by Gordon Gray
I got up using my travel alarm clock and went down to the lobby. There was Bill already checking out. We got the taxi from the queue of sleeping taxis outside and set off for the airport. We went into the domestic terminal and found it was totally deserted. No one was manning any of the desks and there were no passengers about. “Maybe we are just a bit early,” said Bill and we settled down to wait on the hard plastic chairs. We read the English adverts stuck onto the wall, we studied the flaking paint and varnish on the counters and we watched the dust and sand blowing and gathering in the corners under the chairs.
After an hour, there was still no sign of anyone. This seemed a bit odd as it was now just an hour before the flight and we were meant to check in at least an hour before the flight.
I looked around and said to Bill, “You can tell we are in Egypt, Bill, even the clocks in the airport are wrong. That one is an hour slow.”
We both looked at the clock, then slowly looked round at each other as the truth dawned. We were the slow ones, not the clocks. It was only 0500 and not 0600. We had checked out of the hotel at 0330 for a 0700 flight. We promised ourselves that the next time we would ask the hotel what the right time was and not rely on each other’s vague ideas of what the time zone we might be in. Unfortunately after all that, the submarine sonar contract never happened, as although we did get our system specified, in the end the Egyptian Navy did not buy the submarines.
Let the train take the strain
While there are perfectly good flights between Cairo and Alexandria, sometimes, if time allowed, it was nicer to take the train. Egyptian trains are good. They run on time, are comfortable and dependable.
Going by train allows you to enjoy a relaxed couple of hours, watch Egypt and the Nile Delta pass by the window and catch up on a snooze or two and relax. The carriages all have seats that swivel round 180 degrees. The staff turn them round at each end of the trip so that everyone sits facing the direction of travel. A stewardess comes through the train with a trolley of coffee, sandwiches, beer and other refreshments for sale so you can just sit and enjoy the ride. The train runs through the main Delta area so it is green and fertile all the way. The road from Cairo to Alexandria goes through the desert so the bus tends to be a more boring and dusty way to travel. As the train rumbles through the villages and towns, outside your window 5000 years of history passes by. The fields are still tilled by oxen; water is raised from the Nile Delta streams by Archimedean screws powered by an ox, led by a boy; and the agriculture flourishes. The towns are depressing as they seem so rundown and surrounded by rubbish tips that spill onto the railway, but as an experience of seeing the Nile Delta, it is the best.
On one trip, Bill and I had gone back to Cairo by train from Alexandria. As we got off in Cairo, a porter grabbed our cases and loaded them, with half a dozen others, onto his handcart. He then spent a good five minutes lashing and tying the cases onto the cart so they did not slip or fall as he pulled the cart along the platform to the taxi ranks. We got to the taxis and our porter carefully untied his load and handed our cases to the driver, who then heaved them up onto the roof rack. We were told to get in and we shot off at a pace, bouncing, rattling and shaking over the cobbles and off through the nighttime streets of Cairo heading out to Heliopolis.
“Bill,” I commented, “that porter spent five minutes tying our cases to his trolley for a 200-yard walk along a perfectly flat platform. This character has just lobbed them onto the roof rack without any string at all and they are sliding around all over the place.”
“I know,” said Bill with a resigned sigh. “Egypt!”
Alexandria seafront
Alexandria Station with Bill Hawley
The Great Pyramid
The Nile
CHAPTER 10
Oman and the UAE
Oman is one of the most beautiful of the Gulf countries. It lies just outside the far eastern end of the Gulf, beyond the UAE, and faces out into the Arabian Sea. A chain of dramatic beautiful mountains runs from the Northern tip up in the Musandam by the Straits of Hormuz, down through the Jebel Akdhar, before fading and slipping down into the sea near Muscat. They seem to be always changing colour as the light changes through the day. From grey in the morning to burning white at noon, and then to deep purple and red as the sun goes down. Beyond the mountains on the eastern side are the sands of the great Wahabi Desert. To the southwest lies the vast and inhospitable Empty Quarter that stretches across the whole of the Arabian penninsula. It lies mostly in Saudi but is partly shared with Oman. In contrast, in the far south, beyond the mountains, lies the Dhofar region – the fertile and monsoon-blessed area round Salalah.
Until 1970, Oman was ruled by the old sultan from its capital Muscat. This was still a virtually closed town, well off the normal beaten track. Oman was a poor country then as oil had only been found in commercial quantities in 1962 and the benefits of oil revenues had not yet filtered down to the infrastructure or the ordinary people. Then in 1970, the current sultan, Sultan Qaboos, came to power after a bloodless coup against his father to ensure that Oman could use the oil revenue and develop into a modern society. Oman’s oil reserves today are similar to those of the UK, so it is not in the same league as Saudi Arabia or the UAE. Today Oman, with a population of just three million, is a modern, clean and thriving country with wide highways good public services and gentle and friendly people.
I always loved going to Oman. Scenically, it is a lovely desert country. The main attraction to Oman, however, is the calm, peaceful atmosphere there. The people seem calm and unhurried, laid back in a way. The climate, of course, dictates the pace of life and the Omanis have got it right. The infrastructure is excellent and I believe the people are well looked after by the sultan in terms of schools and hospitals. Certainly the main roads are good. A walk through the local souks, in Muscat or Nizwa, shows a pace of life and a style of living unchanged in hundreds of years. How different from Hong Kong. Here is peace and calm, no rush, no shouting. It has adjusted to modern technology but is not ruled by it. The open-backed truck abounds and is used for everything from family outings to taking the camel to market. But once there, the farmers and merchants all squat and gossip under the trees or drink tea in the souk cafes as they have always done.
In the 70s, other places in the Gulf were just starting to see the benefits of their oil revenues. Abu Dhabi was a fishing village in 1971 but starting to develop its new port. Big concrete tetrahedron pieces were being laid along what was no more than a strip of sandy coast near the fort. Dubai, up the coast, was at a similar stage of development. There were no really big buildings or port facilities in Dubai then, let alone modern airports; just the Sheik’s Fort, the British Bank of the Middle East, a few souks and various offices along the Creek. Bahrain was the modern city in the Gulf then, with international hotels, an airport and relatively large port area. But by the late 80s, that was all changing fast and the Gulf States were competing with each other.
No Objection Certificates (NOCs)
Bill and I had been in Alexandria and had spent a couple of dusty days discussing things with the navy and the agent. We flew from Cairo to Muscat via Bahrain. We landed and entered the clean, quiet and pleasant airport where the walls were adorned with many framed colour photographs of the lovely scenery of the Oman. We passed through Immigration and Customs without any delays and stood waiting for our bags to come onto the carousel.
As we stood there, Bill told me of a trip he had had to Oman with a colleague of ours called Dick. Dick was one of life’s great travellers and had been everywhere. On this particular trip, Dick and Bill were visiting Muscat. Bill, as was his practice as the senior man, always went through immigration ahead of his travelling companions. To visit Oman, you needed to have a document called a ‘No Objection Certificate’ or ‘NOC’ to be set up for you by your local sponsor a couple of weeks before you arrived and this was your visa to get in.
Bill explained, “Dick was in the immigration line beh
ind me, as is only right. I was cleared and wandered across to the baggage carousel. I had been there a few minutes and wondered where Dick had got to. I turned round but could not see Dick anywhere in the baggage area. Then I realised that there was someone waving at me from the immigration queue. It was Dick. I thought ‘What has the idiot done now?’ and wandered back to immigration to see what was going on. ‘Bill! Bill, I need your help!’ said Dick in a slightly panicky voice. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Well I have got the wrong passport with me’ I looked at the immigration official. He looked as miserable as sin and had obviously just had a row with his wife. ‘No joy there I thought.’ I realised that there was nothing I could do, so I said ‘Sorry Dick, you will just have to ride this one. I cannot help you.’ And I returned to the carousel and got my bag.”
“What happened to Dick?” I asked.
“Dick? Oh, they got his bag off the carousel, then he and his bag had to spend the night sitting in the transit hall and he got flown out to Dubai the next day to try and sort himself out. In fact, I told him just to go back to the UK as to try and sort it all out from Dubai would have taken too long.”
Dick, like many of us in those days, had two passports, so we could still travel even if your ‘other’ passport was away having a visa entered into it at some foreign embassy in London. Dick had applied for his NOC on one passport but turned up in Muscat with the other passport. Quite rightly, the Omani official said, “No”. Dick tried to negotiate his way in but the official was adamant. No meant NO.
Anyway, Bill and I arrived with the correct passports and NOC papers. We got our bags and went to the taxi queue. We sank back into the comfortable leather seats of the new taxi as it pulled smoothly away from the terminal. The air conditioning whirred quietly, gentle Arabic music played on the car’s multi-speaker stereo system and the polite English-speaking young driver obviously knew where our hotel was. We purred smoothly along a four-lane dual carriageway with street lights that all worked.
Bill sighed, “Do you know, I am suffering from culture shock. Look at this place, this car. This afternoon we were in Cairo and compare that to this.”
We had left Egypt less than four hours earlier, where if the taxi window actually wound up on the handle, you knew you had got into a good cab. If you kept your calm with the constant jolting and braking, tooting and hooting of Cairo’s traffic jams and you resisted the urge to jump out and walk, then you really were a cool, chilled out sort! If, as well as all that, the driver knew where you wanted to go and that included the airport, you had really hit the jackpot.
At the time of our visits, in the late 1980s, Oman was going through a process called “Omanisation”. This was where they were trying hard to get local Omanis to take over some of the responsible positions that were then held by expats. Oman and Britain have a long and strong friendship and the armed forces have helped Oman to develop its own very capable Forces. This included the navy which was run by a Royal Navy Admiral called Hugh Balfour. He was assisted by a team of RN officers with an increasing number of Omani naval officers taking on some of the senior roles.
Boat trip
Some months later, Plessey were due to give a presentation to the navy and the MOD on naval combat systems for new vessels that the navy were planning. I was going there with one of our senior marketing men, an ex-RN Captain, David Nolan, who knew Hugh Balfour well. Due to his friendship with David, Admiral Balfour kindly invited us to spend the Friday on a boat trip and picnic with him and his wife and some of the others on his team. We duly met up at the small marina near Muscat and set sail in a large motor cruiser. They told us that we were heading for a small enclosed bay that provided good shelter and swimming and was an ideal place for a day’s relaxation.
After about an hour’s sailing, the admiral and two four-stripe captains, both in bright Hawaiian shirts, disappeared into the wheelhouse and were busy pouring over the charts for some time as the boat chugged happily along on its own. Admiral Balfour’s wife waved at the small cove off to starboard and called out “That’s the place over there! We should be going that way! Gordon, go and tell them they are going the wrong way!”
I looked at her as if she were mad. “Are you joking? Me? A former mere lieutenant going in there to tell an admiral and two four-ring Captains that they have got their navigation wrong. No chance. I think it might be better coming from you.”
Amid general laughter the situation was resolved and we found the bay successfully and had a very relaxing day before the work started on Saturday.
Stitched up in Paris
Later that year, an Omani Navy delegation came on a short trip to Europe to discuss command and control systems for the new ships that they were planning. The competition was between us (Plessey), the Germans and the French. Because of time constraints and as the Omanis had visited the UK and our facilities a couple of months earlier, they were not coming to the UK; so we were all invited to visit the Omanis in Paris where they were being hosted by the French MOD. We would be given the morning slot and the French would have the afternoon slot. The French MOD contacted our head office and said that they would arrange our hotel so it was convenient for the meeting. Head office agreed. They duly did so and advised us that it was “Just a few minutes” from their offices where they were holding the meeting.
We arrived in Paris the night before and found the hotel. That night we asked the hotel to arrange a taxi for us at 0830 the next morning, as we had to be there by 0900 for a 0930 start.
In the morning as we got ourselves together, we noticed that it was raining. The taxi did not arrive at 0830. By 0845, we were on the street looking for a free cab. Not only was it raining but we learnt that there was a public transport strike of some sort there as well, so there were no taxis to be had. 0900 went by, then 0915. We called the MOD to explain the problem. “Do not worry; when you get one, it is only a few minutes away,” they said.
Finally, we got a taxi. The driver was not sure where the address was and drove around for what seemed like ages. Occasionally he would call in on his radio to seek advice as to where he was to go. But, eventually, we got there. By now, we were a full hour and a half late for our presentation. The hotel was virtually on the other side of Paris from the MOD offices!
We arrived to find the Omani team irate at our tardiness and lateness. They seemed firmly of the view that we had slept round the corner, had been out clubbing all night and could not get out of bed. Certainly they had not been told we had been booked into a hotel forty-five minutes away by the French Government on the day of a transport strike. Goodness knows what the French had told them, but whatever it was I doubt that they were told the whole story. We had been well and truly ‘had’. France 1. UK 0.
Concorde
Later in the process, we arrived at Muscat Airport for further discussions. The Agent met us and as we were driving away we spotted an Air France Concorde sitting at a remote part of the airport. We asked the agent why it was there.
“It’s on a Round-the-World tour, is full of rich people and has stopped at Muscat for the day.”
“Where else is it stopping?”
“Oh I think it has been to New York, San Francisco, Hawaii, Sydney, and Delhi.”
“So why is it in Muscat?” It did not seem to make sense. “Then why is it not parked on a stand near the terminal?” we asked.
“I don’t know,” said that agent.
The next day, we and a few guys from the UK Shipbuilder with whom we were working on the project, attended a cocktail party at the British Embassy. This was at the invitation of the Naval Attaché who was doing a good job of promoting the British cause to the Royal Navy of Oman. During the party, the ambassador came across to a group of us.
“Good evening, what are you gentlemen doing here in Oman?” he asked. We told him. “Oh, that is jolly interesting. I have heard about this project, well good luck.” And with that, he wandered off to circulate and socialise.
We learnt later that Concorde had
not originally been scheduled to go to Muscat, but the stop was added at the last minute – and while the Concorde passengers were taken off sightseeing, the French had taken the sultan for a short flight in Concorde as he is a keen aviation enthusiast. You have to hand it to the French, they do know how to put on a show when they want to. Our ambassador seemed hardly aware of the project and the French supply the sultan with a ride on Concorde. Later that year, he was received in Paris by the president on a full state visit, the first of its kind. I began to realise that we were swimming against the current here.
In the end the UK shipyard did win the contract for the ships (hull and machinery), but the electronics package, worth almost as much as the hulls, was awarded to the French. I was told we had lost at a relaxed meeting with the admiral.
“Gordon. We are most grateful for all your efforts, for hosting us so well in the UK and for bringing your system out here for the demonstrations to our staff, but I am advised by our team that unfortunately it does not meet their requirements in terms of ‘User friendliness’. They find the keyboard and menus complicated to operate and not as intuitive as a touchscreen system. They also much prefer the colour touchscreen display system that has been offered by your competitor. So, I am afraid that we will not be going forward with you to final bids on this project. I am sorry. Now, would you like another cup of coffee?”
How civilised can a let-down be? I was not really surprised as the Omanis had been telling us for ages that they wanted a colour display system, but we had not completed trialling our new system so were reluctant to offer it. There were a few other issues as well, but in essence, our system, while good, was not good enough. I flew home depressed and knowing that I had to go and tell the boss.