Chapter 25\ Flying in the plane’s toilet

Ferdie Farwagi was awaiting my return from the first visit to Shell Markets in the UAE. As expected, he sat me down for an interrogation on my observations of the company, its network of service stations, its people, and clients. But the sticky part of Ferdie’s questioning, was his insistence to know why I never learned how to drive.

Ferdie made sure that I returned to the United Arab Emirates many times in the first year, as Shell Markets was manifesting the same growth signs as Shell Lebanon next to whom I was based. My regular visits got me into very strange situations, like the time I arrived in Dubai with a confirmed booking to the Carlton Tower.

Middle East Airlines’ only flight to Dubai used to land at around 8:30 pm and by the time I cleared the long Immigration line, collected my luggage, and found myself a taxi, the clock was well past ten. Behind the reception desk was Farid Moujaes, a young Lebanese with whom I had become friendly as result of my frequent visits. Farid was obviously in one of his nasty moods, arguing with all the people that seemed to have been waiting and complaining about not getting rooms. Finally, when Farid managed to get to me, he explained in a very frustrated tone that the hotel was overbooked for the night and with no luck he had been trying to send people to smaller and lesser-known hotels. Farid apologized to me with an assurance that when he saw my name on the confirmed guests list, he had arranged a pillow, blanket, and towels to be put at my disposal for me to sleep on one of the sofas in the hotel lobby.

There I found many other confirmed guests, so we ended up having a memorable night spent in a competition of complaints which gradually changed to a parade of jokes and laughter. In the morning we had the lobby washrooms at our disposal, and this signaled my visit to Shell Markets starting on an unpleasant note. After an hour at Shell Markets’ HQ, the entire building seemed to have heard about my previous night’s ordeal, so Johnny Theodory gave me his home phone number and asked me to call him if I ever faced the same situation again.

And it happened again after a couple of weeks as there was a real shortage of hotel rooms in Dubai at the time. I called Johnny, who was living in a two bed-room studio on the roof of what used to be the Philips building, as it had a huge Philips neon sign installed on its rooftop. Johnny told me that he would keep the door to his studio unlocked to allow me into his sitting room. He had company in the bedroom and asked me not to switch on the light until he signaled the “all clear”.

After an hour, Johnny saw his guest out and helped me lay a bed sheet on the sitting room sofa, where I slept. I was awakened by Johnny’s voice coming from the balcony. When I stepped out, I saw him with a mug of coffee in one hand and a walkie-talkie held to his ear. I quickly returned to my sofa-bed as I realized that he was having an intimate chat with his previous night’s guest.

While driving to the office, Johnny explained that the lady was a singer at the Al Bustan Hotel night club which was within the walkie-talkie range from his balcony, and as they only had a public phone in their dorm, Johnny arranged for her a walkie talkie from Shell’s inventory.

During my frequent visits to Dubai, I became very friendly with Shell Markets’ marketing manager; a young Englishman named Barry Ingledew. Barry wanted to visit Oman for the first time and asked me to accompany him. He needed my support for introductions to the owners of the Shell stations – who were mostly Arabic speakers – and obviously to complete my familiarization with their markets of operations. We ended up planning the trip together and we flew to Seeb Airport on a Gulf Air BAC 111 twin propelled aircraft that kept waltzing throughout the hour – long flight. My travel companion held to his armrests trying to show courage as the plane steeply plunged from one air – pocket to the second. I managed to give him a comprehensive brief about the Omani people and what to do and not to do when we got to our destination. An important part of my messages of wisdom was insisting on Barry not to eat, except what he sees me eating. He was categorically forbidden to eat anything else.

Oman turned out to be a fascinating experience to the young Brit who liked the black volcanic mountains, the sleepy fishing coves, the colorful turbans, and the decorative daggers that the Omanis hung on their chests, especially the Shell station owners, who dressed formally out of respect to welcome him.

After our working days were over, Barry and I walked through the old souk of Muscat. My companion fell in love with the smell of spices, the sounds of seagulls flying overhead that perfectly blended with the calls to prayer that were coming from the minarets of the many mosques that were scattered in and around the long-winding souk. He very much liked the old shop owners squatting amongst their bright colored fabrics and shimmering gold. In summary, the young visitor fell in love with the place and told me that he would like to visit again and again.

One day, we made time to visit the British Embassy which sat on the waterfront, as Barry had an old school friend employed there. The budding diplomat briefed us about the history of the Sultanate and how the residents of the capital had lived up until a few years earlier, within fortress – like walls and how they had to carry lanterns to help identify the peaceful people from the visiting pirates; after sunset.

On our last evening, the most senior of the station owners invited us to dinner at his house and I had to explain to Barry the important connotation of such an invitation and the etiquette that we should observe. We brought along the cake that our hotel’s room service prepared and went on our way at around seven.

Our host was there at the entrance surrounded by his brothers and young sons and, as we settled on the carpets and cushions that were laid for our visit on the patio, we were welcomed by the smell of burning frankincense. Barry later reminded me that the first time he had heard that name was at Sunday School back in England when he listened to the story of Christmas which introduced to the young English boy, the three wise men arriving to Bethlehem to present their gifts to the newborn Jesus.

We knew that dinner time had fallen upon us when the smell of cooking overshadowed the scent of burning bakhour, as the Omanis called it. This was followed by the sound of clapping, which made our host stand up and – assisted by his three sons – started taking the big trays of food from their mother and sisters who were not to be seen, since their area of movement seemingly ended around the corner from where we were still squatted.

The host served Barry first, using his right hand for digging in the pile of fatty rice, forming his hand full into a ball which he placed in Barry’s plate and topped the rice with chunks of goat meat. I was impressed that Barry used his right hand – as well – to eat as I had taught him and seemed to enjoy everything that he tasted, after looking at me in anticipation of my wink or nod of head, as if those secret gestures were the green light that he kept anticipating. The dinner was quite a lengthy ceremony accompanied by jokes told in broken English by our host, the father of the family, and punctuated by the translation of one of his sons who seemed to be the most fluent in English.

At the last clap, I looked from my vantage point towards the source to see one of the young daughters, who seemed to forget the no crossing line, carrying a large metal plate covered with a black heap of food. Just before she handed it to her brother, the two hands of the elderly invisible mother waved above the plate causing what looked like a swarm of flies, covering the sweet jelly, to fly away.

As the father dug his fingers in and started serving us, I made a loud fuss in apologizing on the pretext that we had already stuffed ourselves, thanks to his generous hospitality. I repeatedly apologized while simultaneously nodding my head – with a NO, NO gesture – hoping that Barry would notice. Regretfully Barry was so immersed in the conversation that he missed the warning sign. He ate all the jelly that was put in his plate and complimented the great sweet taste.

When we met at the lobby of the hotel early the next morning, to check out, I noticed, the very pale face of Barry. During the drive to the airport, he did not mention a single word as he looked to be having problems holding his bowls with a tortured expression on his face. Then, when we finally boarded the BAC 111, Barry dashed to the toilet, and I kept seeing the Ethiopian air hostess banging on the toilet door – on take-off and – throughout the flight back to Dubai. She even called the co-pilot who came and had a curt conversation with the occupant of the toilet, but to no avail.

Weeks after this experience Barry and I coined a new class for travel with Gulf Air, not Y nor F, but T.