I knew it was going to be just one of those days when I should have stayed in bed once I started out by hiring a car and then couldn’t work out how to start it. It was downhill from there.
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| The pearl monument, Bharain’s original industry, with the financial district behind it | |
It’s my last day in Bahrain and I decide to explore the desert interior of the country; at least what little there is - as the country comprises only a few small islands, half-a dozen of which are joined to provide enough room to live on, where there are no oil wells, gas pipes, refineries etc.
I’m still feeling groggy because of the flu but figure I will be sitting down in a car, so that’ll be OK. Anyway, the bloke from Budget Car Rental arrives and drives me to their depot - the only car hire in town that has a car for hire (and its cheap because as the girl explained “we’ve only got one old Toyota left. It has done 60,0000 kms and is due to be replaced as its got some bashes in it. Will that be OK sir?”). Yes, it does have a few dents and scratches. In fact, I can’t find a panel which doesn’t have a mark on it. No matter, make sure all are marked on the contract. I get the keys, he goes back to his office and I’m off. Except that the stupid thing won’t start.
I leave the keys in it and go back to the rental office and ask them how to start the car. They look at me as if I’ve got two heads.
But the bloke comes with me to the car, gets in and it starts straight away. What did he do? “You have to put your foot on the brake when you turn the key,” he says. Oh yes, I remember having been told that once, when I hired a car in Melbourne and couldn’t figure out how to start it. I blame the flu for my forgetfulness.
OK, got that figured out and I take off. As I head down the freeway, I cleverly remember to check the fuel gauge: less than a quarter of a tank. As I don’t fancy getting stranded in the desert, so I look for a petrol station.
Oil is elusive
Now, in Bahrain, or any other Mideast country, you would think that would be easy. After all, oil literally jumps out of the ground everywhere, which is why we are now paying US$100 a barrel. 20 minutes later, I’ve driven round and round in circles. I’ve been in and out of suburbs, along freeways and done illegal u-turns when I thought I saw a petrol station on the other side of the road (it wasn’t; just a billboard advertising a petrol company). And my flu is getting worse, my stress level is approaching that last seen in my old job and not a drop of petrol in sight.
Finally I spot a petrol station down a side road, but only after I’ve passed the intersection. Another U-turn and I pull in and ask the attendant to fill it up. I figure out how to open the petrol cap. Damn, its on the opposite side of the car to the attendant. So I reverse and change sides.
I decide to stretch my legs and buy some water from the shop but can’t extract the keys from the lock. As I fiddle with it, the hazard lights start blinking. Now what have I done? Fiddle some more and they stop but the key remains stuck.
By this time the attendant has finished filling the tank, so I ask him “Do you know how to get the key out?” I get another look as if I have two heads. He gets in the car and quicker than you can say “keys”, he has them out and is handing them to me.
How did he do that? “You have to put the gear shift in park and press the brake,” he says. Of course I knew that. Blame the flu.
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| The first oil well in Bahrain | |
The rest of the morning goes reasonably well (pun intended). I head into the desert, find the oil museum and first oil well on the Arabian peninsula, take a few photos, head across the causeway to Saudi Arabia (you are allowed half way across the 42 km long causeway to an island in the middle, where there is an observation tower), take a few photos and then go looking for burial mounds.
The guidebook says “you can see them from the highway, but can’t reach them from there. Take XYZ exit and just follow the signs.” OK, I see them. I find the exit. But there are no signs. I get myself hopelessly bamboozled in the sreets and alleyways of the village of Sar (only two streets have names). After an hour of driving in and around Sar as well as across the country, kicking up clouds of sand and ending up in dead-end side streets back in Sar, I give up, retrace my steps and settle for the view as I whizz by on the highway (no stopping allowed).
Finally dusk is falling, the day is over and I have to catch the flight to Qatar. It is leaving at 30 minutes after midnight and will arrive at 1.10 a.m. I’m still feeling lousy and figure I might as well just go to the airport.
I get to the airport at 8.30 pm, drop off the car and by 9.00 pm, I’m at the check-in counter. It’s probably the first time in my life that I am at the airport early...and the check-in girl behind the counter smiles sweetly and tells me the flight is delayed.
“How long a delay?”
“4 hours and 5 minutes,” she says, still smiling.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Pardon sir?” she says, still smiling and not understanding my expression.
Bloody hell, I can’t believe it. I’ve now got 7 hours and 35 minutes to wait until it leaves at 4.35 in the morning. And all I want to do is get to Qatar, go to bed and kill this flu.
I ring the hotel in Qatar and tell them I will be arriving late and request them to rechedule the free airport pick up until 5.30 next morning.
Then I settle down in one the departure lounge chairs - as far away as possible from the speaker blaring the muezin call to prayer and spend another night in an airport somewhere in this world. Yes, I should never have gotten out of bed.
Finally, 4.00 am comes around. No sight of boarding. 4.35 comes and goes. Eventually we start boarding at 5.00 am. It’s only a short hop and we touch down at 6.00 am.
Qatar immigration turns out to be nearly as slow as that of Kuwait. One hour and five minutes later (7.05 am), I’m finally through and walk out to meet my transport but there is no one there. I ring up the hotel and am told “He left at 7.00 am. after waiting over an hour.”
Arrrgh!!!
But the hotel came through. They had another driver picking up someone else so he came and found me. (No, I don’t know what happened to whomever he was supposed to pick up).
I get to the hotel, check in and promptly go to bed at 8.00 am.
