Shining Knights

Turning around to face the city centre, a number of taxi drivers accosted me, all desperate to take me somewhere, anywhere. Rescue was at hand though, in the shape of a wizened old man who shooed off the cab drivers and told me that he was my contact. I don’t know how he recognised me so positively, given the huge number of people milling about. Perhaps it was because I was the only ‘mad dog’ daft enough to be wearing long trousers, an ironed shirt and a formal tie in so much heat.

My knight in shining armour turned out to be a splendid chap. He’d worked for a European oil company for many years, as well as the American military in the days when they still had bases in North Africa. His English was excellent therefore, and it was obvious that he saw it as his personal mission to make sure that I was in the right place at the right time during my stay in Libya. In was nice to be treated with respect again, after the disrespectful treatment by my ‘head office’ in Malta and by ‘all and sundry’, just about, on the boat.

Having relieved me of my luggage, the man took me to his car. Having placed my bags in the boot and me in the passenger seat, he made an apology and walked back towards the customs shed. As I waited patiently for my escort to return, beneath a road flyover that offered significant shade, I slowly regained my composure. With the customs formalities over, I could start to focus again on the main purpose of my trip.

But there was a distraction: another man, this time dressed from head to toe in pure white flowing cotton. He looked different to man that I’d seen swathed in white in Cairo though. This one looked as if he’d just walked off the set of a Lawrence of Arabia film, where his garb would have been totally authentic, apart from the lack of a curved dagger in his waistband. This image was so surreal that it might have been a mirage. Why was someone so perfectly equipped for desert life sheltering with me under a modern concrete flyover near a port? I had to pinch myself to make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating. I wasn’t.

A short while later, the old man returned with a much younger man in tow. The younger man too was an employee of the chairman, hired to ensure that matters ran smoothly in Libya, particularly on the computer side. He’d also been looking for me, but had succumbed to the native distractions of coffee, conversation and cigarettes.

The old man turned the key in the ignition and the car sparked into life. We were off. Destination: the chairman’s offices in Tripoli. As we manoeuvred this way and that, orchestral Arab music wailed from the car’s loudspeakers. Clearly the violin, or an instrument very much like it, was an important contributor to Libyan songs. Uncoordinated with the music’s beat, our driver clicked the release button on the car’s hand brake. It was clearly a deeply ingrained habit. Four times in quick succession every two minutes, I timed it.

Outside the car, a host of new visual experiences demanded my attention. At one point, we passed what I assumed to be a butcher’s shop since, hanging on a hook above the pavement, was a severed bull’s head with fresh blood dripping conveniently into a nearby drain. There were less gory scenes on offer too, like the ramshackle tenements lining many of the roads. Constructed from a robust concrete frame, with ramshackle brick in-fills and an all-concealing screed, these drab dwellings contrasted strongly with the ornate and immaculate mosques.

The places of worship were spacious and neat. The tenements, on the other hand, were crammed together, with scruffy heaps of domestic rubbish in between. From the windows of almost every tenement floor, metre upon metre of unkempt washing flickered gently in the breeze.

About half an hour later, the car stopped. I got out, collected my document case from the boot and followed my escorts towards some stairs, negotiating carefully the many loose bricks and stones that lay in my path, in fear of twisting an ankle. Now was not the time to sustain a debilitating injury.

Looking about, I could see that the place the chairman used for business in the Libyan capital was located in a derelict tenement, like the ones I've just described, only with fewer floors. The fabric of this tenement was in need of attention, and there was some evidence that repair work had begun. The general feel though was one of a building site, abandoned when the builder ran out of money.

I was disappointed, to say the least, with what I saw. Instantly, I knew that I'd be very reluctant to take a potential customer or supplier there. The place would have created a bad impression, one much worse that our offices in Limassol, even on the smelliest of April Sundays. The tenement just didn’t convey the ‘right’ image to me, one that complimented the chairman, but then this wasn’t England I had to keep reminding myself.

Perhaps it was wrong to judge these standards against those I’d always held dear in my earlier business life. Perhaps the building was acceptable, given the context. Then again, perhaps my objective judgement was just what the chairman wanted. A frank appraisal of what needed to be done, from a Westerner’s perspective, to increase our profitability and success.

Several floors up, I turned right onto a long landing and then right again, in hot pursuit of my escorts. Passing through a wrought iron security gate, that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a drug dealer’s door, on some of Britain’s worst housing estates, I entered a small lobby before proceeding forward and entering the office proper.

Inside the second room, I found the usual administrative trappings, including an antiquated computer. On this venerable machine, a child was playing space invaders or a game very similar to it. Greeting the child in English and peering at the screen, we talked briefly about the graphics and the game play. He thought them wonderful, but I knew that Rob wouldn’t have given the amusement disk space in England. Yes, standards were different.

The Office Manager appeared from an adjacent room, after quickly finishing a telephone call, and introduced herself formally. Like my experience in Cairo, and initially at least in Valetta, I immediately sensed mutual respect, esteem and rapport. I must admit that I’d been concerned over the past twenty four hours about how I would be received in Tripoli, after the Maltese fax debacle. However, a kind offer of coffee followed the polite handshakes, and I sat patiently in an office chair awaiting its arrival.

As I did so, I scanned my surroundings, formulating a second opinion. There wasn’t much to see though in comparison with Cairo. The computer held centre stage, but I couldn’t help noticing its odd behaviour. The machine was obviously ill, the probable cause a virus eating away its data, or worse.

Over coffee, the manager asked me if our headquarters in Cyprus needed to know of my arrival in Tripoli. The offer took me by surprise and, fearful of a second fax implying that I was really the office ‘go-for’ on an ego trip, I declined. The headquarters staff knew that I was in Valetta two days ago, from my telephone call to them about the outstanding invoices, and the agent would have informed Cyprus if I had missed the ferry. The staff also knew that I would have been in touch with them, had my travel arrangements changed. Since no one had contacted Cyprus, to my knowledge, my colleagues there would assume that I was safely in Libya, and back on course to achieve my objectives.

We talked of many things, the office manager and I, including my own son’s love of computers, for the child playing space invaders was hers. I responded to the question, ‘And when did you last see your son?’ with a smile, since it reversed the title of the famous nineteenth century painting by Yeames: ‘When did you last see your father’. My hosts looked puzzled by my smile and, wanting to avoid a complicated explanation, I moved on quickly by saying: ‘A long time ago, unfortunately.’

In a second kind gesture that morning, the office manager told me to prepare a one-page fax for my family. Over the next few days, her staff would attempt to send it to England, since it was difficult to make spontaneous international calls. Once the fax was ready, we made the first attempt at transmission. To everyone’s pleasant surprise we made contact straightaway. The plan fell apart however, when Anne spoke into the handset of our combined fax and answer machine, before the two devices could complete their electronic ‘handshake’. It was marvellous to speak to her, and everyone else in my family, again - even if it was briefly. It was a spiritual ‘tonic’ after what had been a testing time of late.

My conversation with the manager over, and having re-hydrated fully with lukewarm coffee and tepid water, the old man and I climbed back into his car. It was time to head for my accommodation. This wasn’t to be a five-star hotel though, where I might renew my acquaintance with the Norwegian. Instead, it was to be a workers’ hostel, used by my colleagues as a staging post, on their way to other parts of the country. Along the route to this hostel, we called at a few shops. I needed a towel, to use on the rest of my journey.

We arrived at the hostel in the late afternoon. I was still without a towel though. All of the shops that the old man had visited on my behalf were ‘out of stock’, we couldn’t buy a towel anywhere. The hostel turned out to be an austere building close to a main road; functional and clean but with very few frills. Two welcome extras however were an urn of hot water and a pile of instant coffee, located in the common room. Whilst I imbibed yet more lukewarm water and caffeine, the old man booked me onto an internal flight the following morning, one that would take me to our customer’s premises, in the east of the country.

With everything settled at reception, I trudged upstairs to see what sort of accommodation he and the desk clerk had negotiated. On turning the key, I was pleasantly surprised: a twin room with a spare set of clean sheets that would double nicely as towels the following morning. I could only hope that I would remain the only occupant. Half an hour later though, a quiet knock at my door ruined my siesta. Not sure whether I should answer it, in case it was someone wanting to sleep between my new ‘towels’, I stayed silent. Perhaps the knocker would take the hint and go away. No, the knocking persisted and I felt obliged to answer. Clearly, whoever it was knew that I was lurking somewhere inside.