Flamingo

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I posted the picture above to Instagram a few weeks ago. It is a cropped section of a photo that I have used as a Facebook cover photo for a similar length of time.

It got a bit of attention. It’s quite pretty.

Flamingos are one of those birds that – having grown up in Harrow – seem incredibly exotic. They are associated with hot climates and remote settings. I grew up with images of vast flocks filling TV screens while deep, gravelly and authoritative voice overs explained the size and scale of the flocks, the mind blowing distances that they travel on their annual migrations and the food sources that the eat that allows them to develop such a distinctive colour (Hubba Bubba Bubblegum). Away from the TV screens and images of vast salty lakes in Africa, the closest that I could expect to get to them was at a zoo or wildlife park, where a dozen would sit in a large garden pond and prevented from escaping by the clipping of their wings. When I did see them, apparently open to the elements and free to leave I rarely dwelled to look at them because I found it sad that they were effectively imprisoned in the UKs seasonal cycle. They looked sad and forlorn.

Fuchsia pink and a metre tall, they’re pretty hard to miss. Their slow, methodical gait makes them appear graceful and long necks and social instincts make them incredibly photogenic. Which is why – I guess – I took the opportunity to catch a few shots when I found a group close to shore in Khobar.

They’re not uncommon in Khobar. They’re pretty common down the shallow Arabian Gulf coastline from Jubail to Bahrain. Khobar sits in the middle. I’d seen a few within weeks of arriving and, having not expected to see them, was momentarily excited by it. A few weeks down the line and – you could argue sadly – I had become rather used to them. They were as ubiquitous as the Reef Herons that hang out down the front. But, en masse, I still recognise that they cut a pretty impressive shape, so, having the opportunity to get close to them, I made the most of my limited lens capabilities.

I’m not alone. I follow a number of local photographers on Instagram and have noted over the past few weeks that more and more people are making the most of the seasonal influx in numbers and proximity to the sea front. Several of my Insta-buddies have captured far better shots than I. Here are couple, here:

Pretty Flamingo

Pretty Flamingo Too

And there is romance in these shots.

But, I am now going to let you into a secret.

One of the reasons that I took the shot that I have cropped up and heaved onto social media is that I found the sight far from romantic. It was a busy day while I went for my stroll. The temperature was down around the 20C mark and a breeze from the North made walking a really enjoyable. I walked for about three hours. It was a great day out. That afternoon, The Corniche was buzzing. Families were out in force, walking, playing, roller blading or just kicking back and enjoying the weather. I bumped into a Filipino guy playing a guitar – yeah… music in a public place – and everyone was relaxed. The air smelled of sea food and barbecues.

I’d seen the flock of Flamingo some way off and was pleased that I was able to get quite close to them from the shore and – given that they were sleeping – they didn’t stroll off and keep their distance which is quite common for them. At the closest point, I realised that I would get a fair shot of them. Nothing remarkable, but passable shots of the birds.

But I was really pissed off.

A fisherman with the usual array of rods and kit was systematically ripping up and throwing food and plastic waste into the sea. I watched him for a few minutes, Plastic bags, plastic cups and bread. All was going into the sea. He was just chucking it in.

I asked him what he was doing…

He explained that the coloured plastic and the food attracted the fish.

None of the other fisherman – the dozens of other fisherman – were adopting the same or similar approach, so I assume that the guy is a moron rather than an expert.

You can see, the rubbish he was generating was just sitting on the surface and slowing drifting away.

I always knew that I would need to park my western sensibilities in London while I lived in Saudi.

By and large, I have been successful. I carefully boxed my sensibilities up and left them in a loft in Hanwell, West London. Marking the box; “Do not disturb – Hibernating” and drawing a stylised Blue Peter logo on it, I hoped that if anyone stumbled over it, they would assume that the box contained a Z List TV celebrity tortoise and ignore it.

But, increasingly, I am finding my western sensibilities creeping back. Perhaps it’s because I’ve made the choice to return to the UK and have reached the “counting weeks” stage. I’m no Environmental tree hugger, but I found the fisherman’s actions and waste really illogical and frustrating. Although I bit my tongue and didn’t shout him out, I was quite angry with the inconsiderate, wasteful and stupid fucker of a fisherman. Tongue bitten, I walked on.

Now, I’ve already said that I find London a dirty town.

I bloody well have!

Go back to posts from February last year if you doubt me. I’ve grown to associate it with dog shit. I’m here again, now… as I type… and I still think the same.

Dog Shitty City.

Back in Khobar, though, I have to admit that the cities general dirt and grime is one of the least desirable aspects of my life out there. I don’t live in a compound. I do not have a house with a manicured lawn, I live in an apartment attached to a hotel on the edge of an Indian quarter. It’s real life. It isn’t the richest part of town. I’m comparatively affluent. It’s functional, not pretty. And I knew this when I moved, so the dirty streets were expected. I’ve never been bothered. Even when I have seen roaches the size of my thumb and rats the size of small children in the street. Because I’ve always been a five minute stroll (albeit over two monumentally busy roads) from the Corniche.

So the fisherman polluting the sea with his littering shit, pissed me off. But, stepping back, I have to be realistic. Even my beloved Corniche is far from the litter free utopia that I may have implied. I’ve stated that it gets busy. Families utilising the space to eat and entertain on cool winter afternoons and warm summer evenings. Barbecues abound. And so do cats. Stray cats, in their hundreds. And the cats thrive, demonstrating that there is food to be found. Much as I love the space alongside the sea, I have to admit that the concrete benches and sea walls are all stained by dirt. It can be a struggle to find a place to sit where you won’t be surrounded by the waste of the day before. Meat, fish, rice, bread, paper/card/polystyrene packaging. Although there are bins and there are regularly blue overalled cleaners doing their best to tidy away, the Corniche is a sea of chicken bones on most days. The sea is not the clear blue, dream like sea that you would want, you can see that it is often filled with bloated flat breads and rice portions that the locals have decided not to eat. Algae covers the more sheltered corners in hotter months. At times it can be a little grim.

The fisherman that annoyed me is far from alone.

And it is what it is. With western sensibilities safely disguised as a hibernating TV tortoise, I have been able to accept it and make the most of it. And I have. Dirt included, dirt excluded, The Corniche has become my stalwart escape from the bustling city. It still represents freedom. With its relative clean air, its green lawns, shrubs and trees, its wide seascapes and a view of the bridge to Bahrain.

Thinking back, when I first saw Flamingo I noted on Facebook that I had not expected them in a waste filled lagoon next to a building site and a supermarket. Even I if I found rose tinted (fuchsia pink - flamingo tint) glasses in my early days in Saudi, I fear I may be losing them as my departure draws closer.

Time to come home?