and seemed to be approaching the highway, when there came the strain of a ‘phone ringing. It was not mind.

The driver slowed abruptly, and pulled in on the hard shoulder. On went the handbraked and he marched down the bus to unplug his phone and have a loud conversation, greeting the person on the other end of the line like a long-lost Brother. Not for the first time, I wished I had a spot more Arabic than the two words I had mastered to that point. The gleeful chatter continued, until he spied me looking at him expectantly, whereupon he got back behind the wheel and drove off, using his spare hand to steer the double decker.

For a long time, we drove, without stopping for anyone, anywhere. Even when I had the sense that folks were stood at the bus stops, rather fancying the use of the bus. It was only when we got into the fringes of the city that random punters started to be allowed on. I was studiously avoided, but also stared at with a detached amusement. On we rattled, my phone passed 90% charged.

Minarets and tower blocks flashed past. I orientated myself briefly, as we whizzed ‘round the Liberation Tower.

We stopped.

“Get off here, please” I was told.

I got off. Fuck knows where. It was hot, dusty and I have now been up for nine hours. I began to walk.

Second half next weekend, I think.