Four Hours at the SkyBar

I trudged towards the elevators pulling the samples bag. ‘Am I a salesman or a bloody Manager,’ I said to myself cursing my fate. The so called business tour was taking a toll on my senses and all I now needed was a chilled beer. The check in and immigration at Bahrain Airport had been frustrating and now I had full four hours at leisure before I took off for Doha.

The SkyBar looked decent but it was humming with unwanted noises. I am generally a quiet person and seeing all the chaos inside made me think twice whether I really wanted a drink. Anyway I gathered courage and entered the bar; I could see Black, Brown, White, Beige heads whichever color you want, coupled with a cacophony of multiple languages. To my utter relief and disbelief I spotted an empty space in the corner of the bar. I pounced towards it like hungry lion and settled down with a satisfying heave. The Arab sitting next to me just looked at me with bloodshot eyes through which I could see the Budweiser river gushing ahead, full throttle.

I acknowledged his glance with a nod, fished out a book, pack of cigarettes and settled down.

‘Hello, can I have a beer,’ I said to the bartender. ‘We have many beers sir, which one would you like to have.’

‘Get me a Heineken,’ I replied turning the pages of my book.

‘Sir would you like to have a Bottle or a Can,’ he said without any change in his expression. I just looked at him cockily and said ‘No I want neither,’ with a touch of sarcasm.

‘I am sorry sir,’ he replied still maintaining the calm of the ever grinning Filipino bartender, gosh they were extra efficient; I have always thought so when it came to service. “Service with a smile”, well I agree with it now. ‘I want a Heineken draught, is that fine.’

‘Very well sir and he sailed away.

Now was the time to scan the surroundings, behind me was a group of pissed drunk hippies, so they looked, as I could only see beer cans strewn all over and no table in sight and they were laughing like lunatics. Next to them was a Texan cowboy. Why the fuck was he wearing a cowboy hat and dingoes in Bahrain, Americans are weird, they have to be different I chuckled to myself, he had a strange accent which was funny plus he had caught hold of a fellow American and they were discussing about the current state of jersey cows in America and their milk giving capacity.

Next to them was another American couple discussing something I couldn’t guess, the lady was quite generous with her midriff, and the Arab next to me had been losing no time in ogling like a hyena at the bountiful assets on display. For a moment my gaze was also glued on the spot but one has to be a gentleman in public places, so my gaze decided to hover someplace else but pay a visit to the spot once in a while.

‘Now what do we have here,’ I said to myself slowly and looking directly in front of me, well there was a girl sitting on the table opposite mine and gazing in my direction , oh boy finally my lucky day. Chest out butt in, I plunged into the eye game with full vigor. The beer had arrived, I had familiarized myself with the surroundings; the game had begun.

I lit my cigarette and settled down with the book glancing now and then at the ‘spot’ and the ‘game,’ the Arab next to me had decided to be bolder, he laid his head down on the bar and was in direct line with the spot, the lady had no intentions of taking action, I guess she was rather enjoying all the attention. The cowboy was staring at the Arab, the hippies were still howling, the game was looking in my direction if not at me. An Irani couple came and settled behind her on the sofa and ordered for their drinks.

‘How much is a beer for,’ I heard a sheepish voice. There was malabari gang of three people which had moved in and looked like construction workers, I took a sip, slipped in the bookmark and started following their conversation in an interested manner, and here it goes:

‘How much beer?’ – Malabari representative

‘Beer is for two dinars sir’ – Filipino bartender

‘How much is the tin (can) for’ – Malabari representative

‘Beer is for two dinars sir’- Filipino bartender

‘Can we get in a glass for one dinar’ – Malabari representative counting the money.

‘Beer is for two dinars sir’ – Filipino bartender

‘Ok give us the small glass for one dinar’ – Malabari representative looking desperate.

‘Beer is for two dinars sir’ – Efficient, service with a smile Filipino bartender.

Finally they lost patience, counted their money, had a final discussion and agreed to leave in peace looking at the flowing bar greedily while departing. The bartender heaved a sigh of relief; I didn’t know what to think, whether to laugh at a fellow countryman or feel sad. The game was looking at me again; I obliged her by giving a long penetrating gaze, suddenly she butted out her cigarette picked her bag and left. ‘Shit, I said to myself at least she could have smiled.’ I burrowed myself again in the book.

‘Can I have a light,’ I looked at the new entry, a bearded American with a clear and crisp tone.

‘Yes sure, I said passing him the lighter, he lit his cigarette and was now between me and the Arab who was still busy studying the spot.

The overzealous Texan cowboy with a paunch which could cover half the globe came trotting towards the bar, ‘One gin with tonic,’ he said to the bartender and looked at the Arab. He could see where the Arab was aiming for and tried to strike a conversation. I was hooked on to my second cigarette, took a puff, threw a cursory glance at the spot and focused my attention on the rotund cowboy.

‘So you an Arab ehh’ – paunchy Cowboy

‘No I am from Dubai’ – Spot hunting Arab (in full Arabic attire i.e. white tablecloth, as I read somewhere)

‘Which means you are an Arab’ – Bearded American with a crisp tone joining in.

‘Hey man was sup, are you an American’ – Pissed drunk paunchy cowboy to the crisp American tone.

All the three were looking at each other, the Arab not wanting to be left out remarked ‘I have been to America for training once, ok place hmmm’.

‘Which state were you in,’ – Crisp American tone.

‘United States, I told you Americaaaa” – Drunk spot hunting Arab to both the Americans. The two Americans looked at each other and then looked at me I gave them an encouraging look conveying my regards- ‘take him, he is all yours’. I puffed on my cigarette and busied myself in the ensuing ensemble.

‘Well America is big, which part did you take your training in, - Crisp American tone.

‘Engineering department in America’ – Confused, caught, drunk, spot hunting Arab.

I chuckled to myself and hid my face behind the book; the Arab got up on the pretext of taking a leak and hurried across.

‘The fuckhead Bedouin has never been out of the desert’ – The paunchy American roared off laughing looking at me, suddenly he focused his gaze on the hippies on the sofa behind us.

‘Hey are you guys from Philippines, Manila, mama sita, Noodles,’ something of that sort, the hippies stopped their howling and stared at him. ‘Yo man I have lived in manila,’ and he started making funny gestures and noises aimed at convincing them that he had a local touch. The hippies looked oriental but were not amused.

‘I go Manila, I take flight, I go America, then I go back Manila.’ The paunchy cowboy was muttering with his eyes closed trying to sound genuine. The entire SkyBar had focused their attention on our area.

One of the hippies got up from his seat and placed himself between the two Americans, ‘We are from Chile and going to Kuwait for work,’ he said smiling.

The cowboy and the crisp tone looked taken aback at their misjudgement; they abandoned the discussion there. The cowboy invited the crisp American tone to join his friend on the sofa to talk about Las Vegas or cows, it didn’t really matter. Incidentally I noticed two malabari jabbering away with a young American sitting just next to the spot, and eyeing ‘the spot’ at every opportune moment. We will never change was stamped all over them.

“Pheww,” I said to myself and asked the bartender for a refill. Nothing happened for another hour, the Iranis left for Iran, Cowboy’s extra friend left to catch his flight, the Chilean hippies were back to their drunken orgy, the Arab had returned to his usual place and started off from where he left. I had another hour to kick off and was by now engrossed in the book “The Third girl – Agatha Christie.”

After two beers my senses had also started floating, needless to say I was enjoying the feeling after a dry and hot stop in Kuwait, the next destination – Qatar also was not an exciting prospect, Bahrain attracted me. I closed the book and started pondering about my work and life, what I was doing and why I was doing it. Should I move back to India? All these thoughts were mixing with the brew.

‘Hey, you guys are from Philippines right’, a jovial but foreign accent cut in.

I looked up noticed a fat European already looking drunk sinking into the chair between me and the Arab, where once the great crisp American sat. He was looking in a weird way towards the Chileans and to our surprise he started on the same trip.

‘I have house in Manila, very nice place, beautiful girls, you go Manila?’ – Fat European.

I looked at the Chileans; they looked at the cowboy who in turn stepped on the dais. As we are all aware America always saves the world, so here we had the paunchy Cowboy in his boots and hat coming forward to save the day.

‘Mate, this gang is from Chile’ – American Cowboy.

‘Huhh, you don’t tell me I know a Filipino when I see one, they are from Philippines’ – Fat drunk European ordering a double scotch.

Sitting in the corner I had been a silent spectator, but now I was pulled into the drama. The paunchy cowboy rode up to me, ‘Dude tell him who they are?’

‘They are Chileans,’ I said to the Fat European, who eyed me suspiciously ‘And who are you?’ he snapped.

‘Dude he is not from manila either,’ cut in the Cowboy. The Chileans were now eagerly looking at us and happy with the attention they were being given. I felt that the bar was no more a sane place to be in and lit another cigarette. The Fat European gulped his two shots and started on his Manila experience with the American cowboy, I buried myself in my book once again. In due course of time I realized the Fat European was a German shepherd, the cowboy had shifted away from him as soon as he realized that.

One of the Chileans came up to me and said, ‘What is manila?’ I just looked at him and said,‘Don’t you worry, you just look like manila,’ he seemed satisfied with the answer and went back to share the mystery with his friends.

‘Holy Shit! My flight is about to depart,’ said the German shepherd in haste. ‘Bartender, pass me my cheque,’ he fired across the table. The Ever smiling bartender was at the moment busy smiling at other customers.

‘Have I paid my bill, I think I have,’ the German shepherd nudged me slowly in a drunken stupor. I lowered my book and looked him in the eye with hostility. ‘I don’t think you have,’ I said with distaste.

‘Eh, then I need to pay it hahaha, Bartender!!!!!’ barked the shepherd.

‘Sir, its five dinars,’ said the bartender with the cheque and showing his white calcium fortress.

‘Five dinars for a shot of scotch, you must be mad,’ shot the German with boiling anger, ‘you are cheating the bloody customers, I will have you booked.’ Meanwhile he was also loosing his balance and swaying like a seesaw while hurtling profanities at the ever smiling bartender.

He somehow managed to get up and delve into his wallet, counted five dinars and threw the bills at the Filipino bartender whose smile by now had vanished into thin air. ‘But sir, this is five Jordanian Dinars, we do not accept Jordanian currency,’ he replied meekly, and very likely on the verge of tears.

‘This is all you get, you ass and I am leaving, tell the police if you want to, try to stop me from boarding, I am leaving,’ saying the German staggered along the bar towards the exit, screaming his flight number and boarding gate. There was pin drop silence, the poor Filipino was just staring at the Jordanian currency blankly looking very hurt. I was studying his reactions closely and sipping my beer, but yet again the silence was broken by the saviour, ‘the American Cowboy.’

He came up to the bar with his fellow American and coaxed the ever crying Bartender. ‘Don’t worry dude we will pay up for the freak show,’ saying he took out a crisp five dinar note and gave it to the bartender.

In a flash the smile returned, everything turned ok, the dark clouds cleared, the sky was bright, and yet again the US of A had saved the world. ‘We will keep the Jordanian currency as a memento of our visit,’ said the cowboy wincing, and returned to his place.

My departure was also due by now, I paid my cheque with the right currency, and left a generous tip for all the entertainment. Pushing the bags was now a bigger pain in a state of drunkenness; I allowed an elderly European couple to enter the elevator before getting in.

‘What do they call this place, Bahhhhrrrraaain,’said the elderly European lady sounding amused.

‘It sure is a funny name dear, ‘replied the elderly European Gentleman even more amused.

I just closed my eyes and stood smiling in the corner, thinking of the funnier and more amusing things in life…..