We drive at speed through the streets of the capital, passing curry shops and squat government buildings on our way toward the mountains. Sunlight thickly coats his waiting car and I almost leap inside to escape the heat. He works for the magazine charged with organising the event.

UN planes sweep Tripoli’s sky.Ī young man shakes my hand. Assad’s tanks lumber through the streets of Syria. Revolts have recently toppled regimes in Egypt and Tunisia.

The championship is scheduled for the day after next: more than enough time, it strikes me, for my curiosity to get me into trouble. I have been invited as a guest of honour, to present a trophy to the country’s next Sudoku champion. But the face on the wall does not smile.Īsked for my travel documents, I watch the official stamp my passport with the date: May 11, 2011. Instead of a television screen, long fingers outstretched in a wave. Instead of a loudspeaker, a neatly trimmed beard. Instead of a ticking wall clock, an enormous white turban. The few tourists wait expertly in line without speaking a word. Our host’s photographed face dominates the arrivals hall. Such a welcome is common, I immediately gather unavoidable in fact. His Majesty Sultan Qaboos Bin Said al-Said’s eyes meet mine as I step out into the airport.

Small military tanks sudoku