'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

'Early Morning Run in... The Gambia'

Summer 2021. SN Brussels is bringing him from Manchester. I haven't seen 'him' for more than 2 years.

My first overseas travel in 16 months. I'm staying in 'him's place (below is our local watering hole, 'Sailors'). We fine-tune the run here.

 

Back on the road? Covid in Africa? International travel? Well, on the one hand, you've experts, top scientists and epidemiologists saying Covid is real and potentially dangerous. On the other hand, there's a fellow down my local gym who says it's all a crock of sh*t. It's hard to know who to believe...

He's phoned, he's in the car, on his way from Banjul International Airport. 66 mins later… the bungalow door bursts open…

And lo: he's here. The thick, luxurious slicked-back mane of black hair, the Brillo pad stubble, the killer smile, the cologne, the bling, the Kirk Douglas dimple, the travel outfit… a cross between Ali G and Dame Edna. He's looking fantastic.

Usually, bro hugs are not me; it's different with Cameo. We hug, embrace and back slap for several minutes. 

"Yo bro... bro, you're looking great, bro." 

"You too, Cameo."

'Cameo' hits the large vodkas, gin for me. We sit on stools at his kitchen island and pick up where we left off over two years ago like it was yesterday. Cameo knocks em back like there's no today; as always, we agree tomorrow will take care of itself… 

After a few drinks, we talk about our ambitions post Covid. Cameo says he wants to run 5 miles in under an hour. I say I want to run from Cairo to Cape Town in under 4 weeks. He laughs and says, isn't that a tad over-ambitious. I reply, "well, you started it." We laugh and clink glasses; it's good to be back with this man.

'Cameo' was a former guest runner in Banjul in 2017; we discussed another run. It's on… read on…

Seeing Cameo again has warmed my heart, as did this exchange the day I landed back in The Gambia. One week ago. 

The Sennegambia Strip. A shout from the road towards my open cafe terrace. It sounds like "Mr Mark, Mr Mark." I'm surprised; my last time in Banjul was in 2017. The man, dressed like a Senegalese lottery winner, has my attention. I look up from my coffee and phone.

Before the interruption, I'm reading a sad email from a friend whose wife (who I also know) is leaving him. I went to their wedding. She's had enough, he writes. She wants out. Apparently, her main beef is that Dave had become totally obsessed with watching sport on TV during the lockdown. 

Separation is always a cruel thing, but Dave seems relatively sanguine. He writes it's a great pity because they'd been together for nearly 7 seasons.

"Mr Mark, Mr Mark, it is you. You're back."

"Er, yes, I'm back."

"I was your man. It's Suliman. I did your SIM card, your top-ups, you remember?"

Fantastic, my comms man from 4 years ago. Suliman pulls up a chair, and unprompted, begins unpacking phones from his oversized backpack. 

"Suliman, I don't want any phones." 

"Please, sir, business is so slow, the Covid. No business for more than a year. The landlord has kicked me out for no rent. My wife is having another baby. She's gone back to Guinea Bissau."

Suliman, meanwhile, isn't listening to me. He's unpacking tablets.

"Suliman, take a drink, a coke." The waitress brings a coke. 

Suliman pleads for me to buy something. He'll take his commission down to next to nothing for a sale. I tell him he'll have me crying soon. He smiles. 

We talk about the situation in Banjul, no tourists for 2 seasons. Life is hard for everyone, especially those on the margins.

Suliman is now unpacking some crap Nokia's with only one function, remarkably a phone. A throwaway burner phone is helpful in West Africa for local calls and for when bad boys come calling. Freetown, where I lived for 6 and a half years, was a tough neighbourhood, every time I closed a window, I'd hit someone's fingers. Five finger skullduggery in West Africa is an art form.

"Suliman, look, I have to pay for my coffee and go." I pay him more than he's asking for the phone. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

The waitress brings the plastic menu with the meals pictured. "How about chicken and chips, or steak and chips," I enquire. "Or, this spaghetti bolognese looks good."

Here comes the punchline and why I love Africa and these interactions. Suliman declares, "I don't like chicken." 

A good deed turns into a minor palaver. The waitress and manager are now involved in trying to temp his tastebuds. We eventually settled on fish and rice and another coke. I pay the bill and head off smiling. It's beautiful to be back.

The most recent blog post finished with 'yours truly' in self-isolation in West Africa.

At the time, what was the difference between Mark Knopfler and my situation? Probably somewhere between Dire Straits & sh*t creek. After nearly 2 months on the West African highway (at the time), I'm undone at the final hurdle. As my old Drill Sergeant used to say, 'sh*t happens, even when you have your sh*t shield on'.

Cameo and I are running in the morning. 

06:55. 'Cameo' looks good but tells me (privately) he's had recent problems with constipation. I ask him if he knows the German word for constipation. He doesn't; 'farfrompoopen', my years as a young soldier in Germany were not entirely wasted.

Right, let's go. We set off towards the nearby golf course nice and steady. A quick shout out to the second-best golfer in the Gambia. His name is 'Fast Eddie', he's a golf professional, plays off scratch and makes his living giving lessons, modest prize money and taxiing. He drives me sometimes. The caddies are ready early this morning.

We head down the first fairway through the 5 little piggies. 

We'll head down the inland footpaths to Solomon's and back along the beach to the compound. 

On this path, there tend to be animals. There's a large family of pigs, a good-sized family of cows and a lone horse. Cameo is scared of all of them, not to mention the odd stray dog. He always holds my hand with the pigs and the cows and is sh*t scared of the lone horse. I coax him through this jungle of wild beasts...

3 km complete. Solomon's ahead - fantastic fish & chips. A regular haunt. 

As we hit the beach, we reflect on 'Operation Cameo' and the heroes of Gambia 2017. We never talk about it! The elections here in Jan 2017, the fallout, Senegalese troops crossing the border, the FCO advising British nationals to leave, the airlift, the evacuation planning, over 25 clients in a safe house off the beach, the laughs that went along with it all. Great flashback memories last night into the early hours...

Beach running early in the morning, you can't beat it. 'Cameo' is a different man; he's in shape and sprightly this morning. He's running so well; he's turning the tables on me. We've run with more purpose today. Extremely enjoyable. 

Right, hard all the way to the finish, back to the bungalow, and then brekkie at The Butchers Shop in Fajara. 2 km to the bungalow...

Thanks 'Cameo' for your hospitality and friendship, and generosity over the past weeks. See you early in 2022. Is there someone missing? Alice, of course. Don't worry, Alice, you'll feature next time, standby...

In closing, may I wish everyone & anyone who reads this a safe, healthy and prosperous New Year. 

'Early Morning Run in... pre Covid Times'

I've been back in West Africa 7 weeks following a 14-month travel hiatus. An 'inconclusive' covid result today means the planned 7 weeks will inevitably extend. I'm now self-isolating in The Gambia, waiting to see what next weeks test brings. Hopefully, negative all the way. Then home...

The most recent post on the blog was in late March 2020 (Djerba, Tunisia). That trip climaxed in a repatriation flight to a locked-down Paris. 

All new material is coming soon following some fantastic experiences on this trip, including 'Another Early Morning Run in... Banjul', starring 'Cameo' - the same guest runner from 2017. 

Above, where the recent Banjul run was planned (CoCo Ocean Hotel).

Meanwhile, an outtake below from a European post before Covid. 

----   

It doesn’t take long before one of the old-school (sat next to me - damn) makes a perceived salty, off-colour remark. Someone from Google is offended and stands and states just how offended she is. Was her point to do with investor venture capital in deepest Africa and the associated risks. No, and while she’s up and everyone’s listening, there’s, of course, another bugbear. Opportunities for women in the higher echelons of risk management. Blah blah blah... old boys clubs, same military & police backgrounds. I challenge her; in my head, it’s a company right to hire who they want. The right mix of qualifications and experience. The best person for the job. That told her.

Times, they are a changing. These get-togethers are meant to exchange ideas, trends, networking, oiled by the frequent clinking of glasses, war stories, and laughing deep into the night. Old school.

There were always speakers and subjects you’d have to take a pass in the good old days. When I say take a pass, I mean ‘take a conference call’ with corporate HQ, a crisis in wherever. In reality, a spot of Egyptian PT (on your bed) to catch up from the night before. The afternoon pass to fit in a quick gym session ahead of another night of the night before. Old school.

This conference brought a new dynamic. Enter the quisling. The convert. The one who’s gone to the dark side. 20 plus years in the UK police. Now embarking on a 2nd career in big tech on the security side. He opens with a confessional about his first career and how much better and enlightened things are in the Google world. Maybe it’s the playing ping pong all day and going down kids slides in the afternoon that has addled his brain. I’m not hanging around to find out. Pick up the phone and hand signal gestures heading for the exit, whispering into the non-responsive phone halfway across the auditorium, outta here. Old school.

As the conference breaks up, I promise myself I’m done. No more of this BS. I need to get to the airport, congestion and rush hour, chaos trying to get a taxi. Might miss the plane.

A shout from a car in traffic, a guys head is out the window. It’s the Google convert, Ben. He shouts, jump in, you won’t make the airport (I’d rather jog the 15 miles to the airport on bare feet).

I jog over to the car; 2 Googlelites, the other is the woman (Jen) with the bugbear. Hey, jump in; you won’t get a taxi now, she says.

Being a man of principle, “Thanks very much, very kind of you.”

They reintroduce themselves. For some reason, I say my name is Ken. It sets me up for the icebreaker. Deepwater, here we go, “ah… Benny, Jenny & Kenny”. They look at me.

Ken, did you enjoy the conference? We both really enjoyed your presentation, says Jen. 

We fumble around for business cards. Hey, says Jenny... you’re Mark on your card. Oh yeah, Kenny’s a nickname, an army thing, everyone has a handle, yes I’m Mark...

Changing tack, “Ben, I loved every minute of your presentation; very informative. Very interesting. Google sounds wonderful.”

We arrive at the airport. “Thanks for paying for the taxi, Ben - most kind.” I’m on a roll with my new amigo’s, “Hey, listen, I appreciate the ride. I know a small bar in the airport; let me buy you both a drink before we say goodbye?” They look at each other...

Jen says, “We’d love to, but we have a crisis brewing and need to dial in.”

I smile, thinking maybe we’re not so different after all. OK, one more conference, and then I’m done. New school.

New post from Banjul coming later this week...

‘Early Morning Run in… Djerba’

Sunday 15-Mar 2020. I wake to the not unexpected news Tunisia is closing its borders and all airports, apart from Tunis. I have a flight off this island at 09:00 to Tunis. From there to Casablanca.

Time for us to hit the beach. A quick run. 

Plenty for us all to think about as we limber up. Remember you’re all here with me. This adventure is likely our last gig for a while as the world is quickly battening down.

Have I timed this right? Worst-case scenario stuck in Djerba, and this view - or, tomorrow in ‘they’re playing our Tunis’, or possibly marooned in Casablanca. Morocco might well be a decent option, maybe Marrakech.

06:10. I wave & acknowledge the beach security guards and jog into the rising sun. 

When your mind is racing with possibilities & outcomes, a quick 20 mins run is an excellent tonic. A sharp out and back this morning. Grab coffee and eggs, and we’re good to head to the airport?

My mind wanders back to Sierra Leone when Ebola ravaged West Africa. Many of you contributed towards an appeal for food baskets to be delivered (photo above) to devastated villages. More than 11,000 people died across Sierra Leone, Liberia & Guinee through 2014 & 2015. When the initial fear passed the new norm quickly became the norm. Being initially stuck in Freetown for 4 months brings it all back this morning. (Smiling, I can remember not being able to hug my mother-in-law on my return from Ebolastan, every cloud...).

My heart’s not wholly in this run. Let’s pick up the pace...

Air Tunisia Express, seat 2B on this small prop job. Oh oh, 2A speaks to me (didn’t see that coming), a fellow Brit. I put Lee Child down right in the middle of a major fight scene... (damn).

“I’m stuck,” says the fellow, “all flights cancelled.”

I reply. “We’re all probably in the same boat.”

He’s on a roll. “I don’t know what to do. My wife rang the Embassy yesterday and again today. Yesterday they were friendly, today they were so rude, said there was nothing they could do.”

He’s building up a head of steam. “I’m on my own with no help. Our government is useless. They told my Tracey I was in a country that hadn’t yet closed its borders.”

“Yep, we’re all in the same boat.”

He goes on. “I’m going to try through Turkey, perhaps the Middle East.”

Turns out he’s a fellow of principle. “I won't travel through Dubai or the Emirates, I can’t abide or respect their regimes.”

“Well, good luck, whatever happens.” (I want to ask if he knows the difference between Dubai & Abu Dhabi. Easy, they don’t like the Flintstones in Dubai but in Abu Dhabi do.).

Picking up my book. “Where are you from?” “Basingstoke,” he replies. (Knew it. A definite Code Red, if I ever met one). Right, who was Reacher bashing up...

Tunis - arrived no problem.

Boarding Air Croc for the Casablanca leg. I must ring Rick’s when I arrive at Casa, a table for one.

Morocco is closing its borders. I wonder about border checks, about the possibility of isolation or quarantine.

Border - through no problem.

My regular hotel on the corniche in Anfa is deserted. I have a table confirmed with Rick’s. Dinner, exquisite wine and maybe a spin or two of the roulette wheel upstairs. My lucky number, 22. Then I know everything will work out well.

Mohammed drops me at Rick’s Cafe and wants to wait the 2.5 hours to take me back to Anfa. “Sure, Mohammed.”

Turns out he’ll only have to wait 2.5 mins. There are 3 policemen outside. “C’est ferme, Monsieur.”

“Pas possible, je telephone 2 heures avant, j’ai une reservation.”

“C’est ferme, Monsieur. Tout est ferme a partir de 18:30, 16-Mar sur ordre du ministre. Bon nuit, Monsieur.”

Merde. This is now getting serious. Rick’s shut. 15-Mar has been a long day. Hit the bar back at the hotel and work some options. Cold beer. Things are moving so quickly now; Mark, you've 2 hours to turn this around. Or, it's the Morgan Freeman voice. "He did not turn it around that day..."

16-Mar. I check out telling them I might be back, and we might need to discuss long term rates. I meet my driver, Jalal. Nice car and worth my 137 Euros. He’s driving me to Marrakech, over 200 km to the south. I’ve found an Air Chance (Air France) flight tomorrow to Paris. Back-up plan, back to Casa for an Air Croc (Royal Air Maroc) to Gatwick in a few days. Air Croc should wear stripy jumpers & masks for the price of a single ticket. 

 

Marrakech. Radisson Blu, empty. Everyone must stay in their rooms and make no use of public areas. Food and drinks, including breakfast, must be ordered via phone & room service. What do you do at a time like this...

That’s right, a comfort meal of spagbol and a minibar party.

17-Mar. Check out. I’m told the hotel is closing tomorrow. Taxi. Marrakech Airport is packed with European tourists, French mostly. Long queues. Most of these folk are going nowhere. The Gov’t here has allowed a 3-day grace period for repatriation flights. That’s flights which arrive empty and leave full. There are 2 days left for this airlift. Come on Air Chance, don’t let me down. Success, boarding card in hand.

Paris. A hearty round of applause from the passengers. I can get a flight to Newcastle tomorrow afternoon. I find a hotel on Hotels.com. A Novotel 7 km from CDG. Paris is in full lockdown already. The hotel is surprised to see me, I’m one of only 3 guests. The receptionist, a huge fellow who looks like he gargles shingle in the morning, tells me he can see I’ve booked breakfast. Then says the restaurant is closed and there’s no brekkie, oh, and the gym is closed. This giant is a real Charlie Chuckles. Also, the hotel is closing tomorrow and being handed over to the police. At that point, my phone buzzes, Hotels.com asking me to rate the check-in experience. I ask Charlie what should I say, he shrugs and says in perfect English. “How about… original.”  

Charlie has pointed me in the direction of a Carrefour, he says I need a permit. But, to take this letter from the hotel if I'm stopped. The supermarket closes at 21:00. I walk a mile. Damn, Carrefour has closed. 2 women and a jolly elderly man with a beret (honest) are sat on a bench smoking with a bulging shopping trolley.

I go over, and we chat, I tell them about N. Africa, and they tell me about life in Paris in lockdown. They also tell me the supermarket closed an hour early tonight. I said I had hoped to buy some food somewhere. They said everything was closed. I started walking my mile back to Monsieur Chuckles. Now, any story needs heart…

One of the ladies came running after me with a bag of buns and a bottle of beer. I looked at the 6 iced buns and wondered if the beer was cold. Of course, I said I was OK and not hungry (I was) and thanked her for her kindness. We laughed, I felt touched and reflected on how good most people are.

Back to the hotel, the police were already unloading panel vans full of gear. An early night… why didn’t I take the buns…

I place one of my boots in the room safe and lay on my bed, thinking about the past couple of days and what lies ahead. Goodnight… 

'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.

‘Early Morning Run in... Vienna'

The alumni and culture and history of this city are incredible. Where to start; Johann Strauss, Adolf Hitler, Mozart, Beethoven (“applaud my friends, the comedy is over”), Franz Ferdinand (“look at the view from this bridge”), Arnold Schwarzenegger (“the best activities for your health are pumping and humping”), Schubert, Ultravox (“OOOhhhhh Vienna”), Haydn, Sigmund Freud (“sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”), Marie Antoinette (“let them eat sausage rolls”), and many others who’ve help shape the world.

We are in Vienna in December, on the banks of the Danube. A 2-day conference. First impression, what a beautiful city. 

As I’m stretching, and reflecting back over a typical boozy conference dinner at the Schönbrunn Palace last evening, I admit to feeling a little groggy. Let’s return to that meal a little later...

0645 hrs. One degree C. C for chilly. Let’s have a quick waltz around this Viennese delight.

Vienna was via Bamako in a roundabout sort of way. 

Bamako. 

I’m overseeing a fire drill during a hotel security audit. The hotel is reluctant to cause any panic. Understandable, given the events in this hotel 3 years ago.

Hang on, we have to hold off. Looks like a VIP has turned up in a 4 vehicle convoy at the hotel entrance. He has a strange haircut, like a knotted platted orange rope along the centre of his black shaven head. 

Someone (maybe his agent) is busy organising the Malian paparazzi. The fellow with the comical hair sits proudly on a hastily produced white garden plastic chair. The camouflage vehicle on which he poses, with a mounted machine gun, is commonly called a ‘technical’ in Africa.

The armed soldiers, wearing full-face black balaclavas, pose either side of the celebrity, making gestures with fingers and arms, the sort of thing modern youth do, most of the time for no apparent reason. 

Come on; a white plastic chair in the back of a camouflaged technical, soldiers with AK47s making hip-hop moves, local paps taking photos, a celebrity with an orange rope on his head...

I mean, they look ridiculous. Fancy wearing balaclavas in this heat?

The fire drill is stalled as people gather in the reception area. Some preempting the exercise, some wondering about the fellow with the strange orange barnet. My mind goes back to an episode of Fawlty Towers.

The red lights flash. The piercing alarm sounds. A hotel worker parades around the lobby like a peacock with fanned feathers carrying a loudhailer telling everyone; “this a drill, please do not evacuate, don’t panic.”

I want to tell the peacock there are only 2 things which make West Africans panic. Number one, and the most important is ‘LOW BATTERY’. Number two, either bullets or tear gas flying around.

Mr. VIP walks through the crowd. He looks athletic. A smart tailored blue jacket, a red and white polka dot pocket handkerchief, top button fastened, narrow red trousers, brown suede loafers with no socks. If I had to be critical, the pants seem 3 inches too short, the fashion with the late 20s/early 30s set in London these days, I believe? Oh, and the designer facial growth.

The fire crowd and the VIP posse mingle easily. No drama. There’s no tear gas. VIP comes past me and politely says, with a cheery smile, “Bonjour, sava?”

I’ve been trying to guess the identity of Mr. VIP for the past 10 minutes. My first thought was Jeremy Clarkson, but the accent is all wrong.

I discover he’s a Premiership footballer. He plays for Crystal Palace and previously Liverpool. I nod and mumble a restrained, “Bonjour, Bienvenue.”

The fire drill ends well, everyone shuffles back to their rooms. Mamadou Sakoh (thanks Google) moves to the lobby to give an interview. A surreal event in most places, here just another day in paradise; well, Bamako. Sh*t, a vibration, a gentle throbbing in my trousers. What? I need to charge my phone!

Vienna.

Here’s the base. The Ritz Carlton. Very agreeable digs. Let’s jog towards the museum quarter.

I feel sluggish this morning, but the scenery is uplifting.

Over the road a Christmas market in a rather grand setting.

It’s an easy jog this morning to show you the sights. 35 mins gone. The last leg, I want us to finish at the river. Then we’ll walk back and have breakfast together. The famous ‘Not so Blue Danube’, well according to Strauss when he wrote the famous waltz in 1866.

We have about a 1 km to walk back to the hotel as a warm down. Let me tell you about last night at Schönbrunn Palace. It started great, a guided tour and a champagne reception afterwards. I stand next to the guide picking up titbits to share with you. 

The tour lasts an hour. I’m on message, even asking questions. The Habsburg’s who ruled Austria for centuries until 1914. The room of a 1,000 candles.

Vienna was heavily bombed in the latter part of the war. 26% of all buildings in Vienna were destroyed (thanks guide). 206 bombs were dropped in this area in one night. One scored a direct hit. The end ceiling was repaired post-war. The target was the Nazi SS barracks at the rear of the Palace (I was listening). Napoleon stories, Marie Antoinette tales. A great deal happened in this grand summer palace.

Post-tour, plenty of champagne quaffed at the upstairs reception, courtesy of a sponsor. Anyway, the preamble. Dinner is in a restaurant within the Palace grounds, featuring an all Austrian menu.

I’m sat at a lively table. The conversation and the wine flow smoothly. The restaurant has a theatrical feel to it.

Oh oh, the two heavy large red velvet curtains slowly open, behind which is a well-lit stage. This is a theatre dinner show. The props scream Danny La Rue/camp/Euro style.

Here’s the double act. A hammy comedian/piano player and a Marlene Dietrich type singer. Brits are generally non-plussed by this stuff, our European brothers lap it up. It’s camp, cheesy but strangely enjoyable. She’s running through those German oompah numbers with minimal audience participation. He’s telling some old jokes between numbers. Somehow it works.

She’s now knocking out, credit where credit is due she has a good set of pipes, an Edif Piaf number. I’m on an energetic table next to the stage, we’re engaged and enjoying ourselves. We’re singing the choruses, waving our arms. The sort of thing you do at Euro’tainment’.

I mean, how can you not; Non, rien de rein, non, je ne regrette rien...

Audience members on stage for the finale? A couple of suckers to be grabbed methinks. Edif is taken with our tables enthusiastic support… and close proximity to the stage. Before I can say, “je regrette everything”, she’s focused on moi. Merde, look awkward and dodge it, or laugh and pretend you love it? There’s about 150 of us at the dinner. She has the forearms of a docker and is locked on. Her white fluffy boa is around my neck. Option 1, or option 2? I should have seen this coming and given it a wider swerve than I give the Big Issue seller on Penrith High Street. 

When in Vienna... a red Christmas hat firmly in place and holding a brass bell for percussion. The other fellow kitted out the same. A German version of Jingle Bells, complete with kitsch dance steps follows.

I must admit, it all came a little too easily. The final picture (from the video) of the 5th and last post of 2018.

It only leaves me to say to you all; have a wonderful Christmas and a healthy and prosperous New Year. See you in 2019.

In closing, I have a favour to ask. If you’ve enjoyed the blog, please post a reply, and/or spread the word on your own social media. Thank you.

P.S. The last word goes to 'The Third Man'. Harry Lime: "Don't be so gloomy... After all, it's not that awful. Remember what the fellow said... in Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder, bloodshed. They produced Michaelangelo, da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love - five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce? The cuckoo clock. So long Holly."

A photo of the Riesenrad Giant Ferris wheel in Vienna (since 1897) was part of the plan...