12. In ‘Saif’ hands …

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.

11. Sticky software and some home truths

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.

10. The best-laid schemes…

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.

9. Sweet charity!

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 much is 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!

8. Now then, the art of motorcycle maintenance

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.

7. Getting closer…

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…

6. Packing up and shipping out – on a high

So, back to Kuwait and back to work.  By this time it's early March and I'm leaving the country at the end of the month.  My successor is already in town looking for hand-over and we have a major day-and-a-half long business opportunity identification workshop being planned with our Kuwaiti friends, closely followed by the latest in a series of high-level steering committee meetings, again with our hosts.  So much for my hoped-for gentle wind down to departure day then…

But in the meantime, we've finally, actually signed a deal!  No point in going into details here, but after more than three years of protracted negotiations and discussions (the process started before I got to Kuwait), this is a huge achievement.  But it's nice to have been involved and played a part, there's a new buzz about the place and it'll be good to go out on a high note. 

For work-related reasons I have to be back in UK and on local payroll by April 1. Mid March comes and goes and I convince myself that with all that's going on and so much still to be done for the trip, I should concentrate on the house being packed up, take the company-paid flight back home and spend a couple of weeks doing whatever I can on visas etc in London before returning to Kuwait to cancel my residency, close bank accounts, de-register the bike and then head off into the sunset. 

I then start to get concerned at all the talk of on/off strike action planned by BA cabin crew.  My worst fears are founded when strikes are confirmed over the next two weekends.  BA (now dubbed 'Bloody Awful' by my sister due to cancelled holiday flights) won't confirm any bookings around Mar 31/Apr 1 and a quick check online shows that seats on other days are disappearing fast. 

I consult our HR and travel people and they pull my departure date forward, by a week as it turned out, to the first available flight date – March 24.  This is fine in terms of getting me back to ol' Blighty on time but, of course, means the whole packing and shipping business has to be telescoped.

In this, I can't speak highly enough of the local team from ISS Worldwide Movers.  Tony, the ISS Packing & Removals Manager, had already paid me a visit to assess what was needed (another 40 ft container load), and manfully took on the challenge of re-scheduling their already full programme.  He managed to persuade a team to come and pack me up over the weekend and planned loading on the Monday, which would leave Tuesday for any last minute activity before I flew out first thing on the Wednesday – phew!

The packers when they came very early on the Friday were superb.  Mostly (typically) Filipino, and working under the clear and quiet command of team boss Joseph, they laboured hard and very efficiently but most of all, quickly.  So much so that I feared if I stayed still I'd end up in a box.  Not that I was static at all, I too had much still to do.  Yes, professional packers such as these can take care of the whole process, but previous experience had highlighted the benefit of a bit of organsation beforehand – it makes unpacking at the other end so much easier – but in spite of spending my evenings during the build-up so employed, I wasn't finished.  There was also the business of separating my (minimalist) needs for the bike trip, from what I would take with me on the flight, from what could be shipped.  Consequently there were piles all over the place which rather confused one member of the packing team who 'helpfully' (there's always one), wanted to pack just what I didn't want packing. 

Also bothering me slightly was a wardrobe-full of Sharon's clothes she'd left in Kuwait, most of which she said she no longer required - something to do with a size change or something as a result of her new fitness regime…  But how to choose?  How the hell could I know what to keep and what to discard? 

Thank goodness for Skype!

There we were, laptop strategically positioned in front of the open wardrobe atop a kitchen stool, Sharon on screen saying "keep" or "ditch" appropriately while I swung hanger after hanger in front of the lens; then there were the shoes…  And all the while a quick working packer or two gained on me while unloading my (clearly much smaller) wardrobe into boxes.  You couldn't make it up!

But we got the job done, in spite of the line dropping now and again, and I ended up with a veritable mountain of women's clothing to dispose of.  This, I opined, would likely draw me some rather strange looks down Friday Market, till Sharon reminded me that they would of course all go to charity via Isabel, our lovely lady who 'does'. 

So the packers packed and the loaders loaded till a full container was trucked away to Shuwaikh port for shipping.  This left me to finalise my own packing, three cases worth which, convinced they were overweight and would incur excess charges, I endlessly re-organised till late into the night.  So late, that I became terrified I would oversleep and miss the flight.  So I re-organised some more and drank lots of tea.  Thankfully I did catch my plane and slept most of the five and a half hour trip home.   

Lurking around in the back of my head through all this was the thought of trying to do something with my bike trip; something positive that might achieve some greater good beyond simply satisfying whatever selfish motivation is driving me to undertake this adventure.   Something like raising money for charity through sponsorship.  But which charity and how to keep it simple and straightforward?  More follows…