The 16 year itch

1 December

I never really forgave myself for leaving Caracas as early as I did, when the adventure had just begun. Somewhere, even though I was returning home to take a job at a prestigious national newspaper, I felt I had done myself and Venezuela a disservice. Deep down, my self-image as a journalist was wrapped up in the idea of the flawed and fatally romantic foreign correspondent, the kind that lived in the novels of Graham Greene. They were escaping from something in their past, and invariably ended up in a sultry, corrupt place where they lived out a kind of exile. Eventually they would become embroiled in a world of conflict and intrigue that they were outside of but fatally drawn into.

And so it is, 16 years later, that I find myself in a strange land again, this time in Asia. Since I began to spread the news of my new posting , I have taken great pleasure in witnessing first people’s surprise, and then a look of puzzlement. Oman? Gosh, now where is that? Curious, educated people, but they just can’t place it. Yes, that’s the place, the one you can’t quite place. It’s on the map somewhere but I’ll be damned if you can actually find it.

Then I was 27, now I am 44. That should mean that I am wiser. It certainly means I am no longer as foolhardy but then again, as the events of this first day have shown, I can still be a fool. When I reached departures at Gatwick, the Emirates woman asked me for my passport. I looked at it and I knew I had done something stupid. I had brought the wrong one. I felt panic. Don’t worry, she said, it is still valid. After all my farewells, it would be too much to have to turn round and go home again. Doh! So she let me through.

The flight was delayed by an hour. It all went smoothly after that – the flight to Dubai watching movies, rushing through Dubai’s vast duty free emporium.  Waiting forever in the bus to get on the next plane. I got to passport control at the sleepy little aerodrome at Muscat, where the visa man  asked me what football team I supported. He had seen Liverpool listed as my birthplace and that was enough. He asked me the question in the manner of the border inquisitor – did I support Liverpool? Well, yes, when I was younger, when I watched football at all. He shook his head. I can’t let you through, he said. I laughed and, after some more probing by him, realized that he was a Manchester United fan.  

Eventually he gave me my visa – he was not in a hurry at all - and I headed for passport control. The guy in the white garb and traditional Omani headwear, an attractive turban-like hat, looked at the passport and at me and at his computer screen. I knew something was up. He asked if I had been to Oman before and – knowing as I did that there was no Omani stamp in the passport – I said yes. Truth was the best course.  Then he got up and called his superior. I have been in a few tight spots at borders previously, the hairiest of all being the Colombian crossing at Santa Anna. By comparison, this was ordered and polite. The superior told me that the passport I had with me was listed as lost/stolen on the system. He called me into an office where the Sultan looked down, a little awkwardly, in a sharp blue uniform. I pleaded silently for him to understand my plight and give me his blessing. A policeman, coincidentally called Sultan something according to his badge, asked me where my new passport was. Back home. “Story, history’ he kept saying. The other guy interpreted, asking when I had reported this passport lost. I told him. It checked out. The Omani Police Interpol computer said in big red letters something uncompromising, like Not Valid but more serious. As I stood there waiting for bureaucratic procedures to be followed by the policeman and the pleasant border official, I felt as if Greene’s ghost was very close.  Passports from around the world were framed on the wall. The office, with its shoulder-height glass partitions and big old fashioned desk, brought to mind Casablanca and black and white films. This was just as it should be, and it pleased me, although I had no desire to be put on the first plane home. 

After a few minutes they told me my passport was blacklisted and then, without fuss, they stamped it. They wrote some notes in Arabic in a huge old fashioned ledger and they gave me my passport back. ‘Shukran jazeeran’ I said in halting half remembered Arabic. I could have hugged them, if I wasn’t being mindful of etiquette. I rushed through to left luggage, found my bag and went through customs. My driver was nowhere to be seen. The first cash machine said try again later. The second one gave me money. I sat down at a Costa Coffee and drank some water. Then a young guy in T-shirt and half length pants came up with a name card and asked if I was Joe. I was relieved. He didn’t speak English but I followed him to the car. He gave me a new sim for my phone, and drove me to my hotel. 

We were in Seeb, which is sleepy and green, with low white buildings. It feels South Asian, but neater. The hotel is probably two or three star. The reception is dark with gloomy décor. Yusef is very tired and I let him go, thanking him. I find my room and let myself in. I am alone in a strange hotel in a strange land. I realize I can’t turn back and that I have left my family back in England, my beloved wife and daughter. But here I am, at dawn, in my hotel room. I feel elated, as if I am in a living dream. Today is Sunday, which is a working day in Oman, but since I have had no sleep, and know that I don’t start work till tomorrow, I have a shower to wash of the grime of economy class and then a shot of whisky. What is this new phase of life? It has begun. I’m too nervous and excited to sleep. I’ve lost four hours due to the time zone change.  Perhaps I am in Interzone. I must sleep.