suggzy

Part the First – The Sound of Silence

Hello again.

So, one of the attractions (and there were a few) to this job was the Annual Flight Allowance. A goody. A perk. A freebie.

I realised, fairly early on, that the substantial sum (about £1,700) allowed per staff member did not have to simply be used on a trip to one’s ‘home country’. As I learned to my considerable pain back in December of last year, this was a journey that could be carried out at low cost, with the likes of the cursed Pegasus. Therefore, it became an object of obsession on my part to use every last penny on a set of flights to take me far away to a location where I could get a taste of a few more countries. As we have seen, I managed (after an interminable bureaucratic procedure) to line up a slightly unhinged tour of South America. Five countries, ten flights, and 13 days. Arguably madness, but much I cared, given life is short, or can appear to be, some days. Also, this is unlikely to be the sort of trip I can foresee affording in the immediate future, so I gave it some thought, and had been looking forward to it for some time, when finally I stepped on the plane to Brazil.

But let’s dial back, for a moment, shall we?

I’d already spent more time on planes in the last year than in, I think, any other year of my life. In particular, a good number of journeys to the UK and back – sometimes in pursuit of leisure, and a few stolen days with SWK, and at others in pursuit of the (as yet) unsuccessful goal of securing future employment. Funny to say it, but it’s a shame there isn’t a job for someone getting close to getting a job. I’d be a global authority. That said, it seems the good lady and I have hit upon a new Grand Plan on that score – news and no doubt unlikely events will follow, on that score.

A consequence of flying a lot, of course, is the sense of a real lottery when one takes one’s seat. Made all the more nerve-racking if you get on the bird pretty early, and have a lot of time to watch the hordes making their way in your direction. You pray to the Gods of Aviation that they don’t pause, look at their Boarding Pass, and give you that pained expression that indicates it’s time for them to, often quite unconsciously (but not often), make your life an Inner Hell. The most glorious days, of course, leave you with a row of three or four seats to yourself, with lavish legroom and unencumbered armrests in profusion. Those days are just wonderful. They bring a lightness to one’s being. It’s almost like being in Business, frankly. I had such seats both ways, the first time I flew to the United States, and on the way back unashamedly made the place my bed for a few hours. If I remember right, I may have even slept through a meal.

Mostly, this does not happen. One will, instead, find oneself wedged into one’s seat next to someone who: farts, noxiously; eats like a starving pig; gets up every 15 minutes to wee, rearrange the contents of the overhead bin, or just plain wander about; or worse than all of that, slumps into sleep atop your person. The trouble with all of this is, in my case, not so much the anti-social behaviour one observes, but one’s complete inability to call the individual out on it, or to disrupt it with counter-measures, of some sort. Me? I seethe, I bite my lip, and carry out unspoken arguments in my head where I emerge the victor with withering and elegant put-downs, that see my opponent traipse off to a seat elsewhere. I am unable, alas, to resolve any such situation to my satisfaction. I fear that this swallowing down of bile is only bringing the final heart attack closer, but there we are.

However, this is an opposition to one’s sanity that comes in a largely comprehending form. The greater problem (and here I will lose some of my tiny number of readers forever) comes in the form of small children.

Now, I have no children, although I did teach some children in the far off days of the first quarter of my life. And to be completely fair, when the conditions are right, the wind is blowing the right way, and the sun is shining, I adore children. They are fascinating, heart-meltingly kind, inquisitive and cuddly. I know a number of such children.

But, of course, it’s not them that books a Wizz Air departure for 5.00am from Luton in November. It’s Mummy or Daddy, and the little traveller does not know what is coming. Very often, it will not bring out the best in them, and the light inconveniences of air travel will bring out the singular worst aspects of their formative personality. In the worst set of circumstances, they will simply strike up with a tuneless scream of befuddlement, disappointment and anger, which will not cease until the queue for passport control, some hours later. Those days are the pits. For them, for their progenitors and for old grumpy guts here. There will be an economic, logistic and practical justification for them being there, raising merry hell in 23B, I am sure – however, in the small hours of the morning, I am not a chap bound to reason this out.

Knowing and understanding this, I have been after a solution for a number of years. Drinking, earplugs, sleeping or moving seats has simply never worked – and the cabin crew don’t like it when you feign a bowel movement that lasts two hours. However, after years of this, I have found a solution, and recent experience of the solution has changed my life, and dropped my blood pressure significantly. What is this solution, you ask? Why, dear reader and fellow traveller, it is the delight that is Noise Cancelling Headphones. I now own a pair, and, were my house on fire at some future juncture, having ushered my wife and dog to safety, I would pitch myself back into the flames and smoke to retrieve them.

The thing is, like a lot of us, I thrive on peace and quiet. Indeed I think I may be a bitty bit obsessed by it. Cut and thrust and hustle and bustle and sturm und drang of any sort can fuck off, frankly. I have spent much of the weekend in my apartment, listening to the gentle burble of Test Match Special, quietly reflecting on my existence and utterly at peace with myself. It was blissful. Unplanned intrusions into that world seem to unsettle me most awfully. None of this makes me a nice man, of course, so I try to counteract it with displays of kindness, warmth and decency.

The NCH has brought all that angst to an end. Whilst I will concede that £200 is an awful lot to shell out for a set of cans, you have to think long term with this stuff. I am going to spend many a happy long hour, plugged into either an artificial silence, or a clear-as-a-bell rendition of whatever I want to listen to, that isn’t the howl of a baby, or the catarrh-juggling snorts of a fellow adult.

I’m not sure I can adequately explain the effect when these things clamp over one’s ears, and the noise cancelling button is pressed. I suppose it must be like waking up in your own coffin, six feet underground, and that tiny, muffled and muted moment, just before you audibly draw breath and scream? Sort of like that, but for as long as the batteries last.

So, I picked up these bad boys just prior to my final flight before I took off for Argentina (yes, I know, I am getting there). Funnily enough, once I had bought them I became instantly obsessed with them, and was charging them up in the airport, only to be called to the Gate and told off for losing my Boarding Pass, such was my level of distraction and desire to fire them up.

Nature provided the perfect set of circumstances. I was perched in a row of four seats, two in from the end, and there in front of me was an angelic little boy, in a set of yellow dungarees. He fiddled with his Mother’s hair, gummed at a rice cake, giggled at life, and even played through the gap in the seats with my fingers. As I say – I am not unaware of the charm that comes with recently-created life. However, at some point in the early stages of the flight, something got to him, and there boomed forth wails of discontent, and accompanying tears and snot and all of that stuff. No mollifying the lad, unfortunately. “Aha!” I thought. “Time to test the new toys.”

And so I did, as they lay gently charging in my lap – all ready to go at the slightest provocative noise. I slipped them over my ears, and soon found myself beaming back into the face of a howling, bitter, tear-streaked young cub, mouthing his outraged protestations at his lot back to me, completely and utterly noiselessly <inserting smiling emoji here>.

I didn’t have to enter into some manner of pact with the Devil or anything – I know all this must seems like black magic of some sort. But no, it’s a change to your lifestyle that anyone can have, and in truth, less expensive versions are available – this was my one real treat to myself of the year. I am obsessed with the thought of trying them the next time the dog is barking at me. That’d be the bench test of any breakthrough audio technology, it seems to me – the untamed, visceral, vocal power of an indignant Jack Russell.

But all of this is by the by. The ‘phones and ‘phone went in the bag, and off I popped to South America for 13 days, and so our tale should begin..

An early win came at the airport. I checked in nice and early, minded my p’s and q’s and poured on a little of the old oil with the lady on the QA desk, and as a result I was assured a row – a whole row, to myself. Score one to me, I thought. Really, the only issue I then had to contend with was what device to charge next! I arrived at my next destination simply brimming with battery,

The major event on the flight over the Atlantic came when the plane was, in fact, sat on the ground. We’d knocked off the first 14 hours or so, and a by then quite ripened and wheezing 757 was having a spruce up and a spot of something to drink. I had laboured my way through five rather varied films by then – this is my preferred way of killing time during life’s more extended periods in the airliner saddle. As we had arrived in Sao Paulo, a lot of folks had got off to pursue their life or their holiday in Brazil. I wasn’t due to break the border officially, for a number of days. However, I was a bit confused on the matter of procedure, and found myself dilly-dallying somewhat. Opinions seemed to vary rather on whether those of us bound for the onward journey to Buenos Aires were required to step out for a moment, or remain where we were. I fancied a stroll anyway, so I gathered up my bits and pieces and meandered out of the plane and out up the tube towards the inner workings of the airport.

I was collared in no time. It turns out this is not what you do. Strangely, even though I have been on a few hundred flights in my life, this scenario had simply never arisen before. It wasn’t exactly the long arm of the law, but there was no doubting the sincerity in the words “please do not enter Brazil, and get back on the plane.”

By the time I returned to my prison, the place was a riot of activity. Men, women, boys and girls all over the shop. Buffing, plumping, vacuum-pushing and trolley-shunting was all around me. I quickly felt very much in the way, and was reminded off the need to raise my feet up in the air when my Mother hoovered ‘round the sofa, when I was a small boy. It really was a festival of activity, with stuff coming and going, and it was a while before I could return to my seat, and quietly get on with life. It turned out, in the end, that the procedure involved the arrival of an official to check that you had your Boarding Pass, still. Thankfully I did, some fresh passengers were greeted on board our fully refreshed plane, and up, up and away we did go.

By the time we had put down in Argentina, and I had pin-balled from immigration to baggage reclaim, to cash machines and the taxi stand, I had been awake for 24 hours. I find it hard to get to sleep on planes, much of the time, and I am always excited, even if I am flying for work – actually, that’s an enthusiasm carried through from childhood that I hope I never lose. I started to nod, but was soon on the ball again when my tremendously expensive cab whooshed out of its parking space and directly across a bus lane, filled with an oncoming bus. The shock kept me awake until our late evening arrival at my lodgings, some 40-odd minutes later.

I checked in, at what was really a hotel of two halves. Up front, it what mirrored glass, flower arrangements, uniformed staff, and a feeling of space, light, and frankly unexpected luxury.

Then, one’s duties discharged, one became committed to a rather earthier set-up. A lift of many doors, and rather fearful clanking, opened on to a maze of corridors, with my chamber lying at the furthest end, heading past other doors that appeared to hide behind them families of about 25, enjoying a late evening shout at one another in front of the TV.

I burst upon the threshold, and settled straight into 1971. My room was clean, tidy, entirely comfortable and a living monument to the hotel industry at roughly the time I entered the world. A vivid floral print wallpaper had all manner of curious and non-matching buttons and unusable charging points scattered across it (I found one that worked in the end, although it was a bit of a Heath Robinson set-up). The bed itself was built into a mighty and sturdy wooden frame, and this expanded out into either side, in the form of bedside tables, with additional massive buttons, one side to deal with the music, that I gathered could be played through the loudspeaker built into the ceiling directly above one’s head. The other side – even better, was a block of nine switches that formed an ancient remote control for the television that hung off a bracket overhead, ready to fall onto the bed and shatter one’s ankles.

So the usual fare, really. I cobbled together some sort of message for my loved ones, to indicate I was safely ensconced, and crashed into a deep and dreamless sleep. I was so tired by that point that nothing else was going to happen.

At some stage in the middle part of the morning, I rose and joined the day. The eccentricity of the room faded into the background a bit, and I started to put myself back together. As I went about my morning ablutions, I soon discovered that the WiFi in the hotel worked – but the only strong signal to be gained was when sitting on the loo. I’m as much a fan of keeping regular as the next man, but this seemed excessive, just as route to being beaten at Facebook Scrabble by my Mother. Again.

Down the various corridors and alleyways I went, in search of some breakfast. As I look back on the trip, it was the most modest of the breakfasts I had, but it did serve to introduce me to a couple of things. The first is that you can guarantee a decent coffee in most locations in South America. The second was the raw delight that is Dulce De Leche. Goodness me, yes. After my standard-issue muesli and yoghurt, and a little ham and cheese, I reached for a croissant and thought I would have a wee dollop of this light brown, unhealthy, viscous-looking, and one presumed sweet goo that was available on the side. I smeared the latter across the former, popped it in my craw, and all was heavenly. Transpires the stuff is a ‘milk caramel’ and you get it everywhere across the continent. It is, I fear, about as good for you as injecting lard directly into an artery or two, but much I cared – I figured I would walk it off, and I do seem to have rediscovered a bit of a sweet tooth, in my fifth decade.

The only other slight oddity at the breakfast table came in the form of the coffee ritual. The stuff was nice enough, but sort of kept under wraps, if you will? I’d been sat there for a while, sipping my juice and scanning the horizon, when a nice lady appeared at my table and enquired about my coffee or tea related needs. There followed a pouring of coffee and then hot milk from the pots she was carrying.. but then she sort of scuttled off with both of them, into the further recesses of the kitchen area, seemingly not to return unless someone made a fuss about the lack of a hot, fast-breaking beverage. All a bit odd. I speculated that perhaps, Gollum-like, she was hidden away there in the dark, polishing her ‘precious’ receptacles. But I had had rather a long journey.

After a time, and a bit of limbering-up, I stepped out into the Argentinian day, and had my first good long look ‘round the place. It was a nice, bright, but cool day – a welcome break from the fizzing heat of desert life. It also seemed, immediately, a happy place. And nicely spread out, too. People chirped merrily away at one another, couples strolled along the waterfront (where the enormous old docks are having a facelift) and their children ran along in front. All rather agreeable, as I cycled a bit of fresh air through my lunch for the first time in a while. It was no distance at all to the primary point of interest for the first trip out – the Plaza De Mayo and the Casa Rosada, where Evita Peron did her stuff, on that balcony, 70-odd years ago. The distinctive, off-pink colour of the building, it is thought, may stem from a time when buildings were washed with the blood of the bovine. Which is nice. Beef was rarely off the menu, during this particular jaunt.

Anyway, on I went, content to wander. I got myself down to San Telmo, which is a lovely, quaint borough, of bubbling streets, Tango demos, coffee shops, antiques, and all that pleasing stuff. Colourful, would be the word. I had some afternoon coffee and then drank deeply at the well of Modern Art, over at the Museo de Arte Moderno. By the time I came out of there (a Pollack and a Rothko at very short range, but more importantly loads of good stuff about the mirroring of pre and post WWII movements in Europe and South America – I felt quiet cerebral there, for a bit) it was absolutely chucking it down, so I beat a hasty retreat up the line in pursuit of the daily portion of beef.

Ah yes, steak steak and steak once again. I had allowed myself the quotient of one per country, and actually I stuck to that pretty well, in the end (we’ll have a count-up, shall we, as I type my way through this? The first was memorably good, in an old-fashioned a slightly beaten up place with the large parrilla grill up front. Dropped a coffee in on top of it for digestive purposes, and waddled back to the pad. By now I was quite splendidly drenched, so I finished using the rather odd interior architecture of my hotel room as an extended clothes horse, as I lay me down to read and then to snore my steak-filled head off for a number of hours.

Day two dawned, with a return to the breakfasting table, to get matters started, after a WC-based catch-up with the virtual world. Coffee was splashed about with rather more eagerness than on my first morning, but someone else had made it, and so it was not at the same level of loveliness as my hard-won cup on day one. However, all of this rather dimmed into the background, because on this occasion some music was being piped in. More precisely, a slow jazz version of a number of minor hits: an ensemble featuring a young female vocal, accompanied by a paintbrush and eggcup on percussion, and a distant double bass twang. There’s a A Rat In My Kitchen What Am I Going To Do, and I Only Wanna Be With You had me smirking all the way through my repast.

Conscious as I was of the growing addiction to Dulce de Leche, I decided to cover many a long mile on day two – and so it was that I did. My ultimate destination was the Jardins Japonais in Palermo.

Initially, my route took me out via the Obelisk, through Republic Square, and on towards the junior of the city’s two airports, where I was set to re-emerge from Uruguay, in another ten days or so. Surroundings changed and changed again. After a time, thirsting for coffee and a biscuit, I walked through the borough of Ricoleta. A rather ritzy locale – all Breitling shops, and snobby-looking hotels I could not dream of affording. Just as I turned down towards the main drag, a fancy coffee shop showed itself to be open, and I got my lunchtime snack. A bit of a read and a look through the guidebook was rendered a bit of a non-starter by the presence of an enormously loud young American man. I never did quite work out whether or not he was on a date with the bored-looking lady opposite him, but he spent the time I was in the place either regaling the more modest amongst us with his views on his glass of wine, as he swirled it around at about 100rpm, or breaking off to take calls on his Bluetooth thingy to conduct a series of deals involving large sums of money. Did he take matters outside? Did he heck. We all needed to know what an enormous success he was making of his fab-u-lous life. The twit.

I paid up, offered a withering glance (unnoticed) and dropped down to the Museo Nacional Bellas Artes. Free, and spellbinding. A second cracking venue in two days, and a super use of the time, wandering among the delightful daubs on show. Within a cough of the brushstrokes on another Rothko, and a Liechtenstein to boot.

From there to the gardens was a long stint on foot, but served to exhibit Buenos Aires at play on Sunday afternoon. Dog walkers, joggers, football matches and cyclists spinning through the parks. And why not, indeed? Two worlds collided, at the gardens themselves. Beautiful venue, if a bit overrun with us nosey tourists. Lots and lots of Japanese people enjoying the fading light, and all of us snapping away at a mile a minute, as the sun melted through the trees. Beautiful stuff.

By the time I departed, I had started to think about a spot of local dinner but just walked on instead, so as to ensure less of a route march once I had filled up again. This proved something of a mistake. All around me? Shops. Shops, shops, and shops again. For miiiiles and miles and miles. A total misjudgement, on my part. There were rumblings in the interiors, and I had to duck into a shopping centre, for a little ‘comfort break’. My venue for this? A cubicle with a saloon-style cowboy door. Disconcerting, as all around me crashed, bashed and washed their hands. Still, I took my ease and, as I do, walked straight out the wrong door, and so added a further mile to my journey back to the hotel in finding the right route. Vodafone must have rejoiced, back in the UK, as I had to call upon their roaming services to right my errors.

And so it was that the rain came down. I became very, very hungry indeed. And cold. Faces came out of the rain. The loathsome bully THP, from a former working life, suddenly turned a corner to scowl at me. At a red light, there was one’s old chum Monkey, a superb pool player of former days. Hunger gripped me – weird meta thoughts took over – philosophical musings on the business of the momentary connections made, thousands of miles from home, with someone you will never ever see again.

I was entirely relieved, and sore of foot, as I stumbled back onto the mighty Avenida Julio and found a hypermarket open to supply me with a hotel room picnic. I lay knackered in bed, flicked peanuts gladly into my mouth, and contemplated a trip to arty, gritty La Boca on my last day before flying to Santiago.

Time to pause – and time to make dinner a spot of dinner back here in Doha.

I topped and tailed my trip to South America with a couple of football-related pilgrimages, and as I think back to days gone by, I realise there’s been a few funny old turns in my life as a football tourist. Perhaps we’ll have a bit of a York Notes guide to some of those, next time out, as I swoop across the continent, into Santiago.. and then struggle to leave Chile. More soon.

A little more for you.

Oh dear, it’s been two, and nearly three whole months!

Such is life – and a busy life it’s been indeed. Allow me to explain myself:

Since last I battered out an update for you on life, I have seen off my Desert Cough, dropped in on Ethiopia, charmed Ghana in wildly inappropriate dress, been to the UK three times, and Beirut and Istanbul once each. I have had four job interviews and come second, twice. Pah. Although, I am now writing at the point of shifting off to the UK again next week, for a final crack at securing the future before my time here in the sandpit concludes, so who knows what’s going to happen next, eh? Still inclined to be positive, although spending the rest of the weekend learning about tertiary education in Ireland and the Netherlands isn’t one’s fundamental plan for the enjoyment of the weekend downtime. Still, BeIN Sports is showing the Test Match, so there’s some background enjoyment to be had.

I have run a load more miles (412 and counting, as I type), finalised my Summer Holiday (five South American countries? Yes please), watched a great load of the World Cup football and, sort of after no time at all, begun to plan my return to Blighty. A few weeks ago this involved me in an evening meeting with the splendid Mr Mao, who will be taking care of shipping my nugatory possessions back to the parentals’ place in the South East. He found all my jokes funny, was doubled-up with amusement at the modesty of my possessions (“two mugs?? Really?!”), and frankly it was so odd but enjoyable having the rarity of a guest on the property that I almost asked him to stay for dinner.

As this goes up, it’s only seven weeks to go until I hand over my keys and this adventure has a line drawn under it. Mixed feelings about that. It was always a time-limited  gig, and I am sure my wife and dog will be at least relatively pleased to see me swan back into their lives. I miss them awfully, some days. Happily SWK and I are going to have a quick week of late-Summer Sun in Cyprus as I begin my journey back, so that will be lovely. However it would be nice if I wasn’t coming up to the finishing line when it is as utterly and ridiculously hot as it is right now, over here. Of course, I’m not a complete idiot – I always knew that life over here would probably see me cope without any thermals, but truly, the Summer is a nasty nasty joke of a thing. In some ways, 117 degrees Fahrenheit is actually liveable, when the humidity is at zero. Its’s just plan hot. If making for a trip outside, don’t hang about, try not to get the bald patch singed, and the job’s a good ‘un.

But now, as the Creator’s little joke, it’s getting humid as well. And plenty humid at that. The air is turning to a pulverising, oxygen-free swimming pool, coated with dust, and it’s bloody knackering doing anything other than typing or mooching about in air-con. The weekly trip to Carrefour is something one has to coax oneself into doing – 117 becomes 127 and more. Quietly starving to death seems like a better option than going out there, into that. The disappointing consequence of all of this is that my last few weeks, other than for my holiday, will be spent pretty much exclusively indoors, much like Morrissey writing to his buck-toothed girl in Luxembourg. Before he got a bit Brexity and racist, anyway. No more strolling up and down the Corniche at the weekend. No more forays to the Souq. It’s Just Too Hot. Cabin Fever reigns, here in #2304.

Moan moan moan.

Yes, it’s been busy, but it’s been ace, and there’s more fun stuff to come as I rattle round South America in a few weeks. At least I can do so in the firm knowledge that even if someone uploads a bucket of Yellow Fever over me, I’ll not be catching it. No indeed, for I have a lifelong inoculation against it now, don’t you know? Oh yes. Yes indeed. Mine for the generous price of £109, for a drop of fluid less than that which goes in the tank of my e-cigarette. Still, whatever. I gather Yellow Fever does kill some people, so better to be safe than sorry. Except, really, when I went into the Yellow Fever zone it was only a day or two after the jab, and as such the Live Virus (for it is that) was not in my system yet. I had happy visions of it lighting up like Eddie from the 80’s Ready Brek adverts..

..but it’s not proved to be the case. A shame, as it would have saved on the lighting bills, and been handy in the event of a power-cut.

I had the jab in preparation for a recruiting trip to Ghana, which no doubt I will come back to at some point in the future. It was a fine trip, done in the fine company of a new friend. And it was successful trip. However, despite being armed with my Yellow Fever Certificate, it didn’t begin that smoothly when I entered the country, instructed, as I had been, to get a visa on arrival. Yours for a bargain price, oh venerable international delegate, it said – or something like that, anyway.

Ethiopian Airways deposited me first on the fringes of a field in Addis Ababa, in the later hours of the morning of the day I travelled to Ghana. I was due to change planes, which was a relief, as the first flight had largely consisted on Ethiopians sleeping on me, which and whatever seat I attempted to use. What didn’t happen, that warm morning, was any entry to the airport (a collection of buildings in the far off distance). Indeed, to my surprise, we were rather left to it, us passengers. No bus, no barked directions. All a bit DIY, compared to landing in, say, Austria or the United States, where a false move lands you in trouble, as we have seen.

After a while, I thought I would take in the scenery, and went for a little stroll. I meandered into the fields, wandered over to some thoroughly bored bovines, and took some pictures of some rusting farm machinery, and had a cheeky drag on my e-cigarette. I decided, then and there, that I was technically in Ethiopia, and it was going on the list. Customs and Borders are just annoying human constructs – cows and combines are the stuff of real life. And so, I mentally ticked it off, and added it to the ever-growing list on my mobile. If one day this becomes a more structured look back on the life of one who claims to have visited all countries of the world (an unlikely set of circumstances, although I have now set my heart on 100), then there can be some manner of investigation of The Rules.

Quickly, it became quite hot. To my lasting amusement, the only way of getting out of the Sun was to seek shelter from it underneath the plane that had delivered me into this land of poorly-organised aviation and half-hearted livestock. I sat by my hand luggage for some time, chatted to my fellow passengers (unperturbed and evidently used to all of this) and awaited news. It came, in the end, in the form of a rather urgent bus. It felt as if the penny had dropped, back at the depot, and that it might be best for everyone if we were filtered onto a few other flights. We were zoomed around the airfield, and soon enough I was prodded up some steps, some papers were torn and photos scrutinised, and we were on our way once again. A quieter flight, on a nicer plane. Sleep followed, and soon we were barreling West, over the likes of Togo and Benin.

Back to it, then, on landing in Accra. I knew a few basics from my reading, and Sarah the First’s tales of her life there, volunteering, at the turn of the century. She had managed to perform with distinction, had slaughtered a goat and caught malaria twice. In all honesty I was hoping for a quieter time, modest local colour, and not exhausting too much energy, as I was due to try and charm an interview panel in Liverpool the following week.

So in we scuttled, and it was off to Visa on Arrival with me. The familiar parade of armed soldiers that seems to follow me wherever I go, and no real sense of what was going on in any way. I picked the likeliest queue I could find, got given a form to fill in and was sent away. The form was badly photocopied – much like the sort one got at school on which to fill in the answers to a French listening comprehension test (LC – or ‘Elsie’ as my friend Simon used to write on his paper). I filed into another queue, deposited my form and with it everything I felt that the huge, gregarious-seeming fellow on the desk might want to pour over to establish the truth behind my tale. I was told to wait, and I waited.

In the end, not for too long. I was told to join another queue, and there at the end of it was a cashier holding my prize, neatly gummed into a distant page of my passport. He brought us quickly to the matter of my fee:

“That is $75 dollahs please, Missah Cox” he rumbled at me, most beautifully (I kid myself I have a deep voice and a cool accent – I don’t – Ghanaian officials win this one every time).

“Super – thanks very much” I came back, and proffered our flexible friend.

“No credit cards friend – only cash here”.

“Ah” said I. “Awfully sorry – I’m without cash… is there an ATM nearby that I could use to pay in Cedi?” I asked.

My chum the other side of the glass was a bit dumbfounded by all this. He pulled out a calculator the size of a 60’s typewriter, and established what I would need to pay.

“No cash machines this side of passport control, Missah Cox. I will keep your papers – you explain to them you need to get through and get the money, then we will talk again”.

There seemed, on the face of it, to be some failures of logic in all of this, but I figured I had lived 44+ years with plenty of those, so would just give it my best charm and bumble and we’d see how things went.

And they went pretty well. Okay, yes, I was captured on a thermal imaging camera, and had to do an amount of explaining to a lady on a car hire desk who took a sudden interest in me, and I just talked to the man on passport for so long and in such a convoluted manner about my present predicament that eventually he glazed over and waved me through. Evidently a nearby soldier hat witnessed my illegal entry into Ghana, as he spotted me head from there to the cash machine (thank the Lord that was working), and then felt it best that he escort me back through the border at the tip of his firearm. So a steady 6.5/10 by my normal sorts of standards. This was no Belarus.

I got back to the cash desk, waved off the armed guard, and the chap there seemed pleased if not surprised that I had evaded custody. The exchange of money for legitimacy followed, and I was free to do business in Ghana. And business I did – which I will follow-up on in detail at a later date, probably in a little number called ‘The Storm and The Suit’, I should imagine.

For now, though, let’s talk about my commute, shall we?

I will no doubt have mentioned that when I am not in the occasional Uber, my life is one of taking the bus to and from work. It’s organised by American Universities nearby, and presents a nice predictable way of getting to and from Trade, largely without event and at only modest outlay. I start and finish pretty early, often with a couple of colleagues from my office, living elsewhere in my building (called Somerset – so very fittingly for Qatar).

Generally one gets the smaller bus, of a morning. Something of a tin can, which requires an amount of folding oneself into when it is filled with boffins (they’re all off ‘researching’ on their three-month Summer holidays, right now). However it is air-conditioned and piloted well by a man called Chris. In the afternoon, a far larger vehicle rounds the corner at Georgetown Building, in the hands of a fine fellow called, wonderfully, Cosmos. Here, us patrons can spread out rather more, and the conversations generally grow more lively.

In the early days, I didn’t feel much like talking – which is rather unlike me. I settled into Doha life pretty well, and was not unhappy, at all – I just felt a little ‘out’ of things, as other folks jabbered along to one-another, and friendships continued that had been formed a fair time before my arrival. Instead I listened and observed, in-between bouts of tinkering with my ‘phone, or reading my book. I bided my time, and enjoyed listening to the variable accents on display, and hearing stories of time served in the country – one colleague would often regale us with tales of his daily 5.00am McDonalds breakfast, and then insist on pointing out the location where one could buy “the best Shawrma in the Damned City!” His wife, a comparatively calm and quiet lady, sat through repetitions of this. A fellow from Oklahoma, is the Venerable Dr J. He lists his principal enjoyments in life as Higher Education and Redneck Culture. It is he who astounded us one day with tales of the Rattlesnake Roundup, in his neck (red, assuredly) of the woods, where hundreds of the offenders are, well, ‘rounded-up’ then slaughtered, cooked, chopped into pieces and eaten off cocktail sticks, much in the manner of cubes of pineapple and cheese. I was inwardly dying of laughter at this, others turned rather green. Dr J has the most molasses-like voice. A genuine draaaawwwwl. He appears to have had many cases of excitable misadventure in his life (he hauled some poor unfortunate out of his car, after only weeks in the country, following some manner of motoring incident – that’s really not the done thing in these here parts). A few months ago, he and Mrs J were headed for Ireland, as he was pursuing some manner of claim to heritage from there, and spoke (to me) with enthusiasm about the prospect of finding himself involved in a “traditional pub brawl”. There was a period of time where his wife was not talking to him and the rest of us found it difficult to look at him, when he took the option of a haircut that just left a sort of heat-exhausted raccoon in the top middle of his head, and a sparse amount of stubble across the rest of it. That was a while growing out – he switched to a baseball cap for a while, no doubt under mild but stern instruction.

So yes, life throws us together, we happy bus people. Disagreements are few, happily. There is one chap who can get himself into discursive scrapes with folk, and you’ll be delighted to hear it’s not me. Dr M hails from Austria. I don’t want to be unreasonably mean to the fellow, but his principal failing is an inability to take the hint that folks don’t want to get involved in an intense conversation about the minutiae of the subject of his choice at 7.00am. At essence, he is an agreeable cove, and means well, but he has grilled me on my future plans one too many times, as I was still wiping the sleep from my eyes. On my next trip back from the UK I am treating myself to a decent replacement set of headphones…  I can justify this as my gift to myself on the closing in of the end of my contract, but the fact they feature noise cancellation is far from an accident, I can assure.ere

Who else do we have aboard? Well now, this Summer there was a brief appearance from The Sleeper – one of those folk that gets aboard a bus and is driving them on home in little more than moments. Morning, evening, makes no difference. Back goes the seat and he gives thunder, to plenty of sniggers. Recently there appeared The Lilliputians; a teeny pair of young marrieds who’re clearly working at two different institutions. They maintain a studied silence of a morning. One can see clearly that Dr M is just dying to ‘break’ them, but to no avail, as yet.

Lovely Mary D, too. I often have a jabber with her on the morning ride, when she’s here rather than swanning ‘round Chicago. A lady of the most charming ditz – the conversations are varied and amusing. A former paper editor, she has the unerring habit of starting the day with one of the tall, slender cans of Diet Coke that get sold here, with a straw poking out of the top. She slurps from the straw, and looks up over it intently at one whilst one is talking. It has the most splendid coquettish charm, does that look. I always feel like I am on a date with her at a burger joint somewhere, in about 1972.

Life changed, so splendidly, the day we met The Colonel.

On warm afternoon there was suddenly a big presence aboard the West Bay flyer. Dressed like he was off to a wedding – all waistcoat and pocket squares, he was. Defying the heat – a toothy grin and a silver buzz cut, and another purring ‘Merkin accent. Bless him – he’s back in a few weeks and I can’t wait to chat. To all the world, the famous purveyor of KFC had thrown off the quiet of the grave, and taken up an academic posting in the Middle East. He wasn’t the spit of Col. Sanders, but the association was there. One could observe him carefully making his early friendships with folk, learning names and carefully sussing out who everyone was. On one occasion the bus pulled up at his residence, and he appeared after a day of strolling ‘round getting to know the place. He’d ditched the suit, and resembled an unlikely Avril Lavigne tribute, in black Sk8ter Boi shorts, a check shirt, converse and band t-shirt. And this at 60! Irresistible presence that he is, he topped even that after coming back from a visit to Oman with a suite of Muslim Taqiyah hats, which he wore for a while (with the full suit), to keep the heat off:

Life throws some wonderful people at you, and My Buddy Greg is one of them. He’s just schooled in the art of conversation – we cover all sorts, at the start and the end of the working day, and I have missed the banter over the Summer period. It is a friendship that will endure, I am sure.

So that’s the bus. And that’s (some of) the gang.

I’ve missed so many things I should tell you about, but they’re all stored upstairs for future deployment. I might try and put together a Top Ten Moments piece, at some stage, if only to fill in the many gaps (George and the Porsche, dune bashing, my life as an importer of aftershave, and photographing camels at fifty miles per hour all need some sort of treatment), but for the moment I need to actually focus on the many events of the coming few weeks. No point having stories to tell if you have no job to pay for trips to go off and collect more, now is there? What I will be doing for sure, is taking copious notes from the new shores of Argentina, Paraguay, Chile, Brazil and Uruguay. I can’t believe there won’t be some tales to tell after I bumble around there for a couple of weeks. Even if it’s just a review of many, many steakhouses.

But more there shall be. Enjoy yourselves, everyone. I know I am!

Part Two

And we’re back.

I’m still not right, you know (no laughing at the back).

The cough is reduced, but I seem to be enjoying passages of sudden choking – sometimes at 3.00am, for my added delight. I’ve made the usual second visit to the local quack and monstered a second carrier bag of medication. Improvements, yes, but the war is not yet won. At least, as I type this, I felt strong enough earlier in the week to make a return to the treadmill and get a spot of exercise. I am hoping that three days on the Gulf of Guinea at the start of the coming week will prove something of a curative.

Gulf of Guinea, you ask? Why yes, for I am popping over to Ghana for three days, in an attempt to garner some more students for my employers next year. I’m going with some grown-ups, this time, so given average luck the spaces for riotous misadventure will be at minimum, this time. So far, I am £106 down on the deal, as yesterday I had to go back to the hospital for a ‘live’ injection to vaccinate me against Yellow Fever. Hopefully I’ll get the money back – I suppose a plus side of it all is that if I get a bit more adventurous in future forays into the continent of Africa, I’ll be able to go pretty much anywhere. For it seems I am now protected against said fever for the Rest Of My Life. Now – that’s a good thing – the only trouble is that it doesn’t kick in for another 10 days, and I am going on Monday and back on Friday. So, if the wrong kind of mozzie eyes me up and tucks in, it seems I have an 85% chance of survival. These are odds I am prepared to entertain, and I have already promised SWK a fridge magnet, so I am going, and that’s that. I am promised 31 degrees of heat, and 80% humidity, so it may be a little sweaty in my suit, as I deliver a few nuggets on the best my employer has to offer. In truth, my life has already been shortened a bit by the experience of going to get the jab. It was the usual rather byzantine arrangement, conceived of in a sort of delicatessen queuing procedure. Still, no one pointed a gun at me this time, and even the nurse who delivered the goods didn’t quite get the needle to go all the way through my arm. And, as ever, the many tests of my blood pressure all pointed to me seeing out the day in fine fettle.

And after that? Why the fresh air and the cooler temperatures of the homeland, for three weeks! Got some stuff to do, in the form of a couple of job interviews (yep, I’m back on that joyous circuit – no shields yet, mind, although I have enjoyed a couple of dawn rejection e-mails – a staple favourite of the time before I came out here) and some training, but largely I shall be bathing in the pool of joyous company that is my wife and dog. On the face of it they seem pleased about the prospect of my return. No doubt reports will follow in due course, in additions to those local ramblings I was working on previously. The future looks interesting. If things go our way, we might be living by the seaside next year… who knows?

But for now, let’s go back to Kuwait, which I am convinced is where this whole respiratory ague first came to me. There’s still some of their sand an dust down there in my lungs, and for the life of me I can’t cough the blighters back out again. Any career in radio is looking shaky.

But yes, I strode away from the bus, and started to put in a bit of work on ascertaining where, precisely, I was. I had an early sense of which direction the sea was in, which was later to prove correct. But in the first instance there were hi-rises all around, and not a street sign in sight.

So, use the ‘phone then? Well, not straight away, as I thought I would go with my gut for a bit. And so it was that I did a series of short circuits, all of which took me back to the starting point. I became rather hot, and a little frustrated (me?) at the lack of progress. I couldn’t help but notice that Kuwait also seemed to be rather shut, as well. So, any hope of riding things out for a while over a glass of cold pop was out. Finally, I ducked through an underpass, out the other side and sat under a tree for a bit of shade, to fiddle with my ‘phone. Further frustration followed, with a total lack of signal or Google Maps, until I twigged I had switched the roaming data thingy off. Sweat trickled down my neck, as I eventually managed to triangulate where I was. At a healthy estimate, little more than a mile from my hotel, and as such a circuit of the Grand Mosque and a stroll ‘round the corner along the seafront were offered to me, ending up at the gaff, where I thought I might grab a snooze and a shower before heading out later as the temperatures dropped back down a bit.

My route took me through the main Souq. Which was attractive, but entirely shut. Flying into Kuwait on a Friday morning was, it seemed, not my best move. Still, there was always Saturday for the retail side of things. Explorations continued, photos were taken, and my pace slowed a bit as the sun started to beat down on my unprotected head. The call to prayer fired up, and soon enough the place was swarming with the faithful, heading off to their mosque of choice. Once they were safely on the mat, I met with my first glimpse of the Gulf, and laboured along for a while before heading down a ‘short cut’ to the hotel. And at this point, the city presented me with one of the main problems that exist for a tourist who likes to do things on foot. It’s sort of not really finished. If you conceived of a scale that had the pristine Dubai at the top, mostly completed Doha in the middle, then I fear Kuwait would only scrape a pass. I was, in no time at all, walking through a swirling dusty wasteland, with the buildings I was aiming for suddenly looking like they had move further away. It took an eternity to reach them, and I was starting to be somewhat camouflaged in a layer of sand by the time I eventually crawled into the lobby of my home for the night. The air conditioning was nothing short of miraculous, as I cooled down after a full two hours of traipsing about.

Chap on the front desk was a bit bemused about why I was there so early. I felt like I had been up for a week. We agreed to give the cleaning staff another half an hour to get things sorted, and I slumped into a chair by the café, and lunched on a doughnut and an iced coffee. Blissful.

In short order I was up on the 56651651th floor, craning my neck to see if I could see the Kuwait Towers, where I planned to take in the lofty view of the early evening. But there was no sign – all around was a beige sky full of dust. Sleep seemed the better option, frankly, so I set a couple of hours on my ‘phone and grabbed some much-needed shuteye.

I went out like a light, and was well refreshed with a cup of coffee and a shower (one of those wide-open jobs, where all facilities, loo included seem to exist in 3cm of cooling, icky water) when it was time to head out again. A look out the window revealed that the slightly spooky-looking towers were now visible, with the dust having abated somewhat. They looked a comfortable walking distance away.

I headed for reception just to have a quick word on the matter of the best way to walk there, and was met by a growing group of aghast, neatly blazered chaps all agreeing that a car should be called, for fear that the plucky Englishman would expire performing such a pilgrimage on foot. I countered that it looked to be comfortably within my ambling compass, but simply wanted to know which way to go ‘round the mighty roadworks I had espied within the vicinity. I waived off further entreaties for me to regain sanity, and marched out into the evening sun, leaving grown men blowing tearfully into their handkerchiefs. I wondered which of them would get my Kindle when my possessions were divvied up.

In the event, their advice was of little use. The route they worriedly devised involved, it seemed, walking down a two-lane highway with no pavement. Instead, I opted to off-road it a bit, and skirt the roadworks to my left, and then switch back onto a parallel road from there. I avoided falling down any holes, although it was touch and go for a while there, and on emerging on the other side of the foul-smelling earthworks I did briefly make it into the grounds of Sheikh Abdullah’s Palace, before being politely returned to the correct path. Further along the way, a man washing his car (there’s a Sisyphus-like gig for you) suggested that rather than head into the gardens of his property, I might want to take the path the other side? The path, it transpired, led to the sea-front. The beautiful blue Gulf lay before me, and I ambled down to the foot of the Towers:

The lower of the balls (excuse the expression), is in fact the Water Tower for much of the city. A stray bullet, and you’d wash away a lot of dust, as it contains just over nine million litres of the stuff. The upper ball also contains liquid, but in addition, a revolving restaurant, and an observation deck.  I queued behind a rather rowdy family, and eventually found myself walking into the compound, and into the shaft, where the lift was waiting. It appeared, and in I stepped, along with a small group of fellow Westerners. We started to sail upwards, and my nose started to twitch. For once not at the odour of drying sweat, or the foulness of a stray fart, but the unaccountably delicious smell of a rich lamb gravy. The little box was a TARDIS, and I was suddenly in my Granny’s kitchen in about 1983, awaiting Sunday lunch. Extraordinary. It went as quickly as it had come, when I stepped back out at the elevated level, and was oddly gone forever when I hungrily got into it to go down a while later.

The Towers are more impressive from outside, to be honest with you. Inside it’s cramped, the glass is too far from you to take a decent photo or really get a clear sense of the view (my hopes of spying Failaka Island were dashed by the dust). The revolutions it makes are slow, but enough to induce dizziness, and one third of the journey round gives one a view of waterpark, which only served to give me a flashback to Romania, and my various adventures in lifeguards and drowning from a couple of years ago. I didn’t stay long. Once back outside I took a few more snaps and hailed a cab to take me to a spot down the coast a bit, where I was going to wander around a few streets and drop into a restaurant I had been reading about.

It was a bit of a trek, but the chap behind the wheel was chatty and agreeable and had a good command of English. I was struck by the hanging depiction of Tom and Jerry he had below his rear-view mirror, captured a little inexpertly here:

As I alighted at our destination, I pointed it out, just as a cheering observation on things.

“Yes” said my driver. “Always I figured that Tom would fuck Mr Jerry before he ate him”.

He and I were obviously not viewing quite the same image, but I was a few blocks away before my laughter finally subsided.

I walked through a Mall, just for a change, and emerged onto a very lively street, packed with people and all sorts going on. My search for my chosen restaurant was completely fruitless. I stood directly on the blue spot where it was supposed to be on my ‘phone, which was in fact a car park. This was a bit of a disappointment, as Kuwaiti Delicacies had been promised, but in the end I risked life and limb by crossing the road, and plunged into a courtyard sports bar, and was quickly seated and supplied with a bottle of cold water and a menu.

Around the edges of the place, there were sort of ‘booths’ that looked like the top of Pope John Paul II’s famous Popemobile, and here and there they were occupied with young men tucking into a Shisha pipe. Serving them, was a bloke who circulated around with a bucket of hot coals, which was evidently quite heavy, and it swung from his wrist quite close to the ground. As the place filled-up, and I ploughed through various courses of beef, he drifted past me on a few occasions with his fiery load coming so close to my exposed calves as to make the hair on them prickle with anticipation of a horrid burn. I enjoyed a digestive little coffee, paid up and left without injury, just about.

I took a stroll, as a further aid to the digestion, and after a time decided I would like to buy a bar of chocolate and a cold coffee to have back in my room. To do this, I had to drop down into a subterranean branch of the Lulu supermarket. And rather another Dante-like vision it proved to be. The place was rammed, noisy, and frankly hideous beyond measure. The usual sport of taking one’s under-fives shopping at 9 o’clock in the evening and then simply letting them run off their energy, with the predictable falls, howls, scrapes and screams that you can imagine. By the time I re-emerged from it all clutching dessert, I was ready for the calm of my hotel and an early start the following day.

After a spot of rest, a read, and a bit of holidaymaker loafing, came my first and likely last ever Kuwaiti breakfast. The buffet proved heavier on the cauliflower than you might perhaps expect, for the Southern side of 9.00am. And, under the pressure of decision-making in a queue, I accidentally finished up eating a ball of unsalted butter. Further riotousness followed when I terrified a young woman with my offer to share my table (it was very busy). She turned her hijab on me and fled; I think I might have appeared a bit forward, and innocently showing her my wedding ring in the ensuing panic probably didn’t help matters. None of this came by design, I’d like to point out, should my wife be reading this. I imagine her Dad is probably still after me, now. The other main highlight of the hubbub of the breakfast room was the man of frightening dimensions (height and breadth) who piled 14 slices of watermelon onto his plate (yes, I counted). I calculated, roughly, that if he was doing that three times a day he’d be shedding weight at a remarkable rate; and even if he didn’t get a TV series out of it, he might very well be able to bottle and sell his fragrant wee as perfume.

All too soon it was time to stuff things back into my bag and hop in a cab to the National Assembly and the Souq, for a bit more local colour ahead of the flight back.

This time, the driver was something of political firebrand. Although this was a journey of politics without any words mutually comprehended. I emerged with the feeling I had met the Kuwaiti Citizen Smith, and that he seemed to think the Syrian War was over. Sadly this proved not to be the case, when I checked the news in hope, but, well, he grabbed my arm an awful lot, and occasionally punched the air. With every day comes some sort of fresh oddity like this. In retrospect I wonder if he thought I worked for the UN, or something, hence the polemic. Rather than drop me by my destination building he attempted to drive me into it. Before I could lodge any manner of protest, we were at an official entrance barrier and a booth, from which there arrived my usual armed-to-the teeth soldier. This does seem to happen to me quite a lot. Happily, this one was just averagely bored, and was prepared to accept that I did not in fact want to gain admittance, but simply wanted to photograph his place of work. Although in retrospect that was rather a foolish reason to have given, perhaps. He barked some Arabic at my Comrade, which I suspect was:

“He’s the world’s worst spy, just drop him across the road in that bus shelter and I’ll shoot him later, if he keeps hanging about.”

I did not – I captured the brutalist architecture from a safe distance and scuttled off to the Souq, in search of a fridge magnet to adorn the device back home. The Souq was rather fabulous, as it goes. Lively, colourful, shaded, and with beautiful wooden carved beams. Fridge magnets were in short supply, due to the fact I was the only tourist within the square mile, but I did eventually manage to get hold of one. Buffeted around by the mass of shoppers, I found myself walking through the butchery section at one point, amidst tier after tier of swinging carcasses, going off gradually in the building heat. The smell was not for me, and after a while I ducked out into a courtyard café for an expensive but utterly delicious chilled salted caramel and peanut butter latte. Don’t knock it until you have tried it. Soon enough a rather more subdued taxi driver dropped me off at the airport.

I was able to confirm my view that Kuwait airport is the worst organised one I have ever attended. My sample size is not a small one, either, let’s face it. I had various false starts and met with various glares of incomprehension about my desire to leave the country on an aeroplane. Finally I found myself in a snaking queue, wondering if there was even the vaguest hope of getting through in time. There were people and possessions sprawled every which way you can imagine. Arguments blazed, trolleys ran over one’s feet, and progress was slow. Eventually, I fell into the company of a couple of agreeable Egyptian Americans, and we agreed to pretend we were all on business in Doha together, as we were on the same flight. Remarkably, this resulted in a bit of sanctioned queue-jumping, and even my totally incorrect visa did not give us any problems. I was very nearly home free.

I staggered off through the departures hall, and scored a bit of local aftershave, before deciding to change the last of my Dinars back into Qatari Riyals, I had about £20-worth at hand, so this seemed a worthwhile manoeuvre. Only trouble was I turned my back at the wrong moment, and got landed with the small matter of 99 one Riyal notes. A substantial, but hardly high-rolling wad to cart around, and I was still siphoning them off at the café at work a full week later.

Still, the experience gradually wore its way towards a conclusion, and I enjoyed the back of plane virtually to myself, and watched the landing in Doha through the onboard cameras, which was rather cool, as you land directly over the water. The first pile of 1’s landed in the mitt of the taxi driver back my place, and soon the magnet was placed onto fridge and my arse was placed on the sofa where I am now sitting.

And I sensed a slight cough building in the back of my throat…

Okay. That’s Kuwait wrapped-up. Back next time for the arrival in my life of the Colonel, and some more local tales. Assuming I have not been claimed by Yellow Fever, of course.

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.

Part One

Hello! Time for the first of a sequence of (I think) two pieces on some of the smaller elements of my life as an ex-pat.

I’ve (just last weekend) been to Kuwait City. Country number 53? Tick. I fitted in rather a lot in about 30 hours – and you would I suppose assume of most people that this was a trip carried out with the characteristic smoothness of a modern traveller, and that there will be little to report. But that traveller was me, and it was a vision of chaos, soldiers and misadventure. I will unveil it for you in a break between these shorter pieces. Oh, and I’m going to Ghana, too. That was a surprise. Details to follow.

For now, I am working away merrily enough. One or two more difficult moments on the work front, but to my surprise the other day I figured out that I only have about 20 weeks left in the office itself. Remarkable how time sails by, out here. I roll from my bed at 6.15am, and it generally seems no time at all has passed before The Bus (of which there is much to come) drops us back here at coming on 5.00pm. The environment, although frankly pretty cossetted, has a surprising capacity to tire one out – there have been a number of instances when I have arrived home, poured myself a glass of water, dragged myself into my running gear, and promptly fallen asleep for an hour.

Increasingly, I am having to focus in on returning to the search for further gainful employment. Back to the days of a shortlist of potential new gigs, and waiting to hear from them. Keeping a nervous ear out for the chirrup of my phone in the hope of an offer of an interview. I wonder, frequently, where I or we will finish up next. Back in Nottingham? A spell in Egypt? Or perhaps life will take us down to Portsmouth, or over to Liverpool? The future is as yet to be written.

However another weekend has dawned, and I have little to do, today, so let’s have a tour through a few some more of the bits and pieces of my time out here. Some of the minor gems that have twinkled here and there.

One way of filling the time is to go to the cinema. I was thinking about going again later, but there isn’t much on, so I have decided that today’s outing will be a trip to the bowling alley, to attempt to relive some of the glories of my youth. I love the game, and getting out of the apartment at the weekends is important, if only for a little while.

But the cinema is good too. There are loads of them around, and from time to time one travels a little bit further afield to ensure one can see films on a more limited run. The main interest seems to be in Action, Horror and Bollywood. I’ve seen some other stuff, like The Post, Darkest Hour, and the latest Star Wars, but my first trip – a bench test of the service – was to go and see the magnificently portentous and overblown Geostorm. Truly, it was a load of old crap.

However, the cinema is five minutes from my sofa on foot. It’s heartily air-conditioned, and at 35 Riyals a pop (about £6.50, right now – the blasted pound is rallying) represents good value for money. As with all of these things, it’s best to avoid the Kiosk Of Ultimate Expenditure (I generally sneak in with a bottle of water in my bag), although I have been known to spring for a nice cup of Karak tea to sip during the interminable adverts for fizzy drinks, expensive perfumeries and films I do not want to see.

Others take a different view on The Kiosk, and can be seen wandering away from their laden with buckets of various comestibles. Those chaps with the wheelbarrows down at Souq Waqif could make a killing if they hooked up with the hungrier film buffs.  And so it was to prove at Geostorm, which was the first film I went to see out here (spoiler – it’s dreadful, but was the only liveable option when I wanted to see what the cinema looked like).

You pay up, and select a seat from the electronic board you are presented with.  With me being me, I got it into my head that this was a touch-screen affair, and started grubbily stabbing at a particular seat, to no avail, only for the lady on the counter to suggest to me I just told her the number, so she could make the selection on her computer. The usual apologies followed, she wiped my sweat off her console, and in I went.

A cinema is a cinema is a cinema, of course. Nothing unexpected about it. One blunders around for a bit in the gloom and settles in on one’s seat. As is my wont, I lined myself up at the end of a row, took a sip of my tea, and awaited the start of my film.

The Blockbuster was just in the early stage when a man in local garb staggered in, and plonked himself down to my immediate right, and noisily unveiled a picnic that would keep a regiment going for about a fortnight. A parade of beverages from one sack, and a tray of nachos and a bag of sweets in the other. Pops, hisses, and plastic lids stripped off, and our boy was away. Crunching, slurping, and snorting as the action built. My usual tolerance on display, I started to consider my options. These really did not include addressing my fellow film-goer’s table manners, for he was a fellow of great substance, and I did not want a black eye and a ban from my local picturehouse.

However, it was not long before there was the unmistakeable sound of a mobile ‘phone ringing. A brief pause in consumption came, with a “harrumph” and an angry little fart from within the robes. And then the blighter took the bloody call, and started jabbering away, whilst removing his sandals and giving his feet a bit of a rub down.

Whatever it was he said, it seemed not to be “call you back later Dave, I’m 30 minutes into Geostorm, and the bloke three seats away looks like he might pop if I don’t step away from my lunch.” The discussion was interminable.

I gathered my man bag, my cup of tea, and marched off into the distance and took up a seat elsewhere. No issues with that, as there were only four other patrons in the place – few screenings even get near to full out here. I went to see Star Wars Part Eight just before Christmas, and could have had a row to myself.

Such behaviour in the UK – turning on one’s heal like that, would probably draw an amount of questioning of oneself, for the muncher of the Nachos. However out here, no one cares in the slightest. He just merrily got on with his afternoon. And good luck to him. I shudder at the thought of what the front of his crisp white Thobe must have looked like once he’d worked his way through all of his purchases. A Tex Mex Jackson Pollock, I’ll warrant. “How do I get salsa out of Egyptian cotton, exactly?” his Mother may well have asked him. Who knows?

Alas such poor etiquette bedevils almost every screening one attends. Marching around the place, in front of the screen? A common occurrence. Clearly people fear Deep Vein Thrombosis if they don’t put a few yards in every few minutes. Phone calls and loud talking is de rigeur, as is coming in 20 minutes late and just suddenly leaving halfway through. Yesterday (Ready Player One), a lady brought her baby and her toddler in, with predicable results.

The worst thing I have seen is a woman having a right go at a member of staff, during the showing itself. I’m not clear quite what the issue was, even now. She marched down the aisle to him, stood there in front of the screen, stuck a wagging finger in the little guy’s face and I heard “I don’t CARE! Get off your arse and do it for me RIGHT NOW!”

Frankly, there is a bit of a culture of lazy entitlement out here. There are many many positives about society in Doha, and I’ll tell you about one in a minute, but with the large, lowly-paid migrant population from India, the Philippines, Nepal and others, there seems to come an attitude of dreadful disrespect. I have seen people treated like dirt – little more than slaves. And yes, it makes my blood boil. That afternoon my knuckles went white as I gripped my seat. The horrid, horrid cow! I decided after a while that the only counter-action I could take was to treat people in service roles with a respect they probably come not to expect. I tip everywhere I go, I smile, I shake hands, and ask how people are, with a genuine interest. Short of launching a coup against the Royal Family, which I conceded would be unwise, there is little one can do but act behind the scenes to make people happier.

So there we are. But, as I say, there are some golden moments. And one of them came on my first visit to Katara. This is an attractive Cultural Quarter, on the waterfront, a couple of miles from where I am based:

Walking there is not possible, as it skirts a series of mysteriously snaking roads and the commencement of the highway that runs North of here up to Al Khor (a place that will feature when I get ‘round to my visit there with SWK to give kayaking another try, with predictably terrible results). Instead one order up an Uber, and off you go. The journey went rather less than well, as I had not the faintest clue where I was going, and this made the driver unaccountably angry with me. Eventually he just sort of chucked me out somewhere in sight of the Gulf, and tore off in a shower of dust.

I was a trifle bewildered by this, but didn’t let it get me down. I sauntered merrily, and snapped plentifully as the sun began to come down for the day. Scored a cold drink, got some fresh air, and generally just delighted in how lucky I was, and am, to be in such a remarkable place.

Once the light had gone, I parked on a bench, reviewed my pictures, and made mental plans to drop into the shops, get some dinner and enjoy the evening ahead.  I walked to the edge of the green, and soon enough one of those Spearmint cabs appeared. A chirpy Senegalese man ushered me in, and we headed out towards West Bay.

Of course it’s generally when you are at your most complacent and cheerful that you realise you have made a terrible, terrible mistake. And so it was that my own came to me, as I reached into the faithful man bag and plucked out my ‘phone, on which to fashion a short shopping list.

“Fuck!” I announced.

We veered a couple of lanes, and horns were honked, as my driver for the evening registered some concerns on the part of his fare.

“I’ve left my bloody camera behind!” I shouted, clarifying the situation for him.

“Have no fear Sir” (he actually said that) my cabbie came back. “We will return to fetch it for you.”

At this point he pulled off a u-turn in what was a busy dual carriageway. That’s a manoeuvre that’s more common in these parts than you might perhaps think wise, but I have already alluded to some of the rather bold motoring that goes on.

In moments, we had pulled into the outermost lane and were screaming back to the spot where he had picked me up. The needle was soon out somewhere around the 150 km/h mark, and my saviour had set his jaw in concentration.

“People here are very honest Sir” he told me. “I am sure it will still be there.”

I was new to the country, of course, To my mind, the camera was gone, and someone was busy flogging it on eBay. In my own country, that would no doubt have been the case. Indeed it took me a long time to accept that criminality out here is just near-enough non-existent. People are brought up with a clear understanding that stealing is a sinful thing to do – and it’s really not a country where you want to find yourself behind bars, or punished. I used to go around the place with my wallet in my fist – now I realise you can leave your stuff out in full view of the public and nothing will happen to it. I need to disabuse myself of this confidence in my fellow man before I next return to Blighty.

Moments later we bounced back across the cobbles of Katara and juddered to a stop at the bench I had been sat on. My new hero leapt out, and waved a hand to indicate the camera was still there. He plucked it up from the location where I had absent-mindedly left it, and rushed back with it in his hand. Returned to me, I realised it had not even been switched off, and was still on the same frame I had been looking at earlier (the picture above).

My heartbeat slowed, as we took a more sedate roll back to West Bay. I was quite emotional, actually, and pressed the shoulder of my new friend when we arrived. I insistently gave him various notes in addition to the established paltry fare, and wished him a happy evening.

So okay, cinemas are a varied affair – but no-one’s going to nick your stuff. Ahead on points so far.

We’ll come back to these bits and bobs in another couple of weeks. And we will meet The Colonel, along with one or two other characters from around the world, as we journey through my commuting life. I also have some thoughts to give you on going to hospital out here, and we might also muse a bit on some camels I have come to know, and relate a discussion overheard on something known as Rattlesnake Round-Up.

But next time, to Kuwait. Where you will read The Most Unpleasant Thing I Have Ever Written, in a dizzying extravaganza of bumbling as only I seem able to bumble, in a piece that bears the working title:

Trouble at Ten Thousand Feet and the Lift That Smelled of Gravy

Have a good week, everyone.

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!

Part Four

So, to conclude matters, then?

Moving away from my adventures in deafness and X-Rays for a moment, I ought to tell you about the first of my wider forays away from my residence in West Bay.

This came before much of this nonsense started, when I decided, on my second full weekend here, to take a trip down to the Museum of Islamic Art:

At that point of the year it was too hot to walk there in the daytime. I do it all the time now, in Winter temperatures, but when you don’t know where you are going, quite, it doesn’t take too long to get into trouble in 30 degrees plus. It took me ages to navigate the mental map of the West Bay area, where I live – orientating oneself in the middle of a bunch of skyscrapers is harder than over a wider area of more visible ground, I suppose? Dunno.

So instead, I opted to get a cab from home base to my chosen location, and then to walk around more once dark had fallen, grab some food at Souq Waqif, at a Yemeni restaurant I had looked up online, and then to make my digestive way back along the waterfront, towards the memorable skyline and maison moi. What could go wrong with that?

Well, a bit. I was pleased when someone on the front desk found me a nearby idling taxi, as it really was pretty hot outside. Unfortunately it was one without a meter, so the guy behind the wheel, visibly annoyed by the fact other people had decided to use the road that afternoon, simply picked a number when we got there, and added a zero. I was so excited to be out and about and immersing myself in Doha life that I just handed over about ¾ of an inch of notes (1 Riyal note = 20p, so one is generally possessed of a gangster-like bankroll, out here) without arguing.

I’ll confess I have since tightened my policy on being driven about. I mostly use Ubers, although I am wrestling with ethical concerns on that front, given what’s been in the news. Part of the reason for this is safety: an agreed and affordable price at the start of the journey, and a public rating system means one tends to get people who can drive accurately and efficiently out on the mean streets. Sometimes the chap will fancy a chat, and others just whisk one away in stony silence.

My favourite story so far when out in someone’s car came when I was on the way back from the airport after SWK’s visit in November (we’ll get to that). No chance of an Uber that day, so I committed myself to a local Karwa cab:

I love the colour, for one, but they also have a visible an audible meter, so you know where you are and what you are in for.

My fellow tore out of the airport rank at the sort of pace only really seen at the movies.  We were ripping along the bridge up to the airport highway, and there was a sudden sort of Ruth Madoc, Hi-De-Hi bing, ding, bing tone, and a lady’s voice said:

“You’re exceeding the speed limit – please slow down. First warning.”

I looked around me, but it was just an announcement.

The brake was duly applied, but soon we were back for more and the needle was ‘round in the red zone once again.

“You’re exceeding the speed limit – please slow down. Second and final warning.”

This tempered matters for a while, and if anything we dropped to rather a pensioner pace, but before long his inner F1 driver emerged again and we were zooming along at an alarming clip. At that point, something more like the gong at the start of a J. Arthur Rank film sounded, and a MAN’s voice took over.

“You’ve have been speeding, and will be Fined.”

Not a flicker from our man. He just had at it from that point onwards, obviously accepting this sort of thing as a nightly hazard. It was a swift, and inexpensive journey home. For me, at least.

Back to the present past. I alighted from the Think Of A Number taxi, lighter of wallet, and spent a wonderful first 90 minutes at MIA. Outside and inside it is quite, quite glorious. And, like so many of these places in Qatar, completely and utterly free. The prices in the gift shop make up for it, mind. As it was coming up to Christmas, a scarf in there for my Mother rather caught the eye, but I folded it up again and quietly walked out when I realised £175 was a bit rich for my blood.

But never mind all that. Glorious venue, unsullied and hurried by hordes of visitors, and exhibits spread out in front of you that really take the eye. Carpets and calligraphy, of up to 1,000 years in age? I’m your man. Utterly hypnotising, beautifully crafted. Been back a number of times since – I just love the place.

As night had fallen, I made my way back outside and took the obligatory 54546854684 photographs.

Satisfied that all possible angles had been covered, I headed for the pedestrian crossing, and aimed in the general direction of what I thought was the Souq. Such was the flow of traffic on a busy Friday evening that it was rather an operation. The lights turn green for pedestrians roughly every three quarters of an hour, it seems. You could stick a pop-up Shwarma kebab place under the street sign and serve someone three courses, plus coffee and After-Eights, before it turns.

En masse, we crossed, and I promptly went the wrong way. Not for the first time, as we have seen. In my defence, that’s because I was acting on my earlier attempt to memorise the map of the area, for fear of using data on my ‘phone unsupported by Wi-Fi. As a properly paid-up citizen I am now onto a local Pay-As-You-Go arrangement, and have no such fear. However at the time I was rightfully worried, as later bills would prove. I have little doubt that every time I logged into Google maps, there was an eruption of glee somewhere in the O2 HQ, whereupon a few extra bottles of Margaux were ordered for the table at the Christmas knees-up. The dials of my account balance must have been going ‘round at a sensational speed.

But yes, a right and a left and I found myself cutting ‘round the edge of a rather down-at-heel indoor haberdashery, with one stall leading to a next, and seemingly only one way in and one way out. It was absolutely stuffed with gleeful women grasping at things on sale. Not a bloke in sight, and no ex-pats like self in view. I fought my way ‘round, wondering to myself quite what the fuss about this ‘Souq’ was, failing to realise that I was in entirely the wrong place. I was spat out, after a time, and things went from bad to worse. The streets took on an ever more dark character, with chop-shop restaurants and unlikely-looking mobile ‘phone stores and currency exchanges the order of the evening. I was utterly lost in all of this, and eventually thrust my way into some manner of Spar, 7-11, or what have you, and bought a cold can of fake Stout to drink, and a packet of nuts to eat. These I consumed at the roadside, whilst pondering my next move, and eventually conceding the need to revert to my mobile. Corks popped, 3,000 miles away and I was, finally, headed in the right direction.

I did find the Souq, in the end, although not before taking a route to it that saw me go through an underground car park, and cause some consternation in the lift to get out of it. Suffice it to say that it was busy, and I was firmly established as being In The Way.

But I alighted upon it, after a time, and it is pretty magical. Particularly when lit up at night. All life is there, and you can buy pretty much anything you want there, if you can find it. Honey, a cat, every pashmina or perfume under the Sun, traditional dress, lamps, toys, herbs and spices, tea, coffee and even a personal lawyer. Multiply that by a thousand and crush it all into a criss-cross labyrinth of miniature streets, with dutiful men following families round with all their purchases crammed into a wheelbarrow and you will just, just have scratched the surface of the thing. If you visit this City, do go. It’s only 20 minutes from the airport and you can lose a couple of hours in there quite willingly. As I type, I am waiting for SWK’s visit, and am already girding up my loins for her next assault on the place. I may buy my own wheelbarrow and a thread from Ariadne.

I’d meandered around all of this for a while, before being rooted to the spot by the most extraordinary, blood-halting noise. The place is proximal to the Al Fanar Mosque – one of the many highlights of the skyline in the older areas of the City:

As only I can, I had sort of forgotten it was there, and had lost track of time. It became clear to me that the chap with the Muezzin gig there is clearly dimensioned on a similarly mighty scale. How he gets up there, I don’t know, for he can only be an amalgamation of the Michelin Man, King Kong and James Earl-Jones bellowing up to you for his very life, from the bottom of an abandoned well. The noise, dear reader, was nothing short of awe-inspiring. My insides melted at this bassline battering, as the fellow called anyone within about 375 miles to go and have a chat with Allah. And those that do, did, in their many battalions. A sea of white robes ran over and around me, as shops were abandoned for worship. It was mine to just stand, wonder and enjoy.

I responded by going to get some food. I’d been out for ages, and wanted my Yemeni bounty. And just for once I found the place with relative ease. With the air outside pretty steamy and wet, I thought I’d aim for a spot of aircon-surrounded sustenance, and crossed the threshold into a roaring restaurant of joyous chaos. Food and people everywhere. Music, half-empty plates, and sweating consumers and staff just jammed the place. I found a sort of desk, and was about to ask for a ‘table for one by a window’, in my mannered best, before being told to “sit there” by the harassed man behind said desk. He raised a pointing finger before going back to pile of notes and receipts and a queue of replete customers seeking to pay and waddle back out.

I sat there. And waited. There was rather a lot of recently abandoned rice knocking around, so I swept it into a neat pile, just as a member of staff appeared, pressed a menu upon me, and spread it all about once again with a damp sponge. No matter, I told myself, as I settled upon Chicken Ogdat, a spicy green salad and bottle of much-needed water. The man serving me raised an eyebrow, but beetled off unquestioningly, only to return moments later with the first of two instalments of my order. A flat bread which, it transpired, came free, and a small dish of green, slightly grainy liquid that looked not unlike one of those sauces you chuck over a Sheek Kebab in an Indian restaurant.

“Bread and salad” he informed me.

I didn’t discuss matters, as I was hungry. The bread was roughly the diameter of the dish at Jodrell Bank, so I tore off a trailing yard or so, scrolled it up and dipped it into the liquid green salad. Down the hatch it went.

And I very nearly went up in flames. The spicy green salad is only 80p to buy, but will be in my memory for as long as my memory functions. It is 50 millilitres of fluid that is essentially a brew distilled from an entire chilli farm. Anyone looking at me, as I worked the stuff into my system, would be forgiven for thinking I had been physically assaulted. Within seconds, fan of spice though I am, I was awash in my own pouring perspiration, as my body attempted to save itself. It was quite unbelievably hot to eat. Through my tears, I spied the fridge where the cold drinks were kept, and bemoaned the lack of the bottle of water I had ordered, as my teeth bled and my mouth became a single, blackened blister. It was fully five minutes before I could make a more modest return to my meal.

My Ogdat appeared. And did nothing for my nerves. It was in an earthenware bowl, and still at a rolling boil. All I could do was gather together some napkins, and push it to one side, as its anger receded and it started to approach a temperature that human flesh could safely engage with.

My water appeared, and I could hear a gentle hiss from my throat as I poured it in. The evening went on, I took in the ambience of the place, and after a while I thought I should probably eat up, as clamour for my table was growing. The place has been open for 15 hours per day, for years and years, and I doubt it has ever been anything other than packed out with diners.

Mercifully the main course, although physically still so hot that even my Father might eat it slowly (a man never far from sticking an already piping plateful of dinner in a microwave), was just delicious. After a while I heaved myself up, paid a tiny little bill for my meal, and made my way out into the night. Very slowly, I made my way through the surrounding streets and commenced the long walk home, along the waterfront, digesting as I went. At some point in the future I will tell you about the Corniche, which runs alongside the edge of the Gulf, and lead back to where I live. It’s a number of paragraphs in itself, and simply one of my favourite places to walk in all the world that I know.

However, when we left off last time I was under threat of a life of deafness, and battling possible Tuberculosis. I know you’ll have been worried, so let’s clear that up, shall we?

In many respects, the first issue was the matter of the deafness. Since the oh-so-calm analysis of the week before, and the antibiotics provided, I had now gone profoundly deaf and was in a growing amount of pain, too. Take my blood pressure all you like, kids, but put in some work on the old diagnostic skills, eh?

All of this was combining just wonderfully with the ongoing trips to the fringes of Doha to be threatened with various fatal diseases, and the possibility of jail and deportation. I had misery for company.

However, in the end, everything was solved in one glorious day. I didn’t get anything much by way of work done, and the day before I had felt so crappy as to not be able to work at all, but between an 8.30am arrival back at the health screening place, and a final glorious return to aural function ten hours later, it was quite a high old day.

With a knowing “you again” sigh, and a roll of the eyes, Z bore me out to the screening centre one last time. Mentally, I was doing cartwheels, as I looked down on the black fading circle around the SCART mark, on my increasingly whiffy left arm. What would happen this time? A TB jab? An anal probe to check for head lice? Drink a gallon of caster oil? Have a crack at a four-minute-mile for them? Anything seemed possible. One thing I was prepared for was another X-Ray, so I dressed lightly for the prospect of another photoshoot.

But no such thing. Oh no no, that would make complete linear sense, and that is rarely in much supply, ‘round here. Instead I was parcelled and pushed through the usual series of ante-chambers and corridors before, finally, finding myself in front of another white-coated member of staff. Chap this time. In the corner lurked a HUGE security guard, which made me wonder afresh if this was the “sorry mate, it’s well-advanced and we’ll just aim to make you comfortable – in fact we think it may have started in your ear, oddly” room.

But no. It was, in fact, the “what are you are you doing back here? You’re fine” room. And there’s not a lot more to say than that. A simple explanation that everything was fine, and I could go back to work and await my paperwork, before finishing the process with my fingerprints being taken (in a building next to the state prison, presumably just in case anything went wrong at the last moment?)

I asked if an X-Ray was going to be necessary. Trying to second guess things, I suppose – it would be so typical of the process for me to head off only to then be recalled by someone else. But no:

“Why would you think that?” said my new friend, as he applied the stamp to my many forms.

The security man shifted in his seat. I concluded I was now ahead on points, said my goodbyes and left.

Next stop, a return to the local clinic that’d issued me with useless antibiotics the week before. May as well have been dropping Loctite into the old lug-hole, frankly. I had long lost count of the number of times I had said “pardon?” in conversation. One person I had had lunch with actually moved seat to shift ‘round to my good ear, reasoning I was in fact genetically deaf, and seeking to assure himself that I was not offended. Gave us a laugh at the time, but it was rather symptomatic of how bad it had got.

Anyway, the usual 645312 checks of my blood pressure and weight followed, but finally someone had a bit of a decko inside my ear and declared themselves somewhat baffled. That didn’t do wonders for my mood, but buoyed by the fact I was not now dying, and was only a few fingerprints away from becoming a credible citizen, I refused to move until something was done.

Shoulders were shrugged, yes, but after a while a piece of paper was issued and I was directed to take it to a hospital. There’s a hospital of some sort about every 75 yards in this city. They were experts, I was told. I was doubtful, but hey, why not continue the road trip? I hailed my man Z, and we burrowed off into another indistinct suburb, before I was deposited at what was, on closer inspection, an ENT place. Getting closer all the time, it seemed.

Paperwork, hand over some notes, go and sit in Only Men for a bit. You know the drill. Another unrelated consultation and a quick check that the old blood was still circulating at the required pace and I broached the inner sanctum.

To be met by a friendly Lebanese lady Doctor. So far as I could make it out, she was entirely sympathetic and was sure she could do something. Various caving equipment came out, and in she went for a bit of a scout ‘round.

“A BIG PLUG OF WAX HAS DEVELOPED” she screamed, so I knew where we were with matters.

“THE ANTIBIOTICS HAVE MADE IT MUCH WORSE! WHO TOLD YOU TO TAKE THOSE?”

I ground my teeth, and explained.

“YOU ARE QUITE WARM, AND THE PLUG IS SOFTENED, SO IT MIGHT BE I CAN SHIFT IT WITH WATER AND SUCTION” she added.

I was provided with a sort of all-over paper bib, and instructed to list to Starboard, whilst our gal poured in about half a swimming pool of warm water. It dribbled down my neck. I have rarely felt more attractive. In fact I have only ever felt more mortified by my physical outpourings when on an occasion, years before, I sneezed blood and mucus all over a very very beautiful assisting nurse, when having my hooter cauterised. I might not write that particular tale.

There was a pause, and a bit of clanking and manoeuvring in the background, and a sort of miniature Dyson was fired up and inserted. Gurgling, pain, gurgling, a growing whistling sound, a register of polite horror from the medics and suddenly, suddenly, with a thumb in the edge of the mouth <POP> things went back into stereo.

The assisting ear lady appeared from my right, bearing a kidney-shaped dish.

“It’s fine, I’m not going to be sick” I started.

“No, please look” she said.

At which point I nearly was sick, as I was asked to gaze down on about half a pint of a sort of heavily blended lentil soup, sloshing around. This, I was told, had been the contents of my ear only mere moments before.

No matter. I was free of the bloody deafness. I suddenly became conscious of the fact I was in a high-ceilinged and echoing room. I tried out a few weighty baritone statements of glee at the new developments, and there were smiles all-round. I could have hugged them both.

I saved that for a while later, when I got back to my place and met my colleague K, coming sweatily out after a session in the gym.

“How’s it going?” he asked, sensing I was rather more chipper.

“I can hear again!” I said, and threw my arms around the dear chap.

Okay, so there we are. A rather varied four-parter of an introduction to my life over here. No small supply of trials and tribulations, but within just a few days I was in possession of my Residency Permit, and had the joys of a first visit from SWK.

She’s here again in two or three days, and then, poor me, I have to go to Washington DC for a Conference. No doubt all that will go with requisite smoothness and calm. I have an unusual cargo for my trip to see The Cousins, so I’ll tell you all about that and fill you in on some other events and observations when next I reach for the keyboard.

Part Three

Onwards ever onwards. Please accept my apologies in advance for any undue irascibility in the sections that follow. As I am typing this, in bed, I have just drunk my morning coffee and taken my many medicines for my Arabian Flu. The only trouble is, there has not been a night’s sleep to proceed them. For the second night in a row, too. Flying back here principally during the night watches, only to plunge headlong into the blasted lurgy has conspired to utterly reverse my body clock. Wherever it is in the world that’s 12 hours ahead of Doha: I could be running them ragged there, right now. Probably. I shall need to experiment with ways of reversing this situation, over the coming three days, or my glorious return to Higher Education administration may not be all my employers and I are hoping for. Time will, so to speak, tell.

So yes – Ladies and Gentlemen, as an opening digression to this third movement (now certainly of four) – Pegasus Airlines.

For the uninitiated, it’s a sort of Arabian/Turkish Peninsula Ryanair, only without any adherence to timetables, decency, cleanliness, or any sense of customer-facing charm. So much the same. The only thing that’s a going concern is the no doubt quite slender profit margin protected in cattle-prodding their flyers on board.

In fairness, I have only myself to blame. In the final analysis, this October to September stint could do with being a bit of a money-spinner. Yes, I have plans to make good use of my time, and have some fun when not depositing my lung linings down the loo, but I am also living on a pretty sharp budget and have one or two debts to get cleared-off as I build a bit of a nest egg with which to buy our dog his food in Academic Year 2018/9. He shows little appreciation of this, naturally, but was at least pleased to see me, briefly, over the festive season. So it is that, as I periodically fence with HMRC over the tax they owe me and erroneously took off me until comparatively recently, I tend to do things pretty much ‘on the cheap’, with the future in mind. A little discomfort here and there, yes, but mind the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, as some bastard said, one day.

So rather than fork out £££ for a Christmas to New Year set of direct, movie, food and wine-soaked flights of almost painful comfort with Qatar Airways, I instead sought to save a few bob with Pegasus. Four hours to Istanbul, a brief layover, then another four or so to London. Fortnight off, and rinse and repeat, in reverse. Saving, in the process, more than the price of the fire of a car for nine days in the UK because, because, a train from Ramsgate to Middlesbrough on the 27^th December, to visit one’s hardworking wife, is apparently something that should cost £154! That car was bloody marvellous. I wish I’d driven it back here, given what followed.

The internet did its level best to reach out and pull my wrist away from my credit card as I levered it from my wallet. “Don’t do it Suggzy!” it intoned. “Look at Trip Advisor, for God’s sake! Some of those people haven’t recovered and never will!”

But no, I smugly punched in the numbers and sealed my fate. What a bargain.

Four flights. Every one of them delayed. No information as to why. Two connections. The first missed by an hour, and the second shortened to a slightly hairy 50 minutes. Not a moment of contrition. Not so much as a smile from anyone. No offer of a free glass of water, or advice as to where to go. “Get on next flight” said the tombstone-faced cow of a lady on the Special Customer Service Desk (ha!) at Sahiba Gocken Airport. I had to strike up the band with her more than a little just to elicit when that might be, and from where, and if my luggage stood a snowball’s chance in hell of being on it or near it. All the while, despairing legions of customers pressed at my back, but give me credit, I stood my ground. I didn’t like the cut of her jib, and by the end of my conversation with her, I think she knew, however briefly, that I was not the happiest of campers that night.

No, nothing. Diddly squat. Just continual onboard exhortations as one tried to cobble some sleep together (a tense subject for me just now – is it coming across?) to SPEND SPEND SPEND, delivered in klaxon volume Turkish and English roughly every 17 minutes or so, from loudspeakers above our heads. Carts rolled, up and down, as shekels, Riyals, pounds, Euros, buttons and God knows what changed hands so that passengers might cling onto life over a KitKat, a watery Nescafe and a scratchcard. I consciously took the decision those two nights to simply starve to death, if at all possible. And not just to bring a happy release from the unmitigated, foul-smelling, cramped, noisy and irritating Hell of it all. No. Just to ensure I really put the fuckers out.

“Bollocks – that plummy-sounding git in 15B’s pegged it – better get onto Stansted. This is going to cost us. Bigtime.”

And then, through it all, came the presence into my life of Little Mehmet. Tousled-haired infant, flying to Istanbul with Mummy and Granny. A flash of mischief in his little eyes..

Before I end this little bit of teeth-gnashing, I should like to place it on record I have nothing against little Mehmet. Two years old, perhaps? No experience of life and the mores of the traveling Englishman across the aisle. Nor those of the humour-free-zones in the form of the Americans sat in front of him. No empathy with how tired, exasperated, and increasingly downright pissed-off the general company was. He is not to blame. But his actions wrought upon my person the most terrible pain.

Lad was just not a flier. He arrived in the arms of his two bearers, bawling for all his life was worth. The charge in my headphones had long expired, so I was going to have to take the performance live, and not so far from the stage as to be in any way comfortable. And a four hour celebration of the full range of the infant voice it was, too. An eyeballs out tour-de-force of all the greatest hits a child has ever thrilled us with. A toddler’s paean to the injustice of having to fly, when it should have long ago nestled into sleep.

The slightest movement. A second, a single second of jostling from the arms of one loving woman to the other and he would come in at a register that would have alerted dogs, sleeping in the mountains of Carpathia below us. And it was like the executioner’s axe to the back of the neck, but without the thrill of blissful expiry and eternal silence to follow. Furthermore, he led a choir, the numbers of which grew, as we sped on through the atmosphere. No other child aboard, under the age of six, went unaffected. Previously mute, socialised and biddable children found full song, during those happy hours with Pegasus. Mehmet led them, and us, into teeth-crumbling Hell of melody-free Death Screaming.

And frankly, Mummy and Granny kept up a decent rhythm with him. It transpired, after not too long, that they were proudly of Essex stock. As with the little one, it was the voices that stood them out. And, handily for the minders of a Nuclear Package, on the thinnest of hair triggers, a pair of right fucking fidgeters.

A quarter hour of that dreadful, dreadful flight did not pass without the need for one or the other of them to get up, for one reason or another. To pee, to scrabble around in the overhead locker for an item unseen, or to “stretch me fackin’ legsferabit”. Constant, it was. There was point in the midst of all of this when a visibly weakened air steward just took himself off for a fairly lengthy shit, simply to be cocooned from it all.

And every time. Every time they passed the child from hand to hand, like a boiling hot rugby ball, there came this refrain:

“You ‘ave Mehmet a minute?”

“Yeah, ah’ll ‘ave Mehmet a minute.”

“You ‘ave Mehmet a minute?”

“Yeah, ah’ll ‘ave Mehmet a minute.”

On and on and on and on and on and bastard on.

The band was completed with the bass, provided by the American woman in front of them. She, like so many of her ilk, was a keen purchaser. A real commerce fan. No opportunity to part with a greenback or two could be passed up. So, every time a cart lurched into view, she would put in a lengthy order, and reach for every credit card imaginable – a real rainbow of plastic – none of which worked, on Tinpot Shitbags Pegasus Air. But every time, she got them out, tried and failed, before, oh so helpfully, in her honeyed, basso Southern drawl, pointing out:

“Oh, ‘sokay, ah have some DURMZE”

It took a little while for me to register, as I wiped away the tears of pain, that what was saying was Dirhams. But I did get it, and she did say it. A lot. Really, a lot.

So when they got really tight, this Four Piece of the Apocalypse, with Mehmet up front on vocals, sounded a bit like this:

<DURMZE>

<SCREAM!>

<MEHMET A MINIT>

<SCREAM!>

<DURMZE>

Try it over a few times. Practice, get the beat right. Then record it. Then turn the volume up on your Hi Fi and play it from distance of three feet, on an unending loop for four hours. And come out of the experience quite as you were. Go on, try it. No, that’s right, you don’t have to, because, lovely reader, I lived it for you.

I will never every fly with Pegasus Airlines again. I have had to live for four days with abject flu and cabin fever, to relinquish myself of the freshness of the whole cacophonous  odyssey into the darkest heart of human kind and back again.

Anyway, like the mucus, that’s off my chest. Where were we?

Yes. We were at Room B. Mr Ali had departed once again. My hands were my own and I looked to see the sign promising MAN X-RAY.

“Okay – a little indignity first, but it’ll all be plain sailing after this”, I told myself.

Another queue, but this time one that moved at quite a lick. The men in front of me were given a package containing a not-entirely-fashionable sort of one-size-fits-all ‘sexy cape’ that slit open from throat fastening to belt buckle, and were ushered, lickerty-spit, mind you, into cubicles, only to emerge, seconds later, for fear of an attendant barking at them, with it on, or partially on, grasping their paperwork and heading for a door with a red lightbulb above it and a sign in Arabic.

My turn came, and I slipped out of my shirt, tie, waistcoat, cufflinks and jacket like a slippery eel. Well, I did it as quickly as I could, feeling rather unmanned by the sounds of shouting from the other side of the door with the light. As with some of the cheaper haircuts I have endured in my life, I had the vague sense I was about to be accidentally conscripted into an army of some sort. Leaving my kit in a crumpled mess on the floor, I joined the glittering parade.

About three feet from the wings and my debut, the door swung open and out came a lady Doctor. I thought this a bit de trop at the time, given the anxiety given over to keeping us boys and girls apart in so many other walks of life I had thus far seen, or read about. Hopefully any inadvertent coquettishness did not show; just my beer gut, honed to a somewhat embarrassing dome, over the pre-departure celebrations.

My time arrived, I plastered on a smile and went forth to dazzle in the lights.

And joined another queue, which snaked round to the admin end of the operation. Chappie with a screen, showing pics of various lungs from ‘round the world. As my turn came, I handed him my file and he battered in a series of data.

“Name?” he bellowed enquiringly.

“Christopher Cox” I came back, reading it, like him, off the screen. Tickled me – him, not so much.

“Yes, yes, TWO now!” came another call from the other side of the theatre. I was sort of jostled there, to watch a very tall, thin, Indonesian fellow pressing himself against a sort of chest-high flat screen TV, his cape fully akimbo.

“Hold breath!”, came the next direction. His tiny form tightened, a while. A buzz, he relaxed and after a momentary pause he was applauded off, re-buttoning as he went. Roses may have been thrown. Ladies underwear, certainly. Red-blooded stuff, it was.

“I can do this” I thought, as I took my bow, drew in my breath, and gave it everything I had.

And I did do it. But then it went wrong. No buzz. Instead an uncomfortable pause, but with no prompter in sight. What may have been a curse from the man behind the screen. Exhortations back at him from the ‘photographer’ and eventually a hurried and voluble discussion, somewhere above the orchestra pit, which to me seemed a bit heated.

But here’s the thing. Chaps over here get, at times it seems, quite aerated. But rarely is it possible, without a word of the lingo to draw upon that’s appropriate to use in judgement as to whether or not professional energies are being expended, or if someone’s about to land somebody one. It’s most odd. In the street, for example, you might as well be hearing:

“DAVE! Been an age Bro! Wife and kids alright?”

“Dude! Peachy thanks, just got the new Landcruiser and the camel’s expecting again!”

Or:

“DEVIL! You went to the cinema with my Cousin, and she’s engaged to be married!”

“Bollocks! It was dark in there, you can’t prove anything. And, HA, I have a knife.. so don’t try anything!”

No clue, most of the time.

The discussion over, I got what I can only describe as being ‘wrenched about a bit’. Not much by way of direction, for my own little photo shoot. Just a series of angles into which my flesh was bent against the photographic screen. “Left boob, right boob, show us ‘em both together love, riiiiight, one more and weeee’re done! Suuuuper. Off you pop darling.”

It’s funny in the re-telling, but in the absence of a simple performance of a simple task, my own sense of humour vanished with the flash of the bulbs. Something was, quite clearly, wrong. Routine gig for all the other debutants, but with me, they had to see more. Which meant something had to be seen, didn’t it? No other explanation. Blood drained out of me, and I reeled back to the changing rooms, drew breath, and covered-up again.

Morale spiralled downwards, as I tottered round to Room B, where an uncomplicated joust with another needle awaited. As always, none of your “sharp scratch… aaaaaand, done”, but instead the usual thrust, parry, and half a pint’s gone. They bandaged me up and I emerged, blinking into the heat of the day. Mr Ali relieved me of my papers, and the driver suddenly sparked back into life and whizzed us back in 15 minutes. Must have got directions off someone.

Long 15 minutes that, though. I quietly diagnosed cancer, deportation, and a long battle with some manner of radiotherapeutical treatment before expiry and the grave back in Blighty. Because I am an hysterical bloody idiot. And because SWK was not there to flash a smile, kiss me on the cheek and tell me I was worrying about nothing. I got a bus back to the office, stewed a bit there, got home, stewed a bit more, and went to stew in my sleep. Did I call any of my loved ones to discuss this? Nah, such would be the actions of a sane and a balanced individual, wouldn’t they? I contented myself with the thought of, post-diagnosis, crumpling into their embrace as they freed my hands from the cuffs at Heathrow. Because, again, I am an hysterical bloody idiot.

The following day, I woke up about 80% deaf in my left ear. On the plus side, this was something new to worry about, so in many ways it was just lovely. On the negative side, two days later I was profoundly deaf in my left ear, and it began to hurt. I soldiered on, thinking I would get the matter easily resolved by popping over to the on-campus clinic.

Ho ho. I was there for three hours. I handed over enough money to feed a family, had my blood pressure tested about 29357 times (almost a pastime in this country), before a Doctor calmly and incorrectly diagnosed an ear-infection. Antibiotic drops. Four days, you’ll be fine.

In the meantime, the news came in that I was to be sent back for more X-Rays, which did wonders for my mood. In the end I discussed it with a couple of folks at work and it transpired that such call-backs were not uncommon, there being a much shared belief that though they have the kit to do it, the X-Ray folks are just a bit crap at it. It being me, I silently dismissed this, but at least bore it in the surface of my mind.

Z and I tailed over there again, and I went in alone, to report to Window 192. At Window 192, heads were shaken and I was sent to Window 191. At Window 191, my form was stamped and I went to Room 13. None of these sounded much like the famous Room C to me.

Room 13 contained a slightly pinched lady in a mask. Always sets your mind at rest, does a medical mask. They soon popped them on the other day, when I had a nice fluey coughing fit.

“Do you have a history of Tuberculosis?” she asked, as I sat down. Always with the bedside manner. Tissue? Soft, enquiring eyes? A brush of a hand on your palm? No, just get it out there. “Yer on yer way out, pal. Need to borrow a ‘phone?”

I confidently (I think, I was planning my funeral playlist) explained that inoculations had been given to me for various things from 1974 to 1987, and as such, with relevant boosters and whatnot, I should be in apple pie order. Just ‘phone Jeremy Hunt – he’ll give you the bullet points. Best stamp the form, eh?

Nup. She stamped me, with the end of a sort of SCART lead. And then drew a big circle round it in black marker, told me not to get it wet, and come back in 48 hours. Bye!

Matters were mounting up a bit, for your narrator. Lots on quite a small mind.

I must try and get some sleep, and take some more of my drugs. Finish all this nonsense up next time ’round. Including THAT salad.

Part Two

A bit more, then?

Possessed of food and functioning WiFi, I was well-set for my first day and a half of free time here, and in all fairness I didn’t do that much. Made some chilli, contacted a few loved ones, explored the televisual options (Al Jazeera good for news, BBC World good for off-beat, niche documentaries about basket-weaving by Ice Otters in Antarctica, in slavery to hot-air-balloon barons, or similar, and beIN sports showing a constant diet of football football football, including the oddity of Saturday 3.00pm GMT kick-offs from back home). The most diverting spell in front of the TV was spent watching an Arabic-speaking channel broadcasting camel racing.

It’s a split-screen job; a bit like the darts, but the sub-division of the screen is horizontal rather than vertical. Top half shows the leader, or pace-maker or whatever, and the bottom half shows the Bactrian peloton giving furious chase. Each quadraped is mounted with a robot, rather than a terrified jockey, and that’s sort of it. I didn’t see the race from commencement, so I don’t know if there are warm-ups or false starts, or Usain Bolt-styled mugging to the crowd. I didn’t see the finish either, so whether or not any of the chasers had a kick like Steve Cram, I couldn’t say. One hopes there was a tape broken, and then an elaborate trough of water and supply of well-deserved veg.

What I did observe, on an outer ring to the racecourse itself, was a group of 4×4 vehicles giving it six nowt driving alongside their nag, ululating fiercely in whatever language it is that your average Dromedary understands. Whether those commands were technical in some way, or simply just “fuck’s sake Daisy, come on!” I cannot say. Apologies – I am a poor correspondent on this subject – I’d Google, but I fear spoiling the mystery.

What I can say with confidence is that rattling ‘round after your animal is good preparation for the ill-disciplined and potentially expensive, and at worst lethal business of driving in Doha. It’s a lively affair, even if you’re just a strapped-in passenger, like me. You’re no-one in this City unless you drive a $70,000 Toyota Leviathan Off-Roader as if engaged in fairground dodgems. Lane discipline? Not for your average Qatari motorist. And not an activity I shall be getting involved in, although it might bear a spot more investigation as my sojourn continues. It makes my experiences of driving overseas, some already chronicled here, look quite light-hearted and gentle by comparison.

Where was I?

Ah yes. By Friday evening I thought it was probably time to go outside again for a bit. I’d no plans to go anywhere very far, in the first instance. The temperature was generally still pretty high, even of an evening. So, I thought I’d walk past our local mosque and take a turn ‘round the block’ and back again. See if I could walk up to the water’s edge, in between the Embassies the other side of the road from our building.

And so came my introduction to the streets of West Bay. From a distance, it’s a magnificent modern skyline. “An architect’s playground” one of my colleagues calls it, and she’s right. Except when it comes to the ground beneath your feet – or more precisely the lack of it. Trouble is with the place – if you look up, it’s amazing. One glorious towering edifice after another. Monuments to Progress; Many and Mighty. But in between them? The ground isn’t necessarily that well filled-in, yet. Essentially you can be bounding along a pavement outside one of the fabulous residences, then suddenly be met with rather a more lunar landscape to negotiate, with a building site behind, only to then be back on rather more terra firma a few yards further along, when the frontage of the next tower begins.

You do get used to it, but only just mere hours into my relocation, I was not, as yet. So, I surreptitiously took a couple of snaps of our multi-colour-lit mosque (snapping them isn’t really the done thing, and you see the odd sign saying so), which was looking particularly lovely that evening. I turned the corner, and spied just one of those signs, telling me what not to do, but kept walking all the while, as I slipped my camera back into my bag. The perfect photographic crime! I quietly congratulated myself on my cunning. Seconds later, I confidently pressed my left foot down onto fresh air, and the bottom three-quarters of my leg disappeared down.. well.. down a big hole.

I was left cutting a rather unusual figure. And glad that I had walked into the shadows before coming to grief. My right leg had bent into a sharp, kneeling V-shape, with my toes pressing onto the outer edge of the hole, keeping me sort of ‘airborne’ if you like? My left leg extended down to the bottom of some manner of footings-hole, foundation pile, or whatever you call it, and the toes barely scraped along the bottom. It was about as useful as one of those ‘grabbers’ you see in an arcade machine, where one can never successfully excise a cuddly toy. In full profile, had my whole body been visible, I suppose I would have looked rather like Ralph Macchio at the conclusive point of the action in The Karate Kid:

The only way out of the predicament, short of summoning help, whatever that might have meant, with a gentle scream, was to push myself up on my hands, like those chaps at the Olympics, on the Pommel Horse. I was in some pain, feeling the first real rush of exquisite agony that comes with a gravel rash, and was thus surprised that I could actually lever my way free. I’ve lost weight these last few weeks, but I was heavier then. Nevertheless, I popped back out of my underground predicament, and stood at the roadside, dusting myself, off, as I felt a little trickle of blood work its way down the inside of the leg of my jeans, to a pool in my sock. Come what may, I was not going to be deterred from my Nice Little Stroll. Oh no.

I hobbled, shuffled and bled my way to the end of the street, and made my way through gaps in the traffic over to the far side of the road. It was a bit lacking by way of illumination, and my heart leapt a beat when a litter of half-a-dozen or so kittens jumped out of a wheelie bin, but after a time I was making progress, and thought that a moonlight saunter to the waterfront could only be moments away. I could hear the lapping waves, after all.

Nope. I came alongside the Sudanese Embassy, and just as I was passing a small sentry box, an enormous man appeared out of the pitch dark, silhouetted with a machine gun slung across his chest. I nearly had an accident of a different, more organic, kind.

“I er..” I confidently failed to assert myself.

“Good evening Sah”, my chap came back, and broke into the most glorious grin, picked out by the construction lights from the tower across the road. ‘Not going to need the AK for this one’, he must have thought.

“Is it, er, is it; is it okay to, er, walk along here?” I thrust back, with all the bravura of a newborn foal on an ice rink. I think I might have even mimed ‘walking with two fingers. Like the idiot I am.

“Of course Sah. But no swimmin’ or photographin’, okay?”

“Perish the thought” said I. “Thanks ever so much”. I scuttled off into the traffic, and safely back to my quarters to reach for the Dettol. It transpires you can’t go for a paddle near our gaff. And if you tried, someone would take your camera off you and, with pristine politeness and good humour, shoot you.

Two further events, from my first week, to conclude this latest overlong postcard.

The first came at work.

Getting underway with things here is odd. All the normal difficulties of starting a new job – new people, new systems, working out what the priorities are; all of that. But, all the while, you have the separate process going on that is the search for the Holy Grail that is one’s Residency Permit. The document, to be carried at all times, that asserts your right to be here, work here, and even drink beer here (if that’s your thing).

There ae three steps to this:

• Go to a clinic and have your Blood Group tested;
• Go to the Medical Immigration Centre and have X-Rays taken of your chest, and your blood tested for Bad Things; and
• Have your fingerprints taken for the record, and to allow various biometrical things to function adequately

On the face of it, quite simple. In my case, typically, a little less simple than would be considered idea.

The first bit was a little odd – my chum Z turned up in his car and we fired off in the direction of one of the many Mall’s here. We sat patiently in his car in the afternoon sun, talking about cricket (he’s a Sri Lankan cricket fan) and waiting for the clinic he had taken me to, to open.

Once bade inside, I strode to the counter, explained myself, and was told to wait in the Men’s Waiting Area (none of your Unisex Modern Nonsense in the Arabic world). No amount of indicating that I had a NHS Blood Donor’s Card that said I have A+ claret got me anywhere at all. I suppose they might have thought I was making it up? Nothing medical is taken on trust, I have discovered, as we shall see again a little later.

After a time, a chap in a mask plonked me in a seat next door, and announced he would be taking a slide of my blood and testing it for the group.

“Yes, I know” I said. “But to be honest, I really don’t OWW!”

Needlecraft over here has not developed well. Folks are most impolite and inconsiderate when wielding one. Tendency just to have at you without any sense of the patient’s consent. Chap might just as well have thrown it at me from across the room, treating my fingertip as if it were a treble-twenty.

Having pierced me, he then squeezed the digit so that the contents disgorged onto the slide. He then mixed in a few sundry herbs and spices and, guess what? Declared me A Positive. I was minded to declare him a positive something else, as I pressed gauze into the chasm in my aching finger, but thought better of it. I sat, I waited, and a letter proving everything was produced. I dropped them a fiver, and toddled off.

Phase one complete. Now it got rather trickier.

Wednesday of my first week – and the directive came through that I was to go for my medical tests. See 2) above. On the face of it a well-organised affair, we were to be bussed over to the seemingly remote location, and squired through it all by Mr Ali (our on-the-ground fixer) before being safely deposited back at Trade.

Arrived at the pick-up point well in advance, but no one, including my fellow lab rats from other Campuses here, had any idea where Mr Ali was, or what was about to happen. So, we sweltered in the sun until an enormous car drew into view, and out stepped a fellow in traditional dress.

“You will with me be coming please.”

“Are you Mr Ali, then?”

“No. Driver.”

In for a penny, and all that, we got into his car, with one of us pretty much pressed into the boot, via a curious sliding door down one side. It was a car we would not leave for the next 100 minutes. ‘Driver’ got utterly, bewildering, unfathomably and very nearly irretrievably lost. We went up and down the same stretches of highway; we skirted the desert; we drove accidentally (I assume) into a construction site; and generally got no closer to our destination. I sensed the chap was getting a bit harried after a while. His Arabic, whilst clearly on the phone to his mates, trying to work out where he was, became more lively by every quarter hour. It started off at sort of “Alright Dave, give us a hand, will you? Is it second or third left, after the Camel Dealership?” but by time he (apparently at random) swept into the car park it was more of a shrill “WHERETHEFUCKAREWE?!”

It became immediately clear that Mr Ali (dressed in the manner of a Liverpudlian pimp, c. 1998) had been waiting some considerable time. He waved his paperwork (including my passport) at ‘Driver’, and generally barked out a few choice comments on the inconvenience he and we had been put to. The object of his fury could, it was quite clear, not give two hoots about this. He nodded, and gave a sort of “someone’s got to drive ‘em back” shrug, and sloped off for a ciggie.

We were, at least, there, but matters were far from concluded.

Mr Ali marched us ‘round the building and into the fray. There were people everywhere. So much of Qatar is still being built, with the World Cup 2022 in view, that the migrant labour population is huge. Every night I look out of my window at a neighbouring skyscraper being built and, even at 3.00am, I could count 100 guys slaving (I use the word advisedly) away. Each and every one of us has to satisfy the same criteria to work here, so we drew into the place, in a meek and humble short crocodile of ex-pats, and Mr Ali confidently ushered us up to the counter, ahead of what I comfortably considered to be the rather large queue that was already in place and waiting. This was confirmed, when a rather substantial fellow sitting in it got to his feet and faced Mr Ali down. They proceeded to have the matter out, at great volume, and with considerable energy, given the heat. Indeed the argument was taken outside, for a while. I don’t believe blows were exchanged, but few of us in that moment were unhappy.

I was a bit unhappy, because, unshielded by the shell-suited confidence of Mr Ali, I had meanwhile been ordered into a seat, well back in the throng, by a security guard. And not in a nice, p’s and q’s, British, cup-of-tea type way. In fact he had taken me by the shoulder and pressed me earthwards, with the loud command to “sit there”.

So I sat there. He looked like a man who wouldn’t relish an exchange on how things were being run. After a while, the ladies from behind the counter returned from afternoon prayers, and began to start stamping paperwork and getting the machinery of the medical centre moving. I zoned out for a bit, but came roughly back into the afternoon, when my security man followed up on my seating arrangements.

“Move there now!” he commanded.

I moved there.

This went on for a while, until suddenly someone pulled my paperwork from my sweaty fingers and shouted, as if they had just won a game of bingo..

“Online!”

“Online?” came an answering call.

“ONLINE!” came a strong affirmative.

“Come here”, said my new Master, and placed me at the front of the queue, where my firm was stamped, and I was waved away.

At which point Mr Ali reappeared, like Mr Benn’s Shopkeeper, and gently took my hand. Slightly disarming move, the truth be told, but it had a calming effect on me. We promenaded down a corridor or two together, arm in arm, like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke in the park, and came to a room with a C above it.

“First C, then back to B, then out and done” he said.

I wondered dimly where B had actually been, but he had vanished from my life again before I had chance to enquire, so in I went…

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

At the time of writing, a considerable amount of time has expired. I am typing, slowly, from my apartment building. I returned to Blighty at Christmas, via a low-cost airline (which I shall write about in due course – they will not be escaping a bit-part in this ramblesome tale) and returned into the country, armed with the Residency Permit I have been on about (spoiler – I get it in the end), but also with the commencement of some manner of magnificent Influenza, cooked to perfection in airline airflow. Three days in, I went to yet another medical facility, in a state of light delirium, and reprised some of the procedures I am as yet to enlighten you on. This, too, will be covered. I sense my opening salvo will come to be a stand-alone quadrilogy, in the final reckoning, and I will get to it all eventually. Right now I am delighted to find that my brain and my fingers are back in a position to harmonise and generate 12 lines of roughly coherent output.

So, in Part Three (maybe at the weekend, once the drugs have done their thing):

Pegasus Peril, X-Rays, Deafness, Burning Salads and the Road to Residency. And, no doubt, various other stuff that will come back to me eventually. With every apology for this staccato re-telling, but in delight at health-to-return and a belated Happy New Year to anyone still picking through this guff.

Cox of Arabia x