Airports, a memory.

I started this short post in France. The temperature in the departures at Toulouse was close to 35 degrees and all seemed to be dressed for the beach. Why I was wearing a linen suit is beyond me, but I do recall from the Gulf that wearing layers actually keeps you cool.

However, last week on leaving Toulouse-Blagnac airport, I was confronted with an hour or more queue at the passport control. I was worried of course about the timing but like all good British people, one never voices a complaint. In general we, the British accept the queue system and so slowly like a huge slithering beast we all swayed towards the passport officer. There was only officer on duty and although our faces reddened in the glass covered atrium like tomatoes in a green house, we awaited our turn for emigration checks generally in silence, let’s not mention Brexit!

It was very hot now, yet no one complained; yes a few tattooed and yoga clothed types did tried to bust the wait by announcing they were on their way to Fez, the order was in most ways respected. By the way, Morocco as a destination? I can’t understand why as I was mugged there once!

However I stood diligently and thought and I lapsed into a sort of day dream, as often happens with me, and I started to recall some of the bizarre airports that I had visited and how I had spent time waiting for delayed flights and sometimes for no flights that were supposed to materialise (thank you Kuwait).

In no particular ranking these are my mental images, the smells and sights from my time in the Middle East at a couple of places over various time episodes. Before I start, my secretary (yes we all had one in those days) always did a fabulous job arranging an ever shifting travel schedule and perhaps at the time I did not recognise the work enough, so thank you Rebecca, you know who you are! Many is the time I called from the once powerful Blackberry™️ or Nokia™️ mobile, attempting to change a time or flight!

Damman Airport aka The King Fahd International, Saudi Arabia: This was 1998. Just an hours drive from the playground of Bahrain, this decaying airstrip was a good starting point for business meetings in the East of Saudi Arabia with Aramco, SAAD Investments and the occasional Sheikh before taking another shuttle to the interior.

If you ‘google™️’ this airport today, my description is not what I recall!

The concept of duty free especially the dreaded alcohol that we yearned for had not reached Damman or Saudi Arabia or as some called it the Magic Kingdom. Apart from a bookstall selling Korans and some very dated Wild West paperbacks there was not much else. There were a few nuts and raisins in shrink wraps and Pepsi (no coke due to the embargo on Israel) and all collected dust while the Indian stall holder dozed listening to Holy verses on a boom-box.

Once I brought the Chairman of the bank where I worked here and not only were we down-graded (this could only happen in Saudi) but his horror of using the bathroom facilities (crouch and don’t let anything touch the floor) finished off my chances of promotion.

However nothing seemed to happen in the departure area and the windows were always dirty and the views not worth seeing anyway. During the wait, the call to prayer often reverberated and at that, all stalls were closed and religious police watched sternly to see that we too were contemplating our existence. No one ever spoke, but there was the noise of the swish of brooms pushed very slowly by bored immigrant workers who worked up and down the largely deserted hall.

Planes swept in and alighted returning pilgrims from the Haj, all wearing towels and carrying plastic bags groaning with goodies from the souks in Medina and Mecca. The sunlight that was forced through the windows burned the floor marble to a nice frying temperature and so the gaggle of expatriate bankers stared disconsolately at departure boards, scribbling up their call reports and just hoping their plane would arrive. Our white shirts soon became brown collar stained and the Hermes ties which we all wore, dropped lower along with our spirits.

There was no lounge of course and no coffee or anything. Time was of no concern to the authorities and it weighed on us.

Kuwait International: After the first Gulf War, we bankers and engineers needed to get back to our clients and hoped that we could rekindle the relationships. Kuwait was an important place, easier to do business in and I had lots of friends there. The names like PIFSS, Al Bander Investments, Bebahani and the Central Bank of Kuwait were the companies that I nurtured.

The arriving planes banked over Kuwait City passing through oil wells aflame with spurting plumes of black smoke. The whole country looked black and in cinders and even the approach to the ground was difficult as the pilot negotiated a path through the dark haze.

The airport it self had largely been looted and a few aircraft were just left as charred corpses straddling various aprons. But once through the passport gate a small semblance of order had been restored and that included a lounge for those lucky enough to turn left on the plane. How that was often justified is a mystery but at least the bank shareholders never found out.

All I recall of the lounge was that you had to sweep through a type of Bedouin curtain to reach an air-conditioned sanctuary, where although still no alcohol was served, Pepsi™ and chicken hot dogs sufficed. It was always packed especially one late afternoon when the lure of Bahrain was especially enticing, all flights were cancelled for 8 hours.

That is when and where I learnt to play bridge and abandone my tie while travelling!

Dubai International, UAE: Towards late 2010 and beyond, my bank which I loved had been bought out by HSBC™; they buy everything in the end and rather than trips ‘east’ there was much more proper overseas travel that needed to be done, whether it was all necessary is a mute point!

The holy grail of us over-worked bankers was to have the Emirates Gold card, no budget airlines for us, masters of all we did! And that card opened up a world of limousines that collected us from our gated residences, whisked us in comfort to a special gate and then the very special lounge. It was packed with heavy sweating bankers, tucking into hearty breakfasts with wine, beer and champagne, probably all three! I still think we all turned up far too early but our self-importance needed to be fed!

Glamorous hostesses who could have models shimmied around us, picking up discarded plates, offering yet more alcohol so when the plane was eventually called I am sure a few did not even know why they were ushered out into the masses in the terminal that by the way also had an Irish Bar, of course it did!