Westbound

A while after departing Cairo, my aircraft skirted Crete’s southern coastline. Allie and I had taken holidays on the island twice before, and I strained my eyes to see once familiar settlements. I didn’t have much luck, although the cool and aromatic Samaria Gorge was easy to spot.

At Malta Airport, our agent’s favoured taxi driver met me. As he drove me to my hotel, we found that we had something in common. When I told him about my eleven years in the British Army and RAF, he told me proudly that his father had been a NAAFI manager in the days when Britain still had a naval presence on his island. Between our ‘war stories’, I looked out of the car’s windows, trying to absorb as much as possible of the sights and sounds on offer. I fell in love with the island instantly. It was like meeting someone for the first time and feeling an instant attraction. It was more than just good looks though; there was a ‘chemistry’. Gone was Cairo’s distinctly Arab aura. Back was the more familiar Mediterranean feel of Athens, Crete and Cyprus.

However, Valetta’s buildings weren’t the off-white mishmash that was Limassol in 1994. During my drive into the capital, there was no sense of ill-considered or hastily-planted ‘concrete jungles’, or of jungle clearings filled with afterthoughts. None of the roads bore potholes or the hideous scars of sewer excavations. On the contrary, most of the buildings were made of yellow sandstone, similar to the type used in my home county in England. All of the structures seemed to conform to a plan too, the aims of which were a clever mix of functionality and aesthetics.

The very old buildings, evidence of Malta’s history, were majestic and the narrow streets between them were scrupulously clean. ‘Just what you’d want…’, I recall thinking, ‘…if you came here for your two-week summer holiday’. Just the kind of atmosphere that would make any discerning holidaymaker return year after year. The picturesque walkways in the centre of town complemented the smart shady courtyards so well. In these courtyards, elegant foreigners and locals sat outside together sipping coffee, in a scene reminiscent of the many European cities I’d visited. The blend of architecture and people seemed perfect.

Attractive pony-and-traps stood on various corners. Apart from offering ‘once in a lifetime experiences’, their hidden purpose was to lure weak-minded holidaymakers into parting with their hard-earned savings. This much resembled Cyprus, only the revenue-earning seemed more subtle and easy to accept. Only those punters who shopped around and bargained hard seemed to enjoy their rides along the steep-sided lanes that ran up and down the city’s hills.

Our agent’s office was in one of these lanes, somewhere in the old quarter of town. Having dismounted the cab, I followed the taxi driver. I recall turning sharply off the wafer thin pavement, and entering a small lobby where it soon became apparent that I had to climb quite a steep staircase. On entering the office, the agent apologised politely for not having met me at the airport and asked if I would like something to drink. Whilst sipping cold orange juice over the coming hour, I formed the opinion that he was a proficient, honourable and hospitable businessman. We got on well.

Our discussion focussed initially on administrative matters to do with my employer’s contract in Libya. The tone of the meeting was friendly and constructive, and we clarified several procedures through frank discussion. Clearly though, the agent’s main concern was with some outstanding invoices. None was particularly large or horrendously late in payment. However, his disquiet was great enough for me to think it necessary to telephone Cyprus and inquire about our position. I’d performed similar tasks on numerous occasions before, for numerous suppliers, as a project manager for numerous employers, on some huge and important contracts.

Our agent appreciated the speed of my action and invited me to a meal later that evening with his wife, at a restaurant overlooking the harbour. The food and the company were excellent, and the seafood was better than any I’d experienced before.

On my arrival at the agent’s office the following morning however, it was clear that the nature of our relationship had changed, for the worse. Overnight, a fax had arrived from Cyprus. The communication had made it clear to the agent that I was not authorised to discuss any financial aspects of any business arrangements between the two companies. In short, it implied that I was much more of a messenger boy than a trouble-shooter.

The fax took a minute to read. The words were blunt and crafted crudely. In that time, the rapport I’d built so carefully with the agent, over many weeks before my trip by telephone, and many hours the day before in person evaporated. I was furious, livid in fact. Was this what the Chairman meant by the phrase, ‘assist management,’ in the original job advertisement? This fax was not his work, I felt sure.

Never, in all my years of military and commercial success, had I been so publicly humiliated by an employer, in front of a supplier or customer. The fact that the agent’s staff, as well as the agent himself, had read the fax compounded my emasculation. Apparently, everyone in Malta had been giving me much too much regard, it seemed. Apparently, I was an impostor, who was not really entitled to chauffeured cars, nice hotels, lengthy meetings or flashy meals, since I didn’t even have the remit to ‘chase’ a few outstanding invoices. Perhaps the agent and his staff thought that I was secretly laughing to myself about their mistake. I knew that I wasn’t, and that I wasn’t on an ego trip either. I’d earned the right to the respect they’d been giving me up until now, a long time ago.

This, I knew, was not the way to conduct successful business in the long term. In my experience, managers had to trust and respect their staff, however junior. These members of staff, in turn, had to trust and respect their managers. The fax destroyed that trust in an instant. The whole incident was not a good omen and, for a few minutes, I sat shamefaced in the agent’s office, immersed in immense anger. I felt like flying back to Cyprus that afternoon, packing my suitcases and returning to the commercial sanity of England. In retrospect, I probably should have done.

Slowly, slowly my embarrassment wore off though. During my officer training courses at Sandhurst and RAF Cranwell, earlier in my life, I’d proved my resilience. My ‘skin had thickened’ and I’d learnt how not to quit when life got difficult, or things went wrong. During the eight years in industry since leaving the RAF, I’d developed my sense of ‘professionalism’ too, and I wasn’t going to abandon that either.

Consequently, after an hour, I’d regained my composure and determination to make my trip overall a success. If needs be, I’d do it alone, without recourse to my employer’s office. I certainly didn’t feel inclined to refer any other issues back to Cyprus, in case I received further faxes that damaged my dignity, credibility and self-esteem. No matter how irate I felt inside, I knew that I couldn’t let my real feelings show to colleagues or customers whilst I was in the ‘field’.

I wouldn’t have blamed the agent if he’d asked me leave his offices straightaway, and to take a public bus down to the sea port, rather than presume another ride in his taxi. He wasn’t at all curt or impolite though. Instead, he sensed my acute embarrassment and I could only hope that he knew it was ill deserved. With magnanimity he offered me a towel from his home to use on my trip, since I hadn’t thought to pack one, and sent out for provisions to make my forthcoming boat journey more comfortable. He’d sailed to Libya from Malta on many occasions and knew of its privations. From personal experience therefore, he advised me to arrive early at the port, although curiously he didn’t explain why.

Having calmed down fully by this time, but still feeling like a little boy who’d been sent out to do a man’s work, I said a bashful goodbye to the agent and his young personal assistant. Not surprisingly perhaps, the agent had another appointment that would prevent him seeing me off at the quayside. Instead, his favourite taxi driver would convey me to the check-in desk at the ferry terminal. Half an hour later, I’d be handing over my ticket and clearing Maltese customs.

Emerging from the customs shed around noon on Friday 1 July, and turning right along the dockside as instructed by the agent, I saw the top deck of a boat in the middle distance, peeping over some rooftops. It was a familiar scene in some ways, resembling a walk to a ‘RO-RO’ ferry that I’d taken to Calais in 1974, as a scruffy student on his way to Greece for the first time. However, for some reason, this scene didn’t resemble much my walk to a luxury liner that my family and I had taken twenty years later, en route to our first holiday in Spain via Plymouth and Santander.

Indeed, from what I could see, my next hotel was somewhat tatty in comparison to the multi-starred splendour of previous nights on my trip. Hence, the first phase of my journey, the one with lavish quantities of fresh clean towels and first class food, was over. Phase Two was going to be a tad more austere.