Apart from the unusual 5.40 am Bahrain flight my journey was unremarkable, although I probably made my fastest ever crossing of the causeway from Saudi Arabia. I think that the border guards were stunned by the cold morning air, and checking the contents of my bags, or even my boot, was far too much trouble.
The three airpots I passed through today became progressively less efficient. Three hours before departure and there wasn’t a single check in desk open in Bahrain. Eventually an irritated airport manager dug out a few reluctant souls to man the desks about an hour before takeoff. Rubbing his eye and not making eye contact, my designated clerk told me that I was in the wrong queue. Obviously it was too much trouble and far too early to change the information displayed on the television screens. So, after spending two hours propping up the check in counter, I had to go to the back of a very long queue five five desks down.
I my new, and extremely slow moving, queue I met a Tunisian on his way home for Eid. A friendly chap, he told me about his work in a Saudi battery factory, a job that has kept him so busy that he hardly knows Saudi or even Bahrain, where he lives. “But my wife is happy here, and that is important”, he said with some pride. I bumped into him in Qatar too, that time standing in one of 5 chaotic lines trying to get to the transfer lounge. There I learned that he is doing a part time MBA at the University of Hull. Professors fly out to Bahrain once a month to deliver the course. I told him how much I had enjoyed my three years there.
I had expected the flight to Kathmandu to be be packed with returning migrant workers, but the cargo was predominantly European. The next seat on the plane was taken by a bald Frenchman with a walrus mustache of extravagant proportions. He spoke no English and I had to help him complete his language card as he couldn’t understand it. Sadly, I still found it impossible to engage him in conversation. I tried, well at least mentally, but the words just wouldn’t flow. I was reading Harry Potter in French and carefully kicked it under the chair so that he wouldn’t think that I was just being rude. I haven’t been in this situation with a language before. I was able to read his Le Figaro and the French edition of National Geographic over his shoulder, but unable to summon up the words from my memory to discuss our common trekking goal in Nepal.
Kathmandu Airport arrived at the end of a runway that must surely have been too short. The pilot slammed on the breaks so suddenly that without the tight restraints the majority of us would have been shunted onto the floor. Actually that is nonsense of course, for since when has there been sufficient space between the seats on an economy class flight for anybody over the age of 6 to slide between them.
The airport arrivals terminal reminds me of the one in Oman - small, clean and not particularly efficient.
On this trip I had decided to get my visa on arrival, just to see how easy it would be and to see if we could bring the kids this way in March. The queue wasn’t really long, perhaps 50 people or so, but with a complete lack of any computer system, the paperwork was done by hand. The officials were efficient, but the procedures were remarkably slow. The hour’s wait was made worthwhile by the immigration officials, jovial men who seemed genuinely pleased to see foreigners and welcome them to Nepal.
Once outside the airport I was regaled by touts wanting to find me a hotel or a taxi. Feeling like an experienced traveller I took a certain amount of pride in walking past them, aloof and confident. Outside the airport I spotted my name on a chalk board. Its owner must have recognised me from my photograph as he called my name and started walking towards me even before I had finished running the gauntlet of the touts. As we shook hands and started walking to his van, other men kindly took my bags. Of course, they had nothing to do with the company that was collecting me and they were quite insistent in their need for a tip. So ... not that experienced after all.
The three airpots I passed through today became progressively less efficient. Three hours before departure and there wasn’t a single check in desk open in Bahrain. Eventually an irritated airport manager dug out a few reluctant souls to man the desks about an hour before takeoff. Rubbing his eye and not making eye contact, my designated clerk told me that I was in the wrong queue. Obviously it was too much trouble and far too early to change the information displayed on the television screens. So, after spending two hours propping up the check in counter, I had to go to the back of a very long queue five five desks down.
I my new, and extremely slow moving, queue I met a Tunisian on his way home for Eid. A friendly chap, he told me about his work in a Saudi battery factory, a job that has kept him so busy that he hardly knows Saudi or even Bahrain, where he lives. “But my wife is happy here, and that is important”, he said with some pride. I bumped into him in Qatar too, that time standing in one of 5 chaotic lines trying to get to the transfer lounge. There I learned that he is doing a part time MBA at the University of Hull. Professors fly out to Bahrain once a month to deliver the course. I told him how much I had enjoyed my three years there.
I had expected the flight to Kathmandu to be be packed with returning migrant workers, but the cargo was predominantly European. The next seat on the plane was taken by a bald Frenchman with a walrus mustache of extravagant proportions. He spoke no English and I had to help him complete his language card as he couldn’t understand it. Sadly, I still found it impossible to engage him in conversation. I tried, well at least mentally, but the words just wouldn’t flow. I was reading Harry Potter in French and carefully kicked it under the chair so that he wouldn’t think that I was just being rude. I haven’t been in this situation with a language before. I was able to read his Le Figaro and the French edition of National Geographic over his shoulder, but unable to summon up the words from my memory to discuss our common trekking goal in Nepal.
Kathmandu Airport arrived at the end of a runway that must surely have been too short. The pilot slammed on the breaks so suddenly that without the tight restraints the majority of us would have been shunted onto the floor. Actually that is nonsense of course, for since when has there been sufficient space between the seats on an economy class flight for anybody over the age of 6 to slide between them.
The airport arrivals terminal reminds me of the one in Oman - small, clean and not particularly efficient.
On this trip I had decided to get my visa on arrival, just to see how easy it would be and to see if we could bring the kids this way in March. The queue wasn’t really long, perhaps 50 people or so, but with a complete lack of any computer system, the paperwork was done by hand. The officials were efficient, but the procedures were remarkably slow. The hour’s wait was made worthwhile by the immigration officials, jovial men who seemed genuinely pleased to see foreigners and welcome them to Nepal.
Once outside the airport I was regaled by touts wanting to find me a hotel or a taxi. Feeling like an experienced traveller I took a certain amount of pride in walking past them, aloof and confident. Outside the airport I spotted my name on a chalk board. Its owner must have recognised me from my photograph as he called my name and started walking towards me even before I had finished running the gauntlet of the touts. As we shook hands and started walking to his van, other men kindly took my bags. Of course, they had nothing to do with the company that was collecting me and they were quite insistent in their need for a tip. So ... not that experienced after all.
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