Accidental Traveller E-Book

Raphael Wilkins

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 385

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Travel memoir by educationist Raphael Wilkins, frankly and humorously describing his unexpected introduction to work-related international travel. Highlights include sightseeing in Delhi, meeting a Crown Prince in Riyadh, the sunset call to prayer in Jeddah old town, walking on the Great Wall of China, dining in Raffles, a tour of Yemen, and flying on a light plane up-country in South Sudan. As well as places, the account features people, food, illnesses, miscommunications and surprises.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Copyright

Chapter One

I shelter from a tropical downpour: a middle-aged man on my own, a long way from home. The rhythm of beating rain slows, then stops as if someone has turned off the tap. Weak sunlight illuminates Raffles’ statue. The harbour is edged with a row of tethered, rocking, rain-bespattered boats of similar local design. On either side of their prows they are painted with a black and white eye, inside a green rhombus edged with red and white. They each bear a number and are offering trips. Memories of boyhood with Grandpa: no seaside holiday complete without a boat ride. Why not? I am out of sight of anyone who might tell me not to. Today I am a tourist. In response to a hailed invitation from Number SC108F, I step along a slender, wet wooden jetty and down into the vessel.

It is a broad clinker-built motorboat with an open well, covered with a canopy whose edges are flapping. I walk down the port side to the passenger area aft, where there are wooden slatted seats with backs, facing forward. Amidships is a wooden construction like a crate on which there is a sound system. The gangway to the starboard side of this is closed off with more slats, to create a separate ‘staff’ area forward. The canopy rests on curved wooden rafters, from which hang orange-shaded Chinese lanterns. On the first leg of the trip, across the harbour towards a multi-colour patchwork of eating-places lining the other shore, I am the only passenger. A few more board from a wooden jetty, the twin of the one I had used.

The tour begins by heading upstream into the city, past moored craft and under bridges gaily decorated, perhaps for a festival. Various sights are pointed out by the boatman through a scratchy loudspeaker. Then back downstream to the main harbour area, heading towards the sea. Sights include the old post-office, skyscrapers, a few traces of the old town which survived its transformation. A metal sculpture depicts a group of children leaping gleefully from the pavement into the water. The boat chugs out of the mouth of the harbour. Now bright sun lights up the lion statue, of white stone with a jet of water pouring from its mouth, and the boat turns to offer the full panorama of the waterfront prospect. Impressive enough: a prospect of wealth, enterprise and achievement, from central business district, to Ferris wheel and multi-coloured stadium, and forests of dock cranes beyond, but actually it is the water which takes my breath away. Limpid, silky, tropical, multi-coloured: turquoise, lilac, indigo and amber – illuminated, glittering. Startled, I remember a dream.

In my young adulthood I was going nowhere in real life, and perhaps as compensation, I dreamt of embarking on exciting expeditions, only to find that at a vital checkpoint I lacked ticket, passport or some other essential. In one such dream, by some unspecified reckless, illicit act, I found myself on a ship in tropical waters, as dawn broke. From a porthole I gorged my eyes on calm tropical sea, thinking that it was worth whatever recompense would be exacted for this experience. The water was bright, vivid and exquisitely coloured: my dreaming self knew nothing from real life on which to base this image, only a yearning imagination. That dream never recurred, but thirty years later as the boat turned round, up from the depths that imagined image came to call ‘snap’ to its real counterpart. The clean-edged skyscrapers of Singapore rose proudly, floating on their ripplely-edged reflections, and a voice in my head said, ‘So, you see, you’ve made it at last.’

Chapter Two

It is springtime in Bloomsbury in the year 2007. Bloomsbury has beneficial qualities as a work-place. Just as mineral-infused spa water aids the joints, so a century and a half of literary, artistic and philosophical conversations have infused the fabric of the buildings, and as I walk around, this essence wafts out and aids my mind. I haven’t noticed any effect yet, but these things take time.

I am an educationist: a great field to work in because you avoid the bother of having to leave school, enter adult life and find a real job. You just stay on, but with enhanced status as a sort of senior prefect with privileges, such as being allowed to leave the school site and not having to take part in PE.

From my Bloomsbury base, I work mainly in London. I don’t get to travel abroad as part of my work. It is a known fact that in order to be allowed to do international consultancy, you must already have a track record of international consultancy. How those in the business got their first assignment is something polite people don’t ask about. I do actually do a kind of international work, because foreign delegations come here and I talk to them. I have been doing that recently: a group from India, organised by the British Council. They are linked with a similar group in England.

I am not an afternoon person. I wonder if I might be more productive going out to a tea-room. Or perhaps have an early finish in order (I only partially convince myself) to get a better working evening. The phone rings. I rouse myself enough to remember my name and to show an interest if someone wants to buy something.

It is Susie from the British Council, a very nice young woman. She is thanking me for contributing to the seminar. How polite to take the trouble to make a thank-you call! Perhaps she writes letters after Christmas. ‘So now you’ve been part of the UK end, would you like to see the India end of the project?’ This wakes me up: did I hear that correctly? I burble and stammer in an attempt to seek clarification. Is this a hypothetical question about my likes, or a proposition? And if the latter: what, why, how, when and with whose money? Calmly Susie invites me to speak at a seminar in Delhi, at British Council expense, and offers to set up some school visiting to make the trip worthwhile, and to pay a daily allowance, and to make all the arrangements, and to have me escorted everywhere, and make it all OK. My head reels, my palms sweat and I express my grateful acceptance.

Putting down the phone, I, for whom an afternoon in Calais would be an enormous scary adventure, absorb how my life has been suddenly and unexpectedly transformed. I am going to India! This is what it must be like to be told you have won the lottery. Nothing will be the same again. Who can I tell? I spend the next half-hour wandering around in a daze, finding people to whom I can announce excitedly, ‘I am going to India!’ Soon the daunting practicalities take centre stage: travel clinic, luggage, camera, half a chemist’s shop. Old India hands advise me. Meanwhile Susie organises everything to do with the visa and flights, which is just as well as I last flew before the era of electronic tickets.

I love Stanfords, the map and guide-book shop in Covent Garden for real travellers. Now I had legitimate business loitering there, among grizzled yachtsmen buying nautical charts, and people who look as if they have hitch-hiked from Vladivostock and are now browsing large scale maps of Greenland. I buy a guidebook to India, and a map of Delhi and place them proudly on the counter: yes look at me, I need these, because I am going to India.

After landing, headachy, leg-achy, I disembarked, following the crowds like a lost soul, scared of going the wrong way, getting lost in the terminal or doing something wrong. I wanted to get to the safe space of a hotel room. It was good to know that the British Council would be meeting me. I visualised a gentleman in a morning suit with a white carnation, a strip of red carpet perhaps, and a team of people to care for my luggage and comforts. Through immigration at last, and with great relief reunited with my suitcase, I bought some rupees and approached the exit. I was not yet used to Asian airports in which people meeting an arrival are not allowed inside, so I was beginning to get anxious. Then I saw a recognisable approximation of my name on a square of cardboard held by a smiling gentleman: the driver sent by the hotel.

As he led me towards the car a blast of heat hit my face, and crowds of people shouted and jostled around me in a manic competition with each other to sell me things, or carry luggage, or take me to a taxi, or whatever else their cacophony might have meant. Safely in the air-conditioned car, the driver offered me water, which I refused, not trusting its source or my bladder capacity. Then he started giving me a smooth running commentary of passing sights, in a thick accent I could hardly understand. This I found rather uncomfortable. I just wanted to get to the hotel. What do you say apart from ‘mm’, ‘yes’, ‘I see’? Sometimes he asked, ‘Are you liking my commentary?’ This made me more uncomfortable because I thought he might expect payment for the service rendered. But I had to be polite. I couldn’t say, ‘No, I don’t need to know the names of these places, or to crick my neck straining to look at things I can’t see anyway. I just want to get to the hotel.’ He threatened to give me a guided tour: I didn’t know whether he meant on a future occasion, or now. Presumably for money. ‘I just want to get to the hotel’, I said.

Eventually, mercifully, the driver passed me into the attentive, fussy, caring hands of doormen at The Claridges Hotel. This was located in quite a central position within New Delhi, by a roundabout midway between India Gate and the Diplomatic Enclave: an ambience of spacious, leafy, low density development. I was guided down a long, dimly lit but very shiny corridor. The doors and other woodwork were shiny white gloss; the floor was shiny parquet of mainly pale wood, inset with dark stripes each side like ‘no parking’ lines, and dark diamonds in various patterns. A row of lights along the centre of the ceiling was reflected in the floor, and set other surfaces glinting. The ample room had a large bed with a stack of pillows and scatter cushions, and a balcony looking out over the hotel’s front garden. This offered a prospect of tall palm trees, other trees, something that looked like banana bushes, neatly clipped hedges in immaculate borders, perfectly manicured green velvet lawns, and dazzling white chairs, tables and gazebos.

My schedule allowed just enough time for a late lunch, which I selected from the à la carte menu in the hotel’s dining room. As a keen frequenter of Indian restaurants, I was aware several times of reminding myself, ‘This is not an Indian restaurant in London: this is the real thing.’ At 15.45 a car came to take me the short distance to the British Council, which was located inside the British Embassy in the Diplomatic Enclave.

I continued to harbour illusions. When I saw scheduled a meeting at the British Council, I thought ‘how nice!’ and imagined a version of tea at the vicarage, only much posher. It would be in a building like a small stately home, with fine china, and aristocratic Englishmen putting me at my ease whilst in a foreign country, saying things like, ‘Jolly good: drop in any time, we’re always here to help you.’ By contrast, the way in to the concrete building was like passing through the guard room of a high-security barracks, all entrants being treated as if they were suspected of being dangerous asylum-seekers. Once inside, I waited in a busy foyer, where the main activity seemed to be selling courses in English for speakers of other languages. My meeting was with two Indian members of staff working on the project with which I was involved: it was just a normal, unmemorable work meeting.

That evening was, however, memorable. Showing more courage than for a long time before or since, I decided to go out, while it was still light, on my own, to explore the Lodi Gardens. A colleague had mentioned that this was a pleasant spot. Getting back to the hotel at about 17.15, I quickly exchanged my blue business suit for a cream summer jacket, and, map in hand, stepped out into India.

Two things interested me about the roundabout. First, the range of traffic going round it, which included ordinary modern vehicles; swaying, elderly-looking lorries of a notably ‘foreign’ design; motorised rickshaws with yellow hoods and green bodies, open at the side; and motor bikes and scooters, usually carrying two or more people. Secondly, the style of driving: those entering the roundabout did so into the path of the traffic circulating, rather than giving the circulating traffic priority in the European manner. This worked fine, because drivers drove slowly, caringly, and, as I later discovered, were used to avoiding cows wandering into the road.

I crossed Aurangzeb Road and took South End Road, crossing two further roads to reach the gardens. I was interested to feel the heat of the air, as a pleasurable new experience. The road was tree-lined, and spacious, with a strip of grass between pavement and road: it felt safe. I wondered what happened about the fruit growing in these public places: could anyone eat the mangoes?

At the entrance to the Lodi Gardens, painted metal signs in Hindi and English explained the restricted hours during which dogs on leashes were allowed, how opening hours varied between seasons, and various rules. The sun was starting to set as I walked between tall palms to the first of many 15th Century tombs of sultans. These were mostly of a reddish tinge, with the mortar in fact being redder than the stones. All of the monuments were huge, ornate, astonishingly old, and were simply there, completely accessible for people to enjoy.

A peacock strutted along in front of a tall castellated structure. Later, I came to the massive, highly decorated, honey-coloured structure which is the Bara Gumbad with attached mosque, built in 1494. Square and domed, it sat on a lawn in a public park: I could not believe that such important antiquities were not guarded in some way. A painted board showed pictures of birds, with the names and descriptions unfortunately only in Hindi. Some were the same or similar to those in Europe; others more exotic. Light was fading as I crossed over some stinking stagnant water, passed a tree with leaves of flaming red, and joined a sparse procession of family groups heading towards the exit.

At one level, I was just taking a walk in a park, but all the while, I was experiencing what I can only describe as some kind of spectator syndrome, so self-conscious was my sense of doing something that I regarded as profoundly significant. I retraced my route, savouring my first taste of velvet hot-country night, and felt a wave of relief and accomplishment when I was back inside the hotel.

Next morning, Tuesday 1 May, I explored the excitements of the breakfast buffet, discovering the wonderful refreshing qualities of watermelon juice. My selection of foods was adventurous because I felt sure that the opportunity would not arise again: it included idli rice dumplings with hot sambhar. At 9.30 a car came to take me to the Blue Bells International School, for some educational tourism.

During the drive, I drank in the street scene. In a typical view, near to the school, the road was separated by a surface of varying materials from a line of buildings several storeys high, penetrated by alleys and clearly extending back some way. These buildings were a jumble of styles, purposes and ages. A modern shop frontage announced ‘Cheese Bazaar: known for its quality’; next door, a printed fabric sign stuck on the wall above what looked like a metal garage door advertised motor repairs by a consultant engineer with a lot of qualifications. Across an alley, tumbledown shacks offered vaguely described services such as ‘Shish Enterprises’. On the ground between the building line and the road, modern cars were parked. Between these, a man was selling something in jars, on a stall set up on what looked like a perambulator, standing in the full glare of the sun. Some sort of street food vending stall was shaded by an umbrella. Bicycles were propped here and there. An ancient wooden handcart stood empty. Scrawny hump-backed cows wandered freely among these objects. A group of men sat in a line, passing the time in conversation.

I was worried about how I would cope physically with the day, being prone to headaches and upset stomachs: both exacerbated by stress such as travel, unusual food and environments, meeting new people, and having to be on my best behaviour. The school was an elite independent school for girls, guided by ‘a global vision of the world being one family’, and a curriculum ‘highlighting universal peace and brotherhood’, and clearly accustomed to offering a smoothly polished visitor experience.

After introductions, I was shown a film about the school, then allocated one of the senior staff as guide. Back through the foyer, covered with high quality displays illustrating the school’s ethos and achievements, the tour began in the grounds. I saw a garden dedicated to engineering and technological innovation, containing various pieces of interactive equipment, in addition to the more usual facilities for formal and informal recreation. The lawns and flower borders were immaculate. A small army of, presumably, lower caste workers grubbed at them on their hands and knees. Delhi was beginning one of its hottest summers for a while, and after seeing these sights in the full sun, bare-headed and wearing a business suit, I was pleased to get back inside. There, I was taken on the usual kind of tour, followed by lunch in a separate staff room set up especially for the occasion.

My lunch companions were six or seven women in middle or senior management positions, elderly and serious, but determined to be hospitable. I was hungry but surveyed the meatless spread dejectedly. Among the tediously long list of foods I have to avoid are citrus fruits (and their juices used in cooking) and cheese, which are migraine triggers, and I have to be careful with dairy products generally as they can be upsetting. Before me was an oily curry of paneer (lumps of cottage cheese), a bowl of curds, a bowl of yoghurt, and a plate with cubes of cheddar-style cheese. There must also have been some rice or bread, I can’t remember.

The women ate little, but supervised me fussily, obviously taking it for granted that I would find everything scrumptious. ‘Please permit me the honour of placing some of these onto your plate’, said one, adding to my troubles. After lunch, I was granted a brief audience with the founder-proprietor, a formidable personage who glared at me as if I had crawled out of a hole. A scarf of golden satin, bearing the school’s badge, was placed on me in the manner of a clergyman’s stole, and a group photograph was taken.

Back at the hotel, I laid on the bed with a cold wet flannel over my face until it was time to change into a clean shirt and go out for the next engagement. At 16.00 the car came for me. Susie was in the back: it was nice to see her. We were going to visit Professor Marmar to plan Thursday’s seminar. I had met Professor Marmar in London: he was small, animated, learned, opinionated and very talkative in quite a friendly way. He was important: not just in his own estimation, but in having been recommended to the project by an Indian expert of global status. He had various affiliations, and on his business card he was the Director of an educational technology and management academy, so I assumed the meeting would be in a work setting.

The driver had trouble finding the place and had to keep stopping to ask for directions. Eventually he deposited us near to a heavy, dented, buckled metal door of the kind that might protect an electrical sub-station or an ammunition store. Marmar shoved it ajar and invited us to step through onto the cement floor of a modestly furnished sitting room. Here, while my head pounded, we had our discussion. Marmar went and got us tea and a light snack, which included cucumber raita and cakes. On the way back to the hotel, Sarah told me that Tim was arriving that evening and would accompany me the following day. Tim was a headteacher of a UK school involved in the project. He had an Indian wife, had spent long periods in India, and was proficient in Hindi and Urdu: a most reassuring companion.

That evening I browsed the hotel’s small shopping arcade. I knew that this would be an expensive place to buy things, but it was convenient. In the men’s outfitters I bought a mandarin-style jacket in black and gold brocade, a black silk shirt without collar, and a patterned silk shirt in brilliant blue. Next door, there were some carpets. I have been buying oriental rugs for decades and am less gullible than the average tourist. I was, nevertheless, persuaded to buy a small mat for about the same price I would have paid for it in Durham. I had not rehearsed emphasising one purchase only, so after that I was persuaded into buying a hand embroidered tablecloth and set of serviettes. It was nice work, slaved over by someone, and quite expensive. When I got home, it went into a sideboard cupboard, and has not been out since.

As night follows day, my stomach became upset. In addition to all the normal factors, on one occasion of forgetfulness I had started brushing my teeth with tap water, which may have added to the features and duration of my indisposition. The people who serviced the room did slightly odd things in their fussy way. They liked to lay the mat for standing on when you get out of the bath in front of the toilet: why would I want it there? Whenever I went out, I would leave a wet face flannel ready to cool my fevered brow when I returned. It was always replaced by a hot dry one.

Wednesday’s expedition was to a school just over an hour and a half’s drive to the north-west of Delhi. It was a Government-provided boarding school intended to benefit talented girls from poor rural families. We understood that term had already finished, so expected our meeting to be just with the headteacher. Tim was a mine of information throughout the day.

The drive started in the busy streets of Delhi. Ahead of us I saw lorries, buses, cars, a fuel tanker, several vehicles abreast and churning clouds of dust and exhaust fumes. Between these heavy vehicles, motorbikes carried couples and families, the women sitting side saddle, with cerise or primrose chiffon garments flowing in the breeze, maintaining their balance through the din, dust and swerving hazards.

As we approached the edge of the city, the traffic thinned and became more varied. A confusing and colourful variety of small shops lined the road, which was also edged with street-selling enterprises of different kinds. Between these, and to some extent almost amongst them, moved rickshaws for goods and passengers, handcarts, motorbikes and bicycles, and cows. Vehicles threaded their way through, straying over into the opposite lane as necessary.

On a modern stretch of road like a motorway, I saw traffic lights with a count-down display: these did not appear in London until a few years later. At these stopping points, sweltering and mainly very dark-skinned street vendors would move among the vehicles offering prepared portions of coconut, and other goods. A woman came to the window of our car: she was not carrying any goods, but persistently rapped on the glass, pointing to me and then to herself, smiling.

We passed through a couple of small towns or large villages, and I longed to understand what actually happens in them: how the economy operates, how daily life proceeds. What I saw was a street scene similar to that described earlier, but more spaced out and more dilapidated, with piles of rubble and buildings which seemed partially fallen down. Ancient workshops were full of dusty, rusty vintage bikes and motorbikes of the kind a museum would love. Shops, patches of rough ground that looked like scrap yards, groups of leaning telegraph poles, rickety street-café style chairs and tables – all looked as if they had not been touched for a long time. Amongst all this, many people, mainly men, sat in groups, or stood motionless, apparently doing nothing at all. It was as if a bomb had hit the place 50 years ago and everyone was still too stunned to think about making a start on clearing up the mess.

Vehicles took wide detours from their lane to avoid potholes. A camel-drawn cart carried an enormous wide load of bales, probably of hay or straw. In the countryside I saw simple buildings abutted by neat stacks of sun-dried dung patties, and neat stacks of dung not made into patties. In fact dung was quite a feature of the landscape. The landscape itself, disregarding the heat, was surprisingly universal. I saw vistas of golden cereal fields dotted with dark green trees, some patches of bright green crops, areas of rough pasture and scrub: scenes which could have been painted by Constable or by French Impressionists.

The driver stopped several times to ask for directions. Tim explained to me quietly that people don’t like to disappoint, so tend to say ‘yes’ to questions phrased in the form, ‘Is it this way?’ Eventually the driver took us into the drive leading to the school. We were surprised to see some students playing in the grounds. As we approached the headquarters building, Tim said ‘We have a reception committee’. A line of students stood with the headteacher outside the front door. Letting Tim go first, and following his example as to protocol, we bent our heads in front of a student with a small brass dish of red paste, who fingered a patch of it onto our foreheads. We bent again in front of another student, each to have placed over our head a garland of fragrant rose blossoms.

Thus honoured, we were invited by the headteacher, a mature man of military bearing, to his office. He offered coffee. I asked for black tea, which would have been very welcome. ‘Chai!’ he countermanded, believing that to be superior, and in due course the servant reappeared with the sweet, boiled-up milky confection that forms a thick skin. After that I asked to use the toilet, which was a hole in the ground. The headteacher took us on a tour of the school. It was empty except for token groups of students, amounting perhaps to two or three classes. We were taken to watch a lesson on business studies. Using a scuffed blackboard covered in barely legible writing, a teacher explained some aspect of accounting to the small class, occupying a fraction of the room’s ancient wooden desks. Then we saw some feature, such as a computer room, and a few minutes later went to another room, by which time we were able to see the same group of students having an equally artificial science lesson. We saw the library in which we were able to meet a unit of uniformed cadets, some of whom had been sitting in the lessons.

We had a tour of the site, including a great open-sided barn which was the cooking and eating area. Vicious looking insects hovered about. We went as far as the vestibule in one of the dormitory blocks. A highlight was a display of arts and crafts, mainly set up in an external area shaded by trees. There were practical demonstrations of hand-painting, chalk-making, sand-painting, candle-making, lino printing, ceramics, and many more things. Although term had ended, the headteacher had required these classes to stay behind for some days, in order to mount this full-scale open day exhibition, purely for our benefit. He invited us to have lunch in his house.

Over rice, curds and a hot, watery, vegetable curry, the headteacher spoke hospitably, mainly about military matters and politics, and his judgements regarding the qualities and limitations of the different ethnic groups that make up India. Afterwards, he took us to a barn-like hall for the finale: to watch some dance routines. Students sat on the floor; behind them was a row of chairs for adults. From this vantage point, Tim surveyed the backs of heads and said quietly to me, ‘You can tell from the proportion of Western hairstyles that most of these girls are not from poor rural families.’

Music played. For a long time I assumed it was recorded, then eventually I worked out that it was a live performance by a group at the edge of the stage, which included some kind of bellows-operated instrument. Groups of girls danced a sequence of traditional dances in various costumes. It was hot, I was tired, it was tedious. My attention wandered, my eyelids drooped. Someone was making a speech. Through semi-consciousness, I was alarmed to hear the words, ‘And now it is my honour to invite Professor Wilkins to the platform to address us.’ ‘Professor’ was a purely honorary title conferred on me by the speaker. Why had I not anticipated this? Why had I not been using the last hours of drudgery to compose some uplifting oratory? Why had the headteacher not given me some warning? I was the opposite of a natural impromptu speaker. My expression must have been one of shock and dread as I took the long walk to the platform, where I struggled to string together some pedestrian sentences. Then it was Tim’s turn: as an experienced headteacher, he was relaxed and in his element; he more than compensated for my deficiencies.

That evening, Tim, Susie and I were driven to the event venue for a drinks reception and dinner. It was in the Atrium Hotel in Faridabad, about an hour’s drive to the south of Delhi. It was light for most of the outward journey. We passed tracts of waste ground. Some were littered with objects; some may have been used as campsites by homeless people, having low tent-like structures made crudely out of bits and pieces. I enjoyed the buffet meal at the venue, which included some good biryanis, but I was disappointed to find wherever lamb appeared, it came with awkward sharp bones.

On Thursday, the three of us set off at 7.00 for the drive to the venue. We passed a wooded area where there were monkeys in the trees. The car park at the venue was outside, and as the day got hotter I wondered just how hot the cars became. Various activities and presentations occurred, including my own small contribution. I enjoyed browsing the buffet lunch, knowing now to pick around the knobbly pieces of bone. At the end of the day, Tim offered to show us ‘the real Delhi’ that evening. After a brief stop at the hotel, Tim, Susie, a senior British Council official called Judith, and I, took a taxi to a shopping district. Tim pointed out a government store as a potential source of gifts. It offered the full range of Indian crafts but was quite expensive. In the window was what I took to be a wall hanging. It was in the style of an oriental rug, but was a thick, chunky embroidery made out of what looked like threads of gold and silver among coloured silks.

Outside the shop, a group of young men were operating a press for making juice from sugar canes. A young boy kept pestering me for money, good-naturedly but he was hard to shake off. I had no low-denomination notes. I had become separated from the others and was anxious to catch them up. Tim wanted to show us a market which involved crossing a busy multi-lane road. There were no crossings. Tim instructed us in the Indian method of road crossing. Then he said ‘Now!’ and the four of us stepped out in a steady, unhurried way, directly into the path of the traffic, and kept walking steadily forward, ignoring the hooting and swerving going on around us. We arrived safely at the other side. It was now dark. We entered a crowded market area. Many of the traders were sitting or squatting in groups on the ground, burning spills of paper to provide light. It was eerie and did not feel like a safe environment: I made sure I stayed near to the others as we progressed along a row of kiosks. Susie took a while sampling perfumes.

It was time to eat. Tim chose a restaurant offering South Indian cuisine, and gave us a tutorial on its components and, later, during the meal, on how to eat them. He went to wash his hands, and came back saying ‘Don’t use the toilet.’ He said there was no running water. He had asked the staff if he could wash his hands; they fobbed him off but he had persisted in their language, and reluctantly they had opened a small bottle of water and poured some over his fingers. So all day, these people who do not use toilet paper had been preparing food in a place with no washing facilities.

After the meal, we went to what Tim thought might be a good tea room, but in the event, what I got was a tea bag with chai flavouring in a cup of hot milk. Conversation ranged over educational subjects, and our favourite places in London for eating nice Indian food.

For the journey back, we discussed getting a ride in one of the old Morris Oxford taxis, but when we investigated, it was too late: they were all packed up. The only option was to take a couple of motorised rickshaws. Tim did the negotiation in whichever language the drivers spoke, making them agree that the fare was about a tenth of what they would have charged a group of Westerners. I was delighted that he decided he and Judith would go in the first, and I would have the pleasure of Susie’s company in the second. We squeezed in and set off on a wonderfully atmospheric and hairraising ride. Susie’s close company was a definite plus factor. At traffic lights, maimed beggars would come up and stand silently, poking out stumps and withered arms at us. As we got away from the centre, the pace increased. The two drivers were not actually racing each other, but that was the sensation as we swirled around roundabouts and accelerated along dark deserted boulevards. I expressed something of my joy, and Susie said, ‘It’s alright for you, you have the rail’, which was indeed holding me in. She pointed out that she was on the open side, with nothing at all holding her in. ‘Swap sides!’ I suggested caringly, ‘You’ll be much better off over here’, as I showed with gestures how easily she could slip across me into a better position. This offer was rejected.

On Friday morning I managed to cram my purchases and various official gifts into my already full baggage, and went to the airport. There, I needed to urinate in a stinking public toilet, which had only a row of holes in the ground. I noticed broom handles shoved into plastic bottles as plungers. There was a cistern and chain, and after I had finished, like a well brought up person would, I pulled it. After a few seconds of suspense, a repulsive surge of raw sewage welled out of the holes and chased me to the door.

During the flight home, between frequent visits to the toilet, I had stunning views of the Himalayas. I felt fulfilled. Albeit somewhat briefly, I had engaged in travel to an exotic location: a once in a lifetime experience. But now over and done with, I thought, although the diarrhoea lasted a month.

Chapter Three

Immediately after my return from India, while I was still savouring the experience, collecting photographs from Boots and trying to sort out my body, a development arose concerning some Saudis. A delegation of Saudis had visited the organisation the previous year, just before my arrival. This occurred from time to time: I had met a different Saudi delegation some months previously, and I had something vague in my diary about another one coming shortly. The group in question, different from these others, had been in touch periodically and now wanted to form a consortium to bid for a large contract that was expected to be advertised in a year or so’s time. My organisation judged these talks worth pursuing. In my first week back in the office, I was exchanging e-mails on the matter. The leader of the group, Abdulaziz, said we would need to show our faces in Riyadh. Humphrey in our international unit had a fund to cover business development trips; he got the idea approved, and to my surprise invited me to go with him.

I was completely naïve about the complexity of the procedure for getting a visa to enter Saudi Arabia. The timeline for this affected the scheduling of the trip, and after the hotel and flight bookings had been made, there was uncertainty, right up to the afternoon before travel, about whether the visas would be issued in time.

With keenness which exceeded capability, I had been studying Arabic. I do not have much aptitude for learning languages, and left school with no passes in that field, but every decade or so I suffer a compulsion, always futile, to make an effort to do so. The previous summer, when I had started interacting with Arabic-speaking delegations, the beautiful calligraphy of the script bewitched me, and for courtesy I wanted to master some very basic greetings. Arabic culture seemed exotic and attractive. So I struggled with Teach Yourself Arabic and similar texts, and convinced myself as usual that if I invested in texts and placed them near to me, an osmotic process would occur. I also bought a guide to Arabic social customs which turned out to be helpful.

An opportunity to practise my beginner’s phrases arose in the form of a visiting delegation. The pencil jotting in my diary firmed into a session on Friday 25 May. I waited in the foyer to meet the group. Ten of them got out of a minibus, with their interpreter. Some delegations present an image designed to impress; others like this one are understated. They were away from their context, in a rag-bag of Western clothes, and seemed relaxed, in a way that belied their statuses as a Deputy Minister and a group of Regional Directors of Education. I escorted them to a similarly downbeat meeting room and tried to discern what they wanted. When the brief is very vague, it is hard to know whether to give a lecture about the UK education system, or to launch straight into a sales pitch. On this occasion I chose a mixture of the two.

Meanwhile, Abdulaziz was demonstrating the smooth efficiency of the Arab trader. He was a former Minister, who had developed an attachment with a major Saudi corporation which specialised in training technical personnel. Now he needed to add a source of UK educational expertise as the essential third leg of the tripod. To that end, on Wednesday 13 June I found myself in a meeting with my organisation’s senior management in London, having a video conference with Abdulaziz and his associates in Riyadh, to make the final arrangements for the trip.

We were due to fly on Saturday 16 June. On Thursday afternoon, Humphrey dropped into my office and gave me a plain brown envelope containing a bundle of US Dollars: ‘For the trip’, he explained vaguely, while bemoaning the uncertainty about whether we would be going or not. At around 16.00 on Friday I got the phone call to say that visas had been issued, and I could collect my passport.

At Heathrow I bought some Saudi Riyals. I understood that, along with the US Dollar, these were one of the very few, perhaps only other, hard currencies left in the world. The flight was with British Midland, direct to Riyadh: it was half empty and uneventful. ‘Death to Traffickers!’ was the most prominent sign on arrival, as we queued patiently, slowly moving through the rigorous entry formalities.

Selecting the right kind of taxi is a bit of an issue in Saudi Arabia, as the dress code does not distinguish rogues from gentlemen, and the accosting process starts before being able to see the vehicles in question. Emerging from the terminal into a hot, dark evening, we settled on one that seemed OK, and, as the guide book suggested, I discussed in advance the fare for taking us to the Marriott Hotel. Of the currencies about my person, the driver chose Riyals.

Then we were off. The driver, wearing standard Saudi white dishdash and red-chequered head-dress, sat in a seat covered all over with a great thick fleece, and the surface between the steering wheel and the windscreen was similarly bedecked, as if he would have preferred to have been riding a camel. The drive was along a busy motorway: a stream of flashing headlamps against what seemed to be flat, empty terrain. As buildings became more numerous, they presented a random assortment of unregulated trunk-road ribbon-development: industrial and storage premises, motor trades, retail outlets and occasional places for eating or entertainment, all with bright signs and plenty of flood-lighting. The sensation of being on a motorway continued right into the centre of Riyadh, and up to the front door of the Marriott Hotel.

Here, we passed through security screening facilities staffed by armed guards, into the foyer, where our reservations were easily found. This was Saturday night, and we were not on duty until Monday morning. Humphrey had his laptop with him, and went off to his room with the statement, ‘I have no desire to leave this hotel’. I shut the door of my own room and appraised the situation. Any hotel bearing the Marriott label will offer some degree of familiar ambience, but I had two initial impressions of differences. First, all the staff and all the guests were men. This complete absence of females gave the place a certain atmosphere which reminded me of staying in a barracks in the days before the Army went mixed. Secondly, the smell. The hotel, and, I later discovered, Riyadh generally, exuded a faint dusty mustiness which I associate with stone surfaces that have been swabbed with a none-too-clean floor-cloth. Of course it is a miracle of engineering that enough water is produced to meet the needs of a major city in the middle of the desert. When I took a bath the water definitely had plenty of other chemical ingredients to pad out the hydrogen and oxygen. Did it come through long pipes, or from deep wells, or from alchemy? How much of it was recycled?

The bedroom window looked out over flat roofs to a mosque in a side street. House sparrows pecked about on the roof: thin, abstemious versions of their English cousins. The amplified call to prayer started with a wail rising both in pitch and volume, like the onset of an ‘all clear’ siren. It woke me during the night and in the early morning. To satisfy my curiosity I peeped through the curtain: a scattering of people headed to the mosque on each occasion. Bringing books of any kind into Saudi Arabia, including even improving religious works, was officially discouraged. On the top shelf of the wardrobe was a fusty folded prayer mat, but no Koran: a notice said that hotel staff would provide one if necessary. On the desk, a Qibla arrow was fixed to show the direction of Mecca, to assist in-room devotions. It was of some slight help to me in orientating myself to my inadequate street plan.

In contrast to these austere tones, exploring the restaurant buffet was fun. A Middle-Eastern spread in a real Middle-Eastern place! The pork-free range of cold meats was interesting, with nice dips, and at the dessert stage I enjoyed the selection of different kinds of halva. I was worried about the amount of lemon juice in things, but as usual when confronted by a buffet, I felt it right to try to get my money’s worth.

I passed the time somehow on Sunday. I did not have a laptop with me: it must have been a mixture of reading and pen-and-paper work, between leisurely meals. After lunch, I thought I should venture out, although the immediate environs did not look particularly inviting. I went to the foyer and walked towards the security checks. People looked at me strangely as I passed through. No-one actually asked ‘Where is your car?’, but I realised later this question must have been in their minds. There is no public transport: in towns, the car is king, and not even mad Englishmen go for a stroll along a motorway in Riyadh in June.