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The fifty-foot dhow on which we embarked for Qatar with two boxes full of food and squash drinks was also being used as a water carrier. The journey by dhow took about six hours. I was tense with excitement, yet trying so hard not to show it; no doubt Bartlett and Nobbs felt the same when we tied up at the Zekrit jetty.
My first impression was one of chaos. Oilfield material was piled high every-where. Cement, drill pipe, oil pipe, crates of machinery, crates of materials. Just everywhere.
Or so it seemed. Later, when I visited it each month I had a more balanced view. I stepped ashore over oil line pipes and thousands of bags of cement. We were to be greeted by the Head Accountant and driven back to camp in a Humber saloon.
Welcome to Qatar. I had to hang on to his every word, for he spoke, or rather mumbled in a quiet voice and as he had his pipe, in his mouth one had to give much attention to what he said. I got in to the back of the Humber, Harold driving, and Tussler, invariably known as Tuss, who I learnt was his assistant and No. I glanced through the window as we swung away and noticed Bartlett the Camp Boss climbing into the passenger seat of a somewhat battered pick up truck.