Sharon and Jacques’ Excellent Blog

Before you all think I’m completely off my rocker for going for the weekend, let me explain how we came to pick Kuwait as a vacation destination.

When Sharon was doing her MBA, she made friends with a fellow classmate called Avon who happened to live down the street from us in Mississauga. Sharon and Avon suggested that we all get together and have a few drinks at our place so I could meet her husband, Neil. Neil is a very large Scotsman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Shrek. We drank martinis that night until about 4 AM and became firm friends. Neil has worked all over the world as a construction project manager and he was offered a position in Kuwait and before you can say “Wha…..”, they had sold their house, packed up the 3 kids and moved to Kuwait. An invitation was extended to come visit them if we happened to be in that part of the world.

The day finally came when we decided to head back to Toronto and along with that comes all the thoughts about what else we should be doing before we head back. Visiting Avon and Neil was high on the list. Our friends, Mike and Sally suggested that we fly Al Jazeera, as it was a good discount airline. Sharon purchased some tickets on the Internet for next to nothing, the return flight for 2 people costing about $200 CAD.  (SG:  Yes travel girls strikes again!  Able to find discount tickets with a single keystroke so as to harass unsuspecting friends).

Like most North Americans, I thought Al Jazeera was this shadowy news station broadcasting out of the Middle East terrorist propaganda. (SG:  Kill all the infidels!)  I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s basically CNN in the middle East. For their English language service, they hired away reporters from CNN and the BBC. The only difference to their news reporting is that they cover in depth the Middle East and look at the world with a decidedly Arabian bias.

Our flight was out at 8:00 AM so of course we had to be out at the crack of dawn on Friday.  (SG:  I despise early mornings).  Friday and Saturday are the weekends in this part of the world. We had pre-arranged a taxi to pick us up, a very resourceful Indian called Amjad who was Mike’s preferred taxi driver.

For those that know me, they will tell you I might be just a bit anal about time in general and it gets worse with airports. (SG:  A bit?!?  His phase anywhere we go is “When are we leaving?”  We just got here!  Jacques owns 8 watches by the way.  You should see him spend 4 hours changes clocks on daylight savings days!)  After just about missing our flights in Phuket because a friend had said we didn’t need that much time, I was determined to get to the airport at least 2 hours before the flight left. We had arranged for Amjad to pick us up at 5:45 AM to get the airport for 6 AM.  (SG:  And there is NO Tim Horton’s on this side of the world.  Sacrilege).

We packed our one suitcase. (SG:  What do you mean “WE”.  He watches me pack!)  I can never travel light so I also took a camera bag and my laptop just in case we had to work on the Internet. Mike and Sally still didn’t have Internet at home after 7 weeks so it was a novelty to be in a house that had it again. I imagined leisurely surfing waiting for everybody to get up. We left the house, causing the 3 dogs, 2 cats and a vicious killer kitten called Gucci that was the newest member of the menagerie to start barking and howling in unison just to ensure that the Loubser family got a good morning’s sleep.

We stood outside the villa’s front gate. All the houses typically have 3m walls around them so we could better watch for Amjad. As the appointed time ticked on, I got more and more tense. At 6:00 AM, I couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled out my cell phone and instructed it to call Amjad using Voice Command. Of course, Voice Command wanted no part of that and kept giving me a distant acquaintance that I had met once on a trip 10 years ago.  Note to self, clean up my contact list so that I can call Indian cab drivers with less aggravations. I manually typed in his name and press talk. A few seconds later, a thick Indian accent answered.

“Amjad?”

“This being Amjad”

“Where are you, you were supposed to be here at 5:45 AM and its now 6:00 AM. I don’t want to be late for my flight.”

“I be there very soon, I am just round the corner. Less than 5 minutes.”

“Excellent”, I said and hung up the phone.  (SG:  I laughed and fell back asleep on the step.   Amjad did not say which corner).

One of the cultural quirks of Indians in this part of the world is that they always say what you want to hear and don’t let a little thing like the accurate details get in the way. Another 10 minutes passed and I could actually hear my blood pressure singing in my ears. We were now 25 minutes late getting to the airport. A few minutes later, Amjad appeared with his shiny Dubai Transportation cab. All cabs are clean, have modern electronics and quite often video screen displaying ads for the local cell phone carriers or that latest hair brained property scheme. He apologized profusely. Between his accent and rapid speech all I got was that there was a problem going over a bridge.

We loaded up and headed out, my precious camera bag and laptop clutched tightly to my bosom.  Amjad was bound to make up the time he had lost and he fairly hurtled down the road and onto the highway. At the best of times, the cab drivers aren’t a conservative lot when it comes to driving as the local Arab drivers take a sign of weakness as an invitation to harass and generally scare the living crap out of you. As we drifted across 5 lanes of highway traffic, I was thrown into Sharon as the lateral g-forces exceeded my bums ability to stick to the seat even loaded down with my precious technology.  (SG:  I fell asleep again, less stress).

I scrambled back into my seat and frantically searched for the seat belt buckling it up with a vengeance. I tugged it down to secure it even further as while I like Sharon a great deal she tends to be a bit prickly in the morning and liable to bite. In these types of situations (like Sharon driving in Thailand for example), I have found the best survival strategy to be to stare out of the side window and admire the scenery. Concentrating on the road ahead just lets me see death hurtling at me in 8 different ways and makes me get a tad tense.

After about 15 minutes of 3G driving, we started approaching the airport and told Amjad we were flying Al Jazeera. He wanted to know what terminal, we had no idea and Sharon tried explaining that we had an e-ticket. We rocketed into the airport departures deck and Amjad plunged the car into other cabs and cars offloading people, flung the door open and smiled as if to reinforce the fact that he had gotten us here in time. I opened my door and put my leg out to get out and then noticed that my leg was feel a bit weak from the unexpected pooling of blood caused by too much lateral acceleration. I covered by pulling out my wallet and fiddling through the notes looking for the correct fare plus a tip suitable to the ride finding that I had to admit he had tried hard. I passed the money off to him and a smile lit his face as tips are as rare as booze in

1. The check-in gate closed 1 hour before the flight left. If you didn’t check in, they didn’t give a rats ass and wouldn’t give you back your money or put you on the next flight either.
2. The planes always left on time. If you weren’t on the plane, tough luck. See point 1 for getting your money back or next flight.

As I was standing pondering this firm policy, it occurred to me that many of the security provisions we live with in the West really didn’t apply in this situation. It was really unlikely that a terrorist would blow up an Al Jazeera plane. What would be the point? They could leave on time because they didn’t have to pull suitcases like other carriers did. I started to admire their straight forward approach to timeliness wondering how I could adopt a similar style to project management.

We rapidly checked in and then wandered around a bit looking for the gate. The gate was miles away of course. We hadn’t eaten breakfast and I was really hankering for a Tim’s Iced Cap but the closest here was an airport Starbucks. We head off the gate hitting no less than 4 moving sidewalks. I asked Sharon what gate it was and she said 10. 10 was at the very end of this never ending arm. I saved my strength and went on the moving sidewalk.

The only good thing that I could see about gate 10 was that there was a Starbucks close at hand so I joined the line. One of the things that pisses me off about this part of the world is that they don’t line up like good Canadians and frequently push in or just walk all over. After the second person shoved Sharon into my back bypassing the line, I approached it with more of a rugby forward and blocked further attempts to get round me.  (SG:  Note to short people;  always let tall people block for you).

We ordered and started guzzling the combination of sugar, cream, caffeine and flavor. I wandered off to the gate and looked at the sign, noticing it was for Air <something really long that I don’t quite remember> heading for Mumbai. I called Sharon over and asked her if this in fact the correct gate. I thought we were supposed to be at gate 4 based on my quick scan of the boarding cards but being the male, I wasn’t allowed to carry anything other than technology or heavy bags. (SG:  And clean up the kitty crap and take out the garbage). Sharon pulled out the ticket and back we went to gate 4. We only had to go along 3 moving side walks to get back. 

I sat around in the boarding lounge and checked out my fellow travelers. I rapidly came to the conclusion that Kuwait was not a tourist destination as all my colleagues were either Indian or Arabs in traditional clothing. Sharon and I were the only western couple on the flight.  (SG:  Every time someone calls me western I keep thinking of cowboy hats and feel like yelling Yee Ha!)

The flight called to board and off we shuffled. We elected to carry on our one bag, smaller than either my laptop bag or my camera bag. (SG:  That is because I packed it).  When we got to our assigned seat, I took the outside aisle being somewhat larger than Sharon. She groused that she always got stuck in the middle. I said that the window seat was empty and she could move when we got underway. I stashed our bags and took up the entire overhead bin.

I settled in to read an e-book when along came a very distinguished looking Arab. He politely stood at the entrance to the aisle and looked meaningfully at the window seat. Sharon nudged me and told me to get up. I extracted myself and we waited in the aisle while he seated himself. As I waited for Sharon to get into the middle seat she glared at me. She whispered that I was to sit next to the Arab and her tone brook no questioning. (SG:  I have found it is not a good idea to sit next to men in a dishdashi or monks).  I sat down next to the Arab and pulled out my phone and started playing a game. A few minutes later, I got bored with that and went back to reading an e-book after checking the time, weather and exchange rate in Kuwait.

Our Arab friend was watching me do this and not to be outdone, pulled out his large phone and started flipping buttons. Unfortunately, I don’t think he knew much about the phone other than how to make a call or send a SMS as he wasn’t able to get it to do much. I concentrated back on my book. About 2 minutes later, he started wriggling around in his seat frantically looking for something. He ran his hands up and down the arm rests and then looked at me.

I looked back trying to figure out what his problem was. Language wasn’t his strong point and I couldn’t figure out what he could need as we were being pulled backwards off the gate in preparation for takeoff. His seat belt was fastened and everything looked ok. I examined my armrests for clues and realized that this row of seats didn’t recline because we were 1 row ahead of the emergency exit row. I politely explained this to him in excellent English. Apparently the quality of the English doesn’t make much difference as he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

He started yelling and a stewardess popped up and looked at him. They exchanged some sharp words and he started to stand up. Sharon and I both stood up and exited the aisle as the plane was still moving. The gentleman was escorted to an empty row where he immediately reclined his seat as much as possible. I belted back in and off we went.

The flight was short and uneventful. It’s one of the great blessings of not traveling in Canada. Everything is close by and the flight was a little over an hour. I polished off my e-book and looked out the window as we descended into Kuwait. I was first struck by how desert coloured the place was compared to Dubai.  

I also noticed an absence of construction cranes in general. Again, Dubai has about 25% of the total world’s population of construction cranes all building massive buildings. The world’s tallest building, the Burj Dubai currently at 159 floors and counting has 2 cranes perched atop it working 7×24 hauling materials to the top. It surpassed the CN Tower mid-September 2007 as the world’s tallest free standing structure. It’s quite impressive but then Dubai is a little unreal… back to Kuwait.

We knew we had to get a visa so we exited the plane. I was pleased to note that my cell phone worked except for data (no emails for a few days what a shame). A check on my PDA using an application called Spb Travellers gave me exchange rates, local time, weather and host of other useful information.  (SG:  This message brought to you by Technology Guy, my hero!)

The visa area was reasonably well marked and we marched up to 1 of the 4 empty windows and presented our travel documents. A smartly dressed official in military style fatigues asked if we had a number. I looked around and noticed a number machine at the end of the counter. I apologized profusely for not understanding the need to get a number regardless of the fact that the place was empty and went over the number machine. I pushed the button and nothing happened. I pushed again. Same result. I then focused over the machine and noticed two gentlemen having what appeared to be an excellent looking nap. One man’s face was leaned back and his mouth open with a bit of drool running out. I cleared my throat and the other one opened and eye and looked at me. I pressed the button again and then pointed and shrugged my shoulder.  (SG:  That is the universal sign for “your machine is crap, please fix it).

He came over and pressed the button. Nothing happened. Pressed the button more firmly. Nothing happened. Really, really pressed the button hard. (SG:  That is the universal sign for “Tourists are idiots, and they interrupted my nap).  Same result. Tried several other indentation and knobs related to the construction of the device that didn’t look like moving parts. Nothing happened. He walked over the other man who was having the excellent sleep and yelled sharply at him and punched him in the arm. As expected, he woke with a start and looked around wondering what the panic was. This is Kuwait after all and somebody could be invading.

Arabic was exchanged rapidly and the sleepy man came over and repeated the series of hard button pushes with predictable results. 5 minutes had gone by and there was still nobody using the visa queues (SG:  They were all empty). He pulled out a screwdriver and opened up the cover and discovered it was out of paper. A roll of paper was obtained and fed into the machine, the cover closed, a test number generated and discarded and we were left on our own again to get a number.

I pressed the button and miracles, a number appeared. 98 to be exact. I noticed LED numbers at each window and walked over the gate and presented our documents. We were given forms to fill out which Sharon efficiently did. I’m banned from writing since my handwriting is so poor that it can’t read and it has been likened to a serial killers.

Visa and passports in hand we approached the customs and immigration line. Each line held about a dozen people each all appearing to be of Indian descent. Arabs walked straight through generally and had their own gate. We stood in line for about 5 minutes with the line not moving. There was a very officious looking army man wondering around grabbing passports and pulling out items such as tickets and other spurious travel documents that would make the customs people less efficient.

He spied us standing tall in the line (westerners are generally taller and whiter than Indians). (SG:  I am not taller).  He walked over to us and grabbed our passports and visa. He gave them a quick scan and then said something and Arabic and gestured at the gate. Not wanting to waste time, we picked up our bags and technology and headed off through the gate. Nobody stopped us as we moved through so I felt much better.

Neil was waiting on the other side of the gate to drive us to their apartment courtesy of a quick SMS message when we landed. The world outside of North American revolves around SMS not email. Generally handy if you have a phone with a keyboard or really like typing 5556633343334444 for hello. We exchanged hellos and I confirmed that Neil still looked like Shrek. We loaded off into his SUV and headed out the airport.

The cars were the typical middle Eastern mix of high-end SUVS, luxury cars and exotic cars with a wild mix of everything else thrown in the middle. I was amazed at the number of American cars that I saw as most places we had been to were dominated by Asian or German cars. Kuwait clearly remembered who came to their rescue or the Americans are selling their cars dirt cheap.

Driving was standard Arabian. In other words put your head between your knees and breath freely as all the other drivers feel that Allah is personally watching out for them so paying attention is not required. Cars drifted freely across the roads and roundabouts were standard Russian roulette. (SG:  Roundabouts should be named suicide circles.)  In you went and hoped that you made it out the other side. U turns are also the standard in this part of the world so it’s generally a chaotic scene.

We pulled onto the highway and I was a little dismayed to notice an absence of lines demarking lanes on the highway. It didn’t seem to phase the Kuwaiti’s as they roared in semi-orderly lines. Every once in a while somebody would come by going really fast. A charming little sign on the side of the highway read “Speeding the shortest path to death or jail”. A moments pondering made me again appreciate the Arab minimalist approach to signage while getting the point across. After about a 15 minute drive where I only squeaked once, we arrived at their apartment building and was ushered inside.

Avon was waiting to greet us as well as their children, Chloe, Zach and Rory ranging in age from 8 to 2 years. Rory was the baby girl and cute as a button. The other member of the family was Lady a 6-month old puppy of mixed large dog heritage. Lady was an interesting and from my point of view very entertaining dog. Every time the dog saw Avon, the dog pissed all over the floor.

The plan for the day was to go out the beach club and soak in some rays, entertain the kids then go out for dinner. Off we went to the beach club and it was very nice. Think large resort hotel with full gym and a nice private beach. Next to it was the world’s largest dhow that was part of a museum. We swam and generally frolicked. Sharon and Avon took the baby to the baby urine uhhh swimming pool while Neil and I went for a swim with Chloe and Zack.

After several enjoyable hours, I decided to pull out my camera and took a few snaps just to capture the atmosphere of the place as I am want to do in just about every situation. I snapped off exactly one picture before I was descended on by an Indian security guard that must have been hiding under my deck chair. “No pictures” he admonished. Chastised, I put away the camera and wondered what the big deal was.  The general consensus was that there were Muslims women wearing non-traditional garb (i.e. not covered head to foot, they do swim in bhurkas if you can believe it) and it was to protect their privacy.  (SG:  What Jacques doesn’t know is that I paid the Indian guy.  What woman ever wants a photo of her in a bathing suit.  And technology guys insists on posting his pics to the web).

That night we went out for dinner and had very nice sushi. All the restaurants featured an extensive drink menu that was expensive and had exactly the same name as regular drinks plus some very creative additions but sans alcohol. It was an interesting cultural study to watch the nightlife at a popular area. The collection of cars was to die for the scale of money in this part of the world has to be seen to be understood. How many Aston Martins have you seen in a year? Here they are a daily occurrence.

My most startling observation about Kuwait was the degree of Americanization. 90% of all the restaurants are American chains and if you love junk food, Kuwait is the place for you. They even have Krispy Kreme plus a few other chains I’ve never even heard of. The shopping malls were also typical of an American mall. (SG:  Well not all of them.  No Victoria’s Secret for example, but you will find La Perla).  After going through

Next day was spent getting everybody organized which meant that I had some quality time with a Nintendo Wii. Very interesting gaming system and I can see why it’s doing so well. The games are fun and easy to play and you don’t need a Phd in joystick control to get them to work nor do they have complicated maneuvers that require hours of practice to completely master. I own an Xbox 360 and I would trade it for a Wii. Nintendo’s market cap in Japan is now 2^nd only to Nissan according to a published news report all on the back of the Wii.

After the souk we went to the Kuwaiti tours the signature landmark. There are 3 architectural towers that are used for water storage that have a revolving restaurant and observation deck. There were 2 other western families doing a bit of sight seeing. The towers were picturesque and the restaurant offered a great view of the ocean and surrounds. Food was reasonable and quite good. We eventually headed home to Lady greeting Avon in the traditional manner. That evening Avon and Neil had a dinner party and invited some of the people that they had met. It was a fascinating group of people. I have to say that the people you meet in the expat communities are very interesting. By and large they are risk takers. One of the people was a consultant to the US Army teaching them desert survival and sniper skills. His view on the conflict was very telling and it echoed what people were saying about Vietnam. The military knew exactly what was going down but the politicos had tied their hands effectively making them fodder. I tried some sidiki and ended up quite sloshed at the end of the evening but I think it was more the scotch than anything else so I can’t comment on its ability to hurt.

The next day passed quickly enough and before you know it we were back to the airport to catch the flight back. We said goodbye to Neil, Avon and family and Neil kindly drove us to the airport. After a quick coffee we headed to the gate as I started twitching after not being able to get to gate 2 hours ahead of time.

We went through the 1^st stage of customs and all was good and efficient. We then got stuck in a queue of Indians and the minutes ticked by. (SG:  I encouraged Jacques to look big and white).  Another military looking man was making sure that the lines stayed orderly and you didn’t produce the wrong documents. He watched our plight for a bit then opened up a new line and ushered us over to the line. We moved over smartly to the new line and I felt much better about being up front. Several of the Indians that were ahead of us noticed this line injustice and immediately pushed in ahead of us. I was pissed off but didn’t have to act. The military guy who created the line started to turn purple he was so angry. A stream, of what I can only imagine to be vitriolic Arabic, was directed at the Indians along with rapid and threatening hand and arm gestures. Suitably chastised the Indians moved to the back of the line and we sailed through customs. Sometimes it pays to be a westerner in the middle East.  (SG:  Yee Ha!)

If there is a formatting problem, please blame the crappy blog software that I installed. It insists on taking a perfectly good Word document and retaining formatting that it feels is relevant and inserts and remove line breaks at will.