'Early Morning Run in... Budapest'

22:30. "Did you catch my presentation this morning?" 

Wow, a cardinal sin right there. I've only just met Tommy. This is a rare beast, an Australian with a smidgeon of self-doubt. The golden rule at any conference, never ever seek feedback.

Earlier we were 120 delegates on a party boat for a dinner cruise. You know the drill; goulash, decent beer & Hungarian vino, with entertainment straight out of the Wheeltappers & Shunters Club. In other words; OK tourist food, dodgy wine and local folk dressed as Morris dancers skipping about playing the spoons, backed by a fellow on a fiddle. In a conference atmosphere, it just works. It just does. 

00:30. Now we're in a bar in Budapest. "It was fine." Tommy looks at me, "fine?" Rule number 2 at any conference, never seek reassurance.

"Tommy, here's the thing, it was fine." Tommy orders us more beers, "only fine?"

"I'm just saying it wasn't a keynote, that's all. Last year we had Frank Gardener from the BBC. He came on stage in his wheelchair (I'm miming the action with my hands), lifted himself on to the red sofa and shuffled to the middle. There you go; a name, an entrance, a story, an impact. Keynote. Yours was fine, just not really keynote. It was fine."

02:30. Four amigos walking & laughing through the historic streets of beautiful Budapest talking about the BBC security correspondent; impact, wheelchairs and keynote speakers while searching for our hotel. Good times. Stories become funnier with repetition aided by a few too many beers. Tommy asks, "Mark, you speaking tomorrow?"

"Yes, I am, looking forward to it."

"Maaaaate (he's gone all Oz), so am I, big time. I'll be in the front row, maaaaate."

Talking of repetition & humour. It's an army thing. Many years ago I was stood swaying in a basket beneath a hot air balloon, tethered to the ground at 800 feet by a steel cable. There's 4 of us taking our first parachute jump. The fifth person is a comedian, he's also the PJI. He numbers us. I'm number 3. The commands start, the way the army works. No 1 in the door (of the basket). No 1 prepare to jump. It's not like an aircraft, there's no slipstream, a straight drop. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand… pray, check canopy. No 1… jump. He disappears, the PJI leans over the side and shouts 'come back'. Hilarious. No 2 prepare to jump. No 2… jump, "come back…". The PJI loved it, you can't help but smile. Repetition.

03:00. The Kempinski Hotel, nice digs. One could make love to a hippo on this bed - it's enormous.

I lay on the bed. Forget hippos. I was in full flow tonight/this morning. I haven't spoken at a conference in 8 years. Come to think of it, the last time didn't go particularly well. 2011 in Ottawa. My presentation on pipeline security followed 3 fully uniformed Mexican firefighters who spoke limited English. They were funny, quirky, but challenging to understand. All the delegates rated the dozen or so speakers on forms handed out by the organisers. I ranked 7th, one place behind Hose A, Hose B... I still clearly remember leaving the stage to the sound of my own footsteps.

06:30. Reveille. Why, oh why. The candle at both ends. I'm speaking later. I'm ill-prepared and strangely nervous. Conference living is taking its toll. Only one post on the blog this year (Saudi), come on, get your arse out of the door…

06:55 and minus 6C, flipping cold. Simples this morning, jog through the heart of Pest (Buda is the other side of the river). Run downtown, the historic buildings, see parliament, hit the Danube, we must witness the holocaust memorial, the bridges over the Danube, and find the statue of Colombo.

Unlikely people are sometimes famous in strange places. Actors & comedians mostly. Norman Wisdom (comedian) was huge in Albania. Shirley Temple (actor) in Ghana. Tony Blair (comedian & actor) in Sierra Leone. In Budapest, it's Columbo, the actor Peter Falk.

I haven't had a guest runner for a while. What a coincidence, a previous guest runner is here as a delegate ('Another Early Morning Run in... Juba'). Where's Olly? A no-show, that's where Olly is. Just you guy's this morning. Come on it's cold, let's go…

After parliament and the grand architecture, let's drop down to the eastern side of the Danube. The Holocaust memorial. The memorial consists of 60 pairs of iron-made shoes set into the concrete of the embankment. 

It symbolises the tragic fate of Jews in the winter of 1944-1945. They were tied together, shot on the banks of the river, and thrown into the river. The Arrow Cross party publicly murdered thousands of Jews all over Budapest, usually forcing the victims to remove their shoes before shooting them. The Danube was called "the Jewish Cemetery."

There are three iron signs in Hungarian, English, and Hebrew: "To the memory of victims shot into the Danube by Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944-45. Erected 16 April 2005."

The memorial is quiet at this time of the morning, you can see the flowers and wreaths and candles. 

On that note, we've been jogging for 40 minutes, let's head back to the hotel for breakfast and thaw out. Oh, Peter Falk/Colombo? I check Google Maps - too far. Next time, I'd like to return here one day. 

14:30. How'd the presentation go? Well, I had plenty to say for myself in the early hours. I see Tommy sat in the front row. I open with the Mugabe story (from a previous blog), timing all out. I want to go with, 'how do you know there's a security expert in the room' (don't worry, they'll tell you), but think better of it. Nerves have set in, like never before. Stuttering, sweating, I stumble through it. 

Terrible... I was back in that hot air balloon. Tommy shoots me that telling Aussie sardonic smile... 

Don't drink and dial they say. Don't drink and present I say. Never again...

P.S. I feel bad rating myself 5 (out of 5) on the conference questionnaire, and giving Tommy only 3.

Happy Christmas to you, and yours - as our old Milkman used to say.

'Early Morning Run in... Saudi Arabia'

Folks, we're descending into the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Saudi encompasses most of the Arabian Peninsula, with Red Sea & Persian Gulf coastlines. The birthplace of Islam and home to Mecca and Medina.

The aircraft door opens, that old familiar cauldron of desert heat hits. I nod in appreciation, like you do, in the direction of the experienced BA aircrew. Two of whom look like they flew with the Wright Brothers.

Countries where belly laughs are few? North Korea, Yemen, France, Somalia, Syria, Iran, Scotland, and heading the list, Saudi Arabia.

British Airways, I'll see you in 15 days. After Riyadh and Yanbu and Jeddah and Dhahran and Dammam and Al Khobar.

Since I was last in Saudi, some groundbreaking changes have taken place. Women are permitted to drive cars, ride motorbikes and attend live sporting events. Even cinemas, shut down in the 1980s, are making a comeback.

Women drivers, which of course is terrific for equality. Has to be said, also a boon for panel beaters who are reportedly in high demand on the peninsular.

However, some things haven't changed. Remember, it's only nine months since a Saudi dissident, and well-known journalist, went into a Saudi consulate in Istanbul and never came out. Well, not in one piece (allegedly). By most accounts, Winston Wolf in his heyday would have struggled to clean that one up.

Oh, and what do Toronto and Saudi Arabia have in common? Answer. It's legal to get stoned.

There's not much time for running on this trip, at least outdoors. This post is probably more of a postcard from Saudi.

First stop. Riyadh. The capital is a skyscraper-filled metropolis. Riyadh was interesting.

Second stop. Yanbu. A one-horse town on the Red Sea. Yanbu was interesting.

Third stop. Jeddah. A wet shave on the road. Meet Mustafa, in his off white thobe and bulky brown grandpapa sandals. He's a joy to behold the way he wields his cut-throat razor: incredible precision, such artistry. A pity his long greying beard is so unkempt.

Despite the blowtorches piercing blue flame, I'm nervous the blade might lack sharpness. Fret not; it's flipping sharp. Lovely perfume and talc as well.

He points at my nose, my ears, my eyebrows, my throat (kidding). "Aywa," I say, "lays hunak 'aa mushkila."

He finishes the mini facial and spins the chair theatrically extending his arms saying the Arabic version of 'ta-dah'. I shake his hand, 'ta-dah' indeed. "Shukraan jazilann, sadiqi."

As I look in the mirror and admire his handiwork, I reflect on the three ages of man. Youth, middle-aged, and you look terrific - phase 3 beckons.

Fourth stop. Al Khobar. Interesting. Hot.

Fifth Stop. Dhahran. Out for an early morning jog at long last. Well, a billy bonus right out of the gate. Look at this gym, it's a monster and directly outside my hotel.

I step inside - one of the best I've seen. I want a day pass for later. The impressive muscle-bound Gulf Arab, after no small talk, quotes me 250 dib dobs. Two hundred fifty dib dobs, I exclaim. We agree 200 dib dobs. A fool and his dib dobs what can one say, other than, see you later alligator.

Back to the run. As we jog through this shiny metropolis, do you know where this wealth started? That's right, Dammam oil well No. 7. Way back in 1938 in what is now modern-day Dhahran. Things in this former nomadic dessert would never be the same again.

Sixth stop. Dammam. Interesting.

Time for a quick story?

OK. Saudi 2004. The Eastern Province was tense. Companies had evacuated staff across the causeway into Bahrain after a significant terrorist attack on a mostly ex-pat compound, around 20 foreigners killed.

My client would later begin travel back into the Eastern Province Sun-Thurs. Weekends in liberal Bahrain. What a result, for four months. Every cloud...

Al Khobar. I had made a Saudi friend, a local project manager. Let's call him, Arthur.  Arthur travelled with his fellow Saudi cohorts for R&R in Bahrain most weekends.

Liberal Bahrain. "Mark, my friend, come to party at the Ali Bongo Hotel top floor on Friday night, meet my friends. We make private party & drinking & dancing. You come?"

"Arthur (you've got to be kidding me, give up my precious Friday night), of course, what time, I will stay for a short time, shukraan."

Friday night. The Ali Bongo (20 mins tops, I'm outta here). Where's Arthur, everyone is dressed the same, in white. Large tables, 10-12 people per table. Packed. Mr Phil [Collins] in the background.

Arthur spots me. Holds my hand to the table, and as we sit. I quickly forget all the names. His best friend, who I recognised from work, Ernie, another name change. Can't be too careful.

About 100 Saudi's in national dress. One bemused Anglo Saxon. No waiters. Half a dozen bottles of Mr Johnny [Walker] spread around our table. A tray of mixers. An ice bucket. A well-lit stage.

"Mark, whiskey? Help yourself, my friend."

"Arthur (I won't, I've just popped by for half an hour), sure, pass the bottle."

"Well, it was great to see you and meet Ernie and your friends. I have to be going soon, a boring dinner with the client. I'm sorry." (Pinocchio would be so proud).

"Please stay for a short time. You must see the entertainment. Just a little longer. Another whiskey."

"Arthur (I'd rather blowtorch my nipples off), sure, then I must be off."

The lights dim. 'Another Day in Paradise' fades out. Arabic music fades in. From behind the velvet curtains appear four women dressed head to toe in black. Eyes only are showing. The room becomes increasingly animated.

The four women in black begin to 'gyrate' Egyptian style (oh oh, what am I doing here). "Mark, you like?"

Yes (never in a million years), very much."

Ernie whispers in my ear, "They're from Iraq."

There's the odd glimpse of the ankle and some furtive eye movements. This Iraqi dance band sure know how to work a crowd.

The Saudi's are loving this. I sense a finale. The place erupts. The Saudi's are on their feet.

In unison the 4 Iraqi's whip off their headwear, we see their long hair and faces. Arthur can't contain himself. He grabs my arm, and we hold hands again. Then the climax, the 4 Iradi's bend forward and pull their hair back over their heads letting it hang down. Applause, noise, everyone is happy, the dancers leave the stage.

Arthur is thrilled I came. He invites me to visit his house in Al Khobar. Arthur tells me of his private shed and that we can sit together in his private shed. He says he wants to show me something in his private shed. I gave my farewells and smiling head out into the heat of Bahrain. Private sheds...

Footnote:

This post, the first of 2019, has sat unfinished for a while, until tonight. I've waited for Rick's Cafe in Casablanca to edit & sharpen. This restaurant featured in a 2017 post from Morocco. Sadly, I've learnt tonight the founder & owner, since 2004, Kathy Kriger, passed away last year. In 2017, Kathy walked the tables and told me she lived upstairs, just like Rick, and told me there was a roulette table as in the movie.

I can't walk past a roulette table without betting on my favourite number. Later this evening, my bet, my money goes on... 22.

This place was her dream, which she realised.

Finally, Beverly, I hope you are reading this.