by M S James
There was a ring at our villa gate one afternoon. On opening it, I was confronted by a young, slim Saudi man dressed in an immaculate white thobe with a red-and-white ghutra (headdress) carefully arranged on his head. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he held out two black, greasy hands.
‘Please, I am sorry,’ he explained in excellent English, ‘my car has broken down and I have tried to fix it. My hands are very dirty. May I come in to wash them?’
‘No, I’m afraid that is not possible, my husband is not at home.’ By that time I knew this was a watertight excuse for not allowing him into the house. The Saudis kept their women well out of sight and would respect any European woman who refused entry to an unknown person. ‘But my son will bring out a bowl of hot water and a towel.’ He beamed at me and bowed his head. I shut the gate. He was delving under the bonnet of his car when I opened the gate for Jake to take the bowl of water, soap and towel.
‘Jake, bring everything in when the gentleman has finished.’ I left them to it, and the gate slightly ajar. After a while, Jake came in but there was another ring on the gate bell. This time our visitor had clean hands but still an affable smile.
‘Please, I would like to give your son a present to say thank you.’ Jake visibly perked up at this suggestion.
‘No, that’s quite alright,’ I replied. ‘There’s no need.’
‘But it was very kind of your son to help me. Please, I will give him a present.’
‘It is normal for us to help people in trouble. There really is no need.’ I was beginning to feel out of my depth in this conversation. I knew I must continue to be pleasant and make light of the situation fearing that he might feel insulted and bring down the wrath of Saudi retaliation. I had heard of expats ending up in gaol for making ‘anti-Saudi’ remarks.
‘Mum, can I have a present?’ I glared at Jake and pointed to the front door.
Turning to the young man with my hand slowly closing the gate I gave a vague smile and said, ‘Goodbye.’
He returned a few days later with another suggestion. ‘Marhaba (Hello). Perhaps I could take your son to the toy store to buy a present?’ There was a violent tugging at my skirt by my agitated son. He suspected I was going to turn down his gift once more. If I had been in England I would have said, ‘Clear off and leave my son alone.’ Alarm bells rang violently in my mind. This young man was very determined to take Jake off in his car, ostensibly to buy him a toy. As it was, all I could do was to reiterate my litany of excuses and insist that we certainly didn’t expect gifts for doing what was ‘only normal’ in our country. There was a lot of ‘ow’-ing and chuntering behind me but I held fast until the young man reluctantly departed.
His final visit was about a week later. ‘Marhaba,’ he smiled. ‘Marhaba,’ I replied. I turned to the children and sent them indoors, though they were both peeking out.
‘I have a present for your son. May I give it to him?’
‘I am sorry but that is not possible.’
‘Will you give it to him?’
‘There really is no need for a present.’
‘Please,’ he said as he pressed a small package into my hand.
I gave him another wan smile and shut the gate.
‘What have I got?’ Jake hardly gave me time to shut the front door. What he got was a disappointment for a seven-year-old boy but it was valuable enough to buy as many toys as he could have desired. The package contained a travel clock made by Cartier of Paris in brown lacquer and gold. It was exquisite and not at all suitable for a child. Jake looked disappointedly at his present so I said, ‘Mummy will look after it for you until you are grown up and we’ll buy something for you at the weekend.’
‘And me too?’ chipped in Anna.
At about the same time, Jake lost his pal, Patrick. ‘Patrick can’t come round to play anymore.’
‘Why not?’
‘He went to the shop near his house and a Saudi man grabbed him and tried to pull him into his car. His mummy doesn’t like living around here anymore. They’re moving to a compound.’
I was rooted to the spot and a clammy sweat broke out over my body. Jake had walked up the street numerous times on his own to play at Patrick’s apartment. Had this potential abductor been watching my son as well, as he innocently walked the short route to his friend’s?
‘Is he OK?’
‘Yes, but he was frightened.’
I was frightened. I had heard rumours that European children had ‘gone missing’, never to be found again. I put these rumours down to expat hyperbole but now, perhaps it was true? Had our Saudi visitor been intent on spiriting our son away to heaven-knows-where? I was going to have to be rather more watchful when we went out and the children were strictly forbidden from ever leaving our villa without either Philip or myself. But I was still not careful enough.
The Euro Marché supermarket, which we visited weekly, had perfected the needs of both Saudis and expats and was therefore very popular.
Searching the chiller shelves on one visit, I saw meat in an unrecognisable form – greyish round lumps in a pack of four with a label saying ‘Lambs’ Eggs’. This was puzzling. The shelf-filler man was busy stacking more packs of ‘lambs’ eggs’ so I asked him what they were. ‘Lambs’ eggs,’ he replied.
I pointed out that ‘Lambs (and sheep, for that matter) don’t have eggs. Their babies are born as young animals from their mothers.’ The shelf-filler thought for a moment. Pointing at the eggs he said, ‘They make baby sheeps.’
Ah. The penny dropped. Those eggs. The following week the chiller cabinet had more packs of ‘lambs’ eggs’ but this time they were labelled ‘Lambs’ Balls’. No confusion there.
I was amused by the wine-making aisle. There were bottles and bottles of Rausch red grape juice and white grape juice. Next to them were stacks of bags of sugar, then coils of plastic tubing then packets of yeast. Large plastic tubs were the final requisite for making a supply of highly illegal homemade hooch. I never dared to buy all in one go, fearful that the checkout man was an undercover cop. So, I bought one ingredient per week and then we got brewing.
On our shopping trips to Euro Marché, the children generally wandered about with either myself or Angelo keeping an eye on them. Next to Euro Marché was the acme of shopping experience for Anna, a Hello Kitty emporium. We always paid a visit after the food shopping and she generally departed with some new piece of plastic tat. Soon after the Cartier clock incident, on an expedition to Euro Marché, I bumped into Sarah, her husband and little Bobby. Andrew and I were introduced to each other. ‘How are you doing?’ I enquired.
‘Not so good. We’ve been burgled!’ said Andrew with a grimace. Apparently, thieves had broken into their villa which was on a compound, and that should have made it very difficult for anyone living off-site to break in. ‘They helped themselves to gold and silver trinkets and Sarah’s clothes! They had riffled through my wardrobe but didn’t take anything, just Sarah’s.’
‘But that’s not the worst of it!’ Sarah burst in indignantly. ‘They bundled up the stolen clothes and threw them back over the villa wall this morning.’ With evident irritation she asked, ‘I want to know what’s wrong with them? I’ve never been more insulted.’
‘Well,’ added Andrew, ‘we hope that there will be no further repercussions. We called the police, who came to the villa and took our statements. This was before the clothes reappeared. Mid-interview, I suddenly realised that the cupboard behind the detective contained all our booze. I was praying he wouldn’t turn around and spot it.’
‘The neighbours, all expats, have taken fright and poured all their alcohol down into the sewer in case the police decide to raid the compound.’ We all laughed. Sarah looked around. ‘Are you here with your family?’
‘Yes, Jake is over there with Angelo, our driver, and Anna is…’ I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t s
een her for some while. ‘Jake, where is Anna?’ We all scanned the shop but no one could see her.
‘Perhaps she’s gone to Hello Kitty?’ suggested Jake.
My heart raced and my brain froze. ‘Come on!’ cried Andrew and we raced out of the shop into the neighbouring Hello Kitty shop. We both scoured the premises until I spotted Anna absorbed in a basket of pink sparkly merchandise.
‘Anna! Whatever are you doing here?’ She looked startled and then trembled. She could see how agitated I was.
‘I was bored.’ Her bottom lip came out and tears began to form.
‘Don’t cry, darling, but I was very, very worried when I couldn’t find you.’
Andrew spoke gently to her. ‘You’re OK and Mummy is OK but you must never go anywhere without Mummy or Daddy. And if you get separated from them, just stay still until they find you.’
She nodded then added, ‘Can I have one of these?’ holding up a spangled purse.
‘Not now. We’ve got to finish the shopping and then we’ll come back.’ With wobbly legs I led her back to the others who were all smiles when they saw her. Angelo and I looked at each other. We knew we had better keep a closer watch on both of them. The spangled purse became Anna’s favourite accessory, and she took it everywhere from then on.
Friends
The expat community was friendly and welcoming. Nobody had old friends in the Kingdom, so making new ones was vital if you were to stay sane. Our first friends were Archie and Jenny Bevan from Scotland; Archie worked with Philip at AAC and Jenny had somehow contrived to get a backroom job as a secretary in a British avionics company. Jobs for expat women were strictly limited to those in the medical and educational sectors, so that Muslim women could be treated by female doctors, nurses and dentists. Female teachers were needed in schools like the Riyadh Madrassa. Having an unapproved job, Jenny was kept away, out of sight with the other female staff. Archie had the most amazing ability to strike up a friendship at first contact. He had infectious good humour and whenever there was a laughing crowd, Archie was at the centre of it. Jenny was gentle and had a wry sense of humour of her own. She struck up a close bond of friendship with Anna and the two would chat away on our trips out into the desert. It was Archie who introduced us to the Hash House Harriers. The Hash, as it was commonly called, was the local version of an expat tradition that dated back to colonial times when Brits had gathered, originally, at the Hash House, an annexe to the Selangor Club in what is now Malaysia. They would organise runs based on the British ‘Paper Chase’, when a trail was laid across the countryside for others to follow. Our local trail leaders used flour which showed up nicely against the yellow-brown desert but would in time be blown away. The Riyadh Hash congregated at a predesignated spot, miles into the desert. The directions were difficult to follow until you got used to the shorthand and the sarcasm. ‘Drive 50 clicks [miles] along the Dar’iyah road, turning right at the Nedj forest.’ The ‘forest’ turned out to be a lonely acacia tree with only thorny bushes for company. ‘Follow the desert track for 10 clicks turning left at the green bath.’ Sure enough, some Bedouin shepherds had transported a green bath, redundant from someone’s bathroom, and parked it miles from anywhere. I can only surmise that it was intended for watering sheep/goats or camels. Before going to the Middle East, I sometimes wondered at the saying ‘sorting the sheep from the goats’. Previously, I couldn’t see why there would be any difficulty. However, Arabian sheep and goats looked practically the same and nothing like the British version. After bumping our long-base American sedan through ruts and dried river beds, we would eventually come across the Hash encampment.
As the autumn drew on, the daytime heat was less intense and by mid-afternoon the temperature was quite pleasant, certainly cool enough for us to march across the gullies, wadis and escarpments that the trail leaders had marked out. The runners did the long run and we walkers did a shortened version, all arriving back at the ‘car park’ at about the same time. Sometimes the terrain consisted of rocky lumps which at first sight looked like newly ploughed land. But it was difficult to walk over, and a wrenched ankle was the likely outcome for anyone not taking enough care. Little Anna’s legs often gave out before the end of the walk and Philip would take her on his shoulders. At times we were led up an escarpment which culminated in a magnificent view of desert reaching to the horizon. I was reminded of the story in the New Testament when Satan took Jesus to a high point to show him the world and tempt him with its riches. The silence was all enveloping. No distant rumble of traffic or twittering birds. Just the occasional puff or groan of another walker nearby. Coming from crowded England, I found the desert profoundly soothing and empty of clutter. On one walk, after a couple of rainy days, I saw little rivulets running down through the rocks. Looking closely at the water I was astounded to see that there were tiny creatures swimming about in it. They must have hibernated in the parched soil for months, if not years, since the last rainfall.
Some Hashes culminated in a barbecue put together from contributions from all who had turned up. By the time the barbecues were producing cooked steaks, chicken and sweetcorn, the sun had gone down and we found our way around by the light of the stars and the moon. Travelling back across the desert could be dangerous, and often cars were damaged by plunging down unseen hollows. To preserve our vehicles, several meetings became overnight camps. A bonfire made from wood brought for the purpose, or from found combustible material, lit the encampment. The children adored these desert camps, playing with other children, running around unhindered, toasting marshmallows on the barbecue and staying up way past their normal bedtime.
We borrowed some camp beds which raised us from the ground and we slept under the stars, bundled up in layers of blankets. The desert was very cold during the night and I even resorted to an Egyptian-style tea cosy to keep my head warm. Anna slept on the back seat of the car but the rest of us enjoyed this wonderful experience of sleeping outdoors. The most unexpected and startling aspect was gazing at the stars. I never knew there were so many of them! The sky was almost white with stars and I gazed up from my camp bed wondering how our small planet fitted into the constellation. What was to stop us bumping into another body and hurtling out into the cosmos? It was all a bit worrying. Every time I woke up in the night, the sky was in a different place. The stars seemed to have moved en bloc across the heavens. Yes, I knew that it was we who were moving and the stellar rotation was only apparent. But you could understand how, for aeons, humans had thought (and perhaps still do think) that we were the centre of the universe. Moonlight was deeply annoying. It was so bright, it was as though a huge arc light was trained on us and we couldn’t switch it off. We were warned to be especially careful of getting up for a nocturnal pee. Scorpions would climb into shoes lying on the ground and would inevitably give you a sting which could not readily be treated. We tucked our shoes in with the blankets and hoped that the venomous creatures couldn’t climb.
Through the Hash, we met another couple who became great friends of ours. John McCartney was from West Ham, and was, naturally, a great Hammers fan. His wife, Becky, was a lively, sparky lady who found life a source of great amusement. Their daughter, Claire, was the same age and temperament as Anna so they chummed up instantly. John was head of sales for an international company so his employment ‘package’ included a spacious villa on the Al Akariya compound outside Riyadh which not only had a café and small shops but a decent-sized swimming pool. The compound was so large that it was even possible to drive around it. Not that you needed to, but if the wives suddenly decided to take to the wheel, they could do so without being arrested. Sometimes I drove in the desert, although I didn’t relish being responsible for the inevitable prang. Our poor car took a battering on our forays into the wilderness. We were grateful for the invitations to John and Becky’s compound. It was so nice to be in a normal European milieu where women could wear T-shirts and shorts, swim in mixed company and were not has
sled by the Mutawa, the religious police.
The Mutawa were the bane of European women’s existence. They took it upon themselves to police the morals of the Saudi citizens but I think they preferred putting us right about our ‘lewd’ behaviour. They were easy to recognise: light tan cloaks with hoods worn over their thobes; hennaed scrawny beards and harsh barking voices used to frighten the bejesus out of any miscreant. They always carried long, whippy sticks with which to sting the ankles of any Western woman who was not wearing a sufficiently long skirt.
Philip and I were shopping in a glitzy home-furnishing shop (just looking for some more cups, actually) when a Mutawa approached Philip.
‘Your wife,’ he said, pointing his stick at me.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ Philip enquired.
‘She should close the legs.’
Whatever could he mean? It was obvious that my legs were not wide open but firmly side by side.
‘She should close the legs!’ he barked at Philip who was as perplexed as I was. ‘The close not long!’
Ah, so that was the problem. My skirt was too short and I should clothe my exposed limbs. The skirt in question was mid-calf and I was wearing my abaya, but nevertheless he thought I looked like a harlot. The interesting aspect of this encounter was that it was Philip who was in trouble, not me. He was the responsible man who had allowed his property to go out incorrectly dressed and it was he who should take the blame. Philip apologised profusely and after another haranguing we were allowed to leave. I was lucky the old brute hadn’t used his whip on me.
