Stayed on

Following being handed over the reins of Limbuguri and with the responsibility of the factory having been passed on to a new assistant who had been transferred there from another estate, an extended daily drive for inspection of specific areas of that large 980 hectare was de regeuir.  Driven by a yearning to get a firm grip on ‘my’ property as quickly as possible and to prove my worth to Mrigen who had reposed such faith in one who was of a relatively young age, heading out well before the crack of dawn, I took it upon myself to visit every single remote and tucked away corners of the estate.

Dotted around the periphery of the estate were several Assamese bastis, many of which I’d have to traverse through to get from one of the estate fields to the other.  Along the way, wherever I’d see a couple of the village folk lounging around, I’d stop to have a chat with them before driving on. In one of these casual conversations, one of the villagers asked me whether I’d met the ‘Boga Sahib’ (literally ‘White Boss’) who lived in one of the bastis.  I most certainly had not.  In fact, had never heard anything of this nature.  Intrigued I started asking around whether anyone on the estate knew of any such person and finally learnt that there indeed was an elderly white man who yonks before had been a manager on this very estate, had married one of the estate labour girls and had, on his retirement, built himself a house in one of the bastis where he currently lived.

It was my senior friend Ron (the lynchpin of our Brahmaputra forays) who came up with the answer to the mystery of the ‘Boga Sahib in the basti’.  Told me that he was aware that a Jimmy Stuart, better known as Stu, on his retirement from Warrens way back in the past, had decided to not return to the UK and had settled down in a basti close to Limbuguri which was his last billet pre-retirement.  Having been handed over this straw to clutch on to, I dug deeper and was finally pointed in the direction of the basti where the ‘Boga Sahib’ lived.

A couple of days later, being in the vicinity of the basti Stu was supposed to be a resident of, I drove to the house of the ‘Gaon Burra’ (village elder/chieftain) who after insisting I have a cup of tea with him, walked me across to what was the only brick & mortar (only partial I may add) building in the basti, knocked on the door before walking off leaving me standing in the veranda.  From behind the closed door, I could hear some shuffling sounds followed by the rattling of a chain before the door opened to reveal an elderly and stooping, bald headed white man confronting me with a quizzical and surprised look on his deeply wrinkled face.

Regardless of my having been expecting to see a ‘Boga Sahib’ I had to literally restrain myself from blurting out the only words which at that precise point popped up in my head “Dr Livingstone I presume”?

Having explained to him who I was, the gentleman pulled up two rickety chairs on to the veranda.  The moment we were both seated, his first utterance of “You’re the first English speaking person from outside the basti, come to see me in almost ten years” were followed by a barrage of short staccato sentences with words literally falling over themselves, almost as though yearning be heard.  What I was witness to was a catharsis of pent-up emotions, almost like a pan of milk which had been simmering for ages (in his case – years) and was now on the boil and frothing over.

What I learnt about Stu in that very first meeting was that his father had been an engineer employed in the railways and that he, Stu, had been born in Jabalpur and when five years of age, had been sent back to England for his education.  On completion of his schooling and wanting to get back to India, he immediately joined the then James Warren & Co and was posted to Upper Assam.  During his tenure of 38 years, he had been to England once every three years on furlough and had, on the second leave got married.  His wife who had never left the shores of England ahead of tying the knot being unacclimatised to the heat and humidity of Assam had quickly concluded that this was not the life for her and, a short and stormy three years later, headed back to England to be never heard from again.

On reaching the age of 57 Stu hung up his boots and returned to England where he had no family nor any friends, stayed there for all of four months before, in his words “feeling like a fish out of water” decided to head back to Upper Assam, the only place he had ever known as home.  With no desire to be alone and lonely for the remaining years of his life, having bought a small plot of land in the basti abutting the estate he had last served on and building himself a rudimentary thatch house, started living with the lady who for many years had been the maid in his bungalow, whom he finally married.  His return from his futile visit to England was all of 21 years to the day that I met him.  All this was shared to me within an hour of my having shaken hands with the gentlemen. 

Having to get back to my routine, while he was most reluctant to see me go, I finally managed to pry myself away from him.  But with a promise that I would visit him again as soon as I possibly could.

Following that first meeting, having been hit hard by the sheer loneliness of the gentleman and having sensed his desperation for contact with a person he could relate to, I made it a point to drop in on Stu at least once a week.  Every time I came away from his place, with his loneliness getting through to me, it was always with a sense of sadness.  A gloomy feeling which I’d unburden myself of by sharing it with Kitty.  Almost a year after my first meeting with him Kitty asked me whether I’d like to invite the gentleman over to the bungalow some evening for a meal.  An excellent suggestion which I acted upon the next time I dropped in to meet Stu.

Overwhelmed by his profuse thanks for the invitation, that evening I sent the driver across to pick up the gentlemen and fetch him to the bungalow.  The Stu who walked in was not the dishevelled Stu I had been meeting in the basti.  All spruced up and wearing a tie, “I haven’t worn one in 20 years” he said.  His exuberance was so palpable that no child with a new toy could have been more excited.  Ahead of sitting down for dinner, the perfect gentleman thoroughly enjoyed his two small drinks of rum and water.  Our bawarchi (cook) have prepared a roast chicken, one could actually sense Stu’s excitement from simply handling a knife and fork.  The evening over, he left us overwhelmed with his profuse thank you’ s and repeated handshakes.

Following that first dinner meet, we made it a point to have him home at least once a month.  Every single time he was driven into the bungalow, it was always this elderly gentleman bubbling over with excitement and happiness like a small child.

And then three years later 1990, which is when I resigned from my planting job to relocate to Dubai.  I’ll never forget the day that I broke the news to Stu.  That he was totally distraught would be an understatement.  It was as though some great tragedy had befallen him.  His words still ring in my ears “You were my last link to what USED to be my world.” 

A couple of days before we were to leave Limbuguri, I received a somewhat formal handwritten note from Stu that he would like to meet us one last time and that could I please send my vehicle to pick him up.  That evening he arrived holding a small, gift-wrapped shoe box which he handed over to Kitty insisting that she open it in his presence.  In the box were a couple of Wedgewood quarter plates, a few of them somewhat chipped.  “These” he said “Are all that I have left from the set I had brought back from England when I first came to Assam.  I want you to have these as a reminder of the kindness you have shown towards this old man.”

And then he did what for him was probably the unthinkable, he came across and hugged me, walked across to kiss Kitty on both cheeks and then quickly departed before we could see the tears streaming his cheeks.

 

Definitely NOT Mother Teresa

Having functioned as an employee from the time I started earning my keep in 1974, it was in Dubai in 1994 that I decided to bite the bullet, cross over to the other side and start my own business.  During the intervening years from the time of my relocation from Assam to Dubai, my work had entailed pounding pavements in many countries peddling all sorts of products and commodities.  Needless to say that regardless of the products I had been flogging for those four years, with TEA being my forté and the only product I really knew, when I decided to venture out on my own, the new business could naturally be nothing other than a dedicated tea-centric enterprise.

Not having the advantage of deep pockets and while I was brimming with ideas, the project would have been a non-starter but for the fact that my dear friend Hamid Navid, a young go-getting Iranian, decided to take the gamble and partner with me by funding the start-up.  A bold decision of his for which I was, am and will forever be most grateful.

The legal framework for the new venture having been completed and a new office having been taken on lease in Jebel Ali, it was only when I actually shoved my foot into the door that I realised that what I had ventured into was an already very crowded dog-eat-dog market, being left to literally pick up the crumbs.  The deeper I dived into what was this very well entrenched and tightly controlled ‘club’ of Tea traders, the clearer it became that for a newbie like me, breaking into that jealously guarded space was going to be well neigh impossible.  When I look back on it now with hindsight, while I had rolled up my sleeves and spared no efforts to try and ramp up business, circumstances being what they were I also went through a period of self doubt all the while kicking myself for having stuck my head out.  Which is the way it would have continued had it not been for help from a totally unexpected quarter.

Madan Chopra, a friend of mine, an executive with PepsiCo in Dubai, following a promotion was despatched to Almaty as the Regional Head for the fast developing CIS markets.  Within a couple of months of him being there, PepsiCo concluded arrangements for the bottling rights for Pepsi with the Resmi Group, a company lorded over by a gentleman who, this being an open secret, was allegedly a very powerful local mafia don.  A fact which ensured that in next to no time within Kazakhstan, a highly competitive beverage market, Pepsi had established itself as the undisputed market leader.  Which is when I got a call from Madan wanting to know whether I may be interested in doing business in a country which, post the break-up of the Soviet Union, was statistically known to consume humongous volumes of Tea.

Would I??  Before Madan could have said Jack Robinson I was on a flight to Almaty.  The next morning I was introduced (which I had been clearly told was all that my friend could and would do) to the boss – Kairat Mazbhaev.  Over the next couple of days, using all my persuasive talents and leaving no stone unturned, I was able to sell Kairat the idea that his company could leverage the excellent distribution network which his company had established for Pepsi, by including a range of packaged teas in their limited basket of products.

To cut a long story short, having shaken hands over the business modalities of providing them with a turnkey solution, working flat out, hopping from one country to the other, within a very tight timeframe I had managed to sew together the various components of what was a rather complex business model.  Besides a whole lot of minor ones, the major facets of the turnkey project entailed:
– The designing and installation of a tea blending plant linked to a semi automatic packaging line
– Concept and execution of the artwork for the packaging material for the ‘Tealand’ brand, which
– Following approval of the designs, was printed and shipped to Almaty from Dubai
Tying down arrangements for regular shipments of teas from Calcutta, Colombo and Indonesia.
– Training the personnel who Kairat had deputed for the project

With all the pieces falling into place, from a standing start, in very short time the volumes of tea being imported by the company ballooned.  Over the next three years with business booming and the sales of Tealand on a sharp upward trajectory I was gung-ho and chuffed with what we had managed to achieve.  To keep the business flowing I would find myself in Almaty every five or six weeks with each one of my regular visits to Almaty being treated as one big party with me being wined, dined and feted by Kairat and his team.

Till such time as I was a two bit fringe player peddling small parcels of teas, within the tea trade no one cast so much as a second glance towards me.  That all changed and how when the volumes of teas being shipped out of Calcutta to Almaty started to become somewhat more than only a blip on the radar.  Which is when I started getting regular feedback from Taimur, Kairat’s man in charge of Tealand whom I had trained and had him accompany me to all the tea origins to learn the ropes, that they had been visited by a Mr x-y-z from Calcutta offering teas at far lower prices.  Classical dog-eat-dog tactics.  They never had any similar visits from Sri Lanka or Indonesia, ONLY from Calcutta!  With each new visitor offering nothing different, barring cutthroat prices, I started noticing the change in the tone of Taimur’s voice.

And then literally from out of the blue, I was hit by a massive bolt of lightning!  A terse one line fax from Tealand that they had unilaterally taken a decision ‘no more business with Excel International’.  This at a time when I had multiple containers on the water from all three origins heading to Almaty consigned to Tealand.  I was obviously on the very next flight to Almaty.

This particular time – no party!  Having requested a meeting with Kairat I was ushered into his office and for the first time since we had met, it was just him and me and no one else.  I first worked on the business angle, sharing facts and figures to explain that my dealings with Tealand where strictly in accordance with our formal agreement.  When that approach appeared to be falling on deaf ears, I shifted to the personal approach stressing on the relationship we had developed and the fact that when I had initially approached them, his company did not even know how to spell ‘tea’.  With nothing else working and realizing that I had nothing to lose, I went the whole hog literally pleading with Kairat that were he to pull the plug on me in this sudden manner, I would be as good as dead and would even possibly have to pull my son out of university.  I may as well have been talking to a wall.  Ashen faced and certain that I was going to have a heart attack right there and then I had Kairat turn to stare at me with steely eyes and utter words which are as though etched on my brain:

“Indi, look at me.  Do you think I’m Mother Teresa”?

I simply shut my laptop, shook hands with Kairat and staggered out of his office and was on the next flight back to Dubai.  It was a nightmare I would not wish on my worst enemy!  Having to break the news to the eleven staff that Excel International had grown to, that next day onwards they had no job!  It was heartbreaking. 

Now sitting in my office looking out of the window at the hills and casting my mind back on that horrible period with hindsight, reaffirms my unshakable belief that in the long term whatever happens, is ALWAYS for the best.
Bottom line – had I not gone through all that shit, would I be in the happy place I am in today?!

Antifreeze Ambrosia

Having taken the plunge in 1993 to branch out on my own, a year later my tea venture which centered on sourcing teas from various origins being shipped to diverse destinations was already well grounded.  Three years down the road, with the volume of business being done in Kazakhstan, where I was exclusively tied up with one particular company, growing from month to month, I made the cardinal error of plonking practically all my eggs into that one basket.  That eventually a further couple of years later it was that very same customer who pulled the plug out on me and was solely responsible for the collapse of my thriving business in Dubai being the one downside in my life and being a story which needs to be ‘told’, I’m keeping that downer in abeyance for another day.  For now I’d rather rattle on about the upside, when my business in Kazakhstan was on the ascendency.

By ’97 the Kazakh business being well established and with volumes increasing by the month, the frequency of my visits to that country to service that business had to keep pace with that growing volume.  The upshot was that, keeping all other travel plans in abeyance, I’d be wending my way to Almaty almost every month.

Almaty which is now a flourishing metropolis with hotels galore, back in the day was a different kettle of fish altogether.  While there were plenty of dodgy establishments available, the only “real” hotel one could relate to was the Hyatt which had opened its doors just about at the same time as I started making my trips to that country.  While it WAS the Hyatt, at that point of time with the internet just about having reached Almaty, since the hotel did not have that particular service available, if one was to want to check ones emails (which in itself was somewhat of a new ‘fad’) one had to head to downtown Almaty where the first internet café had started functioning.  The internet service in that café being via a snail paced dial-up connection, one would end up sitting in front of the computer for hours altogether waiting for the line to come to the end of its irritating pinging.  It was only after the computer reverted to being a silent piece of furniture that one would be able to start working on it, which in affect translated into viewing one mail at a time, watching the text unfold painfully slowly on the tiny little black and white bulbous screen.

Kazakhstan being located in the world’s largest dry steppe region, while the summers there tend to be hot and dry, winters are cold.  Seriously COLD! On one of my frequent trips to Almaty, this one sometime during early February which tends to be the coldest month in the region, having finished my work in the tea factory for the day and finding myself in the hotel with nothing to do, I decided to head downtown to while away my time in front of the computer.  By the time I was done with whatever I had to do, it was already late evening.  Stepping out of the warmth of the café into the minus 25⁰C street I distinctly remember being literally lifted off my feet and staggering backward into the doorway having been whacked in my face by the wind howling like a banshee, rushing up that alleyway in full gale force.  Regardless of being bundled up in layers of warm clothing, I could literally feel the cold seeping into my bones.

Aware that there was a taxi stand just a little way down that alley, with the wind determined to propel me all the way back into the doorway I had stepped out of, I had to battle my way forward, literally shoving myself against that gale taking one slow step at a time all the while wishing that I’d never stepped out of the comfort of the hotel.  Within 50 paces of having stepped out of the café I had completely lost any sense of feeling on my face which was the only part of me exposed to the hydrothermal conditions.  For all I knew my ears and nose could just as well have dropped off somewhere along the trudge without my even being aware of it.  What I could make out though was that my moustache, being the ‘catchment area’ for the run-off from my nose likely flowing out in a continuous watery stream, was frozen solid with small icicles hanging down from the edges and dropping over my lips.

Battling my way forward against the wind I spotted an ‘open’ doorway which had chinks of light peeping out from behind the thick woolen ‘horse blanket’ curtain hanging from the top of the door frame, protecting the inside from the elements.  From within, besides the chinks of light, I could also hear wisps of chatter.  No two ways about it, this obviously HAD to be a bar.  Shoving the blanket to one side with my shivering hand which I had very reluctantly taken out of the deep pocket on my overcoat, I stumbled though the throng of folk standing around with glasses in their hands, making a bee-line to the bar counter where I managed to utter just one word – “VODKA!”  The contents of the rather large shot glass which the barman banged down on the bar top, which I managed to grasp with my trembling hand, went down my throat in one gulp.  The first was followed, in quick succession, by another two equally large ones.  Within a couple of minutes that comfortable warm feeling rising upwards from the pit of my stomach, where the vodka was likely happily sloshing around, reached my face.  While this was going on in my innards, on the outside with my moustache having thawed I had my facial fuzz hanging down limply over my lips.  Ignoring the fact that I was likely looking like a disheveled tramp I ran my, by now comfortably warm, hands over my face to make sure that my nose and my ears were still attached to the rest of me!

This is from personal experience.
VODKA being lugged back in copious volumes in those regions is not alcoholism!
It is the very breath of life!!

Surdie advantage

This yarn goes back to around 1998, during my Dubai days.  With teas being regularly sourced and shipped out from Calcutta and Colombo, while both cities used to be on my regular beat, having friends in the latter who were always ready to party at the drop of a hat, Colombo was a much more frequent port of call.

Capitalising on the fact that I had very good contacts there and that Sri Lanka had a very well established and innovative tea packaging industry which, at that point of time, was streets ahead of what India could offer, besides bulk tea shipments from there over the years I had developed and was managing quite a few private labels for clients in various countries.  Leveraging that base and sensing a business opportunity I ended up taking an optimistic plunge by extending the private label platform to develop a ‘brand’ for myself.  That “Camellia”, which we expected would become a huge success, fell flat on its face is a different matter altogether.

On receiving and checking the first consignment of Camellia Tea Bags in Dubai it was noticed that the tag on the tea bag had a minor flaw in the printing.  Trying to explain this to the design artist in Colombo over the phone proving to be an uphill task I decided that the better option would be to make a trip to SL, sit with the fellow and sort out the issue peering over his shoulder while the designer worked on his computer.  Having already planned a visit to Calcutta I decided to club that trip with a hop across from Calcutta to Colombo from where I could directly head back to Dubai.

Wanting to make an impression on Hussain (the designer) for him to fully understand how the misprint on the tag could impact the whole pack, I decided to carry along an unopened full shipping case from the consignment with me.  The standard packing for the 100 Tea Bag carton being 36 shelf packs I landed in Calcutta airport in the wee hours of the morning with my suitcase and this one carton.  Having gone through immigration and collecting the two pieces of baggage from the luggage belt I headed out to the exit, having been waved through by the Customs official who, from his dishevelled appearance appeared to have been rudely and unnecessarily woken up from a deep slumber by the arrival of a flight. 

Crossing the Customs checkpoint I was waved down by a gentleman in a white uniform who, suddenly appearing from nowhere, asked me what I had in my carton.  Having already come past the Customs area, I was rather terse in my response wanting to know who the gentleman was.  The response was a somewhat pompous “Phytosanitary Inspector”.   There being no overt signs of him being what he said he was I asked him to show me his ID, which he did before again asking me what I was carrying in the carton. 
“Tea Bags as you can see printed on the carton”
“You can’t take”
“Huh!  Why not”?
“Import of Tea to India not allowed” followed by a rather smug “Banned item”!

After which exchange I very patiently explained to the inspector that what I was carrying was a sample of my own product which had been packed in SL and that I would be carrying the unopened carton back with me the next morning on the flight to Colombo.  The gentleman being adamant and repeating his litany of “banned” I suggested that he put his signature across the cartons sealing tape and that on the next day before checking into my flight I could show him that the carton was unopened as proof that I had not imported any teas into the country.  With him being unmoved by my suggestion I offered to leave the carton in the gentleman’s office, telling him that I’d collect it from there before heading out.  The response was a very brusque “NO”!

Tired as I was after my five hour flight and wanting to get to my hotel for a shower before heading out for my work, in total exasperation I suggested to the bloke that we go into his office.  The sudden spark of interest in his eyes was a blatant giveaway as to what he expected when we entered the confines of his office.  Sitting down across from his desk I asked the gentleman whether he had a cutter or a blade he could lend me.  Being handed over a penknife I slit the sealing tape and opened the carton and went into full theatrical mode.  As dramatically as I could possibly be I pulled out one pack of the tea bags, got hold of the tear tape and VERY slowly unsealed the cellophane overwrap which I crinkled into a ball with the plastic making that grating crinkly sound which I accentuated by continuing to roll the ball as tight as possible.  Pushing the ham acting to the limit I requested that the gentleman loan me a scissor and would he please throw the cellophane ball into his dustbin before passing the bin across to me.  Had he been a cartoon character, at this point of time the inspector would definitely have had at least a couple of question marks floating over his head. 

The bin having been pushed across to me, in extremely slow motion I picked up one tea bag from out of the pack of 100, held the tag and in a ‘playing with a yo-yo’ motion jerked the bag for it to be suspended at the end of the string.  Getting hold of the bag I snipped off the top, poured the two grams of tea into the bin and ever so slowly wrapped the thread around the now empty bag which I replaced in the packet before lifting out the next one with which I went through the same drama.  As I was reaching for the third bag, my friend pulls my had aside:
“What are you doing”?
“I explained to you that I need to take the product back with me to Colombo because of a printing mistake”
“Since you are insisting that you can’t allow me to bring tea into the country I’m emptying out the tea bags”
“The carton has 3,600 tea bags, so the exercise may take some time, so please bear with me”
“Can you please show me your passport”?  This from the inspector.

Flipping open my passport and saying it out aloud, read out “Gurrinder Singh Khanna” before asking “You are Sikh”?

My response in the affirmative had the gentleman promptly close my passport, hand that back to me and say, “Sir, you please go and please take the carton with you”

It works!  Turban or no turban, it’s a known fact that we’re a community of folk who, once we’ve dug our heels in, the heels stay firmly dug!

Runs and Alms

During the 15 odd years when I was an expatriate, living and operating first out of Dubai and subsequently out of Sri Lanka running my own business, I was more akin to a travelling salesman, pounding pavements of cities in country after country peddling my wares.  The fact that I had transplanted myself into the ‘real’ world, from the boondocks of Assam, every single trip I undertook to whichever country, while a unique experience in itself, also was a new chapter in my ongoing higher education.

This higher education which, teaching me as much as it did, was for me at the level of a ‘doctorate’.  Besides the endless learning with me getting a firsthand feel of different cultures, on every trip I would meet a cross section of folk, some so very interesting that I have had the pleasure of forging some very close friendships.  What gives me immense satisfaction is that a number of those relationships, having matured over a period time, are still very much alive and kicking.  Happily so!  One of those very special ones is my bond with a Syrian gentleman.  Chadi Kalbakji, a purveyor of tea operating out of Damascus.

The Syrian population, in addition to Turkish coffee, drinks massive volumes of tea, cup after cup all day long.  To feed that ‘obsession’ the country imports humongous volumes of good quality tea.  The bottom line being that Damascus became a very frequent destination for me.  Over the many years and numerous trips to Syria, in us attempting to drum up some mutually beneficial business, Chadi drove me to almost all the major cities of Syria where we would meet tea merchants discussing business over many cups of tea before taking time off to drive around the city for some sightseeing.  Every visit was an eye opener.  Now when one sees the havoc that the senseless war has wrought on that once beautiful country, it literally breaks ones heart.  Inhuman wanton destruction!

This was in the coastal city of Latakia when we sat down for one of those expansive Syrian meals during which just wading through the seemingly endless stream of appetizers, with one delectable dish following another and long before the entrée makes its appearance, one has food coming out of one’s ears, that Chadi asked me whether in India we like eating sheep’s brain.  The image which immediately popped up in my mind was of that absolutely sumptuous Indian/Pakistani style brain curry “magaz masala” which has not even an iota of resemblance to its main ingredient and is a dish I do so enjoy.  So proudly blurted out a “of course I do”.  Having answered that casually thrown question, we got down to some serious eating, tackling the ‘parade’ of mezze which almost magically kept coming on to the table.  Then came the pièce de résistance, a pink blob which, other than throbbing, appeared to be doing everything else that it’s designed to do!  In response to my round-eyed incredulous look Chadi tells me “you said you like brain, so here it is – steamed brain”.  Oh no Sir, a foodie I may be, but I do draw the line somewhere!

On one of my visits to Syria, Mike Jones who was at that time a senior manager with James Finlay and who, besides being a business associate was and continues to be a good friend, had for many years been suggesting that since he’d never been to Syria, he would like to accompany me on one of trips.  The dates having been fixed, Mike called to say that he’d like to have his colleague come along.  The three of us having linked up in Dubai, just as we were boarding the flight to Damascus, Richard Smyth let it be known to us that he had never, before this trip, travelled to any ‘dodgy’ destination.  So here, unlike Mike who I knew to be an intrepid travaller who had been there and done that, we were saddled with a softy!

‘Dodgy’ being not quite the word I would have used for what is arguably the world’s oldest civilization, we landed in Damascus where over a two day stay, messers Jones and Smyth gorged themselves on delicious Syrian fare in some really quaint restaurants which Chadi introduced us to.  On the third day, with Chadi at the wheel, enroute to Aleppo we got to Hama by the afternoon and decided that ahead of sitting down for another one of ‘those’ meals we should first visit the sights.  We had only got as far as the Norias when, as I was taking this photograph (alongside), I found that Richard’s face had taken on the hue of one who had many days before handed in his dinner pail and instead of being shovelled in had been placed on a rack in a damp cellar to mature along with the blocks of cheese kept there for the purpose.  Yup!  Our softy had ended up with a classical case of what in India is quaintly described as ‘Delhi belly’.  With Richards innards making strange and rather unfriendly noises, there being no other option, we bundled the two into a commandeered cab for a hurried drive back to Damascus and the earliest possible flight back to Dubai.  Having waved the duo off, Chadi and I continued on to Aleppo.

Aleppo – one of the most beautiful old cities I have ever had the pleasure of visiting. Reeking of history, it was a delight to wander through the narrow lanes of the souk, running my hands over stone walls which had probably been standing there for eons silently watching generations go by and pass into history.  Makes one wonder where the human race is headed when one sees how that stunning city has been reduced to a pile of rubble!

While there are so many anecdotes which I could share of my travels with Chadi, there is this particular one which immediately comes to mind and which even now decades later, whenever I think about Syria, has me chuckling to myself. 

In Damascus sitting alongside Chadi in his fairly new Mercedes, at an intersection waiting for a signal to turn green, a clutch of street urchins crowded the car to beg, shoving their hands in through the open windows.  Suddenly one of them excitedly shouts out something and they all rush off.  Totally flummoxed I turned to Chadi for an explanation who, with his standard ear to ear grin tells me “that little monkey told the rest of the gang to forget about the Mercedes because a latest model BMW had come to a stop behind my car and that there would be richer pickings there”!  The signal having turned green, I remember us having held up the traffic till we finally managed to stop guffawing.

I could go on forever, but leave it with what a sage had to say centuries ago:
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
Could anyone ever have expressed it any better?