Bahrain

Well after months of planning, waiting, and a couple of nomadic weeks back in the UK as the guest of a number of C’s relatives (some of the planning having resulted in the house being disposed of a tad earlier than we were due to leave), we’ve finally made it to Bahrain. It’s been a fabulous start. C’s cousin and fella were magnificent hosts and chauffeur, though a tad maniacal for the latter. The fact that they lived one block over from the hotel made the nightly stagger back to our room significantly less hazardous than it would otherwise have been. On a trip to one of K’s restaurants we were treated to the finest 12 course meal I have ever had, courtesy of her contacts in the catering industry there. The fact that it was the only 12 course meal I have ever had should not detract from the compliment - I would choose any one of those courses over any other food I have eaten, though due to capacity issues after course 5 I was pretty much down to one mouthful per course. The downside to so many courses is the opportunities one has to sup wine between each course ends up in a level of consumption that has, I’m pretty sure, done for the entire Spanish grape harvest for last year. We certainly drank the restaurant out of the bottle of choice but by that time the second choice tasted just fine.

My penance for such over indulgence, for surely there is always a price to pay for these things, was a scar above my right eye that will become as much a souvenir of Bahrain as the plastic mosque clock that calls the faithful to prayer which I nearly bought in the souk the next day. Now when I went to bed that night I’m pretty sure that the bedroom door was not where it was a few hours later when, on urgent business to the bathroom, I ran full tilt into it. I think it was the concussion from this that caused me to almost wander naked as the day I was born, through the cavernous lounge, past the bathroom door that was ostensibly my target, and half way out into the corridor. Fortunately I did not complete my journey actually into the corridor when I regained my senses, and so both my blushes and Arabic sensitivities were spared.

Having managed to resist the usual temptation of plastic Arabic tack from the souk, I went, like just about every Western visitor I suspect, for the rather natty Arab head-dress as my main Bahrain souvenir. I was only mildly scared when I was lured into the stall, the better that I might be ground down (there are only so many time’s one can say no when it just becomes easier to say yes and pay the financial penalty) into purchasing the Arab gown (‘thobe’) that I didn’t want. However I manfully stood my ground and walked away relatively unscathed with a head dress that I have never worn since and was posted back home at the first opportunity with the rest of the unneeded kit.

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