Mass Marching Hoards

It all seemed so easy.

A quick flight from Bahrain, arriving in the early hours of a Friday morning. OK, it took almost ninety minutes to get through immigration and my cab driver didn’t really know where he was going. But I arrived at my hotel, I got some rest and I made it to breakfast pretty much at the time that my brother had said I should aim for.

Welcome to Istanbul.

Only after brekkie did we hear that the city was bracing itself for some pretty big demonstrations. Parts of the city were going into lock down. But, it was OK. They were in Taksim Square…

“So. Where is Taksim Square?” I asked

“Turn right out of the hotel. Top of the road.” My brother replied.

“Ah. OK. No worries.”

That was when I put two and two together. I’d had a five minute stroll just prior to the conversation and had noted loads of crowd control barriers being erected at the end of the street. I just assumed it’d be a May Day parade or summat and that they would be gone by midday.

Maybe not.

Welcome to Istanbul!

My brother, Rosie and I quickly decided that our best bet was to make a quick exit out of the exclusion zone rather than get ourselves stuck staring at the rooftops from our hotel buzzing on the CS fumes. Off we trotted.

The cops were everywhere.

Military style uniforms, riot shields, helmets; the works. But they seemed relaxed. Casual, almost. The riot teams were outnumbered by good humoured, less intimidating looking officers who appeared to be on public relations rather than intimidation patrol. They were adept at saying “no” in the nicest possible way to both tourists and locals.

Standing at cross roads.

“No. You can’t walk down that road.” Smile.

“No. You can’t walk down that road, either.” Smile.

“Back the way you came? Er… No.” Slightly forced smile.

We were driven downhill leaving confused locals in our wake who had only popped out to buy bread to discover that their home was now blocked off.

But it wasn’t intimidating. A bit odd, maybe, but not at all intimidating. I was trying to remain upbeat. I’d been looking forward to the trip for a few weeks. I really wanted to see my brother and Rosie. It was breaking up my months away from home. I was craving the familiar; something that I struggle to find in Saudi. But despite this, I was getting flash backs to Oxford Street 2011 and Brick Lane and Welling of the early 1990’s. I was well aware that it could all turn a bit ugly and unpleasant and it could turn quickly.

Cutting to the quick. Yes. There were demonstrations. They didn’t reach anywhere near the scale that the government and press had feared. Whatever dissuasion tactics had been used, they were largely successful.

Here are some pictures nicked off the internet.

Didn't See Any of This.

Nope. Nor This...

Other than the road blocks lasting into the early mid evening, we were oblivious to the disruption apart from the occasional view and “chop chop chop” of a helicopter looping over the crest of the hill above Galatasaray.

We were tourists. We soaked up the souks. We looked at the apparent differences between the European and Asian sides of the Bosphorus from the relative comfort of a tourist cruiser. We ate in the least fishy restaurant that we could find.

Spices in a Souk

Soaking up the Souk

Can You Guess What This Is?
Way back I worked with and got to know a young woman from East Dulwich (AKA Peckham). Her father was Turkish. She once sent me some Turkish Delight through the post to my office with a note reading something like; "Dear Sebastian. A gift from your Turkish Delight." I didn't open the letter/package, one of my colleagues did. Struggled to live that down.

Carry On Cruising

From my perspective, the roads being cut off allowed a far more interesting route back to our hotel with all public transport being suspended. Yes, the roads were steep. Yes, the roadblocks were such that we were forced to traverse up and down, up and down winding streets to find our way back. And, yes it was knackering. But the streets of Sishane were wonderful.

The buildings. Grey, red and yellow.

Narrow streets creating dark tunnels with a bright slits of sky above.

But all a bit run down. A bit grubby. But lived in. And a spirit. Rebellious. Open. It felt like Lisbon and Bilbao. Or Bristol. So different to Khobar, Dammam, Riyadh, Jeddah, Manama, Al Juffair, Jumeirah or Media City. But so much closer to my heart and home.

Dark Buildings. Bright Cloth. Washing dries in Istanbul.

Vintage

Slits of Light. And Hills.

Book Shop where most of the stock is stored on the street in shopping trolleys.
In the reality that I live in, this little soul has fallen to sleep having finished reading "Adam's Story".
She is deep in a beautiful dream where she imagines that she is Caitlin Moran.
She dreams that she is helping Adam St Clair find the man who betrayed him

There is a tradition and practice for people to feed stray cats and dogs rather than let them scrap and scrounge.
You see little trays of milk in doorways and heath robinson dog kennels on street corners.
The best condition strays I have ever seen.

Tag

Street Art

And with a beer at the end of the day in a dark, narrow, wooden floored bar playing music that pricks your ears and surprises you. A bar just out of WiFi range meaning that we couldn’t use Shazam to identify who has recorded such a great cover of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”.

I’m not a natural tourist.

I don’t know why. In part it must be my fear and loathing of crowds. It probably stems from not liking being told what to do or what is “good”. It must, in part, be down to my heartfelt desire to be contrary…

An example.

The first time I visited Bilbao, it was primarily to take in the Guggenheim. On the first morning I strolled down and found the queues were running at about ninety minutes. Later in the day, I returned and they were down to about an hour. And I still weighed it up and decided that it wasn’t worth the hassle. However good it would be inside, despite travelling so far, the wait would make it pointless and useless. Tainted. So I walked away. On my final day, I returned and found the queue running at forty minutes and I decided that having come so far I should stop being so churlish, bite the bullet and just get on with it.

Once inside, I was told that I wouldn’t understand the content if I didn’t take the audio guide. And that really riled me. REALLY RILED ME. If I cannot understand the “art” without an explanation, it must be shit. Shit by default. And then the gallery was full of coach tours who were using the expansive exhibition halls as make shift dormitories. Loads of teenagers and their coloured ruck sacks laid out sleeping. And that riled me. REALLY RILED ME.

In short, I wasn’t impressed. I’ve been back. With my friend Alex and it was far better. Only spoiled by being unexpectedly confronted by a stained glass work by Gilbert and George.

On the second day in Istanbul we set off to see the Blue Mosque and surrounds oblivious to the three cruise ships that had arrived overnight discharging mass marching armies in the same direction.

But I was calm.

Remember. I was primarily there to enjoy the familiar. To be with family. All be it family who had been ridiculously denied coffee that morning at the hotel by ineptitude.

Question: Have you ever been in a busy hotel dining room when the staff decide to shift every free piece of furniture in the room, lifting chairs and tables above and across the heads of the seated diners?

No? If you want to know what it is like, let me know and I will send you details of the hotel we stayed in. Knock yourselves out; go visit.

But back up at the Blue Mosque we were confronted by two hour plus queues everywhere. For everything. No exaggeration; the queue to ask the people managing the queues to establish the wait times was two hours, as well.

OK. That may be an exaggeration.

Only the Topkapi Palace was less than two hours. Probably an hour and fifteen. So we went there and despite the crowds, the massive swelling crowds… the endless crowds… marching crowds… we made the most of it. The garden. The sunshine. The views. It was good. 

Mass Marching

Flowers

Tram

Breathe in. Breathe out. I was calm.

And then it was over.

Rain and a Sunday morning where the all familiar call to prayer was followed by bells from the Orthodox churches. A magical sound. Back to the familiar. Of Sunday mornings hearing St Mary’s in both Harrow Hill and Bloxham.

And a flight home watching over Iraq’s mountains.

Anyone want to go to Istanbul?

Think I may need to see some more.

I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper

It started in reception.

I was waiting on a lift. My driver was running late.

So I took in a map that is adjacent to the door. I’d taken cursory glances at it before but never looked at the detail. The map is of Khobar. It is several years old and – as a result – significantly out of date. I noted that the Corniche was still a work in progress but that all the key roads were present. Landmarks such as key hotels and the pepsi cola factory were all marked.

So I looked at the junction close to Silver Tower; close to where I work. And that is when I saw it.

The map contained line graphics of some of the key sites and – sitting at Silver Tower – was a picture of a space shuttle attached to it’s three fuel tanks.

Map

I asked my driver about it but my question was lost in translation somewhere.

And I forgot about it.

Except that, on occasion, something would stir it back to the front of my mind. The slow dawning that the “Space Travel Agency” – a disappointingly normal travel agent – that is still close to the cross roads may not have just been an obscure name choice but be based on a landmark that has now gone.

Those countless occasions where I would wake with that Sarah Brightman/Hot Gossip song as an incurable ear worm.

I have lost track of the number of taxi drivers I have asked about this mythical space shuttle marked on the map.

No one could answer me.

But then I stumbled on something online. A photograph taken of Silver Tower back in the mid noughties. In front of it was a sculpture. A sculpture of a space shuttle.

I was excited.

Before I go on, I need to provide some perspective. Some background. I need to explain why I had this obsession with this detail on a map.

As a kid, I loved the idea of space travel.

Didn’t we all?

I was brought up in an era of Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Dr Who, Blakes 7 and Mork & Mindy. Space travel was in my blood. Popular culture seemed to obsess with it. The moon landings and Apollo missions had created this fervour for space. For the opportunity. It seemed that the Western World had become utterly obsessed. Anything and everything looked for the space angle. Even James Bond was going there.

Dr Who was a staple, but I was one of the millions that was hooked and dragged uncomplaining into the Star Wars franchise. It was bigger. It was bolder. The sets didn’t wobble as much. It always felt like I was like looking into the future. A future where two powers both believing that they were right and the other wrong fought for supremacy.

Like the cold war.

In the days pre-video and before the films had had their UK TV premier, I was lost in the books, magazines, sticker albums, merchandise and figurines that allowed the re-enactment of the battles and key scenes. More. The lack of exposure to the movie content, it all encouraged the use of imagination to create new story lines, new epic battles and new chapters of my own each day.

I was a sucker for the space ships.

I “wowed” at the weaponry.

And Carrie Fisher made me feel funny inside… Even more than Suzi Quatro or the blonde one from Abba did. Utterly smitten.

Suzi. The Blonde One. Carrie.

Dressed in white with the silly hair ringlets, dressed for the winter exploits in The Empire Strikes Back or – obviously – the bikini scene in Return of the Jedi. I’d have done anything for her.

And then, in real world, came the Space Shuttle. The first reusable space craft. It was new. It was sleek*. It was sexy**.

Back in 1981, my family foreshortened a holiday outing so that we could get home in time to watch the Shuttle’s initial launch. We gathered around a TV in the lounge of a small hotel in Uckfield in Sussex with several other holidaying families to watch history being created. Looking back at the footage today, it all seems a bit tame. A big lump of metal being strapped to a load of inflammable material, pointed at the sky and someone chucking a half smoked cigarette into the mix to create ignition.

In 1981, it was bloody magic. It tapped into all my fantasies of travelling the universe with improbable space hardware and weaponry saving planets and getting the girl. It felt as if all the Science Fiction that I was buying in to really could be the future. Everything felt slightly tangible.

Alongside my plastic Star Wars models, suddenly models of the space shuttle were being introduced into the mix.

And, whilst my fascination with the shuttle and space travel may have waned over the years, for a while I wanted to know everything about the missions. Who was on them? What they were carrying? How the future was being shaped.

But, back to Khobar. Khobar in 2015.

It got me thinking. Why would a statue/model of a space shuttle be constructed in Khobar and – having gone to the trouble of doing so – where is it now?

The “why?” answer is simple to find. Google and Wikipedia quickly explain the cultural reference, so I won’t dwell on it. National pride.

In 1985, Sultan bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, a Saudi Arabian Air Force pilot and member of the Royal Family flew on STS-51-G. A real life Saudi astronaut.

Sultan bin Salman Al Saud

It also led me to references that show that the statue still exists and that it has just been moved. Which led to me having an adventure to relive part of my childhood, a few weeks ago.

It started on a Thursday evening as I wound down for the weekend and got chatting with a friend – Marian – online. Aside general chit chat and catch ups and Bugsy Malone, I explained that my plan for the weekend was to go searching for the lost space shuttle. It was my mission to find it. Bless her, Marian wouldn’t be drawn. Even when I started to explain that I was going to dress as Han Solo to conduct my mission, she wouldn’t rise.

I guess she liked Luke Skywalker more.

On the Friday, the sun beat down and I couldn’t face the walk the length of the Corniche from home to reach my goal. OK, the white shirt could cope with the sun but my choice of a dark waistcoat, tight, tight black military twill trousers with a red trim and black boots was not conducive to the climate.

So I flagged a cab.

The cab driver was hairy. Not just the de rigour “taxi cab beard”, but really, really hairy. Our communication was limited. The driver’s English was not good and I found that our interactions became foreshortened, direct and punctuated with gestures for directions. And guttural barks. Somehow we grew to understand each other.

We reached our destination. A traffic island just behind the main Corniche road. The space shuttle stands forlorn and slightly grubby surrounded by Date Palms.

I instructed the cab driver to pull over and wait at the roadside while I jumped out and snapped some photographs. Traffic was scarce. The roads were deserted. But the cab driver was nervous. Twitchy. He feared what would happen if the Police arrived and challenged me or him while I was isolated in no man’s land. But I was mission bound; I oozed confidence. I assured him that we wouldn’t hang around to be challenged. I knew that his white Hyundi maybe old, maybe past it’s prime, may have a few scratches, dents and war wounds but I knew that the crate could out run any other car on Khobar’s roads that day. We were safe. Invincible.

Disappointingly plastic and weather beaten. Its logos are faded and peeling. A plaque that presumably explained its significance has been stolen leaving a sad looking semi-pillar of concrete as its lonely companion.

Pleased to find it, it seems a shame that the national pride that must have influenced its commission has been allowed to fade and decay. But, still, the shuttle is there. Sultan bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud's achievements are still remembered.

Out of the way, but not out of mind.

Thankfully, my faith in the speed of the cab was never put to the test and my taxi driver drove me back home without incident.

By chance, it was only when I returned home that I stumbled over the news that Sarah Brightman's voyage into space to sing has been postponed… Hey. Such a shame... She deserves it...

Here is my ear worm...

Notes:

* OK. Not as sleek as the sports shoe shaped reality drive craft described in Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but sleek none the less.

** Ditto

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: