ABSTRACT
Of course I had to go back to the oilfields, the fountainhead of all Kuwait’s boundless wealth. This again was a sentimental journey. Before the world heard of Burgan it had been a favourite picnic spot for my family, and on the steep slopes of Wara I had from earliest childhood scrambled among the boulders. In those days, thirty-five years before, Wara was topped by large flat rocks beneath whose overhang resting badu found shade. On the sheltered undersides of the rock the hands of idle herdsmen had incised their tribal camel-brands.
