From London to Khobar: #riyadh

Showing posts with label #riyadh. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 January 2016

John Wayne Is Big Leggy

Back in the 1930’s a British civil servant by the name of Bertram Thomas was the first westerner to make a record of a journey across the heart of The Empty Quarter. He and his team walked between Salalah in Oman and Doha in, what is now, Qatar. His journey is being recreated by a modern day explorer with the less exciting name; Mark Evans.

The Empty Quarter is accepted to be amongst the harshest and most inhospitable areas of sand desert in the World. It’s also the largest. I’ve read that the dunes can reach up to 200 metres tall. Bertram’s efforts were incredible back in the 30’s. Warring tribes, dry watering holes and the risk of other illness or injury made the journey perilous. With no support, any serious mishap would lead to death. Today, the Empty Quarter is far from unconquered. Although Evans and two team members are aiming to walk the majority of the trek, they have a pack of camels to support weary feet and a whole support crew travelling by 4x4 with a few luxury items, things like food and water. Unlike Bertie, who upon reaching Doha had to sail to Manama just to send a telegraph to confirm his success, Evans progress is being tweeted near live and a satellite phone is used to relay daily blog updates to news agencies. It is very different. Bluntly, Evans stands little chance of being defeated by the elements. If he fails, it’ll be because he suddenly remembers he has a dentist appointment or as a result of incredibly bad luck. Evans expedition is essentially a PR stunt to support and celebrate the 45^th Anniversary of Oman’s Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said (another exciting name).

But I don’t care about any of that, none of it makes it less exciting to me.

You see, as unadventurous as I can be, I have always marvelled at the “explorer” spirit. I’ve never got wrapped up in the jingoistic spirit of Empire, but have puzzled at what makes someone push themselves to such extremes at the risk of their life and limbs “just because”. There are true, great adventures to be found in pushing physical boundaries. From my youth, I always read with excitement and horror at the stories of Shackleton and Scott. Anyone who goes out on a limb, on their own and pits themselves against the elements has intrigued, shocked, frightened and inspired me. Even Ellen MacArthur.

So, I have been watching in on Evans progress. I trawl the website and I have the App. I suspect that I will buy the coffee table book that will undoubtedly follow. Like I say, the whole expedition – whilst having noble ideals regarding education, community and raising awareness of a changing continent – is relatively risk free. It is sponsored by the authorities of all three countries that he will cross (Oman, Saudi Arabia and Qatar). Evans will be fine.

Follow his adventure, here;

Mark Evans

But it’s close to home. Well, close(ish). You see, as it has worked out, Evans journey coincides with a renewed need for me to make more regular journeys to Riyadh. So, for the first time in close on twelve months, I am back to making my own odysseys across the desert.

Imagine what Saudi Arabia looks like. Look it up if you want; don’t let me stop you. In the meantime, here is a map on a coffee mug:

OK. Riyadh lies to the right of the centre of Arabia. Closer to the East than West. I live about half way down the Eastern coast (near Dammam), so Riyadh lies a way inland from me. It is some 450km (280 miles) west-south-west of Khobar. It’s about the same distance as Newcastle-Upon-Tyne is from London. Using the direct “Route 40” freeway, upon leaving Dhahran (a city connected to Khobar), the next town you see is Riyadh. To all intents and purposes it is a four to five hour drive across nothingness. So it is a challenge.

I’d been in Saudi for less than a week when I was required to travel over for the first time. Three of us piled into a car. Myself, my predecessor and our office manager. I was excited. It was my first time in the desert and I was bubbling with enthusiasm. Despite the early morning start, I was wide eyed and bushy tailed. I picked up that Stuart was less enthralled. All he offered me, before crashing out in the back seat of the car to sleep was to observe that, when he woke, he would point out his favourite sand dune. I sensed that he was bored of the journey – which he assured me I would be making at least once a week for the next 52 weeks – but still harboured a hope that he did, in fact, have a favourite sand dune and that he would show it to me.

The journey passed by. I was still struggling with Adel’s strong Arabic accent and he was struggling with my flowery English. Communication was limited, but onward we travelled. I sat with my camera poised, taking pictures of everything I could. Cars. Lorries. Sand. Cars. Lorries. Sand. Lorries. Cars. Cars. Lorries. Tarmac. Tarmac. Tarmac. Skid marks. Skid marks. Skid marks. Sand. Sand. Sand.

“Will I see camels?” I had asked. My spirit flying at the prospect.

“Yeah.” Stuart sighed. All excitement dead, gone and buried. I fear my excitement of the desert may have tired him out somewhat. I think that, perhaps, he feigned sleep to avoid talking to me rather than avoid the desert.

But, Stuart was right. I saw camels. Near. Far. Alone. In herds. Being herded. Being ridden. Not being ridden. In the back of trucks. At the side of the road. Behind the protective fence. On the wrong side of the protective fence.

Yes. I saw camels. Loads of them. As Adel would, glumly, say; “too many camels”.

A couple of hours into my first journey, I had tired of it. I understood Stuart and Adel’s quiet reticence at making the journey. It’s not the inspiring, soaring, glowing, majestic and apparently endless maze of dunes found in The Empty Quarter. My desert is litter strewn and rather dull and monotonous. Which explains why the authorities have been able to cut a 450 km swathe through it made of tarmac and allow people to take part in their own version of Wacky Races all the way to Riyadh.

For one reason or another, though, I stopped needing to make the journey on a weekly basis. Soon it was every three to four weeks. Sometimes – having headed the advice of colleagues – I opted for the train. So, although not entirely enamoured with the desert, I have never become utterly jaded and dejected by it like Adel and Stuart.

So, my recent journeys have allowed me to see it from a different perspective. Not one of enjoyment. I cannot, in all honesty, say that I relish the prospect of the journey, but I can appreciate that it’s not such routine as to become a total bore.

In comparison to Mark Evans, Bertram Thomas, Wilfred Thesiger and their ilk’s epic treks of endurance, my hops back and forth pale into insignificance. They lack the edge of the battle of man against the elements where one piece of bad luck – a misdirection, a storm, a lame camel – could leave you without water or food and no hope of rescue or recovery.

Given the abundance of fuel stops with associated shops, cafes, fast food joints, toilets and mosques on Route 40, it would have to be a particularly bad luck journey if you were to die of hunger or thirst. Trust me. It’s easy to get access to the key staple food groups – Pringles, Snickers and Mirinda Citrus – that the human body requires every ten to fifteen minutes. Even if you were caught with no money, judging by the number of beggars (sadly, women and children) in the stops closest to Riyadh, I am sure that you could get by on charity.

To a point, I could stretch a comparison out of the Wacky Races traffic on the road to the risk of death by the natural world. Perhaps a garishly coloured lorry – carrying an uneven load - with the phrase “Go Ravi Go” scrawled on the rear side swiping you as you pass, or the crazy Saud, ignoring all lane markings while and texting a friend, weaving through traffic at 220 kmph before taking you up the rear could count as an equivalent of being bitten by a snake in your sleeping bag. Maybe. But it would be a weak comparison.

But my journeys and their journeys do have one comparable. Like almost all long journeys, they force you to face boredom, fatigue and tiredness. And on Route 40, they can come into their own.

My past few trips exposed me to how I and my colleagues measure distance and time. And it’s stark. As you become used to the journey, you find unofficial way markers set apart from the endless grey road, its skid marks and its bumpy surface that makes that constant, dull “thuck thuck thuck thuck thuck” of rubber on tarmac for four hours.

Some of the markers are natural and obvious. There is a huge Crude Oil depot about an hour from Riyadh. The depots presence can be predicted by the quantity of power lines that shadow the road fifteen or twenty minutes before that. There are a number of Police Check Points en route that force you to slow down but rarely make you stop (the power of white skin and a purple passport). There are intersections with sign posts to small settlements and towns; Goodah, Urayarah and Burqayq. Date plantations and small farmsteads. Outside Riyadh are the crashed car compounds that stretch for miles and the tents and pens containing camel and sheep. There is even a Ferris wheel that stands on a small ridge surrounded by abandoned/incomplete buildings that appears to be part of a past or future – definitely not present – amusement park in the middle of nowhere. They all allow you to track time and progress and give you an idea of when you will arrive back home or in Riyadh.

But, the more you travel, the more you notice and the more the personal, informal way markers take hold.

You grow to recognise different sets of oil pipelines.

You notice the roads to nowhere on the edge of Riyadh and Dhahran, Roads that are fully metalled and made of tarmac. Streetlights are installed and are illuminated at night. The roads are fully paved. But there are no homes, no factories and no utility buildings on them. They do not join the freeway, they are thoroughly suburban. They just stop short of the embankment. Settlements of good ideas and intention. But stark and barren in delivery.

You notice the “Desert Access” signs. My favourites are about an hour out of Khobar on the return trek. About five in a short space advertise “Dessert Access”. When you are tired and hungry, they get you thinking about a whole different opportunity.

The unmarked Civil Defence or Military base with radio towers and barbed wire covered perimeter walls. My colleague Ken recalls a time – until quite recently – when the base was openly sign posted “Secret Police Station” or some such. Everybody, close your eyes. Look the other way. Shhhh!

And then there are the burned out vehicles that you learn to distinguish from one another as they are slowly swallowed by sand and time. Some, jack knifed and burned out close to the side of the road with dancing figure of eight trail of skid marks leading off road to the tragic, stopping point. Others are crashed up or beyond the wire fences keeping the camels away. Some just appeared parked up. As if the driver popped out for a pee. But they are slowly being enveloped in sand. Yet more sleep are on their sides or roofs.

The list becomes your own and goes on and on.

So you find yourself, when in company, talking and talking to keep the tiredness from becoming lethargy or worse. I guess, where Thesiger, Thomas and – now – Evans will be losing themselves in reflective contemplation. While they will have stared simple survival in the face each day, I find myself drifting between setting the World to right, contemplating either the horrors of Riyadh that are yet to come, thinking about which restaurant I will visit as a reward and happy nostalgia. Which is how, a few weeks ago, myself and Ken entertained ourselves by compiling imaginary 80’s music playlists that complemented and/or bettered the three CD set he had in the car.

For hours, we sang along to Men at Work, Bros, Flock of Seagulls, Adam & The Ants, Cyndi Lauper, Survivor and Thpmpson Twins while lamenting that the set could be improved by Duran Duran, Soft Cell, Heaven 17, Jona Lewie and The Cult. The CDs and the suggested improvements were as endless as the featureless road back to Khobar.

John Wayne is Big Leggy

Saturday, 17 January 2015

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.

Saturday, 3 January 2015

Forty

It’s 3^rd January. It's my fortieth post.

Have I missed the whole review of 2014 thing?

I dunno.

I’m not good with tradition and convention. I don’t usually partake or play. But, 2014 was a big year for me. It would seem a bit odd if I wasn’t to make some sort of effort to mark it passing.

I could write a stack of stuff about how it felt and how 2015 is going to shape up, but I have a stack of posts that were written at the time. I will let them tell the story.

So, as a slight alternative, I have pulled together a stack of photographs from the year with some notes. Some have been posted on here before, others appeared on Instagram and Flickr. Some have made all three. But some are new...

Anyway. As my Facebook messages have encouraged:

Read

Don’t Read

Enjoy

Don’t Enjoy

The choice is all yours. Choose your colour. Spin the wheel.

Where to start?

Here... In a toilet in London...

The view from the Management Suite Gents at Topshop Oxford Circus.

Loved that view.

The BT Tower will always be my London beacon. When I see it, I know that I am close to my true home. One day I will write about it's mystical properties and why it holds such a strong strong hold on my heart...

The Tower

A blue grey spire with a red light atop. Surrounded by trees. Dusk

I spent years away from Harrow. When I did visit, it was so different to the town I grew up that I really didn't respond to it well. This changed in the late noughties when i bought a property there and got to explore it all over again.

It - once again - became home.

Epping Forest

Battersea Power Station through the Rain

Parliament Hill... A Summer View

Through the process of sorting my life out to head out to Saudi Arabia, I managed to keep getting out and about in town and reminding myself of it's beauty. Hampstead Heath, Battersea on the way home from West Norwood Feast and green, green summer trees I found lost on the outskirts of Chingford.

The English countryside still inspired:

Detail... The Chilterns

Avenue. Pulborough Brooks

Pulborough Brooks. Sussex.

More Trees in The Chilterns. A dark wood, with a spot of sunlight.

But on a personal level. April 18th Stands out...

With Leyton Orient and Rotherham United dropping points, the win against Preston North End at Griffin Park meant that Brentford FC were promoted. Cue a pitch invasion...

Oh West London. Is Beautiful!

The Ealing Road End... Where a bit of my heart lives.

But Saudi Arabia - Bahrain and UAE - beckoned. And it's where I find myself today. Quite content...

I've found the whole experience inspiring and liberating. The key thing that I have been searching for is a change. Believe me, Saudi Arabia is a change. I miss the UK. I miss my home city and I miss my family and friends to bits but I have no regrets at the path that I have chosen in 2014.

It is good...