No Way Home

by M S James

  Jake spent a couple of days at his old school, just to meet up with his old classmates and see his teachers. On the whole, I think he preferred his new life. Living in a sunny climate makes everything more exciting. He was seeing England at a particularly dismal time of year and he had yet to experience the searing heat of a Saudi summer. His school in Riyadh was well run and could offer swimming and gymnastics as well as football. Out-of-school activities were more problematic since we couldn’t let him out of sight but whilst he was only young we could keep tabs on him relatively easily. I could understand why expats with older children sent them back to the UK to be educated.

  Our mid-year break ended far too quickly. I packed a small selection of clothes and a few items that I couldn’t buy in Saudi, such as nutmeg which was unobtainable. Apparently, nutmeg powder has intoxicating and hallucinogenic properties; nutmeg and alcohol were both harram (forbidden, as in hareem where men were forbidden except for the chap who owned the hareem).

  My mother came to Heathrow with us to say goodbye. She held her grandchildren tightly as we stopped by the departure gate. It was so hard for her to see us go but it was to be harder still for her in the months to come.

  Back in the Jug Agane

  Just as Nigel Molesworth went back to St Custard’s with a heavy heart, so did I as we boarded the Egyptair flight back to Cairo and thence to Saudi. What inexplicably intractable nonsense was I going to be presented with? The rule seemed to be, Expect the Unexpected. At least I was prepared for things to go wrong whereas previously I had thought Saudi Arabia was basically something like England but with sun and sand.

  My first intimation that I was back in the Mysterious Orient was in the departures hall of Cairo airport. The flight from Heathrow had been straightforward and the disembarkation at Cairo only slightly weird. We marvelled at the vast number of cats that prowled about the airport. There were hundreds of cats everywhere. They were obviously very At Home in this environment; some were curled up asleep and others gazed at travellers without much interest. I supposed there was a plentiful supply of rodents around to keep them well fed. We queued for the toilets and I managed to stop Jake from going into the Gents just in time. Several men were looking at my blond son with more than a passing interest. As we entered the Ladies, an attendant gave us each a single piece of toilet paper. We all looked at our sheet of paper and then at each other. Previous experience in the use of toilets suggested that we were under-papered. ‘More?’ I asked the attendant. ‘La,’ she replied. The Arabs have a very eloquent gesture which I used to her. You cup all four fingers and thumb together and hold up to the face of the person who is being difficult. It means, ‘For Christ’s sake be reasonable!’ Reluctantly she gave us each another sheet of paper and we went in to face the horrors of standing toilets, which cause so much difficulty for women wearing trousers. Pulling trousers down without letting the bottoms of the trousers trail in whatever liquid is swilling around is a real art form. Doing it with a young child takes strength and stamina. Fortunately, Anna had a skirt on and Jake could pee in the normal way. A packet of tissues from my handbag was well used and much appreciated. I find you must always travel east of Suez with a packet of tissues to hand.

  We had arrived in Cairo in the morning and our connecting flight to Saudi was during the afternoon so no overnight stay was required. We sat in the departure lounge for a very long time, Jake being absorbed in Super Mario again (what a hero!) and Anna colouring books and being read to. I chatted to a group of expats who were returning to the oilfields of the eastern region of Saudi Arabia. Some were living in remote tin sheds manning remote pumping stations only getting R ‘n’ R every two weeks in Dhahran. The pay was good but their lives were very hard. My life in Riyadh, even taking the Madrassa into account, was one of luxury in comparison. Our attention was taken by a huge hullabaloo that was making its way towards us. A crowd of excited women ululated at full volume as they escorted a bride through the departures hall. There was no mistaking what she was: she wore a vast white meringue of tulle and a long tulle veil and carried a bouquet of roses. She was glamorously made up and her flashing dark eyes expressed bridal happiness. I couldn’t think what she was doing in the departures hall. Surely, she should be meeting her husband-to-be in arrivals? She sat down with her entourage and they chatted animatedly. When the call came through for us to head for the gate, she got up, waved to her friends and joined our queue. Another cri de joie filled the hall as she blushingly joined us. My God! Was she actually going to fly to Saudi Arabia in her wedding dress? She was and she did. Thank goodness her seat was several rows ahead and I didn’t have to contend with the billowing tulle. Imagine the effect of a spilt cup of coffee! I went up to the toilet during the flight and saw how the passengers either side of her were smothered in wedding dress. Heaven only knows how she managed in the toilet. Somehow, The Dress arrived in Saudi intact and the bride was allowed off the flight ahead of the rest of us. Another crowd of friends and the bridegroom greeted her with more ululation and cheering. Brave woman.

  We had another long wait for our internal flight. The airport lounge was spotlessly clean (in comparison with Cairo, or Heathrow, for that matter), so I made pillows from jumpers and laid the children on the floor to sleep until we were called. I watched the pilots walking through, wondering if I would see Anna’s admirer again. I hoped we wouldn’t have him piloting our next flight and the children would certainly not be visiting the cockpit. In the early hours we eventually arrived back in Riyadh. This time there was no trouble with our entry visas and we proceeded in an orderly manner. The suitcase of reading books got through customs without a hitch. The customs officer must have thought my children were voracious readers. The air was warm and balmy and smelt different to home, scented with flowers or spices and the dry air tingled our noses. Philip was waiting for us and, after hugs and kisses, we were quickly driven to our villa.

  We had the weekend to reacclimatise ourselves before resuming the hurly-burly of work and family life. Once we had established when prayer time would be, we did a gargantuan shop at the supermarket, filling our huge American fridge and freezer to cater for some considerable time. Prayer time had moved forward in the two weeks I had been away so I had to recalibrate the best time to go shopping. Muslims pray five times per day and, in Saudi, prayer time governed every activity. Everything stopped for prayer, though I believe offices like Philip’s pressed on regardless. Prayer time, or salat, moved forward eight minutes every day, so that it was very easy to get caught out. Not only did it move forward every day (because of the Earth’s passage around the Sun), salat happened at different times within the Arabian Peninsula as the sun tracked its way over. Well, of course, it didn’t move at all but it was easier to think of the Sun moving rather than us. So, you not only had to find out when prayer time was but find out when it was in Riyadh. If you got it wrong you could arrive at the supermarket just as the doors were closing and have to join the other irate shoppers outside. I soon mastered the art of squatting. It was particularly easy with high-heeled shoes, and I joined the other squatting shoppers. The best solution was to arrive just before salat so that you got locked in. You couldn’t go through the checkout until the All Clear was given but you could get the bulk of your shopping done during the enforced closure. I never saw any of the mainly Pakistani staff praying. They just lolled around with their arms folded until they could open up their tills.

  Prayer times were particularly annoying if you happened to be watching television. Not that there was much to watch on Saudi TV; they broadcast all the flights landing at Riyadh airport and all the departures. They gave great lists of eminent visitors to the capital that day and reported their adulatory remarks of how delighted they were to be there. But, if they did happen to broadcast a children’s programme which coincided with salat, then the show stopped when salat started in Dhahran (doleful, plinky plonky Arab music for the duration) then the show restarted after salat until the
Riyadh salat commenced (more plinky plonky music) then there was a further segment of the show until the Sun reached Jeddah. More music. It took nearly the whole time I was in Saudi for me to begin to accept the music preferred by the Arabs on the Arabian Peninsula. The notes seemed off-key and there were no discernible tunes. However, they were highly proficient clappers and drummers; intricate rhythms played out amongst groups of male participants at all-male gatherings. No wonder we desperately wanted a ready supply of videos. Fortunately, Jake and Anna were happy to watch the same films over and over and could recite their screenplays almost by heart.

  I arrived at the Madrassa on the Saturday morning all ready for the new week, and all ready for the second half of the year. I had several suitcases of reading books, one suitcase being too heavy to lift. The children of my class helped by each carrying a bundle of books up to the classroom. The mistress-in-charge watched with interest but without comment. If she was pleased to see that I had returned she didn’t say so. No doubt she would give the books a good examination after I left the school at midday. The children all started at base camp with the same introductory reader but the English speakers obviously made better progress. Even so, I was very impressed with the children who couldn’t speak much English but who could nevertheless read, ‘Here is Peter, here is Jane, here is Pat the dog.’

  While I was waiting for Angelo after school, it was already noticeable that the heat had increased. Anna proudly produced her red umbrella and used it as a parasol. I had also brought one back with me so squashing into the lamppost’s shadow was no longer necessary. Her earlobes had quickly healed from the hole-punching episode so we were able to take out the sleepers and put in the gold flowers, not without some anxiety on Anna’s part, fearing more pain. However, the gold flowers did look very pretty and I was relieved that the holes hadn’t become septic.

  Philip came home one day with an invitation from Archie and Jenny to join them at a Scottish country dance picnic in the desert on the following Thursday, the first day of the weekend. How enterprising! ‘We start with golf,’ Philip informed me, ‘then the country dancers trip the light fantastic with reels and strathspeys then we light a bonfire when it is dark and sing Scottish songs whilst we eat our picnic. Archie and Jenny will be bringing our food though we can add to it if the children want something in particular.’ This sounded splendid though I was amazed that this could all take place in the desert.

  ‘How do they play golf?’ I puzzled.

  ‘Apparently they take doormats with them to tee off and whack balls into the desert. I suppose they excavate holes at certain points. The “greens” are called “browns” and are already prepared from when they were there last time.’

  ‘I bet they lose lots of balls. Where do they dance?’

  ‘At the same place. They must have a flat area that is used every time. While some are dancing, others form a bonfire-constructors party and make a sizeable fire for when the picnic starts.’ It is no wonder that the Scots colonised the world.

  The good thing about not having any readymade public entertainment is that you are forced to invent events such as the Hash and the Scottish Country Dancing Group. They provided fun activities and also a framework where strangers could be mutually supportive.

  We journeyed out of Riyadh in the direction that the hand-drawn map indicated and passed familiar landmarks which were always noted on our trips to the desert. ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with PT [which for Anna’s sake was pronounced ‘p’ ‘t’].’ ‘Palm tree,’ was the immediate response. We rapidly went through the tried and tested WT (water tower), C (camel), W (wreck), sky and sand until someone noticed something unusual. M – mirage! These were not as common as you might think. Then there were DC (dead camel), BT (Bedouin tents) or BT (bath tub), though we only ever saw one of those.

  The site for the Scottish party was, as usual, in the middle of nowhere but not too far from a rutted track and there was a clump of acacia trees and scrub bushes to give shelter. The sun was warm but it would get colder later when the sun went down, hence the provision of a bonfire which was already being assembled. Archie and Jenny had travelled in convoy and knew the site well from previous visits. We parked our cars away from the picnic site and went to watch the golfers. They were dotted around the landscape, gradually making their way back to the ‘green’, a dusty flat area which had the necessary hole with a flag standing proud from it. As the group assembled, someone brought out a large ghetto-blaster and slotted in a tape. The jolly music of Jimmy Shand and his band erupted from the speakers and the dancers quickly formed into the requisite groups to start their dance. It was surreal. There we were, in a desert in Arabia, with a large group of men and women, dressed in shorts, T-shirts and trainers clomping around in the sand. They were all concentrating on their steps and looked intently at the ground. When the dance stopped, they all laughed with relief that the weaving in and out of the patterns of the reel had gone well. Everyone clapped and reformed, ready for the next dance. Not knowing the steps, we opted to help with loading up the bonfire which was growing substantially. We scavenged for pieces of dead wood and any other combustible material until the fire-maker-in-chief declared that it was ready for ignition. There was no Guy going on top this time so we shouldn’t have any complicated excuses to make. The last strathspey was announced and, as the sun was sinking fast, the fire was lit. It soon roared off and everyone stepped back from the sparks that were flying out. The dancers were now coloured red from the firelight and looked unearthly as they spun around.

  In the background, at the far side of the dancers, I noticed that we had a visitor. A shepherd with his flock was staring at the spectacle before him. It was a bizarre event even for us, so what he made of it was anyone’s guess. He had probably been attracted by the loud music and the fire, which could have been seen from some distance. It would have been a source of wonder that we ‘advanced’ Westerners would want to spend our evening out in the desert dancing! As the dancers went to collect their food from their cars the shepherd and his flock drifted off into the night.

  We all chose a good spot to settle down for the picnic and coolboxes were brought over from the parked cars and unloaded. The Bevan Feast emerged and we were encouraged to tuck in. There was a slight breeze, so the smoke was being wafted in one particular direction. Sensibly enough, everyone congregated on the side with their backs to the breeze so that the far side was empty and our side relatively full. The sky was black but we couldn’t have seen the stars anyway since we were accustomed to the bright light from the fire. After a while, someone distributed song sheets and we all struck up with ‘Ye Banks and Braes O’ Bonnie Doon’ followed by a succession of well-loved Scottish melodies. The fire had settled to a red-golden glow with odd flames leaping up as fresh wood was thrown on.

  ‘Can I go to the car to fetch my Hello Kitty purse?’ asked Anna. ‘I want to show it to Jenny.’

  The car was not far away and I could see it from where I was sitting. ‘Yes, our car is just over there,’ I said pointing to it. ‘It’s not locked.’

  Off she went. Moments later she disappeared.

  Gone with the wind

  Unseen and unheard by any of us, a mountain of sand had been roaring towards us from the direction we all faced. The sand violently slammed into us sending the fire in all directions. There were flaming branches and red-hot embers whirling into us. The sand tore into our faces like points of needles and the wind screamed louder than the terrified people who scrambled to their feet grabbing children, husbands, wives and friends. Philip and I grabbed Jake and we both screamed ‘Anna!’ at each other. We doubled over to prevent ourselves being knocked over and struck out to where we thought the car should be. We couldn’t see it. We couldn’t see anything. After a few minutes stumbling and staggering around we found the car with the back door wide open but no Anna inside. We shoved Jake inside and shut the door before it could be wrenched of
f by the wind. Holding on to each other with a vice-like grip we moved away from the car in an attempt to find her. We couldn’t go far otherwise we would have lost sight of our car. All the while we were bombarded by debris which hurtled towards us. ‘Everything OK?’ shouted Archie clinging onto his car door handle.

  ‘No. We’ve lost Anna,’ we screamed back. ‘She’s out there, somewhere.’

  ‘You’ll not find her with this storm raging. You can’t see a bloody thing.’ I was in a state of extreme panic and Philip was little better. All I could think of was the terror my child was suffering somewhere not far from me and how we were unable to do a thing about it. Archie bellowed the news through an inch of open car window. Jenny opened the window more and shouted something but her words were inaudible.

  ‘Where’s Jake?’ We had to communicate by shouting into each other’s ears.

  ‘In our car, he’ll be terrified by himself.’

  ‘Look, Jenny and I will take him home. I’ll go to the police and see if they can do a search of the area.’

  Philip agreed. ‘Yes,’ he bellowed back, ‘we’ll stay here. We’ll stay in the car until we can see something, anything.’ Still warding off missiles that continually struck us we held onto each other and made the few yards to where our car was being rocked and buffeted. I slipped in as speedily as I could and calmed Jake who was shaking and crying. ‘Archie and Jenny are going to take you home and Daddy and I are staying here until the storm dies down.’