by R. A. Lang
As it happened, this wasn’t the last I’d see of Wi, as I discovered five years later in December 2012.
Chapter 19
Second Time in Qatar
In January of 2008 I mobilised to Qatar. The Qatar contract came at a perfect time; plus, I got the opportunity to see Izhar again. I was looking forward to seeing him again so I was able to contract him for his unique computer database skills, working directly under me.
The company I was working for were struggling to create a mechanical completions database that they had committed themselves to in their contract, so the only chance they had of completing it was Izhar. They had turned my offer down to rent my own Q-Pack database, which was already a well proven system.
The first few weeks were spent sleeping in our assigned apartments in Doha, before our rooms were ready on the site camp in Ras Laffan. We needed to leave very early in the morning to start work at the site office, which was an hour’s drive out into the desert. It was a boring drive as there was nothing of interest to see along the only road, at that time, to and from the site.
The social life in Doha was fine with its Rugby Club, European Club, and very nice hotel bars and restaurants; there wasn’t anything to do out in the desert. Senior management had made all the usual assurances, much like politicians, but nothing ever materialised once you were out there. With no television channels, no Internet and no other facilities, time went very slowly. The canteen didn’t cater for Europeans either, so it was curry three times a day, or starve.
Soon the summer came along so all the mosquitos left due to the daytime temperatures, but the flies chose to stay, so you were never really alone. We were all required to wear orange coveralls all the while we were inside the site’s perimeter fence, including the office. As we returned back to the camp all dressed in the same colour to the rows of white containers, we realised it was an exact replica of the detention camp at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Razor wire was also included on the top of all the chain-linked fences, which prevented anyone getting in, or us getting out!
Soon, the day came when Izhar walked into the office reception, just as I was passing by. All the office staff started laughing because it was obvious Izhar and I were the very best of friends.
Again, Izhar made me proud. In return, I got him the maximum salary the budget would allow. I lost my temper with the project director negotiating for Izhar, because I am a firm believer that salaries should be based on capability, and not where you came from. I don’t agree with exploitation.
During our time living out in the desert camp, someone had mentioned that an Indian restaurant had been seen somewhere outside the site’s perimeter fence. One lunchtime, together with Kenny, the construction manager, I ventured out of the back security entrance of the Ras Laffan industrial complex and went to see for myself. Sure enough, in the middle of nowhere, someone had opened a restaurant.
It wasn’t much to look at from the outside, and even less from the inside. The food was prepared to order, as they had no idea when they would ever have a customer, so the wait was quite a long one. The outside temperature was around fifty degrees centigrade in the shade and the restaurant didn’t have any air conditioning. We had checked inside the kitchen before ordering and found the temperature was intolerable with the added heat from the gas cookers.
We were sure that much of the salty flavour was from the chef’s own sweat! The curry, however, was very good despite our surroundings. We arranged for the restaurant staff to have site entrance passes and deliver to our office every Thursday, so everyone could enjoy their food under the comfort of our office air conditioning.
I organised a desk for Izhar in my office because we had a lot of catching up to do; it had been quite a few years since Karachi. As part of my demands to my company, Izhar got his own private unit on our desert camp, like every manager had.
Managers were also assigned an apartment in Doha so they could escape the desert and enjoy city life whenever they wanted. Needless to say, there was a spare room for Izhar in mine. Izhar joined me in Doha a few times and made me proud to have him with me every time. Beer was not cheap in the hotel bars in Doha, but Izhar always insisted on paying his way even though I wanted to cover his turn.
I took a break after four months of living in the desert camp six nights a week and went to Thailand to meet up with two British friends in the same business.
They both lived in Pattaya, which was an hour and a half’s drive east of Bangkok. I’d always avoided going there up until then as it was a bit too much, with its thousands of bars. I preferred the quieter and more cultural areas of Thailand.
I met Neil on my first night at a bar we’d arranged. The last time I’d seen Neil was when we worked together in Tunisia on a gas plant. Neil entered the bar with one of his friends to whom he promptly introduced me. His name was Mark, and he was an electrical engineer in the oil and gas business and also lived in Pattaya.
Together, we were later known as the three Alans. This is how that happened, as per Neil’s personal request for my story to be more complete!
One night we met up together and proceeded to go down Pattaya’s ‘walking street’, for a change of scenery. We had walked half way down the notorious street before deciding to take on some fluids. There wasn’t anywhere quiet down walking street so we walked into the first bar that looked okay.
The moment we entered the bar, the lady managing the establishment came hurriedly over to us and spoke to me first. In true Thai bar fashion she said, “Hello, what your name, where you come flom (from), please sit down, what you want to drink?” to which I replied, “My name is Alan, I come from England and I’ll have a beer please.” Next she turned to Mark and asked the same question. Mark replied, “My name is Alan, I come from England and I’ll have a beer please.”
The lady looked at us and said, “Two Alan’s … from England?” The best was yet to come. She turned to Neil and again, asked the same question. Neil replied, “My name is Alan, I come from England and I’ll have a beer please.” The poor lady looked somewhat distraught at our responses; hence, this night was the beginning of ‘the three Alans’ and we consequently rode into the sunrise.
Returning back to the bar I was staying above in Soi 13, I walked past a tattoo studio, which was still open at that time in the morning, whatever time it was. The same day, but in the afternoon, when I woke up, I faintly remembered something about promising the Thai tattooist that I’d return later to have the Chinese dragon and tiger tattooed on my back.
Not to disappoint the man, I returned to ask if I had seen him in the early hours that same day. As I entered into his studio he quickly showed me the artwork he had spent hours preparing for my tattoo!
If I was thinking more clearly I would have paid him for his time and trouble preparing the artwork and left, but instead, I wasn’t thinking at all. I blame the two other Alans for that!
Instead, I removed my T-shirt and lay face down on his tattoo bed. He started by shaving the hairs off my back and applied a thin film of gel before placing a tracing of his artwork on top of it. He then pressed it down firmly to transfer the ink from his tracing onto my skin as a guide to the pattern he had developed.
I was already thinking that it wasn’t too late to pull out, but instead, I fell asleep! Again, I blame the two other Alans, and still do to this day!
I woke up suddenly with the most gut-wrenching pain, similar to someone cutting through my side with a blunt chainsaw. Alans, I thought, wait until tonight! As it worked out, I didn’t leave the studio for ten hours, which took me past midnight so I went straight to my room with my back feeling like I’d slept on a BBQ. After two days the tattooist had finally finished the outline, so the next step was to colour it all in.
When I tried to return the next day, I couldn’t get out of bed as my blood had glued my back to the sheets. Together with the soreness I couldn’t move. Luckily, the room maid entered to clean my room and helped to painfully peel the colourful blood
stained sheet from my very sore skin. After I’d enjoyed my traditional Thai breakfast consisting of rice and chillies with some vegetables thrown in, I half-heartedly returned back to the studio for some more voluntary agony. Alans! I thought again.
After another nine hours of unadulterated torture, I stopped the tattooist, as I really couldn’t take any more pain for that day. The following three days were much the same until his not-so-handy work was finally over. I thought my friends were joking when they informed me that the tiger’s eye on my back was poking out of its head until someone took a photo to show me! Nobody could locate the end of the dragon’s tail either. Maybe that explained the tiger’s eye?
I often thought, if Wi had been with me, she would have prevented the entire escapade from taking place.
Back in Qatar, I wasn’t too happy with how the project was going because we were getting badly let down by our procurement department back in Paris, but taking the blame for them on site. One afternoon, an agent called to ask whether I’d be interested in a lead quality manager position back in West Africa.
My curriculum vitae was submitted and accepted, and I said goodbye to Qatar. I felt a little guilty for taking Izhar from his family to work for me and then leaving him alone, but I had a hidden agenda which I couldn’t explain to him at the time, as I didn’t want him to endure another disappointment if my plan didn’t work out.
Chapter 20
Ghana, Togo, Benin and Nigeria
In August of 2008, I moved to West Africa to take care of the quality assurance and quality control in Ghana, Togo, Benin, and Nigeria on a project that had been running for a few years.
Apart from the usual security problems in Nigeria, Ghana, Togo, and Benin were all fine as far as work locations go, whilst taking the usual precautions for that part of the world. The people were friendly, and it was reasonably safe to walk around, especially Ghana, where nobody really bothered me. English speaking Ghana was really rather safe to walk around, French speaking Togo needed some precautions, French speaking Benin additional precautions but it all stopped at the Nigerian border where my heavily armed escort would be waiting for me.
On the 14th September 2008, I started the long drive from Ghana to Nigeria to meet with our main contractor’s quality manager. Driving down through Ghana was a real pleasure as most of it was either bush or farmland. Spaced out along the road would be makeshift market stalls selling fresh fruit and vegetables etc., including barbeques selling bush meat.
When buying bush meat, it was not a good idea to enquire what the meat was. Rats were a popular dish, but the barbeques also hosted road kill, which might have been from the day before. Sometimes, both my driver and I would use these barbeques, but we didn’t seem to suffer from them.
Crossing into Togo, all English stopped as it was French speaking; the same in Benin. It would have been difficult to get lost, as there was only one main road from the Ghana / Togo border to the Benin / Nigeria border. The driving in that part of Africa left a lot to be desired. It seemed as though anyone could drive, and drive anything that had wheels. There was not any lane discipline and accidents were a daily event, sometimes terrible. On one occasion, a motorbike carrying gasoline from Nigeria was run over by a car.
The bike ended up underneath the car with the motorbike’s rider trapped in the wreckage, and the whole lot had caught on fire. The remains were still on fire as I drove past, which upset me for the rest of the day. I don’t recall a single trip driving through either Togo or Benin without seeing an awful road accident. It was as if a traffic jam wasn’t a reason to stop and motorbikes would continue to try to squeeze through impossible gaps between large lorries, only to end up crushed between them as they slowly continued to pass each other.
The borders were always a hive of activity and no less than chaos every time. To make them more congested, salespeople would line the narrow tracks trying to make a living, selling all they could carry. It was always the best time to change currency as one could negotiate the best rates, much better than the hotels.
In Togo, I would stay in a hotel in its capital, Lomé. I would only stay there for one night, as I would continue on my journey towards Nigeria the following day. It was a short drive before crossing the Benin border to spend another night in a hotel in its capital Cotonou.
All was fine until I reached the Nigerian border. I had passed through the Benin border without any issues, but as always, stress levels raised when it was time to pass through the Nigerian border officials. As usual, I remained in the safety of the car while my driver carried my passport to be stamped into the country. He returned after a few minutes, saying that they wanted to see my face to ensure the passport was really mine.
This I did, but they weren’t interested in seeing my face at all, but instead the colour of my money. They refused to stamp my passport until each of the five representatives had been ‘dashed’ in any currency I had on me. I tried to avoid making the payments, but after two long hours in the sun I gave up the fight; but I insisted they stamped my passport for a twenty-eight day visit. This they agreed so I was able to meet my armed escort and continue with my journey.
My armed escort was late arriving on that occasion, so due to my delay, they arrived just in time to safely escort me through the seventeen roadblocks to Lagos Bay. Once on the road, I always checked my rear view mirror to see if they were close behind me as they were instructed to be.
In Lagos Bay, the contractor’s quality manager who I’d travelled so far to meet was delayed by a few days, which forced me to stay three weeks instead of the two I’d planned for. The hotel complex was a great place to stay for anyone who liked sand, malaria and dengue fever carrying mosquitos and watching out for black mamba snakes, which were killed on a daily basis. There were also green tree snakes, so we avoided standing under the trees in case a snake mistook us for a chicken and dropped on us.
After I’d concluded my visit, three weeks had passed by the time I needed to return back the way I’d come. I also needed to visit our Benin and Togo sites en route to Ghana. My driver and armed escort arrived late as usual, but we eventually got on our way.
Once on the road to Benin, every car that came near my Land Cruiser was considered a direct threat. My escort would sound their siren to keep them away from me, as one of our guys was shot in the head and chest on 17th March 2008 on the same road. He was ambushed and sprayed with bullets just ten minutes from the Nigerian / Benin border.
With that in mind, I always became tense as I approached the very same border. This day, it all seemed too easy. All seventeen road blocks opened up when they saw my truck approaching at high speed and heard the escort’s sirens. The flashing blue and red lights were also a visual deterrent that I had an armed escort.
Once past the last checkpoint, we were home free, or so I thought. We had just a few easy kilometres to go before arriving at the Benin border.
I didn’t hear the shot fired, but my driver suddenly grasped his right arm with his left hand and almost rolled the Land Cruiser when he realised he’d been hit. I grabbed the steering wheel, but it was too late: we ploughed into the skinny trees at the side of the road, but at least my driver managed to stamp on the brakes.
My escorts were too far behind us to provide any protection, but they could see what was happening ahead. They were actually quite brilliant, even if they were late. They pulled over, positioning their Toyota Hilux to block any direct fire in my direction, and proceeded to return fire.
My driver only had a flesh wound and the shootout lasted for just ten minutes, but it felt a lot longer at the time. Once my escort had succeeded in controlling the situation, I felt more deafened by the sudden sound of silence than their AK-47s. There weren’t any additional casualties on my side, but I can’t say the same for the three ambushers.
Just another ten minutes took us to the Benin border, which was as far as my escort could take me, as they couldn’t cross the borderline. Their instructions were to wait there u
ntil I had cleared both the Nigerian and Benin border police desks before returning to their camp, back at Lagos Bay.
My Land Cruiser pulled up just before the borderline so my escort could still stand alongside my door for added protection. With a shot-out windshield and several other bullet holes, we looked like easy pickings for the mob around us. Several locals came rushing over to my truck shouting and demanding money. The situation didn’t look very good as more and more people came over to where I was.
Another of my guards, who had been patiently waiting in the Hilux, approached the guard standing alongside my door and handed him two more magazines for his gun, which he promptly slipped into a large pockets on his left trouser leg.
To encourage my protection, I gave the last of my Nigerian money to my escort and remained safely inside the Land Cruiser. My driver took my passport to the immigration officers as he usually did whilst I remained out of sight, as I must have been the only white man for miles around.
Five minutes later, my driver returned with a worried look on his face. He told me that the immigration officer wanted to see my yellow fever vaccination card. Surrounded by locals, I went over to the immigration officer and explained that my yellow fever card was still in Ghana. I told him that I didn’t know I was required to show it when exiting the country?
Then the big act started.
The Nigerian officer shouted at me and told me he could not stamp me out of the country without the card. I tried arguing that I was leaving the country, not entering it, so a yellow fever card shouldn’t matter anyway.
