Having spent over twenty years in Bahrain, I think I can claim with some degree of certainty that we all develop a dichotomous relationship with the kingdom. We love it, we hate it, and we’ll defend living here tooth and nail to outsiders, especially every time we return to our ‘home countries’. Yet we miss, or pretend to miss, certain aspects of ‘back home’ especially when we’re in a mixed social group or when life isn’t quite going our way, like when 'that yobbo with the Saudi licence plate' cuts us off without so much as signalling. “OMG,” I can hear so many people (including myself) say, “Back home the cops would be on him in a flash”… or similar. 

And, given Bahrain’s history, I have developed the quirky opinion that this love/hate relationship with Bahrain has always existed, even from the time the legendary Gilgamesh first came to Dilmun. Now, I’m guessing that all Bahrain-o-philes have some idea of the Epic of Gilgamesh and his supposed connection with Dilmun - considered by some to have been a name for Bahrain. 

For those who don’t know it, here’s a quick run-down garnered from Wikipedia: The Epic of Gilgamesh is a poem from Mesopotamia and among the earliest known works of literature. Scholars believe that it originated as a series of Sumerian legends and poems about Gilgamesh King of Uruk - which is in present day Iraq. 

The story revolves around a relationship between Gilgamesh and his close friend Enkidu, with whom he undertakes many dangerous quests that incur the displeasure of the gods. In one of these quests, the two friends kill the Bull of Heaven and so to punish them, the gods have Enkidu killed. The latter part of the epic focuses on Gilgamesh's distressed reaction to Enkidu's death, which takes the form of a quest for immortality. In this quest Gilgamesh tries to learn the secret of eternal life by undertaking a long and perilous journey to meet the immortal flood hero, Utnapishtim and his wife, who are among the few survivors of the Great Flood, and the only humans to have been granted immortality by the gods. Gilgamesh comes to the twin peaks of Mt. Mashu at the ends of the earth, through the mountains along the Road of the Sun. He follows it for twelve 'double hours' in complete darkness. Managing to complete the trip before the sun catches up to him, Gilgamesh arrives in a garden paradise full of jewel-laden trees; in another legend this is the place referred to as Dilmun. 

Gilgamesh notices that Utnapishtim seems no different from himself, and asks him how he obtained immortality. Utnapishtim tells an ancient story of how the gods decided to send a great flood - very similar to the Flood in the Bible and Noah’s Ark. The main point seems to be that Utnapishtim was granted eternal life in unique, never to be repeated circumstances. After instructing his ferryman to wash Gilgamesh and clothe him in royal robes, Utnapishtim prepares to send him back to Uruk. As they are leaving, Utnapishtim's wife asks her husband to offer a parting gift. That’s when Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh of a boxthorn-like plant at the very bottom of the ocean that will make him young again. In some stories it is the pearls that are considered the 'grapes of the sea' that will grant immortality. Gilgamesh obtains the plant by binding stones to his feet (very similar to the early pearl divers of Bahrain) so he can walk on the bottom of the sea. He recovers the plant and plans to test it on an old man when he returns to Uruk. Unfortunately, when Gilgamesh stops to bathe, the plant is stolen by a serpent which sheds its skin as it departs. There is a lot more and it is a far more complex epic than I have placed here. 

In the Epic, Gilgamesh returns to Uruk, however, in my imagination, he never really leaves and the following poem draws on several myths around ancient Bahrain, using different names by which it was or supposedly was known - Dilmun, Tilmun, Nidukki, Kur-ni-tuk. Those interested may explore these further through that wonderful resource; the Internet.



THE LAMENT OF GILGAMESH

South, south he rushed

To the midst of the sea

To the place of the rising sun

To the place where some day

A king would live like a fish

Twelve double hours away.

The fifth King of Uruk was Gilgamesh

Descended five times from the time of the flood

And son of the goddess Ninsun.

He sailed for a day

He sailed for a night

He sailed in search of Dilmun.

He wished to eat of the grapes of the sea

Those pearls from its bed would grant him

Eternal bliss and companionship

With the sage King Utnapishtim

In legendary Dilmun

In twice-blessed Dilmun.

Twice blessed by the god of sweet waters

Twice blessed by the god called Enki

So south he rushed, south by south-west

And he met with a following wind

Until he came upon this jewelled isle

(A sad, far cry from Sumer).

Here the date palms stood tall sentinels

Their green arms stretched to the sky

Waving a warning from dusk until dawning

That this idyll would soon pass by

But, he heeded them not brave Gilgamesh

For he had reached the isle of his dreams.

Then Gilgamesh dropped anchor

And entered the waters green

Where betwixt the salt, through the seabed rose

The sweet waters of Bahr ein

With stones on his feet down, down he dived 

To the rocks where the pearl beds lay

He closed his eyes against the salt

He pinched his nose with a date palm peg

While he harvested those pearls of rose and grey

Harvested the grapes of eternal day

In the twice-blessed waters of a tiny bay

Off the island of Muharraq near Bahrain

Off the waters green that spread between

Muharraq and Bahrain. 

How long he stayed beneath the waves

Neither he nor the sages could tell

But he took many shapes beneath the seas

Once a dugong shy, then a dolphin spry

Then a shark, then a dolphin again.

And he sang a song, a lament forlorn

Of what he saw had been done to Dilmun.

And this was its burden long:

“Ah me Dilmun, Tilmun!

What became of your bearded palm trees green?

What became of your shingled shores?

What became of your soft undulating sands?

Of the burial mounds of your immortal clans?

Who has broken these temples and laid them bare

So that emptied and hollowed and ravaged they stare

At the sky and the taunting sun?

Ah me Nidukki!

Did the oil then come?

As Mesopotamia of old had foretold?

And is it true Kur-ni-tuk

That your pearls you forsook

For the sake of the black, black gold?”

And at night when a full moon is in the sky

And a Sambuk is sailing silently by

Old sailors at their fish traps say;

If you hear the shudder of an oil-tanker 

Start up on a night such as this

Emanating from the sea comes a moan and a cry

And the lament of Gilgamesh. 



And to what do we owe the changes that came about in Dilmun? As Gilgamesh says in his lament: the discovery of oil. This as we know, changed life forever in Bahrain. The next verse deals with some of the legendary references to Dilmun the land where 'the raven never croaked, and the sheep lay alongside the lion without fear'.



DILMUN

The raven does not croak here

Nor the lion roar

But this today is after

And that was before.

The raven comes disguised now

His croak softened with chalk

The lion is a prancing Peugeot

And though the Jaguar doesn’t roar

A Van dan Plas or an XJ6 purr slowly by.

On Fridays the palm-fringed streets

Trill to the sounds of a Suzuki jeep

A Cougar pounces down the road

Rubbing shoulders with a GMC’s load...

And a forgotten nodding donkey

Wearing a hoopoe bird’s face

Hangs it head in shamed disgrace.

All that is in the past. And to this day so many of us, who come to Bahrain and stay for more than two years, are mesmerized by the country, the easy life, and some even convert to Islam, often for love. The following is in memory of a person from Scotland who followed the Great Prophet for love and gave up all that had once been second nature to him. I always believed that behind his sad eyes there was a hankering for his early life. I could be wrong, but there is a sixth sense that sometimes picks up on that intangible emotion: wistfulness. I sensed it here, although the individual has stayed on in Bahrain and made this country his home.



NO CUP O’ KINDNESS

He came all the way

From a land of grey

Craggy rocks and soft green moss

Where the harshness of the landscape

Was ever mellowed in a mist.

And in his whispered, burry voice

Lingered a memory: 'I wish'

I hadn’t heard the words

Of another Prophet calling

I hadn’t seen a promised land

Nor learnt of its appealing

Enchantment of another kind

Delusions of the mind

Seeming straightforwardness

Ever twisted in a tangled mess

Severe deprivations of the body

Seducements to the spirit.

Yet, daily 

The indulgences to satisfy the flesh

Blew up before his very eyes

And more and more did he disguise

His weariness

With pathetic little gossip

Disparaging the lifestyle

Of what was the right style

Yet tried to seem so flip about himself.

Hiding as best he could

The image of a man he would

In other circumstances, most despise.

He languished.

Near a lake of sand

Beneath a clear blue sky.

He withered

In the promised land

And never more said ‘aye’

To an inch of amber in a glass

Nor a rude and honest high

Not e’en that cup o’ kindness

That was drunk for 'Auld Lang Syne'. 

And then there are so many of us others, who just enjoy the marvellous freedom that tax-free salaries provide. The material delights, the facility with which one can go buy another car, for instance... So this one is dedicated to auto enthusiasts who have their pick of vehicles, makes, models and marques:



WINDOW SHOPPING FOR WHEELS

Ah! The weekend!

Let’s enjoy.

And to a car showroom deploy 

Our energies. Our fantasies

Because after all some day

The will to go will go away

And perhaps the wherewithal

Will go the way of pleasures all

Down to a might-have-been. 

Now, let’s see. What shall it be?

The Town Car that’s left on the shelf

The latest Taurus, or shall we

Indulge our fantasies and go for

A Lincoln Continental under a self-financing scheme?

Let’s to another showroom wander

And check out the newest Honda

BMW’s over priced for me

And, though they’re nice

I don’t care for Land Rover

A Mitsubishi’ll do for you

We could get it brand new.

For myself, I can’t decide

Perhaps I’ll check the classifieds

And exercise a little prudence.

Or shall we in a fit of caprice

For a Cadillac or Bentley place a deposit?

But really when you look at it

The cash one spends upon some cars

Is worth a flat, a home, by far

More likely to appreciate…

But, let’s to a showroom anyway

It’s how I like to spend Thursday. 

Then there are the children who grow up here, who believe that this way life exists everywhere. Their parents wish to caution them, to tell them to study hard, because ‘back home’ things are different. Either the academics are too hard or daily life - no housemaids, nannies, cooks, or someone to take care of laundry. There's also the inconvenient need to travel by public transport and not be chauffeur driven everywhere or own a car with ease. In addition, here they see that most people are able to enjoy fully paid-for three-week vacations and go wherever one’s fancy takes one, in addition to making that obligatory visit ‘home’.

Consequently, many of our children grow up not really believing our tales that life isn’t quite the happy-go-lucky existence they enjoy here. To them it’s another of our fake bogeyman tales, which they think we invent so that they might work a little harder.



WHICH IDEAL

I came here when I was four

The world was still so new to me

The sun rising and full blown

The moon: half, full, or crescent ‘C’

I know no different I cannot see

That this idyll 

Is a shell and it’s fragile (I’ve been told).

The blue skies and the palm fronds

Clubs on Fridays

Ramadan dry days

The summer sea a static pond

Of which I have grown fond.

I know no different I cannot see

That this idyll

Is a shell and it’s fragile (so they say). 

Easy school days, breezy homework

When I grow up I’ll be no clerk

Tennis lessons at the club

Tuesdays brass band

Life is swimming

And the so-called real world

Is just a quirk.

I know no different I cannot see

That this idyll 

Is a shell and it’s fragile (is it really?).

Yet, somewhere a wave beckons

Other horizons call to me

Saying there’s a greener, brighter land

Away beyond the sea.

They say it daily drizzles there

The skies are pearly grey

There’s an exciting acrid smell

Of happenings in the air.

And the future that it promises

Is clear and bright and fair.

I think perhaps that that too 

Is an idyll and a shell. 

Ah! The expat who is into everything: we see them in souks and malls, striding with the latest equipment into a gym or club. He or she enjoys a busy round of social and 'business' entertainment, and lives life to the full. However, even these individuals know deep within their hearts, or at least they always have that nagging suspicion that on a dime it could all suddenly come to an end.

BUSY, BUSY

Tennis: Saturday, Monday, Tuesday.

Golf, I get in early, early Friday.

The Manama Players on Wednesday — 

No that’s the singers.

Sunday, church of course.

Thursdays we keep for dinner parties

And hobnob with the glitterati

After golf Friday’s reserved for the family

Unless of course it’s absolutely necessary

Then we might, just might

Ask the housemaid to stay overnight

I take the children to school every day

In the BMW except Wednesday

When I take the Isuzu

For she has bridge and plays till two

Oh, the workload of our workaday week

It isn’t easy but it isn’t steep

We start at seven thirty in the a.m.

We knock off at half past one

We might go back after three

But the bosses leave it up to me.

The money’s good, the sun is bright

And the memory of commuting is a dark, dark, night. 

Frequently one comes across the ‘wife’ who doesn’t or can’t, for any number of reasons, work outside the home. She is involved in many activities and has an opinion, sadly, often negative, about how people are treated in the workplace, especially her husband. In some cases she may be right, but dear, oh dear, she feels she must express her exasperation … although if the truth were told, she loves it here!



IS THIS HAPPY?

I can’t stand it any more!

This daily dreaming

Work that only seems to be, yet, he slogs all day 

But doesn’t seem to have got far.

His efforts spill into my life.

It’s not right.

Are we tied hand and foot?

Are we bound by some Mephistophelean deed?

I’ve told him, enough! Let’s leave.

You call this a school here?

This ‘hunky-dory’ learn what you will

Without text books or tests

And then they tout abroad that it’s the best.

Yet, I must do the teaching one on one.

It’s not right.

Will the sins of the parents

Be visited on these so young?

I’ve told him, enough! Let’s leave.

They’re a nuisance

These sunny days

All we do is swim and laze

Like salamanders in the sand

We bask and then we hurry.

It’s not right

The ease of our existence

Is it rust upon ourselves?

Or a corrosion of the mind that first hits the cells?

I’ve told him, enough! Let’s leave.

This whole sensation is so strange

A circular path of repetition

With no change.

No ambition to fulfil

No hopes to still

No disappointments to fear.

I do believe

That all in all

I am happy here.

The following is dedicated to those of us who revel in this new-found wealth and freedom. Double-income families enjoy the best of the best. They enjoy access to the many delightful services in Bahrain and the low-cost labour helps, put us in an altogether different class. And in honour of them:

APPURTENANCES

But of course, my love, don’t you know

My whisky-voice is mature mellow?

I am what I am because I got there

On my own steam — more or less.

It helps. He’s in oil.

But, I worked too

And made it… did you?

House mortgage paid up in Lancashire

A Mercedes for him, for me a Daimler.

Single carat diamonds in each ear

And none of your eighteen carat gold, my dear.

Twenty two, it doesn’t mater 

That gold’s gone down or is it up?

We take R & R trips to London town

Sometimes the Seychelles

And perhaps this winter we’ll finally go

On that much put-off trip to Mexico.

I’m Joan-Collins slim with a bit more style

The tailors here are so agile.

Weekly facials and hairdos

An oil massage for an hour or two.

I’m berry brown from sunshine haze

While on our yacht on most Fridays.

No, it isn’t an exotic lifestyle really

Everyone lives like this, well, nearly. 

After spending several years in Bahrain, we begin to notice that we have a disconnection with families and friends in our home countries. That’s when our conversion to Bahrain-o-phile is complete, and the idea and acceptance that this has become our 'home' fully dawns on us.



HOME THOUGHTS AT HOME

Every time I visit home

I think, I ask, ‘is this my home?’

The jostling crowds seem louder now

The relations seem more cloying now

And too, with every passing year

Aggression seems the order now. 

And should I dare to criticize

My words are met with deep, dark sighs

A ringing ‘tut’ a look of disdain

You’re not unfamiliar with the pain

So what has gotten into you

You once lived much the same as we do.

The neatness, cleanliness and hygiene 

They proudly show are edged in grime

And mine the only eyes that see

That first class isn’t first, really.

We visit all the top hotels

Sights and sounds I once knew well.

Willingly I pick up tabs of one kind

Having lost the knack of finding tabs in minds.

I am the alien Rip Van Winkle

I’ve lost the jargon, lost the sparkle.

As they used to say at one time

I’m out of it, I’ve lost the line. 

I see their love across a lens

I see their smiles, I hear their laughter

Across a time-lag slightly after

I see their love I make amends

I kiss, I hold them ever tighter

I kiss, I hold them through a muffler

I hold hands, I make a fuss

A show of love that once we shared

Excitement so intense, we cared.

And yet, today we can’t be friends.

Do they sense the gulf between us

The wide Arabian Gulf between us?

Do they feel the air’s gone thin?

And though we talk so much more

Can they sense the silence in

Between the words?

We kiss, we hug, we part again

I hurry back to this isolation

This strange cocoon where once I cried

And ached so much to go back home

And now I ask, ‘where is my home?’

The following is an observation of a particular kind of expat who has, over the years, taken on an aspect of expatriate behaviour that isn’t home grown from his or her native place. They too delight, in their way, in a new-found exuberance for life. They join in the large life and often live beyond their means, racking up credit-card expenses, and often ending up in dire straits. They are what I consider: 



LOTOPHAGUS* LEPIDOPTERUS SIMPLUS

Caterpillar

I came with cataracts in my eyes

Half blind

A refugee from tears and sighs

So weary

So weary of my insect life

Kafkaesquely mundane strife

The daily munch, munch, munch of travelling

Leaf to leaf, job-to-job commuting.

The strange thing is

I thought that that was

All that life could offer.

Cocoon

Then wrapped in silken transportation

I arrived here.

At first morose: Is this salvation?

I survived here.

Still I lay and learnt through senses

The breakdown of my old defences.

Learnt that other lives there be

Learnt from those like birds so free

Learnt that one could hope to be

Other than chained to leaf and tree.

Could perhaps beat gravity

And lose and shed solemnity.

While retaining memories

Of the life, as grub I led

Of the moult that I would shed

Butterfly

The moult came off with difficulty

First it cracked

And I crept back

Afraid of losing my identity.

Half in half out, I waited

With beating heart, breath bated.

One antenna, then the other

Sensed in the breeze, what I could gather.

Nectar from this island’s flowers.

Some offered disco dancing till the wee hours.

Others were possessions

Brightly hued and plenty.

I could choose from those around me

Soft or bold or gold or glitzy

I stepped out of my cocoon

And in the heady perfume swooned.

And in my swooning I spread my wings.

Why! I could dance most anything:

A sprightly bright fandango

Bee-bop, bump, waltz ‘n’ tango!

I could alight on any flower

At any time, at any hour.

Gathering rosebuds while I may

I could watch the hours slip fast away

And then, upon a frog-loud pond

Broad leaves with dewdrops I espied

The sacred flowers of the Lotophagi*.

They lured me with their perfumes sweet

And I couldn’t leave 'well enough' alone.

So, on anxious wings I soft descended

Knowing that my time was ended

Aware that although such as I 

Were truly not Lotophagi.

Now it seems so rich to die.

While I can see the evening in the sky

Spread purple, pink and salmon gold

Knowing I shall not grow old

My head I rest upon a leaf

A perfumed dewdrop brings the sleep

From which I shall not wake for ages

And, though the lotus I’ve not tasted

On its leaf I lie fake-wasted

And with my dying inward eye

See that butterflies such as I

Are mere imitation Lotophagi.

* Lotophagus - Lotus eaters with reference to the place in Greek mythology where Odysseus’ men eat of the narcotic ‘lotus’ plant and forget their homes and purpose.

Another aspect of life in Bahrain is the coalescing of our faiths. Some of us may not have been ardent followers of the religions we were born into in our home countries, but here, suddenly faced with the strong convictions of our hosts, we turn back to our religious roots with a fervour not experienced before. And, especially for those of us born into the Christian faith, the proximity of places like Jordan, Babylon and other Biblical sites, being here in Bahrain takes on an extra-special significance. We’re so aware, that if not the Messiah perhaps one of his early followers could so easily have visited the very sands we walk on …

THE FISHER FOLK

Here we are in the lands of yore

Not far from where once

He walked.

His footsteps fell on similar sands

His words were heard by similar bands 

Of men 

Wearing loose garments, heads covered

Ears and eyes shaded

But so many were blind

'Too much heaven on their minds'

And now they choose another’s words

They seek the life of another’s world

But we from afar

(Blessed are we who believe

And have not seen)

Remain pure

Steadfast in our faith we try 

To save the Saviour’s one-time lands

We cast out nets

Our hopes are met

On the wrong side of our boats

We draw them up

We wind them up

Our lines and nets are empty

In terms of what we fish for

And what we hope to catch.

Our hopes are threads strong knotted

But our nets have gaps wide-slotted

And their small minds slip through the snare

So pleased, so free, so unaware.

They flounder in the turquoise deep

And floundering know not that they flounder

While we retain our purity

And yet again we scythe the sea

Searching for a harvest of lost souls

Trying to raise their interest in our goals

Hoping that here again

We, renamed in faith may be

Exalted in time as true fishers of men. 

I have also seen people - both men and women - who affect a certain urbanity as if they aren’t really phased or impressed by all that they see here in the Middle East, whether Bahrain or Dubai, Abu Dhabi, Kuwait or any other Middle Eastern state. They like to make out that they are accustomed to the level of wealth they see in close proximity or sometimes actually hob-nob with individuals who are, to put it plainly, ‘loaded’. These people could come from literally any part of the world and any social status, but they take pains to let those around them know that ‘back home’ all this was par for the course, when really most of us know quite well that it isn’t or wasn’t. 



SERENITY!

That woman there so self-possessed

Articulate, well groomed and dressed

Cool and distant as a painting

Of a surrealist landscape.

Her every movement’s practised right

And too her lips, skin, blush and slight

Bent forward head, speak artifice

As does her languid cigarette.

And yet I know beneath that calm

Exterior beats a timorous heart

Nervously twitching lest all should see

Her fearful inadequacy.

She craves acceptance and respect

Her hands with nervousness are wet

The shell she’s built is wafer thin

But hard so others don’t get in.

And painted on its smooth surface

That speckled camouflage - her face.

Her head is filled with all the news

She parrots all the proper views.

But behind her deep dark eyes

Throbs a mind that screams, 'lies, lies!'

Yet every night with care she clads

Her wafer shell with flakes of sad

Hard nacreous secretions. So

That through some tiny gaps or holes

The world, nor anyone should see

That though she loves her life of ease

Her body sates to a fine degree

Beneath it all there longs to be 

A soaring spirit flying free.

Perhaps not perfect but at least

Divested of her self-possession

She could make a true confession

And declare to all around her

‘This child beneath the shell is me.’

But her shell is her protector

Both her shelter and her fetter. 

Sometimes the knowledge that this life of ease could perhaps be making us, mentally or spiritually lazy, nags at us. But we try and ignore it. Because we know that if we allow ourselves to think about not stimulating our intellects, or challenging the status quo, we’re afraid that all these marvellous comforts that we enjoy here will be lost. The following is dedicated to all of us who every now and then indulge in:

INDOLENCE AT 10AM

On chocolate velvet half slumbering

Cup in hand of Earl Grey tea

A lazy silver teaspoon

Slips easily.

A tiny discordant chink

Against the cadences of a soft violin

On whose wings she is transported

To a land and time far distant

And alien to this present unthinking

Undoing state of dilute comfort and degradation

The knowledge shrieks shrilly in her ears

But the violins take over softly, softly yet again. 

Something else I have noticed is nepotism. And when someone from one country is in a position to help another of his or her countrymen and does so, usually by providing a job, then he or she expects unequivocal loyalty. And the person for whom the favour has been done is trapped into a show of support no matter what the dependant actually feels.



ALLEGIANCE OF THE FLY

Caught.

Trapped.

On the silken threads of a gossamer web

Adamantine hard.

Inextricably

Unequivocally

Baited by compatriotism

Ensnared by debits and credits

Caught.

Trapped.

On the sickening threads of a gossamer web

Adamantine hard.

Obligations

Of a nation

Gratitude or its verisimilitude:

Mere thanks

For being allowed to join the ranks

Although an officer not a professor

Caught.

Trapped.

On the sticky threads of a gossamer web

Adamantine hard.

Linked

By bonds of similar losses

Tears and heartaches shared

In spite of all their latter distances

They are well and truly ensnared. 

And so, finally I come to people who have stayed beyond their ‘best before’ date. People who know that perhaps they should have left while they were still marketable, or could have, should have, upgraded their skills but didn’t. They have been very happy here, but the writing on the wall says it’s time to go. They disagree with some points of life here but are too comfortable in their situations to make a stand, often, sadly they are in a position to be able to make that stand. When the poem was written they couldn’t do so, but today there are options and they can stay and make Bahrain their home. The question is, will they?



LAMENT OF THE LOTUS EATERS

A deep slumber

A dream remembered

Once upon a time, we lived

Between birth and death

Suspended like a dewdrop

In the dawn.

And all life 

Was a desperate clinging to the leaf.

From each breath

Each ray of sunlight

Each wisp of mist

We extracted every molecule of joy

And now, we wonder why

Struldbrugs

We just wait to die.

Growing old in Shangri-la

Having lost our precious ‘wa’

And yet not lost our equilibrium

We wait

Suspended, lives askew

Between don’ts, won’ts, can’ts, I could, I should

And I do. 

So there we have it. This is our odd love of Beautiful Bahrain; as typified by the expatriate population that has grown to admire this tiny country. People who have learnt its history, recorded its milestones, and in many cases, like Sir. Charles Belgrave, helped lay down the blueprint for its future. I salute them and smile at them, and hope some day to be considered amongst those who made albeit a tiny difference and left a small footprint in the sands of its times.