16. Fleeced!

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.