'Early Morning Run in... Khartoum'

It was the 10th May 2008. I gaze out of the small portal window, across the tarmac, from a Boeing 777 Qatar Airways flight to Doha. Two colleagues are flying to Europe, en-route to Canada; they are two planes over.

Khartoum International Airport is about to shut down. I see plumes of creamy black grey smoke swirl upwards, helicopters circle, explosions, distant gunfire. Will we take off?

A Darfur separatist group, from out west, has surprisingly entered Khartoum in force and is enjoying an old-fashioned Mexican style shoot-out with government forces.

The last two planes to leave. Unfortunately, mine rattles down the runway first. What rotten luck. I wave awkwardly, slightly embarrassed, at the rapidly disappearing tarmac... my hand gesture, my intense gaze, is interrupted by the tell-tale rattle of the drinks trolley... "Oh, thanks, I'll have a large G&T..."

I recline my seat; I'm sure my shipmates will be okay. What movies are showing?

The very word 'Khartoum' conjures up a certain romance. The desert, the searing heat, the meandering banks and convergence of the Nile, the Arabs, the flowing robes, the tortured history. I loved this place, once. Khartoum is Casablanca without the heroes.

Fast forward eight years. October 2016. Back to a still ostracised and heavily sanctioned country. Second only to Iran. I worked here for many years, once.

"Salam El Keeni."

"Salam Mr Mark, do you like it? Please meet our driver, Mohamed."

We shake hands.

"I love it, well done El Keeni. I was expecting four wheels, but this works. Salam Mohamed. Your rickshaw should make you very proud."

El Keeni, a guest runner in the first Juba post, makes a welcome return. I've known El Keeni 17 years.

0600 hrs. We head north from the Rotana Hotel through Amarat. The memories come flooding back. Street 53. Street 41. Street 27. Street 23. Street 60. The roads where we lived. The international airport is on our right. We 'speed' towards Nile Avenue. En-route we quickly visit the old apartment blocks.

We arrive on Nile Avenue. River Nile on our right, history to our left. "El Keeni, let's go..."

Armed with a smartphone and remembering photography here is involved. Paranoia everywhere, including El Kenni.

The sun slowly rises behind us as we head west along the banks of the Nile. You might recall El Keeni folded quicker in Juba than the time it takes to boil a soft boiled egg.

To our left Khartoum University, previously Gordon Memorial College until independence in 1956. The college was founded in 1902, in memory of General Charles George Gordon.

History surrounds us. This road continues into Omdurman. Over the far bank of this vast river sits Khartoum North. Numerous bridges span the Nile, like this one, constructed over 100 years ago.

El Keeni goes well this morning, probably two soft-boiled eggs worth. 

So many recollections. The Presidental Palace over there which we'll have to divert around. The Khartoum Sailing Club on our right.

The Malaysians have their hotel, the Holiday Villa. As do the Chinese. My worst day's consulting experience took place right in there. I smile just thinking about it. An off-colour Chinese joke to 50 Chinese fellows to open a four-day workshop. I'll save that for another day... 

Our destination, and turnaround point, this early hour is the former Hilton Hotel (now 'The Coral').

This hotel was the best back in the day. Someone described it as a Lyme Regis coffee shop from the 1970s. Harsh? One thing I remember about this hotel was providing our high ranking visitors with 'liberal' contraband. Sudan was under Shariah Law, as now. However, there was a vibrant black market. How much you paid depended on your position in the supply chain.

The Hilton sat between the two Niles. Take a front room and overlook the Blue Nile, a room at the back and it's the White Nile. The convergence is a few hundred metres away. 

Back to contraband. Boris rang me one day from the Russian Embassy. "Mark, you want a beer? Cash deal."

"Boris, silly question."

"200 cases at $30."

I gulp. Beer in plentiful supply, coming out of the back door of the Russian Embassy. I like a beer as much the next man unless that next man is Oliver Reed. I'm in way over my head here. The black market was pushing $80.

"Boris, I could perhaps take 20 cases?"

"Mark, I like you a lot. You're funny. 200 my friend."

I pictured Boris with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a lump of meat attached to a bone in the other. He was wearing a black and white hooped turtleneck sweater. Negotiating with a hairy arsed Russian isn't easy. Phone a friend time; Rodney, in another oil company.

"Rodney, I've a great deal, loads of in-date Russian beer, I need to offset this. Help me."

"Mate, a result. Brilliant. Put me down for 3 cases."

"Rodney, I like you a lot. You're funny.

I talk Rodney up to 6 cases after about three hours. I never saw myself in the alcohol business; needs must...

To cut a long story short, I manage to offload another 50 cases at varying rates. Fortunately, the Country Manager I worked for stepped in and bought the remainder.

I telephone the hairy arsed Soviet, "Boris, of course, I'll take the 200 at 30."

"Good. Bring the money, blankets, and vehicles to the back door of the compound at midnight tomorrow."

We assemble a posse of Canadian oil workers. I swear some turned up dressed head to toe in black with balaclavas and boot polish on their faces. Let's call them Ringo, George, Paul & John. In reality, it was more like the Wet Bandits from Home Alone. 

Joking aside, this wasn't exactly straightforward. Sudan, Ruskies, large sums of cash, Shariah Law, checkpoints, 200 cases of beer, and a nervously excited crew of helpers. What could go wrong...

Thankfully nothing. Nostrovia! A toast as we approach Christmas 2016 to everyone involved in the Sudan project in those memorable four years. 

After the Hilton, it's back the same route. 75 minutes run/walk this morning. El Keeni, a great effort. Thanks for everything.

Have we a choice of refreshments? We do. Milky tea with 7 sugars on a 3 legged stool on the street? Or coffee in a promising western chain over in Riyad?

Hobson's choice. Hawa and that winning smile all day long.

I hope you've enjoyed this morning's excursion along Nile Avenue and some memories from Khartoum. 

In closing, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy Christmas and good health and good fortune for 2017.

'Early Morning Run in... Ouagadougou'

We’re in the heart of Africa. At the southern edge of the Sahara. Burkina Faso. Ouagadougou… as the locals fondly call it; Ouaga (as in Wagga).

0545 hrs on a Sunday morning, October 2016.  Shall we get straight to the run? My guide & chauffeur this morning… 'C’est Paul'. Quick intros, in French, with Paul, confirms language will be a barrier. Merde, “Allons y...”

A storyline is far more romantic with a motorbike, or perhaps a submarine in the plot. Burkina is landlocked and OK this isn't a Harley, but it'll do the job. Remember, you are on this bike with me...

We splutter eastwards into the rising sun. My 'plan', such as it is; is a quick tour of Ouaga, then drop me (us) 4 or 5 miles away, and we'll jog back and take brekkie together in the 'Laisse Faire' Hotel (official name - Laico Hotel). This is my (our) third morning in former Upper Volta.

‘C’est Paul’ senses my foreboding, we potter along at a sedentary and constant 18 mph. To paraphrase Robert Shaw, 'we need a bigger bike'. I take a few photos of nothing, mostly Paul’s right ear. We ride for about 40 mins. Gradually, more motorbikes and bicycles join us, together with a sprinkling of mostly battered old automobiles. The temperature’s already a solid 24c. Paul glances intermittently over his right shoulder for guidance, a plan perhaps. Paul, we only need a start point, “Tout droit Monsieur…”

We're now near the airport and downtown and the Splendid Hotel. In January Islamist lunatics attacked this particular hotel, it was a Friday night. They also hit the well-known Cappuccino bar/restaurant over the road. 28 innocent souls were murdered, including 6 Canadians. I dwell briefly on the madness… completely senseless… “Tout droit Monsieur…”

I ask Paul to head to the Monument des Martyrs. Some might think, monstrosity. Some might say, futuristic. I say a feature picked randomly off the map about 4 miles from the hotel. I tap Paul on the shoulder… 

“Monsieur…. la, la-bas… c’est bon.” Paul wants me to stay with him. He wants to deliver me safely back to the 'Lassiez Faire'. He didn't sign up for this.

I assure him, “Paul, c’est tout bon.” He reluctantly pulls our blue steed over; he looks fascinated as I stretch half-heartedly. The scene, a dusty roadside in Ouaga, at 0625 hrs on a Sunday morning is probably surreal to most passersby. I want to say to Paul, as a sign-off, "Quand le seagulls follow le bateau..."

Instead... "Paul, pour le diesel, merci beaucoup, mon ami. Vous sont un grand chauffeur." He smiles broadly, we shake hands… and, as quick as I can say ‘au revoir’, he’s spluttered off.

I wave rather lamely, looking ahead up the long straight and unwinding road. I begin jogging, I’m hoping, 30 to 40 mins back to the hotel. The streets are wide, flat, well maintained and mostly traffic free and safe. Some detail on Burkina Faso (which means 'land of upright/honest people') to pass the time?

Well, Burkina is a similar size to the UK, but with only a quarter of the population. The main export is gold, followed by cotton. 2 million folks live in Ouaga. Most folk in Burkina scratch a living from subsistence farming.

A former French colony, independence came in 1960. Renamed Burkina Faso in 1984. A poor country even by West African standards; military coups and droughts quickly became a recurring theme. Longstanding President Compaore was finally ousted, after 29 years, in a popular uprising in 2014. Since then things have been ‘fluid’. An attempted coup d’etat in 2015; followed, reportedly, by another in October 2016, as I’m putting this post together.

Back on the road. 20 mins done, about 20 to go. Get the flags out. In the words of Bon Jovi… ‘Whoa, we’re halfway there…’

Speaking of security... I checked into the hotel 2 days ago. I dumped my bag on the bed and began to wander. I wanted to be familiar in the event something went bang in the night, or we caught fire. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say; ‘never rely on the cavalry, they're always late’. I think you could probably include the Burkina Faso Fire Brigade.

We're arriving back into the Ouaga 2000 district. I suspect the Knightsbridge of Ouaga. I can see the Laico Hotel through the heat haze, also known as ‘The Libya Hotel’, apparently built by Gaddafi. Next door is a modern shopping centre which is largely empty. Seems out of place with the rest of Ouaga. As I close in on the hotel; whoa… there’s Paul, perched serenely astride his bike under a large Acacia tree, like a giraffe watching the rest of the zoo flood; he gives me a hearty thumbs-up and a massive smile. I feel instantly warm inside and run over, and high five him enthusiastically and kiss him on both cheeks…

The heat’s got to me. Paul’s not there (so much for loyalty); anyway, probably would’ve been an Anglo-Saxon type wave at best… went all Hollywood for a moment…

Several days earlier…

I ask Ravik, my regular travel agent in Freetown, “Are these fellows reliable?”

Ravik laughs, not feeling my concern. Glancing at his laptop, “Over the past 15 days they've been on schedule, no delays.”

“Ravik, I’m thinking more maintenance of altitude, that sort of thing.”

I have a relaxed approach to airline safety, especially when you roll the dice. But, this upcoming sortie was quickening the pulse. I mean... and I've flown; Air Maroc, Air Niugini, Air Algerie, even Air France... now it’s time for... er... Air Burkina...

How did it go?

Well, the navigator distributed goggles, Red Cross parcels, even brown leather skull caps, ahead of the props being turned. My glasses misted up at one point. But, come on, we’re flying at 500 feet, sh*t happens. Any minor grumbles were quickly offset by the in-flight entertainment. The wing walker, Mahmoud from Khartoum, was just outstanding. Fortunately, his straps held firm even as we diverted to spray crops on the outskirts of Ouagadougou, close to our final approach…

Air Burkina, only joking. I’d fly you again tomorrow. Just as well, as I am heading to Mali, for the next leg of this road trip… tomorrow…

Reading back and editing and editing and editing the above, perhaps Ouaga’s not coming out so well? Yes, it's basic. Yes, it's dirt poor. However, the people? People make any country? The Burkinabe are among the friendliest I’ve met on my travels. One of the most fascinating places I've visited in Africa.

It's entirely different to the rest of West Africa. The West Africa I’ve lived in for 5 years. No-one bothers you here. There are no ‘entrepreneurs’ outside the hotel. The people seem to have a particular pride and humility.

People obey rules. There's order. In broader West Africa rules and laws are for everyone else. For instance, at traffic junctions here, everyone follows the signals.  Where there're no lights, there's a fellow with a fluorescent bib and a red flag and a green flag and a whistle. 75% of the traffic appears to be motorbikes and pedal cycles; there’s a whiff of Vietnam, perhaps of communism, almost. At a junction there may be 200 bikes; when the green flag is lowered, the whistle sounded, off they go. Back in Freetown, there isn't a single set of working traffic lights. OK, there is a comedy set on Pedemba Rd, but they’re not plugged into anything. Divas, what can I say…

As I warm down and think about brekkie and noting it’s not yet 0730 hrs, I’m liking Ouaga. Maybe road warriors are reading this, and I guess I’m a road warrior myself, albeit West African style. From this perspective it’s different; the worst Internet I've experienced in 15 years. If you covet a good budget hotel, Netflix, iPlayer, browsing the Internet, email, WhatsApp, Skype, a decent cup of coffee, tasty chow, as part of your travel requirements… forget it. The pleasures are more straightforward; a book, a kindle, a podcast...

But, come on, when in life can you sleep in a city called Ouaga; a second city called Bobo… an episode of the Flintstones perhaps? Tomorrow, it’s onwards to Bamako. Air Burkina awaits...

After Mali, Khartoum. Khartoum is Casablanca without the heroes. My first job was in Sudan after leaving the military. 

Feels these days I’m heading everywhere but Timbuktu. See you in Mali...

P.S. When one is running in Quaga, keep your eyes open and don't fall in any storm ditches...

'Early Morning Run in... Stockholm'

The opening line is always the most difficult to write. Two possibilities. 

“Now is the Winter of our Discontent / Made glorious Summerby this son of York…”

Alternatively, and my choice, “Mama Mia, here we go again…”

Sweden has thousands of coastal islands and inland lakes, along with vast forests and glaciated mountains. Stockholm spreads across 14 islands. It has more than 50 bridges, as well as the medieval Gamla Stan (Old Town).

Moreover, an exceptional guest runner this morning. Let me introduce her. Please meet Fernando. “C’est voulez-vous, and you have, er… adorable shoes Fernando…”

No snooze cycles. 0531 hrs. 13 degrees. The first day of September. The year 2016. Winter is coming.

“Good morning Fernando, you look bright and breezy this early hour.”

“Hi, Mark.”

“Fernando, a name I’m not familiar with?”

Fernando laughs, “It’s not my real name, you said to use a codename, remember? You said link it to Abba.”

“Whoa, don’t let the readers know I've scripted this. I’m happy you’re my Stockholm Guide this morning...”

“Mark, we discussed all this yesterday. The sound, can you hear it. The music?”

“I can… what about you, can you hear the drums, Fernando." 

Fernando smiles, “Haha… come on, let’s run…”

We’re planning for an hour this morning. ‘Fernando’ is from Helsinki but has lived here six years. She proposes a real smorgasbord, “Gamla Stan and then east to Djurgarden?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“What would you like to see, Mark?”

“Fernando, for me, culture all the way please.”

“Good, I have some treats… the Vasa museum, Sweden’s most famous ship from the 17th century. Sank 15 minutes into its maiden voyage. They say the Titanic of its day. Laid at the bottom of the Baltic Sea for 300 years. Now lovingly restored.”

I nod, “Um, OK.”

“The Royal Palace, see over there?”

“Er, OK.”

“Also, Parliament perhaps, again over there in Gamla Stan?”

I nod, “OK.”

“We'll see the Skansen museum featuring 500 years of Swedish and Scandinavian history?”

I nod again, “Interesting.”

“You must know of the famous author, Astrid Lindgren, one of the most famous children’s authors in the world. She wrote of Pippi Longstocking. She sold millions of books all over the world.”

I half nod this time, “Um, vaguely…”

Fernando is on a roll, “What about the Alfred Nobel Museum, who funded and began the Nobel prizes?”

I nod, “Top fellow.”

Fernando sighs, “Of course, and I suppose… there’s always, the Abba Museum…”

“That's more like it, come on, let’s go…”

Joking aside, Stockholm is beautiful. Lakes, paths, forests, history, islands, boats, trams, bridges, the water; has everything and more, stunning.

Following a quick stretch, it’s north, a short distance, into Gamla Stan. We run past and around the Royal Palace, Parliament and the historic streets. 

We head back south. Fernando is sprightly and enthusiastic, “You know of the ‘Stockholm Syndrome?”

“I have a good ikea,” I reply, “It’s when everything costs a fortune and the price of watery beer beggars belief.”

Fernando ignores me; we deviate over to the square where forty-three years ago the term was first coined at the end of a bank siege. Four workers were taken hostage after a messy robbery. Six days later when the stand-off ended, the victims had formed some positive relationship with their captors. 

We run south-east along a cobbled street with commuter boats, to serve the islands, on our right; to our left some expensive real estate. Oh, and a pink truck with a gorilla heading to Rwanda.

Over the bridge into the park village, a village within a city. A blue tram crosses towards us. Fernando tells me autumn is here and how she loves the sound of leaves beneath the wheels of a tram. We reflect on the first day of Sept being symbolic in this part of the world. Was another summer gone?

“Do you watch Game of Thrones, Mark?”

Fernando hasn’t stopped talking since we began stretching 30 mins ago.

“I’ve heard of it.”

Fernando informs me, ‘Winter is Coming’, was the title of first episode/series. The motto of the ‘House of Stark’. People in the north always strive to be prepared for the coming of winter. As a metaphor, make the best of the good times (summer) the bad times will come around (winter), and we must be ready.

The pace remains healthy as we pass, in close succession, the Skansen Museum...

… the masts of the ill-fated Vasa rise through the trees and the roof of the building housing it.

Fernando is patient and jogs on the spot while I take the snaps. A bright red Viking ferry comes into port as we discuss famous Swedes born in Stockholm. I need three. I settle on… Alfred Nobel, Ingrid Bergman and Benny from Abba. Then...

… bang... THERE IT IS; it emerges nearly 40 mins into the run. No words are necessary.

We run along the water, all of which runs into the Baltic Sea. A magnificent sunrise rises above the park… I reflect on how much I’m liking Sweden. A world leader in many areas. Given the population is only 10 million? 

The best place to grow old. Third best country to be a mother. Second best country for youths. An unsurpassed record of success in the Eurovision Song Contest. The fifth happiest country in the world. One of the first countries to ban smacking children. Three years off for maternity/paternity leave. Some say the best healthcare in the world. Environmentally advanced. The shortest working days in Europe, outside of the naturally idle southern Europeans (& France). They seem to start work about nine-ish, and finish about three-ish, earlier if they've a boat to catch to the islands; and Fridays, well, anything goes. Ten week’s annual holiday, the list goes on.

OK, some 'facts' might be tongue in cheek… I mean France isn’t completely idle for starters. So, how do the Swedes pay for all this? What’s the secret? Must be more to it than just tax and prohibitively expensive alcohol?

I think, and to their credit, have they figured out the work/life balance thing? Perhaps they work to live; maybe they’re less materialistic and utterly happy with their lot?

We leave the village and start the push back to the hotel. We complete the run in under an hour. Fernando seems as fresh as a daisy and still chatting away. Brekkie time with a local treat - cinnamon buns. Put good coffee and these buns together, magic.

In Sweden one only works four hours a day, meaning plenty of time for navel-gazing. I'm a method writer; so I sit around for 10 minutes reflecting on work/life balance. Instead, my mind wanders over to West Africa. I'll soon be back at the other end of the economic scale following this little jaunt…

There's a saying in Freetown, ‘lack of money means a lack of friends; that if you have money at your disposal, every dog and goat will claim to be related to you’. I’ll be flat broke by the time I arrive back… I'll miss the goat.

Fernando, you’ve been special, a real pleasure, the best guest runner ever.

My number one city run is now Stockholm. An enjoyable experience. I recommend visiting if you've never been.

'Early Morning Run in... Malta'

Reveille 0600 hrs. A Sunday morning in mid-August. First, grab a takeaway coffee and croissant from the hotel lobby. Second, the early bus to Valletta.

We’re in the middle of the Mediterranean, Malta. The smallest country in the European Union. Independent since 1964. Population 420,000. Great Britain awarded the George Cross to Malta in 1942 as recognition of the country's bravery during the Second World War.

Talking of bravado, I arrived courtesy of Air Malta a few days ago. 

Next up was the getaway driver; sorry, I mean the taxi to the hotel… the drivers seem to all dress the same; white shirts, black trousers, blindfolds like they’re ready for a firing squad. Kidding, of course, not all of them wear white shirts. I'm also trying to figure the side of the road they drive on. The left? On the right? The old joke here? In the shade.

The number 14 winds its way down from Pembroke through the down-market Paceville area. The bus quickly fills with mostly tired young men after a long Saturday night out. The faint odours of sweat, alcohol, tobacco and cheap takeaways permeate the air. I smile and recall the ‘good old/bad old days’ as a young soldier in Germany, and my old Drill Sergeant’s wisdom and wit… “Never take life too seriously, no one gets out alive…”

The windows become makeshift pillows for some as we meander through Sliema, hugging the dramatic coastline. I finish the coffee. The historic walls of Valetta appear invitingly on the other side of Floriana Bay.

Just after 0700 hrs, we pull into the capital’s bus station. The old city looks majestic at sunrise. The limestone buildings enjoy that sweet orange-yellowy tinge. Smart-phone poised, let’s run east. The pedestrianised streets appear mostly deserted.

Presidential Street. The main artery. In past runs (Juba & Conakry) I’d say wear your seat belt. Metaphorically. Things could get interesting.

Relax today. We're in the sleepy laid back Med, buckling up not necessary. Metaphorically. Oh, and smoke if you wish, wherever and whenever you like.

A beautiful full boulevard, inspiring to run along. The problem being there’s photo opportunities everywhere. 

I’m hearing church bells and some beautiful singing at this early hour. I see street cleaners, pigeons, and some of Malta’s old and bold shuffling slowly along. I’m smelling the good smells of Malta.

Head all the way down Presidential Street at a good pace, the Presidential Palace on my right, my senses scrambled by the never-ending flow of beautiful architecture. Before the main square is Caffe Cordina which appears to be slowly waking up. Back for brekkie methinks.

Turn right and head south to the Siege Bell War Memorial. The bell is sounded daily to honour the 7,000 people who lost their lives during the siege, by air, of Malta by the Nazi’s and Italians between 1940 & 1943. The recumbent figure lays serenely with stunning views across the Grand Harbour. The plaque is a poignant minder of that sacrifice. I take a brief moment and head back to the perimeter wall and continue southwards.

The panorama from this elevation is breathtaking. Next stop the Upper Barrakka Gardens. Further spectacular vistas across the cannons below. I gaze at the plaques reflecting the past. A peaceful place to sit, pause and reflect. Not today, though, we’re on the run after all. I’ll be back…

The yellow brick road continues as we turn north and leave the gardens behind, jogging slowly through the imposing Auberge de Castille and the bombed-out Opera House. Back onto Republican Street. Briefly, take in St Paul’s Cathedral and Independence Square on this circuit.

The next destination is Archbishop Street. Did you know Gladiator filmed in Malta? The Coliseum was built here. Malta provided over 2,000 extras to Ridley Scott; bright CGI did the rest. Perhaps Russell Crowe’s finest moment. Arguably, Oliver Reed’s as well. The legendary British hell-raiser was making a comeback at the age of 61. He cast as Proximo the slave trader and gladiator trainer. Reed was apparently well-known for his love of the occasional lager shandy. Somewhere on this street, he enjoyed his final session in 1999, during a break in filming.

Here we are, on my left, ‘The Pub’; doesn’t look too inspiring does it? At least from the outside? A heart attack on his bar stool after reportedly downing three bottles of Captain Morgan's rum, eight bottles of German beer, numerous doubles of Famous Grouse whisky and Hennessy cognac, and beating five much younger Royal Navy sailors at arm-wrestling. His bar bill for the Sunday lunch session was said to be over £450. All this before half-past 2 in the afternoon? What happened on a typical Friday night? A New Year’s Eve perhaps? As for beating 5 Jolly Jacks at arm-wrestling, surprised it wasn’t more. He died with his boots on. And, with a brilliant performance in an Oscar-winning movie.

Finish back at the Presidential Square. 35 mins of wonderment this morning. Brekkie time at the Caffe Cordina. Behind me the impressive main library, also a statue of Queen Victoria. To the front a building where the poet Samuel Coleridge once lived over 200 years ago. Coleridge is credited with the expression, ‘the suspension of disbelief’.

History. Malta is home to the ancient Megalithic Temples. These are among the oldest human-made structures in the world, some date back over 5,000 years. Makes the formations older than the Egyptian pyramids, my mother in law, the Great Wall of China, and Stonehenge.

As I type these thoughts/ideas into my smartphone, with Google’s help, of course, I'm approached by a distinctive Code Blue. He's 71 and would like the ashtray from my table. I smile and gesture for him to take it.

He tells me he's dying, his age, and that he shouldn't be smoking. Tells me he smokes ten a day. Tells me his doctor has told him to stop. Tells me nicotine is excellent for his mind, not so good for his lungs. He has a full head of white hair, and a large Roman nose rounded off with a winning smile. In fact, his head is enormous. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, “A snipers dream.” Was Victor an extra back in 99, I wonder?

He asks me to share coffee with him. I haven’t spoken to this point. Remember, this is a Code Blue. Tradecraft, make your excuses and move on, instead; “I’d like that a lot, thank you.”

Why not, I’ve had 2 cups already, and this is by far the best coffee I've experienced in Malta. I love many things about this island. Culinary pleasure isn’t one of them. I went to a Maltese dinner 'through the ages' the other evening. All you need to know is the national dish is the rabbit. I endured Maltese wine (paint stripper), Maltese coffee (rabbit droppings), Maltese ice cream (made with condensed milk), I digress…

Victor is apparently a regular at Caffe Cordina. With his promptly delivered coffee, he receives a small glass of water and two crunchy Italian biscuits. No water and only one wafer for me. Both his cookies are dunked into the coffee at the same time, held under and then eaten individually with his teaspoon. I want to be Victor.

We chat briefly about Malta, the Olympics, and the local economy. In summary, Malta is doing fine, thanks to tourism and rich people residing here. Like France, they’ve never triumphed at the games, and the economy is holding up well. Victor has saved his cigarette as a treat; he’s content. The perfect time to exit stage left, shaking his hand and wishing the Maltese Olympic squad every success.

To close the post, I’d like a firework display. You’ll have to use your imagination and close your eyes.

They adore fireworks here, any excuse. Street processions, festivals, warding off evil spirits, celebrations, weddings, mildly amusing blogs, even a decent meal.

So, there you have it. Some of the best architecture I’ve ever seen; and… pyrotechnics aplenty, rabbit tagliatelle, and I forgot to mention a considerable fondness for water polo. There’s far more to Malta than meets the eye. I’ll be back…

Early Morning Run in...'The Sponge'

It began raining in Freetown on Friday, June 13th.

As Supertramp once sang, "It's Raining Again." Unlucky for some. Unfortunate for us. The rain came through the ill-fitting windows and the ill-fitting doors and the ill-fitting floor and the ill-fitting roof, and most unbelievably through the walls. The storm would swirl up through the hills and hammer our residence at all angles.

I rented ‘The Sponge' in April 2012. The house sat majestically at the mouth of a meandering valley in the undulating hills of Hill Station, Freetown, Sierra Leone. We quickly discovered this was a one season house. Dry season.

Lukulay House. The owner was Mr Lukulay. The road was Lukulay Drive. The drive was off Fadika Drive. The most prominent house on this drive was Mr Fadika's. He had a life-size grey paper mache elephant in his garden. His home was called Fadika House. Both my birthday cards took six months to arrive that year.

‘The Sponge' had five bedrooms. I lived upstairs in one, the others were guest rooms for visitors from North America. Downstairs was office space.

Mr Lukulay, much to his horror, had hired a cowboy project manager. Let's call him ‘The Fox'. The house was 70% complete when we signed up. ‘The Fox' was to finish the build after payment of half of the two years rent in advance. The balance to be settled when the House passed a third-party safety audit. Check the electrics and the plumbing? Does the roof leak? The possibility of being fried in the shower? A fire risk with a fuse box the size of an ashtray? The generator?

My Divas visited the site regularly and quickly realised ‘The Fox' was a well-meaning amateur. Mr Lukulay lived in America and worked a long-distance trust with his project manager. ‘The Fox' when in doubt painted everything and everywhere. The place was becoming thicker by the day.

After much to and fro around the findings of the audit, we eventually moved in three months late. We had been waiting for the washing machine to arrive. ‘The Fox' informed us the ship bringing it from the UK had sunk in a storm, all cargo lost, including our washing machine. ‘The Fox' would tell us funny stories most days and at every deadline. Then he'd shout at the painter to slap on more paint.

‘The Fox' wore red socks and red braces and was an amiable bandit. I liked him. He cut down on building materials by diverting or 'stealing' bags of cement to other projects, simultaneously billing the absent landlord the correct quantities. No wonder rain was penetrating the walls. This skullduggery can be standard in parts of Africa. I know this now. This can lead to structural collapses or buildings being washed away due to shortcuts in concrete and steel and regulators being paid off.

After we moved in, we had two floods and a fire and a break-in and two snakes in the compound in the first three months. I renamed the house ‘UnLukulay House' which now sat on UnLukulay Drive. ‘The Fox' kept himself engaged applying waterproof paint to the walls. I thanked him for his wisdom and inquired further of the sunken vessel, which somehow had escaped the news. My wardrobe was taking a pounding on a vintage wooden washboard. My ‘unshrinkable' Rohan trousers were slowly moving up my leg.

A geologist came to stay. I could see Charles was nervous about the house. We all were. The evening before Charles arrived a group of bad boys had visited in the middle of the night and made off with a brand new flat screen TV and a DVD player and two sheets and the remote control for the air conditioning unit, and more importantly my ‘Little House on the Prairie' box set.

Fortunately, the bad boys only made access into one bedroom, or it could have been a house clearance. I slept right through, apparently along with my three security guards...

Charles came with his Texan manager to help settle him in. Geologist's always travelled in pairs, like lawyers. His boss enquired of the living arrangements.

"Come on, let's go upstairs," I said. "Charles, this is your room. We had a minor burglary last night, nothing to worry about."

"What happened?"

When providing any comfort repeat their name; "Charlie, some thieves cut through the razor wire from next door, dropped 8 feet to the ground. Charlie, they sawed through the metal bars in a downstairs window but couldn't make access."

"I see, what about the security guards?"

I continued, "Don't worry; they're all fine. Charlie, then they cut through the bars on your window with a saw, came into your room and stole your TV and your DVD player and your sheets and the remote control for your air conditioner. They climbed back out and scaled the 8-foot wall into next door carrying their swag Charlie." I said nothing of the box set; I didn't want to alarm him.

Charlie appeared in the morning; I didn't know if he'd slept well. I was instantly distracted by his outsized purple footwear. He was wearing a smart shirt and tailored trousers. He looked every inch the professional he was. But what about those purple monstrosities on his feet.

"Charlie, what are those?"

"Er… Crocs."

"Charlie, the only people who should wear crocs, are children under 5 and folk who work in hospitals."

"I've just got to pop upstairs."

Charlie came back down 5 minutes later wearing a pair of solid brown brogues. I felt bad.

"Charlie, only kidding, wear whatever you like in the office. How did you sleep by the way? Please don't worry about security; the old guards have been fired, the new ones doubled."

As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, if in doubt, double the guard.

Charlie Chuckles grinned, laughter didn't come quickly. Might have been nerves.

Four things we never saw again. Break-ins. Purple Crocs. The washing machine. And, ‘The Fox', Mr UnLukualy fired him.

A fire? The staff covered in foam and water from errant hoses somehow managed to extinguish the flames. The Freetown Fire Brigade turned up the next day.

'Charlie Drakes' hissing around in the garden? Two of them, a long thin bootlace one and a proper fat black snake. The Divas shrieked in hysteria. Meanwhile, the gardener and security and the cook and the driver's and the houseboy chased around in circles, with whatever came to hand.

Looking back, ‘The Sponge' was a particular time, my welcome to Sierra Leone, the memories come flooding back (excuse the pun)...

With special thanks to the cast. Charles, you had a baptism of fire (forgive the pun), you came through brilliantly like a real professional. And you did laugh, in the end. The Divas, what can I say, don't worry, most people are scared of snakes. 'The Fox' has bounced back and is now Director of Air Traffic Control at Heathrow. And, last but not least, Mr UnLukulay. We lived in your fine house for 18 months. You've since restored order, and the house is now once again and officially Lukulay House on Lukulay Drive.