Driving the Saudis

by Jayne Amelia Larson

  During the yearly pilgrimage to Mecca, there are as many as 1 million people circling the Kaaba at one time and several million more in the surrounding area. The Kaaba is the sacred black stone that is the most sacred place in Islam, the place where Allah revealed his will to the Prophet Muhammad, and Muslims worldwide face in its direction five times a day to offer prayer.

  If you are not a Muslim, you are not allowed in the city. The ancient city has no airport, railway, or water system within its limits. A Muslim friend told me, “If you want in, you gotta walk in, you gotta be Muslim, and you’re gonna be thirsty.” It’s all about prayer and sacrifice, not comfort. But he also told me that just outside the city is a plethora of Burger King, McDonald’s, and Kentucky Fried Chicken joints.

  In the old days, Mecca was hard to get to, and a pilgrim might endure great hardship and sacrifice to make the journey. It took my friend’s grandfather six months to travel there by camel from Morocco and six months more to get home. He spent a year riding through the desert and died shortly after. Nowadays you can just catch a flight to be one with Allah, and millions of people a year make the pilgrimage. It’s a popular place. In 2006, a stampede in nearby Mina, during the Ramy al-Jamarāt ritual (“the stoning of the Devil,” wherein pilgrims throw stones at three different pillars), killed more than 340 people, and over 300 were injured. In 1990 more than 1,400 people were killed in a tunnel crush underneath the Kaaba. Since then, the Saudis have improved traffic flow.

  As a single woman, I would not be granted a visa to enter the country unless I were sponsored by a government agency or operating in some official capacity (think State Department or the New York Times) or if I were stationed there for business (think Boeing or Coca-Cola), but such visas are extremely hard to come by. An average woman like me couldn’t go there alone as a tourist to check out the holy sites, do a little water skiing in Jeddah, or try my hand at some camel racing. On a rare sanctioned visit, a man would have to meet me at the airport and escort me wherever I traveled at all times.

  Modern-day Saudi Arabia is named after one family—Saud, which means fortunate.

  The Saudi royal family comprises the family members of Al Saud, the House of Saud, and are descendants of Muhammad bin Saud, who lived in the eighteenth century. The most powerful are the descendants of his great-great-grandson, the legendary warrior Abdul Aziz Ibn Abdur Rahman Al-Faisal Al Saud, who unified the region in 1932 and formed the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was under his watch that oil started flowing. The king of Saudi Arabia is head of the state and head of the government. The law of the land is Islamic law, or Sharia. There is no written penal code, and Sharia is interpreted by sitting judges, assigned for life, who have studied the Quran and the Prophet Muhammad’s teachings.

  King Abdul Aziz had forty-two known sons by his twenty-two wives, although some reports have the number of wives as high as one hundred. There are no public birth records for the girls. It’s not that the girls were less loved, but perhaps they were just less valuable, so didn’t need to be documented. There are now thousands of princes and tens of thousands with prince-wielding influence.

  It is estimated that King Fahd, Abdul Aziz’s son who died in 2005, had more than 100 wives. Abdullah, his younger brother who succeeded him, has reportedly wed more than 30 wives so far, which means he’s behind. According to Saudi custom, a man can have as many wives as he wants during the course of his lifetime, but he can keep only 4 at a time, and he must treat them all equally in terms of lifestyle maintenance, nights spent in each bed, gifts bestowed, beatings, and so on. As recommended by the Prophet Muhammad, it must be truly equal, or he must not keep them, and 4 is deemed the limit of a man’s ability to spread the wealth.

  If he is a bedouin in the middle of the desert, then he just has to have four tents that are all the same—one for each wife. But if he is a prince with millions of dollars, then it has to be four palaces—all the same.

  Originally this custom was the result of tribal warfare after which many widows and children were left without protection and sustenance. It was a man’s duty to marry and provide for the wives of his fallen brothers. Nowadays Saudi middle-class men have trouble managing this system. They usually can’t afford more than one or two wives. I’m sure that’s a letdown for them.

  King Fahd was a benevolent and beloved ruler, renowned for his generosity, but I’ve seen pictures of him and he wasn’t exactly what you’d call a stunner. Good looks was definitely not how he persuaded so many women (100!) to marry him. Fahima, Princess Zaahira’s cousin, explained to me that many were probably given to him by their families as bonds to foster carefully chosen strategic tribal alliances. The Saudi royal family uses marriage to align interests just as the monarchies of France, England, and Spain did for many centuries. King Abdul Aziz was a master of the tribal bedding that strengthened his sovereignty, and he made sure that his sons were equally adept.

  Fahima told me many modern Saudi women like this arrangement because it gets the men out of their hair when the husband spends time with his other wives. I couldn’t help but wonder if it doesn’t make for a certain amount of competition among the wives, especially if one or more of them happened to be in love with the husband and didn’t want to share him. I wondered if there are wives who fight over a husband, or his attention, even if they had married not for love but to advance their family’s standing.

  “Can a woman marry who she wants?” I asked Fahima on one of our drives.

  “Please understand, Janni Amelia, the customs of my country are different than yours. In Islam, the woman has every right to agree to the choice of the husband, of course, but a Saudi woman’s groom is often chosen by and must be approved by her mahram, her male guardian, who would be her father or her brother until she is married. Then the husband is her mahram. This is done in her best interest for a happy and peaceful marriage and for the benefit of all involved. To secure her future, a Saudi woman understands that it is important to cultivate her husband’s good favor to protect the longevity of the union. In this way, it is an exquisite . . . dance that she enjoys to do to maintain a happy household and the interest of her husband. A Saudi woman knows this.”

  It is estimated that the 42 known sons of King Aziz married more than 1,400 women, an average of more than 33 wives for each son. Now that’s a party, or a nightmare. Many of my married male friends are fascinated by polygamy and are disappointed when I tell them that I haven’t been able to speak to any Saudi men regarding this custom. They just won’t talk to me. I’ve tried. But I do know that many Saudi men have only one wife their whole lives, probably because even one can be a helluva lot to handle, much less four.

  As an outsider, it was difficult for me to know who was who in the group or even in the family, especially since I was never told anyone’s proper name. I figured out who some of them were by ferreting out clues as I eavesdropped on the security personnel. But I could tell that the Saudis in this group were definitely higher-ups in the royal line because there was a lot of security from Washington, many ex-military guys with big egos and bad attitudes, and there were also security personnel hired from local Los Angeles–based private protection firms. Most of them were American, but there were several from other countries as well; almost all were ex-military or had worked in law enforcement, and most of them were armed. The upper-echelon male members of the family, who were known collectively as the sheikhs and whom I rarely saw, traveled with an elite security detail from the United Kingdom, but Princess Zaahira had locally hired boys. Most of the security were exceptionally well mannered and accustomed to working in high-stress situations with little fanfare, just as Stu was, but a few of them were scary rough around the edges. One guy in particular, Jaco, gave me the heebie-jeebies since he appeared to be synapses away from being a sociopath. Jaco had a constant need to demonstrate his virility and dominance over everyone in his near vicinity—women, men, even an idling Cadillac Escalade—and was tedious to be around. He would regularly come up al
ongside my parked SUV outside the hotel to make a point of proving that he could rock the truck forcefully enough, with me in it, to knock it on its side if he had the desire.

  A Saudi Army colonel, two majors, and a captain were also escorting the family. None of these guys ever looked me in the eye even when they were speaking to me. They always addressed the men near me, as if I were invisible. I’m not sure they would have acknowledged me even if I had spoken to them directly by asking a question that required a response. A female air traffic controller I met told me that there had been a big brouhaha with the FAA and the air traffic controllers union when a Saudi pilot refused to be guided in by a woman—Saudi men do not want women giving them orders. The pilot adamantly demanded to communicate with a man only, and it was reported that the FAA complied with the request. The union was called in after the female controllers complained. There are records of this happening several times, most notably when King Abdullah visited former President Bush on his ranch in Texas.

  The Saudi colonel was particularly menacing looking, with a stern gaze and bulging black pouches under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in months, and his voice was a low cigarette-ravaged growl. He had an imposing stocky build, but it was clear he’d eaten a few too many cupcakes so he was big and soft around the middle, as if that part of him forgot to be intimidating and was just hanging out and having a good time. At the beginning of the detail, he spoke to all of us about what to expect on the job.

  “We are traveling with the family as protection and advisers. Please know that we are here at the behest of His Royal Highness. Please know that we are always on duty. We are always here. We are always here. You are also on call twenty-four hours, seven days a week. You must be ready and available at all times. This is understood. You have been informed of the protocol that must be followed. If you are driving a principal, always maintain less than a car’s length between the principal vehicle and the chase vehicle. Be vigilant. Your assigned security must control all door locks and windows. Please do not interfere with this. If you do not have security in the car with you, please keep all doors and windows locked. This is essential. It is paramount for the protection of the royal family as well as for yours.”

  Sometimes, though, I would catch the colonel looking at me when he thought I couldn’t see, and he would quickly avert his eyes. I passed him many times each day going in and out of the hotels, and I didn’t understand why he always turned away. Later, an Arab friend explained to me that in polite Saudi society, a man doesn’t look a lady in the eyes because she belongs to another man—a father, husband, or brother. And he must have noticed my grandmother’s wedding band that I was wearing; the colonel was just being polite to me and my man.

  In the Kingdom, the sexes do not mix at all when they are out of the home, and in many homes the family compound is separated into areas: one for women and small children only and another area for the men. Cafés and restaurants and even malls are segregated. Women do attend university in Saudi Arabia, but they can be taught only by men via video transmission, never in person. King Abdullah recently celebrated the opening of King Abdullah University of Science and Technology, where men and women do join in classes together, but it is the only school of its kind in the country, and it is hidden away on a remote compound in the middle of the desert far from prying eyes and the zealous religious police. The Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, the mataawa, is a volunteer group that must be some scary dudes; wielding whips, they patrol the city streets looking for infractions of indiscretion. Abdullah wanted to attract major teaching talent from American universities, and in order to do so, he had to guarantee a certain measure of personal and academic freedom.

  A woman cannot travel out of the country without written permission from her mahram, her legal guardian from her immediate family, even if he’s her ten-year-old son because all her grown male relatives are dead. She also needs his permission to work, study, or receive major medical care. As of 2012, women still cannot vote, but there is the promise of election reform in the year 2014, and rumor has it that a woman will not need her mahram’s permission to do so.

  Asking permission from a man, particularly a brother or a nephew, to do what I want whenever I want, and especially to wear what I want, would be hard for me to stomach. One of my first boyfriends used to try to dress me in long Laura Ashley shifts that were popular at the time and to arrange my hair in an upswept Victorian fashion that he said was most flattering to me. Finally, I just flat-out refused in protest at the constant styling. The truth is, part of me wanted to dress in whatever he liked just to please him, but a bigger part of me hated that he relentlessly tried to conform me to his will by telling me what to do and what was best for me. “If you want a doll you can dress up,” I told him, “then go buy one.”

  I did take care of herself sometimes.

  But I can also imagine that there must be a sense of great comfort in knowing that as a Saudi woman, I would be forever looked after—that my well-being would always be considered, even if carefully monitored. I think I would feel very safe. It might be a comfortable conundrum to be in, but one that still rankles. My first apartment in Los Angeles afforded me the opportunity of living in a condition that I called “condo-bondage.” It was in the heart of Hollywood, and the contiguous traffic was abominable; helicopters roared overhead all night long followed by blaring sirens, and the building was a dreary Seventies modular style with hideous wall-to-wall dirty white shag carpeting. But it had a tennis court and a huge heated pool, which my roommate and I blissfully swam in every night after we barbecued on the outdoor grill, lolling around in the warm water from dusk until midnight. It was hard to give up when the time came to move to a sweet little craftsman cottage with a yard and a lemon tree, because it had the soft, sweet stranglehold of condo-bondage.

  10

  Shoot the Go-To Girl

  When I started the job, I brought my computer with me every day. I was one of the few chauffeurs with a laptop, and many of the other drivers didn’t even know how to use a computer, or didn’t have one that they could carry with them because their families shared one. I had quickly become the go-to Internet girl. They all demanded that I do research for them or their clients: Where is the best late-night chocolate soufflé in Los Angeles? When is the last showing of Alvin and the Chipmunks at the Century City AMC? Does the Beverly Center mall have a Gucci shop, or is there only Dolce and Gabbana? I was now becoming the all-around go-to girl as well. I was sent on problematical errands because I usually came up with the goods when no one else could. In a short time, my job had become increasingly more difficult because I had made it more difficult—I made myself the problem solver and troubleshooter—and I paid the price for it by being constantly in demand.

  One afternoon, it was brutally hot upstairs on the hotel pool roof deck in the midday sun, especially with my black wool suit on. Security had sent me up there to do an errand for Princess Zaahira’s daughter, Princess Anisa, but she and her companions were floating around in the pool and nobody was bothering to issue a directive to me or to release me. No one was even looking at me to acknowledge that I was waiting there in the sun for forty minutes, steaming from collar to cuff. I could feel the sweat trickling down my spine and pooling at the top of my panties. Even though it was not required, I had continued to wear suits because I thought it made me look more professional, but all of my suits were expensive hand-me-downs from my stylish sister in the Northeast who didn’t dress for the Beverly Hills summer. All of her clothing was gabardine wool, worsted wool, or just plain wool. I was sorry that I hadn’t invested in a light linen number, but I hadn’t wanted to spend the extra money, and now I was suffering. While I waited, I vowed to ransack my closet for any long pants and thin cotton blouses that I could wear from that day on.

  The hotel had a tranquil swimming pool bordered by private cabanas with billowing white curtains lining the perimeter, and a secluded garden area at the back that had
a cool eucalyptus mist spray shower. I wondered if I could somehow stage slipping into the pool or tripping into the shower so it would look like an accident (I was good at pratfalls), but I didn’t want to ruin my sister’s beautiful suit.

  There was an opulent spa next to the pool, but the Saudis never used its services. They preferred massages and pedicures in their rooms administered by their personal staff. Sometimes they hired outside massage therapists, always incessantly cheery and intensely pert young women, who came and went from the hotel rooms at all hours lugging their portable tables behind them. One of Princess Zaahira’s cousins had a massage every day to help her relax. Why the hell does she have to relax? I wondered. She doesn’t do anything all day except shop and eat.

  The first thing I noticed about Princess Anisa was that she had inherited neither her mother’s beauty nor her mother’s good nature. She was plump and pouty, with a constant sour expression on her face as if she had just inhaled something foul or as if life was not kind to her. She was sixteen, she was a princess, and she had three maids. How bad could it be? I’m sure there was more to the story (there always is), but even so, it was hard to feel sorry for her. She traveled with several companions who acted like ladies in waiting. They didn’t clean up anything or pack anything or carry anything. They just trailed around after Princess Anisa and giggled a lot, making her look good. You could easily tell who was the princess in the group, and she didn’t let anybody forget it either.

  With Stu’s directive ricocheting in my hot, heavy head—“Do not speak unless you are spoken to”—I swayed at the edge of the pool, melting away, waiting for instruction. Finally one of the companions, Yasmina (perhaps?), skipped over to me. I wasn’t yet sure of all of their names, and they spoke little English. They could, however, recite most of the lyrics of every hit pop tune: “Baby drop another slow jam . . . And all us lovers need hold hands.”