Tales of the Gulf
Author:
Donal O'Mahony
[Excerpt] Where he got the idea from is beyond me but Omar Khayam certainly never set foot in the wild, desolate, god-forsaken part of Eastern Iran called Bid Boland and, with any sense, neither should I.
Wedged between a pair of Iranians who would put Sumo wrestlers to shame, our car from Abadan steamed its way for some six hours through endless desert before reaching the foothills. From there we started climbing a mountain range that spewed out an endless stream of 'Black Gold' to keep the wheels of the Western World moving. The night sky glared with angry flames from the flared wells lighting-up the tortuous twists and turns of terrifying mountain passes. Our driver's habit of turning around to light his fags while at the same time carrying-on animated conversations with his mates didn't help to alleviate my fears! Our escort also seated up front, was armed with a deadly piece of automatic weaponry which might have been re-assuring except that he kept it pointed rear-wise, with finger on the trigger and bounced about with every bump on the way. I'm sure they thought I must be a fellow Moslem clutching my beads (Rosary) in stark terror and mouthing entreaties to St Christopher or whoever was his replacement!
The site was one vast encampment, hundreds of miles from anywhere, whose outer perimeter was guarded by gun-toting military, and an inner barrier patrolled by special police. The contract consisted of building and commissioning a pumping installation to bring natural gas from the southern oil fields all the way to Russia - some 1600 miles distance - and was said to be capable of delivering energy at the other end the equivalent of what Britain would use yearly! The labour comprised of three hundred expatriates with some three thousand Iranian operatives and admin staff. Since there was not much love lost in the country at that time for the Shah, he had his secret police - the Savak - quietly placed to keep an eye on any would-be dissidents of whom there certainly were quite a few. Unclaimed wages at month end was one way of knowing who had joined the ranks of the disaparacidos!
The day started with roll call at 4.30 am and on site by 5.30. Boarding school was never as bad. By 9 am the temperature was some 125o rising to 1400 plus as mid-day approached, The air-conditioned offices should have made life a bit more bearable had the equipment worked but the generating plants regularly broke down as sand found its way into the works and everything else! By the time tools were downed at 5 pm one could murder for a beer and, as the bar sensibly stayed open until 2 am, there was no need to rush it down. The main saloon had a counter that ran some two hundred feet in length and would put many a Wild West hostelry to shame. Beer and cigarettes were brought by camel-train, smuggled all the way from some outpost on the Persian Gulf and its arrival was the signal for much jubilation particularly if supplies had started running low. The expat who co-ordinated this activity would have done credit to Al Capone and I was not surprised to learn that he owned three hotels in Las Palmas through his good stewardship! As was normal business practice in that part of the world Baksheesh 1 was present and indeed rampant. The reward for services rendered could amount to a new Mercedes delivered to one's UK homestead or a contribution to one's Swiss Bank account. My wife and the bank manager were not too happy that my strict Catholic upbringing under the Christian Bros and my Hippocratic oath to the Institute forbid me from participating! I remonstrated on one occasion with the Project Director when I noticed a drawer in his desk stuffed with Rolex Gold Perpetual Oyster Chronometers. His explanation was that he levied these from the many sub-contractors thus avoiding his staff being tempted by them. In turn he would reward good workers himself by presenting them with one when he considered it appropriate. Sounded sensible, if rather unorthodox, but I reckon his progeny in UK were the envy of their school pals with their flashy timepieces! (Footnote - In case the thought passed your mind, no I don't own a Rolex or anything like it and never have!)
After some five days and nights non-stop slogging I finally came up with acceptable figures for the Bank to get the money rolling. I was sped once more through those ghastly mountains to Abadan and on to London clutching my vital papers and arrived at the London office clad in my T-shirt, khaki shorts and flip flops. As it was then early November and the weather rather 'Brass Monkeys' I must have looked like Lawrence of Arabia, without the sweat, on his return to Cairo HQ from the Wadi Rum! The brief week I had at home, snow or no snow, was heaven but having to return to site cast a dread in me. Ironically on my return I was to learn that despite its Fort Knox-like security, the main safe had been robbed of some £250,000 in my absence. Donning my Inspector Clouseau guise I managed to apprehend the culprit, who happened to be an expatriate, and recovered all the loot. The last I heard of him was that he was still a guest of the local prison service in an even more remote part of that country.
I reckoned that the arduous exercise which I had successfully completed warranted a break and so took the opportunity of seeing something of Iran. After a visit to Shiraz, a beautiful city which inspired Omar Khayam, I drove to Persepolis and the adjacent Valley of the Kings, truly sites to be seen and evidence of what was once the greatness of the ancient Persian Empire. From there I reached Isfahan, a fascinating city set in central Iran and the home of magnificent carpets. (I was fortunate to return to UK with one of its beautiful prayer rugs which had an incredible 800 stitches per square inch). I stayed in the Shah Abbas Hotel, built on the orders of the Shah with no expense spared and lavish in all respects. The dining room walls were covered in beaten gold and the cutlery was of course also gold. Bedroom suites were reminiscent of the Arabian Nights with vast four-poster beds sufficient to take a harem (the latter not included in the tariff). In the luxuriant gardens with their magnificent fountains were to be found many storytellers recounting their tales of ancient Persia, regrettably for me only in Farsi. Then on to Teheran, a lovely cosmopolitan city with much of old and modern and very westernised (this was before the emergence of the Ayatollah and his followers!). Up and over the snow-clad Demavend Mountains to reach the Caspian Sea where I was to enjoy it's Sun, Sand and plenty of Beluga Caviar. (I can't recall what it then cost but reckon if only I had kept a few jars for my old age I could have now retired on the proceeds).
Life as a Chartered Accountant does have its occasional rewards provided you take them when they come!
Accountancy Ireland Vol 34 No 5 October 2002