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.
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