Ever The Tourist

“Hey!”

“America!”

A voice nearby becomes more urgent, more forceful. Insistant. I realise that it is talking to me.

“AMERICA!”

To my left I saw a young lad waving a bottle of water at me from the serving hatch of the Derby Coffee Drive Through in King Abdullah Park.

He was grinning ear to ear. The stand was deserted. His bosses would be pleased with his sales initiative.

“America. Want water? Water!”

I’d bought a coffee from him a couple of hours earlier which I had half discarded under a palm tree as it was pretty ropey, but he was now insistent that I sought refreshment. I was hot, parched and – as priority – felt an overwhelming urge and need to correct him on my nationality. 

I am not Huck Finn, Travis Bickle, George Alan Rekers or a child of Sarah Palin.

I am from England.

I strolled over, momentarily taken back to a tram ride in Prague where my friend Simmsy had been accosted by an undercover ticket inspector. Neither Simmsy, Fayle nor I had validated our tickets so were unintentionally fare dodging. Simmsy was picked off first. Not speaking Czech, he had no idea what this crazy guy in a grey mac was going on about and didn’t have the first clue what his badge/ID meant. The inspector, realising that he was dealing with a tourist, changed tack and started saying “English? English?” prompting a shouted, insulted, anger fuelled, angst filled yet near poetic response:

“NO... ... ... I’m FUCKING Scottish!”

Fayle and I laughed like dogs. Until we, too, were fined. After that, we just giggled.

I bought the water that had been offered. And chatted with the two lads working. Both were Filipino, from Manila. They seemed impressed that I was English. They were overjoyed that I was from London. Both were telling me that it is a beautiful city. So green, not like Saudi. That I was lucky. The conversation was such that I assumed that their knowledge was first hand but they explained that they had only seen London on the TV and in movies but that one day they would visit. It was a dream they were following, which was why they were working in a coffee house in Dammam rather than staying back in Manila. They are/were working to raise the money to see the World. Neither wanted to be there, they see Saudi just a means to an end.

I drifted away and was called to the shade of another palm where I chatted and shared my water with an old man dressed in throbe and keffiyeh who told me that he was pleased to welcome me to Dammam; to his home town. He told me that he was pleased to see me because he did not see many western visitors in the park. I explained that - for the most part - I like Saudi Arabia. It is so different to see it with my own eyes compared to way that it is portrayed in the press.

He said that he liked England. He respected it;

“England tries to be fair.”

Like many before, he wanted to assure me that if I ever needed help he would try; all I had to do was ask and he would be there. I will never see him again and maybe his offers were empty safe in the same knowledge. I will never know. But at the time it sounded genuine and heart felt. It was a pleasant way to pass fifteen minutes. As I left, he warned me that I should cover up in case my skin disease (my freckles) became worse.

Bless him. I was burned to a crisp that day.

You see, the weather is turning.

In England, we say that two swallows do not make a summer. But I’ve seen dozens over the past few weeks wheeling and twisting north to Europe and the temperature is drifting upward. It’s safe to say that spring has sprung and summer is knocking on the door. But summer in Khobar means weeks where it will not drop below 30C day or night and will stay sticky and humid. I’ve not been through it, yet, but I believe that my new best friend will live indoors and call itself “AC”. Which means I have been taking as much opportunity to get out and explore while I can.

But Saudi Arabia is not geared up for tourism.

Firstly, it is difficult to gain entry as a visitor. Second, the industry is geared toward the holy sites in Mekkah and Medina; even then, numbers are limited to ensure safety at the various venues. In addition, non-Muslims are barred from visiting either city.

But the country is trying.

I’d read and heard much about the hills around Abha in the South West and of Taif close (ish) to Jeddah. Ha’il is also reputed to be beautiful. And one day, when I have a bit more time for the long, long journeys that visits will require, I will explore. But in the meantime, I am staying close to home.

So, as you would in any country you start online…

“Things to do in Dammam” leads to a few links in Google including the following:

Saudi Arabia Tourism Site

Missing culture back home, I first plumped for the Dammam Regional Museum located alongside King Abdullah Park. I knew it would be a hot day, so thought that the indoor refuge would offer welcome respite to the sun.

I jumped a white taxi down close to my digs and had a great chat for the thirty minute journey with a cabbie from Achabal in Kashmir, India. We talked about the economics of his industry, how much he needs to make each day and how he supports his nephew’s education from the profit that he takes home. We talked of his extended family and how they all rely upon each other. We spoke of how different the West is and how family cohesion is far more broken down. Neither of us were judgemental we just spoke honestly about the differences, the constraints and freedoms that our cultures create and allow. He works seven days a week, working ten to twelve hours a day across two shifts depending on how successful his day goes. He has a seven year old son that he has not seen in over four years. He showed me photographs, ever the proud father. He asked me talk about London. He had heard all about it from a friend who had worked there for a few years; he wanted me to describe the parks. His friend would go to Hyde Park and just sit in the sun on his days off. My cabbie said that it sounded perfect. We both agreed that we missed the greenery of our homes. He showed me photos of his city. We both miss trees and hills.

My driver noted that Saudi seems a sad place; how you never see children playing in the street. He asserted that the Saudi’s just stay at home glued to the TV and computer games behind shuttered windows. I don’t think that that is quite true, but I understood what he meant. You do see Arabs out and about; in the parks. But you rarely see children out alone. They are always supervised. Mostly well behaved and apparently under control. Watched. Very different to London. Presumably, very different to Achabal.

We spoke for longer than we needed as we searched high and low for the museum. I eventually bailed at the park and immediately found the problem. The museum has been demolished and is being rebuilt. The hoardings around it seem to suggest that it will be quite impressive one day, but for now it is just a building site. I’ve found reference to it online in several locations, all of which suggest that it is still open and happily advertising its opening hours.

Yeah. Better Than a Building Site

Like I say, Saudi isn’t geared to tourism.

At this point, I will draw reference to the back drop of the politics in Saudi Arabia at the moment. You will have read of the troubles on the Iraqi border and of the Gulf States attacks on Yemen to try and restore some semblance of order to the country. I am not going to bore you with detail. I do not know enough and it is not my place. But I do appreciate and understand that the conflicts are very, very real and that they do have an impact on life across the region.

As is sensible for a person living away from their home country, I keep an eye on communications from my own and other governments that may have relevance or bearing on my life. Which is how I have come to see so much US advice online. And what I read regularly frustrates me.

This includes:

“The Department of State urges U.S. citizens to carefully consider the risks of travelling to Saudi Arabia and limit non-essential travel within the country.” (March 14^th 2015)

The one that pushed me over the edge, though, was a detailed one page report that detailed every single attack on U.S. citizens and other “Western” interests through 2014 to date. I was frustrated because it drew reference to the death of a U.S. citizen at a gas station in Riyadh on October 14^th. This was widely acknowledged as being a personal/employment dispute between three people (one Saudi born US educated man and two US citizens).

How can that ever be considered a reason for other US citizens to limit their movements?

“Don’t go out today in case someone you know decides to murder you.”

Paranoid.

The UK Embassy issue similar communiques, but they always somehow seem less emotive and more matter of fact. Perhaps our stiff upper lip rightly or wrongly continues to shadow us around the World or perhaps, having learned to shake off attacks by the IRA and their kin through the 1970’s until the present day makes us a bit more stoic. I don’t know.

My colleagues will tell you, I usually fly around the room like a deflating balloon – arguably, with sound effects to match - when I discuss this issue, ending up an emaciated, spent, dribble soaked, rubbery husk on the floor. I’m trying to be measured, here. I understand the need to share information, to advise and urge caution. It makes good sense. But, I fear that the U.S. create hyperbole and provide unnecessary free oxygen to a situation that really doesn’t need any more than it already has. It all seems so unnecessarily deliberate to re-enforce the feelings of "us and them".

Some of the Facebook responses I have read have Saudi based US citizens stating that;  “perhaps it’s time to call it a day”.

But, have they seen the US press, recently? 

I mean, if they are being advised to consider non-essential travel and to change their routes and journey times to remain safe in Saudi, I can only assume that many US cities and states will be on the edge of lock down and imposing curfew to protect the innocent if the news reports are anything to go by.

So, my tourist activities have knowingly taken me close to places that I am actively discouraged from visiting by the US State Department. Not because I am some kind of uberman, some adrenaline junkie or worse; as a naïve hippy peacenik convinced that love and peace (man) will see me through. I go because I have found people in Saudi Arabia to be nothing other than open, warm and friendly.

I go with my eyes open, in the same way that I travel other cities and towns that I visit. Believe me, I have felt far more nervous, uncomfortable and self-conscious in some suburbs of Paris, the centre of Amsterdam, on the Holloway Road in London and Wolverhampton than I have in Riyadh, Jeddah, Dammam or Al Khobar.

So I ended up on Tarout Island. Just north of Dammam. 

It is close to one of the suburbs that the U.S. Department of State singles out as a particular hotspot for anti-western feeling. Additional to that, a Bahraini colleague had also advised me not to visit, as it has; “too many, far too many Shia”.

But a look at a map assured me that it should be fine. So I went to check out a castle that was highlighted on the Saudi Tourism site I linked above.

The whole region of Dammam, Al Khobar and Dahran has developed over the past thirty to forty years. The sprawling conurbation has grown out of the need to support the oil industry. Dammam offered an opportunity for a deep sea port on the Arabia Gulf and the rest has sprung up to service it. The old town, old villages dotted along the coast have been swept away. But Tarout remains. Tarout with its 2,000 year plus history of defensive positions and a castle in situ for hundreds of years.

I love a bit of history. Tarout was too good to miss.

Francis, my trusty companion and legendary cabbie agreed to drive me and we soon found ourselves lost given that my directions were pretty vague; “drive onto the island and find the highest point… that’s where the castle is.”

It may be the highest point on the island and the castle, in its own way is quite impressive, but as hills go, it doesn’t really rank with The Malverns, The South Downs, Hampstead Heath or even Horsenden Hill. It’s more like Tower Hill. So most two story buildings hide it… Tarout Island has many two story buildings.

The castle is not sign posted. The Corniche is. The castle is not.

So we are lost in a place that I am being warned away from. We get talking with an elderly Arab guy in one of the many beat up 1970’s American cars that still crawl through the area. With the short comings of our Arabic and his English we all struggled to make sense of anything any of us said, but he seemed to understand where we wanted to be. As a result, rather than try and direct us through the byzantine lanes and alleys to our goal he chose to drive on with us following and guide us most of the way with a series of cheery smiles and waves…

You see, they hate Westerners over here…

Francis and I found the castle. It is, indeed, atop a hill. Quite a steep sided and relatively high hill, as it turns out. But in Saudi tourism style, it is fenced off and you cannot get anywhere near it. It is surrounded by private land affording only views through barbed wire and chain link fences. The closest vantage point is down by a roundabout. Still through a fence and obscured by shrubbery, it was there for me to see.

No visitor centre. A distinct lack of information. And, as an Englishman, the lack of tea shop left me truly insulted and affronted.

As I said earlier, Saudi Arabia is really not geared up for this tourism lark.

Back at the car, having snapped off a few half arsed photos, and a little despondent, we caught the eye of another local. He saw my camera and called us over. A quick discussion led us up a path, through the edge of a site where a building was being demolished to a hole in the fence. Ducking through the hole, I could sense English Heritage wincing at the ready and easy trespass access to the castle site. Turns out, it’s quite impressive up close. Some nice little views.

You see, they really hate Westerners over here… Don’t give us the time of day. Won’t help us. Awkward, awkward… just plain awkward.

Tarout Castle. All Welcome.

I’m going to keep doing my thing. I like this town. I like this country. 

Yes, I know that there are aspects to society and culture that I find hard to accept or understand, but I knew all of those before I came out here. I also knew that nothing I could ever do would change them. 

But, I am sold on the people. 

I’m not an idiot and I know that there are some pretty odd people out here and I have been lucky not to have run into them, but the same can be said of any country and of any culture. So, without doing anything fool hardy, I will keep living as I live and soaking up the culture around me. 

It will be fun and I will be fine.

…

…

Shameless plug.

Being out and about means that I have taken a fair few pictures recently. Check out my Flickr site if you fancy exploring.

Here:

FLICKR

It features shots like this...

Tarout Castle... And a Fence.

And, finally, here is something for those who want to hear another story of discovery:

Engage

Upon my return to the Kingdom, a degree of reintegration was required. A degree of relearning.

Of re-engaging.

Routines and patterns were soon re-established. I’m paid to be here. You do what you do. Get up, go to work, make time for the gym, shop, cook and eat. Easy.

Life.

But something was missing. Something wasn't feeling right.

Not living.

On a Wednesday evening, I realised what it was. I’d stopped exploring. I’d stopped learning about the town that I was living in. I was falling into a rut. It had been so, since earlier in the year. One of the key reasons to make the step over to this part of the World was to see something different, somewhere alien to me. To be excited by it. To learn.

Thankfully, the realisation didn't occur while lying bored, tired, lazy and depressed on my sofa but while strolling into town to go shopping. I’d forgotten how the town changes after dark.

The crowds. The noise. The bustle. The light. The colour.

It’s a different World. People come out to play. The souks, shopping centres and side markets are full. People peruse the lines of shirts that stretch for blocks in the open air. 90% polyester, they crackle and crack as they are pushed, pulled and pawed. Illegal stalls hawk wares from carpets and cloths set out on the roadside. The restaurants – so many restaurants – fill and fight for custom. Traffic fills the street. Mostly static, the sound of horns fills the air and it takes a degree of bravery and/blind stupidity to weave across the roads.

And this is multiplied by ten on a Friday.

And I love it.

As usual, no photos can really do it justice. But I do try…

Coffee

There is a café on The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road. The night I caught it, there was no-one there. On a night when football is showing, they set up a giant screen in the street behind and lay out plastic patio furniture. It’s never mobbed but always busy. A sea of faces staring at a TV screen that is invisible from the main street.

Bathing in Blue

I stumbled over this residential building bathed in blue light. It called from afar, partially covered and concealed by trees further down the road. As I got close, I realised that it is just a standard block of apartments and that the blue light has nothing to do with it. A hotel/apartment block opposite has blue neon advertising on its roof. The basking blue light on the residential block is just light pollution. All the shutters were closed shut. I’m not surprised. I used to live on Hounslow High Street one Christmas. We had no curtains. The multi-purpose Diwali and Christmas lights were a menace for three months.

Neon Wonderland.
For Sale. Anything. Everything!

Old Concrete

Street lighting is far from ideal. The streets are quite dark. Much of the glow comes from the heavy handed signage carried by many retailers and from lights from private residential blocks. It works. It looks good.

Watch & Light

There is an obsession with watches.

The Souks are full of watch shops and stalls who are always keen to talk to me. I’d suggest that they notice that I never have a watch on my bare arms and see me as a likely customer, but I am a realist. They see me as an American or European with more money than sense, so want me to share.

I’ve worn a watch once since 2006. I was told to in the Spring of 2007. I’d been late for a couple of meetings at work and it was noted that I didn’t have a watch.

I listened to the advice but it stopped. It was a sign. I was vindicated. I never intend to wear a watch again.

Red Light Spells Danger.
Money will be spent here!

The reason I was out on a Wednesday night.

Some people will recall that I have an obsession with stationery items. It’s as if, somewhere deep inside my psyche, there is a teenage girl trapped. Her voice can only be heard in Paperchase or Staples or Rymans.

Jarir Bookstore is just as dangerous.

I may go there to buy computer supplies and stuff, but I will always leave with a new pen… and some colourful post it notes… or something. Anything!

So I have tried to get out and explore, more. Retracing my steps of the evening in daylight on a deathly quiet Friday morning as the population geared up for midday prayers.

American School Buses.
When they are past their "use by" date in the US they are shipped off around the World.
Khobar is full of them. Owned and used to transport labour from accommodation blocks to workplaces.
On a Friday, they rest.

Prince Faisal Bin Fahd Road
From old to new.

Prince Faisal Too...
A view from a colleagues office looking back down toward the old Pepsi Cola factory, The Meridian Hotel and sea beyond.

Flowers and traffic on Prince Turki Street

The road names mean little to me. I know them because they are listed on Google Maps. No-one appears to navigate by road names. Everything is decided by their closeness to landmarks; the older the better. Most people know “Silver Tower”. If they don’t, I drop back to the “Old Pepsi Cola Factory”. It’ll get me on the right road…

Pepsi Cola were one of the first American giants to invest and fund development in the town.
This is the remnants of the advertising on their old factory.
It remains a landmark.

The local Tamimi Market store has a series of old photographs of the town taken over the past thirty or forty years showing Khobar’s humble beginnings as a small fishing town, the addition of King Fahd University (Petroleum & Chemicals) and expansion as a thriving city. I live on the edge of the old town. Few buildings are above four storeys. They are a uniform sandy grey. Most show signs of wear and tear. Steel, breeze block and concrete construction shows its age quite quickly. You can see the original districts, of residential, shopping and industry. As a geographer, the town planning is obvious once you can work out where the boundaries were. But, increasingly, the boundaries are becoming blurred as vacant blocks are turned into whatever can turn a profit.

Old Khobar is slowly being regenerated. Lost. New buildings, better utility provision. New roads, underpasses and bridges. The town feels like a near permanent building site. The old is making way for the new.

Another street dug up and cables being relaid.

Sofitel. Modern out of dust.

The rubble of a demolished building in the old town.
Scrub beginning to take hold.

Fouad Centre
All the food you can eat.

Artificial lake on the Corniche.
Landscaped gardens on the seafront.

Mosque
Gold surrounded by a dusty wasteland and cricket on Friday afternoons.

Municipal Art
Hope. Inspiration and Pride.
Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road

I’m liking the mix. The transition. Khobar feels lived in. Rough around the edges but with a pride and determination to move forwards. To change shape. To grow up. To become a swan.

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to Half Moon Bay. I’d been told about it since I was here back from day one. It offers a chance to take in the “seaside” in a Saudi way.

Obviously, it’s more car heavy than in the Europe. Although some provision is made for parking and for beach huts (concrete shelters where families can keep out of the sun and barbecue meat, most of the beaches are a free for all. Cars are driven to the sea front across the sand. Afterall, it’s where the desert meets the sea.

Yellow, orange, and blue. Ridge and furrow. Light and dark.
Check out the litter, though. It's everywhere.

Salt flats and dunes.
Compacted by the wheels of so many cars.

Way back, I posted some pictures of the desert taken en route to Riyadh. A friend sarcastically noted that they didn’t hold the romance of the Lawrence of Arabia images that they have of the desert. And in the most part, that is a true reflection of what I see. The desert is just that. It is deserted. It is big and bleak and lifeless. No romance. But, I get that there is something magical about the formation of dunes. Far from the biggest in the World, Half Moon Bay does – at least – allow a slightly more romantic version.

The front is loaded with temporary market stalls. Clothing. Food. Anything. Like Khobar, the place bustles. Adults relax next to their cars, wind breaks allow family privacy… Apart from the cars, it all feels familiar to me. Kids play. Pony and Camel rides. Bouncy Castles and quad bikes.

Quad and Bouncy Castles.
It was refreshing to see that girls were included in the driving games... Make the most of it while you can!

A guide supports a child on a pony. The camel carried a parent. I love the composition of this shot.
Simple but effective.

And still, I cannot believe my luck that I live by the sea. Beautiful.

Looking South

Hot Beach Action. A man named Francis contemplates the nature of life, love, happiness and sex.
Mostly, though he was contemplating the art of taxi driving.

OK. Not Half Moon Bay. This is the view toward Bahrain a few nights ago at dusk. I love the water colour textures and near invisible horizon.

Language and Burgers

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

Francis pauses. A look of mild confusion on his face. Briefly, his eyes leave the road ahead as he glances over his right shoulder.

“Which road?”

Special K and I laugh.

“But…” Francis pleads “WHICH! Road?”

This was the third joke we had tried out on him. The first two were my Mexican standards with the punchlines; “tequila” and “and… hose B”. None were going down well.

“Which road?” as a punchline for the joke in question is good enough for me. 

We left it at that.

Why I chose to start telling rubbish jokes to Francis, I do not know but I was on the edge of hysteria. I had just arrived back in Dammam. I had been travelling for over nine hours in the previous twenty four, stayed overnight in a shabby Riyadh hotel where I found a previous guests half eaten dinner in the fridge all for a meeting that was postponed until the following Sunday. I was tired. I just wanted my bed.

Thanks but no thanks. Left by a previous guest in my Riyadh hotel.

Francis collected special K and me from the rail station. He was giving a lift to one of his friends. Both Francis and his friend are from Kerala in Southern India. Francis’ English is OK. Far from perfect but way, way better than my Malayalam. Neither were grasping our jokes. Language and culture.

Earlier in the day a contractor had made a complaint about me to my boss – Special K. The complaint was made in front of me and with apparent disregard for my feelings. The crux of the complaint was that I am weak. The allegation – made by an Ethiopian – was explored and I listened in with keen interest and amusement. The key point that he was making was that I talked too much. He gave a few examples. Most involved me explaining why payments for his services had not been paid. It turns out that I give too many reasons and explanations why cash has not been forthcoming:

“You haven’t submitted an invoice. Without an invoice, I can’t arrange payment”

“Your invoice was not correct. It included charges for staff we agreed hadn’t attended the job.”

“The authorised signatory isn't in until Tuesday. Once he signs off the payment you will receive the money.”

And so on…

Our contractor said that by offering explanations for not paying implied I had done something wrong. I am his boss… a simple “no” will suffice.

So, I tried it the following week. He immediately became upset and demanded to know "why?"

But it got me thinking about a piece I read in the Arab Gazette or one of the other English language rags that you stumble over out here. A columnist had noted that English speakers showed an inherent weakness; that our language demonstrates too much doubt and makes our opinions weak. The columnist went on to draw on some examples to demonstrate his reasoning. 

I've lost the newspaper… I’d love to quote exactly but cannot. But it went something along these lines:

The columnist argued that if he were to talk with two friends, one Arabic and one English about a burger restaurant he could not trust any review proffered by the English speaker as it would be too vague and imprecise.

The Arabic speaker may choose to say; “It was the best burger I have ever eaten. You must go.”

The English speaker is more likely to say, “It was a great burger. Perhaps, the best burger I’ve eaten. You might want to try it.”

The columnist argued that the English lacks conviction. The lack of conviction shows doubt and weakness. He suggested that it couldn’t be believed. The directness of the Arabic description demonstrates the passion for the burger…

So, I had a think about it. The only thing that occurred to me was that the columnist is an advertisers and marketeer’s wet dream. I reckon his home must be packed full of shit that he really doesn’t need or want.

Advertising. Milk & Laban.
BUY! BUY! BUY!

But – jokes aside – I think that I get where he was coming from. English is so different to Arabic. And I struggle with it. I find talking with non-English speaking Arabs difficult. I love English. I love it’s nuances and complexities. Why use one word when you can use ten? I waffle. I know that I do. Which is not good when you are talking to someone who has grabbed and can run with the basics but little else. To many, I am just confusing.

I was warned of this from day one. My predecessor noted that you have to learn Pidgin English quickly if you are to make your mark with the non-English speakers.

“You go here. Now.”

“No. Not Riyadh. Dammam. Now. You go.”

“I send you file”

“I get food. Now. You want food?”

“No money. Tomorrow money. Pay tomorrow.”

And it’s all so alien to me. On the phone, I catch myself stopping mid-sentence and trying to restart concentrating on the key words and speaking slowly, so very slowly. Nouns. Verbs. Easy on the adjectives. And sometimes it works. It’s clearly becoming a habit. Andy – a colleague – noted on the phone that I was doing it to him and that I could speak proper English if I wished… and he’s Scottish.

Arabic seems so direct and confrontational. I knew this before I came over here. I worked with a Somalian in my previous job. I would hear him talking with his friends and family. It all seemed so aggressive and “shouty”. Yet, it seemed to be interspersed with laughs. And I see it with Arabic. Everything seems so harsh. Whether on the phone or face to face, as a bystander, it always feels as if people are moments away from utterly losing the plot with one another before the smiles kick in and everyone appears to leave as brothers.

And it transfers to English sometimes. One of my staff has a habit of appearing to chew my face off every time he asks a question.

“What you want for lunch?” can sometimes feel as if I’m being called out for doing a turd on the office doorstep.

Before I set off from England, my father encouraged me to seek out a book from the 1950’s – “Arabian Sands” by Wilfred Thesiger. And I did. And it’s a really interesting account of the Arabian Peninsula and Ethiopia from around the 2^nd World War. A genuinely great book. Thesiger is a suitably pompous Englishman with a desire for adventure and a superiority – with small concession that he has to rely and learn from the locals - which only the British Class system can instil. But he noted that conversation was held at excessive volumes and that people appeared to shout at both him, across him and each other. He observed, based on feedback from the groups he travelled with, that it was a cultural adaption to ensure openness and lack of secrecy. If you speak loudly so that all can hear, it is clear and obvious what you are saying, you can have no secrets and no-one can be suspicious. It lives on. There are times – not always, obviously – where I can see the inherent behaviour. It’s in the psyche.

But I have tried to learn some Arabic. How I have tried. Ignoring the fact that it seems polite to do so, It would make it so much easier. But – just like my days learning French – I am struggling. In my heart, I so hoped that I could pick it up. After all it’s not a romantic language. I thought that maybe it’d fall in place. But, no way… It’s so alien… I’ve picked up a few key words but am so thankful for the decent quality of English that I encounter on a day to day basis.

But I will carry on trying. Trying to learn a few more words here and there and continuing to speak Pidgin when I need and stop drowning my audience in nouns, verbs and adverbs and all those words that make me happy.

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Oh. Before I sign off. I’ve got to tell you about a burger restaurant that I found on the Eastern Ring Road in Riyadh. The burger was perfectly cooked. Moist, full of flavour and not overburdened by sauces to distract you.

Seriously, it is the best burger that I have eaten this year. You must go and try the restaurant if you find yourself in Riyadh!

YOU SIMPLY MUST!

And – to my knowledge – I have never been responsible for doing a turd on any doorstep.