Charge of the cat brigade, or, how it nearly didn't happen cont...

Morning. Get you selves a cup of coffee or a cigarette; this is going to be a long post…

So, my apologies for the rude interruption by the prospect of employ. I will return to that presently. Where was I? Ah yes, swearing. So, we were in this mall, drinking iced coffee and eating cinnabons - a sickly sweet cinnamon thing that I heartily recommend - and Heidi started swearing like a trooper and we both caught ourselves and stopped, both realising that no one swears out here. Not the expats in their too warm suits and sensible shoes and not the Arabs, Heidi has been informed by those at her school, not that we would actually know of course...

Now, how did I get here? ah yes I was talking about this place being utterly alien to me. And if I am going to make analogies to planets, then I would like to start with Mars. It is dusty and it is still. A small breeze will make the locals talk about the wind. The same small breeze that lifts the film of sweat that surrounds me and makes it ok for those for or five seconds.

Another planet one must mention is Venus. Much closer to the sun than our green and blue domicile, and therefore much, much warmer. And the same applies to Bahrain. I knew, intellectually that 45 degree Celsius was hot, very hot, but until you feel it, you have no idea what it actually feels like. To paint a picture: walking from the aircon'd terminal building onto the taxi rank reminded me most of opening a glass washer in a pub. My glasses steamed up and you get that odd feeling that actually this heat could hurt you. You want to turn your head away from it. Behind the bar at the Dolphin, this is of course possible. Out here, it stays with you, follows you like a swarm of bees until the next oasis of aircon. In the Dolphin, the sensation is fleeting; here it is radiation in its permanency. There are two types of heat out here, the dry and the wet. Humidity runs between 65 and 85% when it is humid, and none at all when it is dry. And it is those blessed winds that bring in from the gulf the moisture that ails you. It takes some getting used to.

Other planets: it is Saturn in its beauty. The beauty of function – the rings exist because gravity says they must. All hell would break loose in the solar system were those rings not exist - or were turned of – and the matter for another planet suddenly was free to roam the solar system. But to see the rings from afar is to witness something beautiful. And so the roads of Manama. You get the feeling that all the drivers would much rather drive as the crow flies from A to B, not constrained by the gravity of a road plan – indeed, there are no maps, seriously, Heidi has tried, and failed (they thought she was mad) – but, viewed from above, the cars and their lights, weaving through the neon at night – the pinkish stone during the day – the roads emanate a beauty of purpose, made grandiose by all the light and all the movement.

(I will discuss the role of pedestrians in another blog)

Finally, Bahrain is Pluto, or rather, Juffair - our part of Manama - is. It feels relegated; it feels that is just too small to cut it any longer in the new and thrusting world that Bahrain has planned for itself. It exists, for now, because of the US Naval base that we can see from our window, but were that to close, were those troops to go home, Juffair would surely die.

(But that any gonna happen, the US, leave the Middle East?? Not in my lifetime.)

Despite having said all this, I have got used to it and grown to love it rather quickly. It has a charm all its own. The people are so gentle, so polite and courteous and helpful. And they are not angling for tips, though sometimes you want to tip them because they have just made your life considerably simple than it would have been without their help... You just learn when you can be in the sun without frying; you learn that when it is humid, as little movement as possible is desirable outside. You learn how to beat the taxi drivers at their own game – don’t haggle, they’ll beat you; just get in get to where your going and pay them what you think the journey is worth. They still win, the meter fare would be half what you have paid, but it still feels good – and you learn that being somewhere alien with someone you love is better than being at home without them.

So, anyway, returning to the charge of the cat brigade…

Never travel with cats.

Always travel with cats.

Both of the above are true. Always travel with cats because they are queue busters. I had already checked in online – a genius plan, do it if at all possible – but obviously you still have to check in your luggage. But the catses is out size so you have go to that counter and when I went there were no queues. Bargain. I was all checked in within an hour of leaving my parents house.

But the cats weren’t.

Never travel with cats because the box has to be checked for bombs and the cats have to be checked by a vet. They will not do this more than one hour prior to departure. As such, I am strutting around an increasingly busy terminal 4 with a trolley full of cats. No worries I think, I’ll go get a coffee, go find somewhere to smoke. This accomplished, I make some calls – Heidi mainly – and then I hear my name called out over the intercom. This has never happened to me before, but instinctively know that this is not good news.

I struggle through the now rammed terminal 4 and get to the desk and ask – praying that there isn’t, actually praying – if there is a problem. My heartbeat is racing, my hangover is gone. That kind of stress. And they are ever so nice, but actually sir, yes there is. The hold is broken, there is no heating. The cats cannot travel today sir. So, do you want to travel today and leave the cats somewhere (where exactly? A cattery? My parents are both out for the day, I no longer have a flat…) or do you want to postpone your travel and travel together on another day? (Where exactly? See above) heartbeat level about a thousand, hangover turned to fear. The cold fear of the abyss. Don’t give me a choice, tell me what to do. I felt like Moses, I felt like Jesus. (O, and heading for the desert too, how perfect… (sic)) Call Heidi, she says, go apeshit at them. I already have. Decision made. I’ll travel tomorrow. But where am I gonna go?

Anyway, half way through the conversations about getting my bags of the plane and talking about being put up in a hotel and the cats in a cattery, a call, the plane is fixed. We can go to the ball…

But we still can’t get airside until an hour before the plane leaves and terminal 4 is now beyond capacity; the queue for security and access to the gates is now outside the building and twice its length. I’m not going to make my plane.

Stress Stress and more stress. I smoke a lot, fielding questions from small children and old women about the cats and where I am taking them; being admonished by same children for the cats being scared. Of course they’re scared, I’m terrified and I’m way bigger than they are…

Always a nervous flyer, my coping strategy has always been to get airside as soon as possible and consume suitable quantities of gin until its time to board the plane. With catses, this is not possible.

Anyway, there are no bombs in the box and the cats are just scared so eventually I am airside – I jumped the queue with permissions. And I’m on the plane just thinking that once we hit 35 thousand feet, I can get that gin and tonic.

But no, loading the baggage takes forever - I am certain it was the cats - and we miss our take off so we are stuck on the runway for nearly an hour.

Eventually we take off, eventually we reach 35000 feet and eventually I get my gin and tonic. A better cocktail has never been poured.

So kids, never travel with cats. (Always travel with cats).

I have more to say about my potential employ, but it is getting really hot outside and I need to walk back to the hotel, so I think that is that for the day.

Love you all.

XxxX