I feel I owe an explanation, indeed an apology, to any readers who may have been left hanging a bit since my last posting. It's a long story which I will tell here, but suffice to say for the moment that a combination of the wrong advice leading to the wrong decision led to my bike getting stuck in the free zone area on the Syria/Jordan border after being transported there from Kuwait.
I have a solution, but it means importing and then re-registering the bike in the UK, before shipping it back to Jordan to do my trip. This is all going to take a bit of time.
I wrote to friends and family and posted an update on Facebook about the stall in my programme, thanking all for their encouragement and charity donations and pointing out the ride home would eventually be done. But I'm afraid being occupied with extracting my bike from its pound in no-man's land means I've rather ignored this blog.
My apologies, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible...
Arriving at Queen Alia International in Amman late on the Thursday afternoon, I grab a taxi into town. I have Jordanian dinars, but only in large denominations and immediately get fleeced by the cab driver over his tip – good start!
Since I expect to be roughing it in my tent or slumming it in budget hotels on the trip, I've decided to treat myself to a couple of nights in Le Meridien Hotel which is located in Amman's diplomatic quarter. It's a nice hotel, but overpriced, though not as much as some of the others I checked on Expedia. As a 'Starwoods Preferred Guest' (whatever that means), I get upgraded to a club room with access to the club lounge and it's 18:00-20:00 happy hour (nice!) and 'free' internet in the room. This is a boost, though I'm constantly amazed at how these big-name hotel chains get away with charging outrageous rates for internet access these days, but there you go.
The room is fine and after the hectic past few days I decide to chill for the evening, but not till I've made contact with Mr Ebraheem, Saif's agent in Jordan. I dial the number I've been given but just get a wall of noise through which I can just about make out some Arab music. I check the code, +963, which is for Syria. This doesn't surprise me as Amer at Saif told me my bike would be arriving at the joint Syria/Jordan Freezone area, not the Saudi/Jordan border as expected, which he said was just a short JD10 taxi ride from Amman - though this again later proves to be very wide of the mark.
I dial again and this time hear a voice saying: "Marhaba" (hello). I respond in kind and ask if this is Mr Ebraheem. I cannot make out his reply but plow on emphasising the words David, dirajat (motorbike), Kuwait and Saif Transport. He asks if I speak Arabi and I apologise and say: "La" (no). He then says: "Speak Mohammed, speak English" and quotes another Syrian number.
I try this one and again, am met with a wall of loud Arab music, perhaps they're in the same place. But Mohammed then comes on saying: "That Mr David?" I confirm indeed it is and he asks for my mobile number. I warn him it's a UK number so he says: "Ok" then quotes yet another number at me, this time a Jordanian one and hangs up. I try yet again and this time it's clear. Mr Mohammed tells me my bike has arrived and is in the Freezone. Then that he'll come to the hotel to collect me at eight on Sunday morning. I was told by Saif's Amer that I would have to get a taxi there on Saturday morning and relate this to Mohammed, but he says the place will be closed Friday and Saturday, repeats he will collect me on Sunday and hangs up.
This is all very odd, but by now 'odd' is par for the course. I Skype my beloved to let her know I'm safe in Amman and bring her up to date with developments. I grab the last twenty-odd minutes of happy hour in the lounge, which happily includes some nibbles, then have an early night. I'm slightly concerned about the whole Saturday/Sunday discrepancy and am desperate to see my bike, but feel there's no point worrying about it and decide I can check further after tomorrow.
In spite of being awake half the night finalising my packing, clearing remaining food out of the fridge and so on, I'm up bright and early, strip the bed and put the linen in the washing machine (to save Isabel from having to do so) and am ready for the road.
I'm pretty sure I won't be back to the house so take my minimalist luggage with me in the taxi to my 'farewell breakfast' with the office crowd. They're a good bunch, some have been close colleagues and friends for near on five years or so and there's a definite tinge of sadness in the occasion. We're a bit like a mini United Nations with one Kuwaiti, an Armenian/Jordanian/American, a Moroccan/American, two Palestinians, a Pakistani, a Dubaian and two Scots.
We have coffee, croissants and cakes; Ahmed the boss says some kind words and they present me with some beautiful, hand-made weaving from Beit Sadu (Sadu House), a local centre dedicated to preserving this Bedouin craft. It will be a lovely memento of our time here, authentic and traditional – without the usual kitsch touches seen on so many Arab souvenirs. I say a few words and get tongue-tied. Then it's time to part – some folk have work to go to. And I've got to go to Shuwaikh – again.
The last two lingerers are Rose (mentioned last episode) and Buthaina, my Kuwaiti colleague who's the same age as my eldest daughter. Like Rose, she too is a really lovely woman. She's kind, open and big-hearted, but also very capable, confident and a hard-worker. She does her nation proud. They're both a bit choked and I'm still searching for words, so I think the best thing is just to leave. Reliable Rana, our faithful and ever-so-precise driver and general assistant, comes to the rescue and finds me a taxi.
Back at Saif, the GM is once more all smiles and apparent efficiency. He's dressed in his Friday best, but not, I'm sure, for my benefit. He fusses around for a while and makes a call or two, then indicates we should leave.
Outside, he guides me into a Cadillac Escalade SUV. "Nice seyara (car)", I say and he beams and nods, replying: "Good seyara!" with emphasis. Now here I must confess that for the last couple of years we were in Dubai, I drove an Escalade. An 'environmental abomination' I think was how Sharon referred to it, and in all honesty, she was right. But with its 5.8 litre V8 and electric everything, I loved that car. It had such presence on the road that even Hummers would move over (occasionally) on Dubai's highways. Useless off-road mind, as I discovered once on a muddy beach in Oman, and not a patch in the sand on the Toyota Landcruiser I'd had before. Ah well, those were the days.
As we move into the building traffic, I try to tell Amer I used to drive the same model, but his English is about as bad as my Arabic and the point is lost. We move on to business and he lets me know he's involved in steel, which is 'zain' (good) but that transport is not so good. Hmm, trying to recover some lost margins from me then, I think. He's clearly more relaxed after our chat and gestures towards the CD player which is blasting out a vaguely familiar tune. "Zain", he says, smiling, "Braveheart." I then recognise the theme and am reminded that all Arabs seem to have great fondness for Mel Gibson's Hollywood version of the story of Scotland's independence warrior, William Wallace. I raise a clenched right fist and say "Freedom!" and Amer giggles in response. He then produces a CD from a door pocket and, indicating it is the same as the one playing, hands it to me. "For me?" I ask, and he nods emphatically. "Shukran (thank you)" I say, wondering where I can put it so that it doesn't get damaged, as there's no case.
We then get held up in traffic at a junction and he suddenly puts the car into neutral, dives out the door, moves round to the back and opens the tailgate. He rummages around for a while and gets back almost in time to move off again with the flow. He hands me a small box bearing the Ray Ban logo and indeed inside is a pair of this maker's shades - whether real or rip-off, I'm not quite sure. They're a touch garish with gold rims and an amber insert, not at all my style, but again I ask if this is for me and he nods furiously saying: "Nam (yes)" and "welcome". Dutifully I try them on. The ends of the legs are the flexible type that curl snugly round the back of the ear. "Shukran, very nice." I say, "very BMW!" and he giggles again. I can't help wondering if this sudden showering of gifts has anything to do with him feeling guilty at charging me so much or because the translation still isn't ready – or both.
As we move on, I ask Amer if he's Kuwaiti. "La, la, Palestinian" he replies with pride. I nod saying that there are many Palestinians in Kuwait and he mimes a swollen belly and points downwards to indicate he was born here. Stuck again in traffic, I show him my poster, pointing out the Arabic script and Palestine Red Crescent logo. He's clearly impressed and gives me a big-eyed nod. Whether it's this or that he's trying to give the translators more time, we make an elliptical circuit of two junctions on the First Ring Road before heading into Kuwait proper, but then we arrive and park outside an old office building in the city.
We ascend a couple of floors in an antiquated lift and arrive at the Arwa Translation Bureau where I'm asked to sit while Amer engages in a long discussion with the guy on the desk. It's clear the work isn't yet done. It's now around 11:15 and I'm supposed to be at the airport by 12:00. I relate this to the guy on the desk who clearly speaks English, but he just looks blank. Amer disappears into a large office opposite and emerges with a woman who is obviously the boss. She looks at me over her specs and says: "You are going to airport?" I repeat I need to be there by 12:00 and she says: "Is ok, will only take 15 minutes." Yet again, I'm stunned! If it will only take 15 minutes, why have I had to make at least three visits over three days to Shuwaik and not receive it? Not only that, if it will only take 15 minutes, why am I being charged KD25?
I'm about to ask these questions when there's another exchange in Arabic and she says: "Mr Amer sorry, but he has business meeting, he has to go. He sorry for delay. He wish you good luck." With this, Mr Amer sidles up to me, shakes my hand vigorously then gives me the Arab kiss, cheek to cheek, both sides, and slides out the door.
I'm in shock, sit down and ask if I can have a cigarette – there are few, if any, smoking bans here. The boss lady guides me through to an adjoining office and says: "You can sit here and read newspaper and smoke, no problem. It won't take long," and departs. Someone else comes in with tea, black and sweet, and a glass of water and I wait.
At 12:00 I'm back at the desk where the clerk is stamping and stapling three sets of documents. "Is ok," he says, "is finished."
"This is mine?" I ask and he nods, handing me a copy. In spite of my rush I remember an earlier warning to check the translation carefully so I sit down again and scrutinize the pages. Clearly I can only really read the English, but all looks fine apart from one small detail. They've spelt my surname Stewart instead of Stuart. Now practically anywhere in Europe, certainly in UK, this would not be a problem, it's a common mistake. But my passport bears Stuart and I can just imagine a bolshy border guard somewhere refusing to accept this discrepancy. I point the mistake out to the desk clerk and he directs me to the translator. He thinks it's mafi muskulla (no problem) but I insist and he corrects the spelling on screen. Of course, three new copies now have to be printed, stamped, signed and stapled, but then I'm off down the stairs and thankfully, quickly find a taxi.
I'm at the airport by 12:45 and get through the formalities without any difficulty. I even have time to have a coffee, calm down and consider that this really is ma'a salama (goodbye) Kuwait, next stop, Jordan.
With the bike on its way to Jordan and my residency cancelled, it's my penultimate day in Kuwait. I've already booked a 14:30 flight to Amman in Jordan for the next day and need to tie up the last few loose ends. I head into the office to collect my passport and clear the last remaining emails from my work laptop. I also need to see a dear colleague, Rose, who's been doing a little bit of Arabic translation for me. From her name it may be guessed that Rose isn't Kuwaiti, she's not even Arab but from an Armenian family, born in Jordan, and has lived in Kuwait for around 30 years. She speaks, writes and understands Arabic like a native, indeed better than many overseas-educated Kuwaitis, and is one of the loveliest people it's been my pleasure to meet.
Reckoning I could well hit a border or two where English might not be even the second or third language, I've pulled together a little poster, double-sided A4, with my blog picture (above) on one side and a brief description of what I'm doing on the other, mentioning the Red Cross/Red Crescent sponsorship and bearing their respective logos. Rose has already sent me her Arabic translation (and didn't charge me £15 for the job either!), but when I did a cut and paste into my poster, my non-Arabic configured laptop jumbled all the words making it jibberish. I need to ask Rose to do the transfer on her computer and save the document to a memory stick so I can get copies printed. I also have another version of the poster with the text in Russian, very kindly provided by my mate Steve's wife, Zarina, who's from Kyrgyzstan. No, I haven't added Russia to my itinerary, but as Steve pointed out, the Cyrillic script will be easily understood as I wend my way up through the Balkan countries.
The folks in the office seem pleased to see me, which is heartening, and interested in my progress. Rose also reveals they've organised a farewell breakfast for me next day at 08:30 at a favourite coffee shop opposite the office. "Eight-thirty?" I joke, "that's not breakfast, that's a wake-up call!" But of course I'm honoured and promise to do my best to be there on time.
We have some trouble adjusting the Arabic text to fit in my poster layout but get it fixed in the end. As it's the end of the working day, Rose kindly offers to drop me at a suitable print shop where I can get copies made and which is conveniently near a forex office where I can buy some currency for the first few countries on my route. We also have tentative plans to meet later for something to eat and smoke sheesha with Rose and her lovely Lebanese husband Basem along with John (a fellow Jock and a mate), the company HR guy who's visiting from the Dubai office. Steve and Zarina also want to see me before I leave so I fix to get everybody together at a popular Lebanese restaurant called Mais Al Ghanem on Arabian Gulf Street near the British Embassy.
I get my dollars, dinars and pounds (Syrian and Lebanese) and a few copies of my poster printed. It's getting close to 7:00 pm and I am due back at Shuwaikh, yet again, to collect my papers and their translations. A taxi gets me there only 15 minutes late and I ask him to wait. The GM is all smiles but my evident exasperation at his "Translation not ready" changes this and he gets on the phone, apparently pushing them to deliver. He tells me to come back, boukra, at 12:00, but I shake my head and say I'm flying to Jordan at 14:30 so have to be at the airport by then. All is confusion for a while, but luckily another 'customer' arrives who can speak English and we fix the problem. I'm told to come back to Saif at 10:00 tomorrow and Mr Amer himself will drive me in his car to get the papers. I think I'm expected to be impressed, but have difficulty in hiding my disappointment. This at least results in me being given contact details for Saif's clearing agent in Jordan – something else I've been requesting for days. I leave and head off in my taxi, late, for the restaurant.
Being American, Steve and Zarina are already there. Not being American (though they do have US passports) Rose and Basem arrive later with John in tow. But it's a lovely evening and everyone gets on just fine. Steve has an early start in the morning so he and Zarina, who even made me a lovely farewell card, head off first. It's quite emotional, but we have a date for next year when they are coming to the UK to attend the Isle of Man TT - bikers eh?
The rest of us sit around chatting, eating and puffing on sheesha pipes for a while longer, then Rose and Basem drop John at his hotel and me at home for my last night in Kuwait.
As John is driving me homewards he explains the role of the truck in which my bike is now heading towards the Saudi border. Since Kuwait has next to no home-grown produce, truckloads of fresh fruit and vegetables and other consumables roll in daily from the Levant countries – Lebanon, Syria and Jordan – and even from Saudi. That explains the AC unit that trucker Tyseer switched on while we were securing the bike inside his trailer then. Returning empty, truckers are always keen to carry anything that might make them a little money on their homeward journey.
John then takes a call on his mobile. It's his office, asking where we are. They want us to return to Saif as Mr Amer now wants his money. Luckily I do have cash on me as I've been reducing my Kuwait bank balance before closing the account. But this is odd. I've already been instructed to return to the Saif office boukra (tomorrow) to collect my documents and the translation, which still isn't ready. John remonstrates slightly as he's already behind schedule with his other bike delivery, but doubles back and we head again for Shuwaikh.
Back at Saif we're shown into the GM's office where Mr Amer is dealing with two calls at once while fidgeting with a scrap of paper with some kind of tally in Arabic on it. When he's through, I ask: "How much?" expecting a repeat of the KD209 he quoted to Salem and me originally, or an even lower sum since there seemed to be far less bureaucracy with the selected export route.
I am stunned when he says: "KD375" and passes his paper to John. "What? That's almost double!" I exclaim. "You said just over KD200 before." Clearly, his understanding of English is better than he lets on, as he starts to jabber in Arabic to John justifying his charges. John fights my corner manfully and the volume rises, but, as an Indian in an Arab country, there's a limit to how far he can go. Amer asks for Faisal's mobile number, obviously seeking to get another Arab into the conversation as translator rather than John.
I'm shocked at the outrageousness of it all, but realise I'm in a corner. I've already been told by my office that my residency has been cancelled so I no longer have any legal standing in Kuwait. My bike has been de-registered and is already on the way to the border. Mr Amer has me over the proverbial barrel, and he knows it.
I start counting out the cash but John quietly tells me to hold on, as the GM's conversation with Faisal also seems to be getting heated. There's lots of 'ya habibi' this and 'ya habibi' that. This means 'my dear' or even 'my dear sir' but is often used in a unisex way, though strictly speaking the feminine version is 'ya habibti'. I've often heard it when the user feels the need for some kind of justification in a conversation - 'soft-soaping' we call it in English.
I get handed the phone and Faisal tries to explain that Amer claims there have been extra costs incurred because I chose the export route. I find this hard to believe, but it's not Faisal's fault, he's merely the messenger. I hand the phone back then toss the wad of notes on to his desk. Amer somehow manages to look offended at my attitude and won't pick it up. I ask John to translate the scribbled tally, which he does. It's all there, it's just the total it reaches that rankles. I see KD25 for translation (which of course still hasn't materialised) and say: "KD25 for two pages?" He flashes the fingers of one hand and says: "Four pages." This still works out at the equivalent of almost £15 per page, which seems a bloody high rate to me. But what can I do?
I shrug resignedly and re-present the bundle of KD notes. Amer scoops them up and immediately returns KD25 with a pained expression and a 'ya habibi' something or other. So the charge is now KD350 - which is still more than what Parvaz told me KLM is charging to airfreight his bike from Kuwait to Alaska for goodness sake!
John and I leave with our tails between our legs while Amer is now all smiles and friendliness, reminding me through his assistant to come back tomorrow at the same time for my papers.
We head off, pretty much speechless at the man's brass neck and John drops me off at home.
I'm back at the Tristar workshop early where Ricky the foreman kindly fixes a small fire extinguisher to the outside of one of my side cases, doing the job for the price of the bolts used. Speak about last minute, but I decided to get this item from one of Shuwaik's myriad autoshops after meeting another Kuwait biker who's doing a round the world trip on his GS Adventure, but in stages.
Parvaz is a UK-born Pakistani who is Head of Maths at one of Kuwait's English schools. Taking advantage of the long Kuwait summer break, he set off on his RTW in June last year. Travelling eastward, he crossed Iran (after being detained over a visa issue) and Pakistan and Kashmir, visiting family and his father's grave on the way. Having been told he could not ride his own bike across China, he arranged for it to be shipped from Karachi to Seattle on the US west coast. He crossed into China from Kashmir and bought a Chinese made bike, rode it all the way to Beijing and sold it again before flying to the US where he hoped to be reunited with his GSA. It never appeared. The Pakistani shipping company turned out to be nothing of the kind. He eventually cut his losses by flying to Karachi to get his bike shipped back to Kuwait. This summer he plans to complete his trip and is having the bike airfreighted to Alaska, aiming to be back in Kuwait in time for the start of the new school year.
We met up at an ice-cream parlour to compare notes and bikes. I was keen to tap into his experience and he was friendly and very helpfully willing to advise. I was taken with various modifications he has made to his bike and its cases and particularly by the mountings he'd added to carry the liquid fuel bottle for his stove – and his fire extinguisher – and resolved to get one of my own.
Back at Tristar and the job done, John calls Saif Transport to confirm they're ready for my bike. Mr Amer says he'll call back in five minutes. Two hours later, he calls and says to come immediately so I head off followed by John in the Tristar van as he has a bike on board to deliver afterwards.
We meet at the Saif office where Mr Amer, all in a rush, instructs one of his sidekicks to remove my export number plate. I protest and a big and loud discussion in Arabic ensues. John looks as confused as I feel and something is said about getting the plate copied. So I open my topbox and show Mr Amer the second, loose plate (something I later regret) which he grabs from me and then indicates in words and gestures that we should follow his sidekick who is now in a car by the kerb. I question John, but he says this seems to be how things are done and to follow the car. We travel in convoy for about five kilometers to a lorry park where there is a metal loading ramp for cars with an artic truck backing its trailer up to it. This all looks a bit 'Heath Robinson' to me but as soon as I park, the sidekick is back at my number plate with a screwdriver and pliars. I'm not happy and tell him to stop.
Both John and I call Tristar's Salem and Faisal to find out what's going on and they agree to check. When they call back it seems that the Kuwait plate will be taken back from the truck driver at the Kuwait border and I'm told I'll get another plate in Jordan, another in Syria and so on. I'd been led to believe the Kuwait export plate and its accompanying documentation would see me all the way home, so I ask them to check again particularly, if possible, with others who have used this method. The word eventually comes back that this is how things are done and that Mr Amer 'knows his job'.
I'm still not happy but have no choice, so the plate is removed and given to the driver. I get handed the bolts, presumably to fix the next plate.
The sidekick then indicates I need to ride up the ramp into the back of the truck. "Who do you think I am," I ask, "Evel Knievel?"
Designed for loading cars, this ramp consists of a framework supporting two parallel, flat metal runners, about three metres long sitting at an angle of about 35 degrees leading on to a level section of about two metres. The height is about a metre and a half. Each runner is about 40cm wide and there's nothing either side and a big open space in the middle.
John looks concerned but has been working hard with the sidekick and the truck driver to make sure the platform is stable, correctly aligned and at the right height for the open back of the trailer. He walks towards me, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, and says: "You've got one shot. Don't stop!" I don my helmet and zip up my jacket then get on the bike. I fire it up and ride in a circle to line up with the ramp. I think… well, to be honest I try not to think, release the clutch, gun the engine and ride up and over and into the back of the trailer.
There's much cheering and smiles as the guys climb up and John supervises the bike being positioned and tied securely against the bulkhead at the front end. I'm still sweating as I'm told the driver's name, Tyseer, and mobile number, and take a note of the trailer's registration. I shake Tyseer's hand and ask him to drive carefully. He mutters something in Arabic, the only word of which I recognise is 'baksheesh' (a tip). I say "Yeah, you'll get baksheesh when I see my bike safe in Jordan." There's much hilarity and back-slapping and we part, John kindly offering to take me home.
But the evening's surprises are not over, as Mr Amer has yet another bombshell to deliver…
Boukra dawns bright and hot and Faisal calls while I'm at breakfast to confirm arrangements. These Tristar guys are being hugely supportive. It probably stems from the traditional Arab custom of helping travellers, but their assistance and guidance has been a real boon, I certainly could not go through all these processes on my own.
We agree to meet at their second-hand bike showroom, which is also in Shuwaikh. While enjoying being on the bike at any opportunity, with the heat and dust I am slightly relieved when Faisal tells me we won't need to take the bike for de-registration, just its number plate and my documents. "We can go in my car," he says, "it will be fine."
I ride the now well-known route to Shuwaikh and we park the bike in the cool of the air conditioned showroom to remove its plate, then head off to a municipal governorate called Mubarak Al-Kabeer to the south of Kuwait City in Faisal's Toyota Tundra.
This thing is HUGE! It's based on the same platform as the behemoth that is the Sequoia SUV, previously only available in the US, but recently introduced to the lucrative ME market. Faisal explains the Tundra is slightly longer even than the Sequoia because of its crew-cab and pick-up bed. I suggest that parking it must be like piloting a supertanker and he agrees, bemoaning the fact it has no parking assist and that he's looking at installing a rearview camera.
He's an interesting guy and we chat away while heading south. He's a biker through and through and currently owns four - all BMWs apart from a Vespa scooter (ok, three bikes and a scooter). He spent time in the UK while studying and owned a car there and is a great admirer of UK laws that demand the need for motor insurance – though not the resultant cost. Motor insurance does exist in Kuwait, but it's cheap and not really worth the paper it's written on. Faisal explains it really only covers administrative costs for the police to determine who's at fault in an accident and has nothing to do with the value of vehicles involved.
With the help of some directions fed over his mobile phone, Faisal finds the Mubarak Al-Kabeer traffic licensing office and we get on with the paperwork merry-go-round. It's the usual toil of moving from one desk to another collecting papers, signatures and stamps – both rubber and revenue - on the way. This exercise requires stamps worth KD8.00, available from vending machines that I have seen nowhere but in Kuwait.
Knowing all about my trip and my blog, Faisal has been explaining to anyone who asks that I'm exporting the bike to 'Scotlanda'. This is fine till we reach a computer operator who inputs the details then pulls up short. "Wain Scotlanda?" (Where is Scotland?) he asks with upturned palms and a frown at his screen. As usual, Scotland has failed to appear in the list of countries held in cyberspace, and all is confusion till I explain it is 'part of the UK'. Ah well, perhaps one day we will re-assert our rightful place as a nation of the world.
We have been severely warned by Mr Amer of Saif Transport that the final clearance certificate must bear two signatures and an embossed stamp of the seal of the traffic department. Thus equipped and after handing over my bike's registration plate, we head downstairs to a small office manned by an old guy in dishdash and long grey beard. The room is lined with shelves bearing boxes full of registration plates. Faisal hands over my sheaf of papers which collect another stamp or two and a signature, and I'm handed two mud-spattered export plates, blue with black lettering, and we're finally done. Heading back I ask Faisal if I will have to return these plates or if I can keep them as a souvenir. He gives a characteristic Arab shrug and says he doesn't think I'll need to send them back saying: "You paid eight KD, they should be yours."
We take the all-important Clearance Certificate back to Saif in Shuwaikh where Mr Amer tells me, through Faisal, that he'll get it and the other documents translated into English, making much of the fact that I will need this as I progress beyond Arabic speaking nations on my journey and that this is all part of the service. He says to bring the bike back at 3:00pm to load it on the truck and collect the translated papers.
Back at Tristar I attach a number plate (which Faisal has kindly rinsed clean) to the back of the bike, slipping the second un-needed one into my topbox. Faisal makes a call to organise John, Tristar's Indian driver, to meet me at their workshop and accompany me back to Saif that afternoon. "John has good ideas," he explains, "he will make sure your bike is tied safe in the truck."
I head home to reorganise my packing one last time, feeling excited that all the arrangements are finally coming to a conclusion and that I should soon be on the road.
A few days of frenetic activity follow - well, frenetic by Kuwait standards anyway. Faisal from Tristar is delegated to guide me through the de-registration and export process under the direction of Saif Transport GM, Mr Amer. Faisal and I rendezvous at the Tristar workshop in one part of Shuwaikh then move on in convoy to the Saif office in another. Since I'm not sure exactly when they'll take the bike off me, I'm riding fully loaded and half full of fuel; Faisal's in his giant Toyata Tundra crew-cab pick-up truck, leading the way through Shuwaik's notorious congestion. The Tundra is ginormous though, and easy to follow.
Mr Amer had said 10:00 am, so we get there about 11:00… He's enigmatic as ever however and, between other calls and hurling instructions at his assistant, he explains what we have to do and where we have to go, accompanied by a bit of map drawing on the back of a used brown envelope into which Mr Amer then puts the documents we need for stage one - getting the bike inspected for export.
Post briefing, Faisal and I move outside and he translates. We have to go to what's known as the Amghara Scrapyard, yet another huge industrial area, but this one is about 25 kilometres outside Kuwait City the other side of a town called Jahra. Faisal asks if I know the way and I confess that although I've driven/ridden past Amghara, I can't claim any real knowledge. "Is ok", he says, "follow me, I go slow." We set off in the thick of Shuwaik's lunch-time traffic and everything is fine, though the stop start flow does make things a bit hot. We're already in the high 40s centigrade and I'm in full riding gear. Then we hit some clear highway and Faisal's off like a rocket, only slowing for traffic lights and speed cameras. But the GS is a match for him and I'm thinking this is all good practice and means I'm getting a real feel for the loaded bike and what's to come on the long way home.
A few tortuous roundabouts and junctions later, we pull off into what looks like a truck stop but is actually a proper Traffic Department office for clearing export vehicles. Amid all the trucks, car transporters, other sundry vehicles and lots of dust, we park and walk through a gateway to approach the small open window through which this business is conducted. It's manned by three guys in dishdashas, furiously stamping and signing forms. Faisal hands over the paperwork and there's an exchange in which I make out the words dirajat (motorcycle) and Scotlanda (obvious). Then it's "wain dirajat?" (where's the bike?) so I go and move it into position for 'inspection', fully expecting to have to open my side and top cases for the contents to be checked and cleared.
But all that happens is one guy looks out the window and then says: "David? Where David?" I touch my chest and say, "That's me." And he says: "Ah David, going on trip?" I say: "Yes, I'm going home to Scotland." Some chuckles and more Arabic that's over my head follows but probably means something like "what a nutter!" Faisal's too polite to translate and just smiles. They then ask for my Civil ID, which of course is somewhere in the depths of the Ministry of Interior being cancelled along with the residency visa in my passport, but thankfully my driver's licence, which carries the same ID number, is sufficient.
And that's it! A couple of rubber stamps and scribbled signatures and we're done.
Faisal calls Mr Amer to report success and to see if we can move on to de-register the bike. Apparently Mr Amer is impressed at our speedy progress but the next stage is delegated to 'boukra', a word that literally translates as 'tomorrow', but generally means something similar to the Spanish 'mañana', though without the same degree of urgency…
Faisal and I agree a rendezvous for next day and he kindly agrees to guide me out of the Amghara nightmare, telling me to just overtake him when I know where I am. Thankfully, after a few kilometres negotiating our way through dust and past huge cement trucks we hit Highway 80, which I know will take me straight into the city. So I speed up, overtake and give Faisal a wave, gratefully relishing the resultant cooling airflow, and head home for a shower.
I call Tristar and Salem sounds like he's in a hurry so, having been reunited with my rejuvenated GS, I race round to the showroom and we set off in his car to find the transport company. It's called Al Saif Transport (pronounced 'safe' – let's hope so…) and is based in a tiny office in the middle of the labyrinthine sprawl that is the Shuwaikh Industrial Area.
There's absolutely everything in Shuwaikh. From joinery workshops to boat builders, ornamental stonemasons to marble importers. There's every conceivable kind of car repair and maintenance shop, and lots and lots of auto-bling stores; there are large and small-scale engineering works and traders of all kinds. Their wares spill out over the pavement (where it exists) and into the road. I spot an establishment bearing a large blue sign with huge yellow lettering in both English and Arabic screaming "Doctor" with a smaller sub-heading that reads: "Repairs for Sanitary Wares" – no, I'm not sure either.
Vehicles of all shapes and sizes, mopeds and bicycles move around and through all this confusion and criss-cross over junctions - sometimes even on their own side of the road. Incongruously, in the midst of all the mayhem sits a very large supermarket with massed ranks of shopping trolleys outside its entrance.
It takes us a moment or two to pinpoint our quarry and we double back a couple of times till we spot the place and park. We're shown in to the General Manager's office, all of two metres by one and a half, elaborately tiled and bearing a Quranic inscription on a plaque mounted behind the big desk. Mr Amer is a busy man and in typical Kuwait fashion his door is always open. We have an appointment, but the interruptions are many and frequent and Mr Amer seems to be doing lots of things all at once. This is multi-tasking on a grand scale and there's not even a computer in sight. No less than four mobiles mind you (the obligatory minimum is two) and a landline. As is custom, we're given water and offered tea or coffee (chai ow khahwa).
Visually, Mr Amer bears a rather disturbing resemblance to Ricky Gervais' obnoxious stationery meister David Brent of 'The Office', but thankfully there the similarity ends. He's friendly but all efficiency and starts to reel off to Salem, in Arabic, what needs to be done to get my bike to Jordan. Salem translates in the breaks, explaining Saif Transport will handle everything from securing and protectively wrapping the bike in a container and transporting it through both borders and across Saudi to delivery in Jordan ready for the road – inshallah! It doesn't even need to be drained of petrol.
The whole process will take around three days, so I now need to carefully work out just when I need to de-register the bike and obtain its 'passport' and export plate. This timing is critical because once the bike is no longer Kuwait registered we have 48 hours to leave the country…
Pondering this, I'm struck once again by the feeling that Americans really have way too much influence on this place (it's true, you just have to look at how Kuwaitis spell when writing in 'English'). Yes the Yanks kicked Iraqi butts out of the country - with the help of others in the coalition forces of course - in 1991, and the Kuwaitis will forever be grateful. But 'americana' can go too far – what is it with this "git outta town by sundown" stuff?
Whatever, experience has shown it's best not to question too much, just smile, nod and agree.
In spite of the recent maintenance programme, the bike disappears into Tristar's workshop for a day that stretches to four. I've been getting a persistent warning on the dash read-out that the alarm back-up battery is dying or already dead and it has to be replaced by a dealer apparently. Not exactly critical, but probably worth rectifying before I head off. I also want to replace the main battery, which I reckon to be original and getting on for four years old. Plus, Steve has been questioning how far I think the rear tyre will take me. The front tyre's fine and, tight jock that I am, I judge the rear will safely see me at least to Turkey where there are plenty BMW Motorrad dealers. Perhaps I'd even make it into Europe proper before having to get her re-shod, punctures aside. But dammit, Steve's now sown a seed of doubt.
I ride over to see the guys in the Tristar workshop. Both batteries are available and they'll check brake and clutch fluids, lights etc. Aware of my impending trip, they convince me the back tyre should be replaced now. A software update is also recommended, which amongst other things, will enable the dash read-out to give me mpg and mph rather than its present kilometre equivalent. I may have traditionalist leanings in many ways, but have become well decimalised and 'klicks' are familiar through daily exposure - just like driving on the 'wrong' side of the road. On the other hand, I need imperial settings to import and use the bike back in the UK. The update is free but I'm warned it will take a bit of time to complete - computers eh? Come back next day they say. Taxi!
Next day I hear the computer crashed and they're waiting for a new file to be emailed from Germany. It should be ready in the morning. I'm stranded, wheel-less, so they kindly fix me up with a loan bike for a couple of days - if I can collect it from the showroom. I need to speak to Salem about Plan B anyway so am happy with this arrangement. Taxi!
I pick up a nifty little F650GS, which is quite fun, but not what I'm used to for sure – spoiled or what? The boss man's not around so I chat with the rest of the Tristar team who've all heard about my Saudi situation. They start by trying, gently, to persuade me that crossing KSA will be: "…ok, mafi mushkula (no problem), maybe yanni (you know), just some kids in the towns, maybe they throw small stone", indicating with finger and thumb how 'small' these stones might be (didn't look very small to me!) All the while making that quintessentially Arab half shrug, half sideways tilt of the head with a little frown they use when telling you something they know you don't really want to hear.
I explain that I simply can't ignore the advice from my company. That they concentrate heavily on road safety these days since RTAs have the biggest impact on HSE stats across all operations globally, and particularly here in the region. Then the real stories emerge…
Even Kuwaiti bikers won't do this run across northern Saudi solo any more, only in a group of at least four, and even then they ask for police escorts at critical stages, i.e. most of it. Much of the highway is single carriageway (two-lane), which makes overtaking 'interesting' and the possibility of being mown down by oncoming amphetamine-fuelled truck drivers who have been on the road for 36+ hours an ever-present threat. Never mind crazy, suicidal Bedu tribesmen who, while having made the conversion from camel to car a long time ago, still drive on, off and across roads with blithe indifference. It also transpires even Kuwaiti and other Arab bikers get lots of unwanted 'attention' at junctions, fuel stops and on the road. Some of this is just curiosity, but some of it sounds mean-spirited, even threatening and just plain scary. How would these people have treated a non-Arab westerner like me?
This all serves to convince me I've made the right decision – not that I had much choice – and I arrange to meet Salem after the weekend to visit the transport company and suss out the details for getting my bike trucked to Jordan.
I pay a visit to Tristar and am handed my passport complete with Saudi transit visa! Wow, I’m impressed, that’s taken less than a week and I feel a bit daft for having doubts it would be granted. Doubts that prompted me to formulate Plan B, which would mean putting the bike on a truck in Kuwait then flying to Jordan to collect it. My euphoria is short-lived however when I open my computer back home and get the bad news.
While in London I’d heard vague rumblings about some ‘activity’ along the Saudi/Iraq border. My intended route follows Saudi’s Highway 85, which runs parallel to the border for much of its length. So I emailed our Regional Security Manager enquiring further. His reply is clear and certainly not what I want to hear.
Though there’s nothing specific about the border stuff, he reveals the threat level for KSA does remain ‘High’. But it’s the rest of the message about the “extremely high risk of being killed in an RTA” (road traffic accident) in the Kingdom that really gets me down. Apparently a recent World Health Organisation report showed Saudi recording the highest rate of road accident fatalities at both Arab and world levels. He adds that the place is “not biker friendly by any means” and goes on to describe a couple of recent incidents that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He’s apologetic but says it’s best I have the whole picture and ends with the unequivocal advice – or is it instruction - “Definitely Plan B!”
This is all very depressing and I feel like I’ve fallen at the first hurdle. I’m annoyed with myself for not picking up on it earlier. All that time spent route planning and researching, being concerned about the Balkans and not even seeing the bogey-man right next door. I mean, I knew driving/riding in Saudi was dodgy, but had no grasp things were this bad. Sadly, the opening leg of my road trip now has a ‘No Entry’ sign across it.
I’ve driven and ridden in some hairy places, including Dubai, Oman and, of course, Kuwait. I’ve driven in Tripoli for goodness sake where the words ‘road’ and ‘sense’ don’t appear on the same page, never mind sentence. I’ve been driven in equally scary places like Cairo and Tehran and had near death experiences in both.
On top of this, apart from my sojourn back home, I’ve been using the bike almost daily in Kuwait for the past few months making sure I’m wholly familiar with it and its capabilities – and limitations - as well as getting acclimatised to the rising temperature.
Over the course of this and previous experience, I’ve evolved the theory that, particularly in a place like Kuwait, I’m actually safer on the bike than in a car.
On two wheels you are inherently more aware of what’s going on in front, behind and around you – you simply have to be. On my GS with its upright riding position, I’m sitting at about the same level as a driver in a Range Rover or Landcruiser. I’m in the scene and reading the road five, six vehicles and more ahead, not just what the idiot in front or next to me might be doing. And with the GS’s power and braking ability I know – without complacency – that I can get myself out of the way and out of trouble quickly.
Contrast this with your average driver on Kuwait roads. Sitting in the comfort of an air-conditioned cocoon with power steering and auto gearbox, one hand clamping a mobile to an ear (a punishable offence even here, but seldom enforced), gesticulating with the other hand and steering with a knee. You get the picture… They’re in a motorised easy chair, watching the scene unfold in front of them through the windscreen like it’s a video on TV – or worse, a computer game.
Then you get the young bucks who are Playstation-trained, doing all of the above but in high powered sports cars, saloons or high-end 4x4 pick-ups, racing their buddies at 160-180km per hour while weaving through the narrowest of gaps in traffic all the way from one side of a three/four lane highway to the other. It certainly makes for ‘interesting’ riding.
But clearly, Saudi is in another league and let’s face it, there’s so much more than just my desire to complete my plotted distance to consider – there's my loved ones back home. I have to get myself geared up for Plan B.
Ah well, nobody said it was going to be all plain sailing.
This charity sponsorship angle of my trip has really been doing my head in. About a year or so ago I remember sponsoring a colleague who was taking part in some kind of charity run. She flagged it on Facebook and I recall being intrigued by the link she provided to her own charity web page which made it very simple to contribute to the cause online via credit/debit card. I contact her and she very kindly points me at the excellent JustGiving site.
This fantastic facility takes all the hassle out of the whole process for participant and donors. You choose your charity, build a simple web page hosted on the JustGiving platform, canvass friends, family and co-workers (note the hyphen America, your 'coworker' always makes me think of farm labourers ['farm-hands' in the US] - or worse), then you watch the contributions click in.
Even better, if donors are tax-paying UK residents, JustGiving recover the 'Gift Aid' tax element from the government to increase the amount that goes to the charity. It's from this portion they take their meagre five per cent fee. This means that for every £10 donated, something closer to almost £12 actually goes to the cause. JustGiving handle all the admin, collect the cash and ensure it all quickly goes where it should. Their super-efficient website keeps the participant constantly updated on how their tally is growing. It's superb!
Since it was established in 1999 by an enterprising woman who relinquished her high-flying city job to give rather than take, it has become the leading online platform for charity giving, and has seen millions of people raise more than £450 million for over 8,000 member charities.
This'll do for me I think. But there's a snag. JustGiving is only able to provide online fundraising services to charities registered in the UK with the Charity Commission.
For my charity effort I've been having grand ideas of somehow linking home, the UK, with what has been home, the ME, for the last eight plus years. So what about the Red Cross and the Red Crescent? Both organisations, founded respectively in 1863 and 1877, perform sterling work around the globe providing non-partisan humanitarian relief and aid. Worldwide, they have more than 97 million volunteers in almost every country, supporting relief work.
Trawling online, I eventually light on the Geneva-based International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies which looks promising, if a bit high level. But of course they're not in the UK, not registered with the Charity Commission and therefore don't feature on JustGiving. I email both organisations telling them what I'm planning and asking if they can suggest a solution. They both come back basically saying the same thing, that I could use JustGiving to channel funds to the British Red Cross Society, but the IFRC operates through its global network of national societies and doesn't get involved in fundraising campaigns or individual initiatives. But the IFRC does have an online facility to receive donations which can be channelled to specific relief efforts or IFRC central funding according to donor's choice.
All well and good, but this doesn't solve my problem. I want donors supporting my effort to be able to choose whether to give to Cross or Crescent depending on their individual interests, leanings or wishes. And I want to keep it simple. The same issue applies if I opt for one of the national Red Crescent Societies in the region, such as the one that exists in Kuwait or, perhaps more deservingly, the one in Palestine. What to do?
I eventually decide to build my JustGiving page based on raising funds for the British Red Cross Society but mention in the text box which provides the background to what I'm doing and why, that donors can alternatively - or also - donate to the Palestine Red Crescent Society via a clickable link to the PRCS online donation page. The downside to this is that neither PRSC nor I will have any idea of who has given or how muchis raised for them in support of my trip, but hey, the object is to get money in and I can live with that.
My page is now live here, so get your wallets out!
It feels strange flying back into Kuwait as a 'visitor' now that I'm not based here. I still have my residency of course and a bank account and thankfully the house I was living in remains on company books till June, albeit now devoid of furniture apart from a bed. So basically I'm 'camping' here, even using the dinky little cooking set and accoutrements acquired for the trip to take care of sustenance – good practice for what's to come.
And I'm delighted to be reunited with Giselle (yes, the bike), though she's looking distinctly grey and shabby after a month or so's worth of Kuwait's dust blowing around. It's that time of year when winds blowing over the surrounding landmass to the north, west and south whip up the dry desert sands and blanket the city. This in spite of some spectacular rain storms they've had which failed to provide any real dampening effect on the sand. This stuff is incredibly fine and gets everywhere, hence the description 'dust storm' rather than 'sand storm'. At their worst these turn the sky eerily orange (see pic), can reduce visibility to almost zero and result in people wearing face-masks in an attempt to keep the stuff out of their lungs. I've been on the bike in a lesser version of that shown above and it's a bit like riding through fog you can chew.
The bike is soon hosed down however and though I'm convinced her month of idleness will mean the battery will need to be recharged, she surprises me by coughing into life at the first touch of the button. I've a lot to do to get her ready such as adjusting the valve clearances, changing the oil, oil filter and air filter. And I have to mount a new fuse box to properly power the GPS (which also has to be mounted) and the electric feed to my tank bag for recharging my phone, iPod etc.
First though, I head over to see Salem at Tristar to check on getting the all-important Saudi visa. He's as positive as ever and, after making a call, says it should only take a few days, asking for my passport, the requisite passport-size photo and a copy of my Kuwait Civil ID. We discuss the relative merits of me riding on the bike's existing Kuwait registration or de-registering to run on export plates. I haven't yet decided, though I'm tending towards the latter.
Back at the ranch, my mate Steve comes over to visit with his lovely wife Zarina, bearing coffee and doughnuts (or donuts as they're called here). Think I've mentioned he has a 1200GS (and a Triumph Sprint ST) back in the States and has kindly offered to take me through the valve adjusting process which he's done so often he could probably carry it out blindfold. The GS is a delight to work on – so long as you have the right tools – and the job is soon done. In spite of the heat (it's already in the 40s here) I prevail upon him to help with fitting the fuse box too. In truth, he doesn't take a lot of convincing. He's a total petrolhead and bike nut who seriously misses his bikes back home, especially since he sold the 650 Dakar he had in Kuwait for a while. On top of this he's a Comms Engineer and, I confess, my relationship with moto-electrics is somewhat tenuous.
The FZ-1 fuse box is a nifty little device that provides a built-in relay offering the choice for any fitted device to be switched on and off with the ignition or powered constantly. This is important as I don't necessarily want the GPS to switch off with the engine, but equally don't want to inadvertently leave something charging in the tank bag and drain the bike's battery. I got it last trip home from the superb Nippy Norman's who specialize in BMW aftermarket gear, having picked them up via the very useful and informative UKGSer.com online forum.
The first issue is finding a suitable permanently powered, switchable source, but we eventually hit on the wire for the PIAA drive lamps the bike's previous owner fitted. That solved and a suitable place identified to mount the fuse box under the seat, Steve starts chopping wires and fitting connectors, before he's called to work and he and Zarina have to depart. He's concerned about the effectiveness of the dry joints we've made and their susceptibility to shorting when I encounter rain – which I undoubtedly will as I head ever northwards. Advice is to get hold of some liquid electrical tape (which I find in ACE Hardware) and liberally coat each joint with care.
This done, I mount the Zumo GPS, fit the tank bag, turn the key and tentatively press the starter. Nothing happens. I fear I've screwed something up until - doh! – I realise she's still in gear after adjusting the valves. Select neutral, try again and she fires up beautifully. The Zumo's running and charging, the tank bag has power, there are no oil leaks from the valve covers and everything seems hunky-dory. Woo-hoo, result!
In the evenings, a bit lonely and seriously missing my lady, I occupy myself packing and re-packing the panniers and tank bag with all that's necessary to keep me going on the road. This means trying to keep the weight (tools, spares) low and evenly distributed, while ensuring essential stuff is reasonably accessible.
I'm also trawling the net trying to find a suitable joint representative body for the Red Cross and Red Crescent organisations at international level. I hope to raise money for them (or some other worthy cause) through sponsorship of my trip. But it all seems very complicated. Who would have thought it could be this difficult to give away cash. Ah well, keep searching.
Back in ol' Blighty with my beloved for what was supposed to be a couple/three weeks but ended up a little longer, I set about trying to find suitable storage for the container-load of stuff that's now on its way back from the Gulf. We live in a lovely little flat in Hampstead in north London. It's in a quiet enclave and but a stone's throw from the Heath with its sweeping acres of managed and protected ancient woodland, grassland, ponds, wildlife and walkways. It's known as the 'lungs of London' and is a fantastic resource to have on your doorstep while living in one of the world's busiest but most appealing capital cities.
But our flat is small, what estate agents would euphemistically term 'bijou', with no room for all the stuff we've accumulated over the past period overseas. Some of this we plan to keep, some will be re-distributed amongst family and friends and some is destined to be sold – over time.
Hence my hunt for some safe, but accessible storage facilities. And they exist, but at a price. I'd forgotten just how expensive anything to do with acquiring space in London is – well over £500 per month for the measly 300sq ft required. That's like a mortgage for goodness sake! I decide to cut my losses and let the shippers store the stuff till I get back, at considerably less than half the going rate.
I also pay a visit to the Saudi embassy in a vain attempt to secure the visa required to cross the Kingdom. Having already learned that they demand to know where and when you intend to leave Saudi territory (like I would want to secretly stay…), I'd already acquired a visa for Jordan before leaving Kuwait, but this did not seem to be enough. Perhaps something was lost in translation, but try as I might I could not seem to convince the visa clerk of what I needed, eventually giving up and leaving with an application form for a business visa he insisted I take. This I could probably get through my company, but it would mean lots of hassle and calling in quite a few favours. I know that bikers in Kuwait, not only Kuwait nationals, have made this trip on rides through to Jordan, Syria or Lebanon, so email the ever-helpful Salem at Tristar asking if he can put me in touch with any of them. He replies that it's easily done in Kuwait and to get in touch when I'm back in country. Can it really be that simple? We'll see.
I also take advantage of being at home to spend a few days catching up with family in Scotland – enjoying the novelty of using the train to get there thanks to Iceland's revenge in the form of the ash cloud from the unpronounceable Eyjafjallajökull volcano closing all airports in the country and beyond. I spend some time with my three beautiful daughters (yes, I'm biased but they really are), one in Edinburgh and two living just to the north of Aberdeen. Between them, they have blessed me with four wonderful grandchildren, two boys and two girls, ranging in age from 11 years old to almost two. They are all an absolute delight and it's great fun to be with them. I also have two lovely sisters up there and their respective families and it's a real boost to see them all. They all ask about my impending trip, but are too polite to say they think I'm nuts.
Home again and with aircraft back in the skies, it's time to pack up the last few bits and bobs for my trip, get back to Kuwait, complete the official business there and at last get on the road. Excitement mounts…
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