The Mission

It was a mission.

But it was the result of a journey.

A journey where, despite acknowledging that we had achieved everything we had set out to do, it felt as if we had failed. We had ended up in Haywards Heath drinking the worst Guinness ever served, rather than being able to say “Fuck Brighton!”…

It started in 2008. On a cold, winter afternoon in The Sultan in South Wimbledon.

The Sultan says "Fuck Brighton!"

Or rather, I should say, that is where it started for me. Lukey picked up the dregs of a conversation that he had had with Davey about the possibility of travelling to Glasgow by bus. Not a coach. Not a simple turn up at Victoria Coach station and travel for eight hours to awaken as you cross The Clyde. No. They discussed the possibility and plausibility of travelling on scheduled local bus routes, hopping from town to town, city to city, county to county. Lukey and I quickly discussed potential routes and reckoned – finger in the wind – that it was probably achievable but incredibly difficult. We concluded it would take days but the journey would be so eye opening that it would be incredible to try.

“The Journey” was a dry run. We decided to find out how easy, with no research or preparation, it would be to travel from Tooting Broadway to Brighton. We chose to catch the first bus heading vaguely south, get off at it’s destination and then seek out the next bus heading vaguely south. We figured that we would reach the South Coast eventually. We guessed Brighton was the most likely end to the journey. But we agreed that the journey was more important. Even if we reached Brighton, we would not waste time staying and looking around.

We failed, as I have already said, but we learned that it was incredibly easy if you chose to put your mind to it. We had got caught up looking around Reigate and going shopping for a new tie at Gatwick Airport. If we had been more determined, planned a route and less inclined to amble, we’d have reached Brighton and been home before tea.

So we set ourselves a greater challenge. We would travel to Bristol. It was to be a mission. We would research. We would plan.

At around 5:45am, one Saturday morning in early March, Lukey and I met up with Davey at a bus stop on Colliers Wood High Street. You know the one. Just down from the River Graveney. The one outside the bathroom showroom, opposite the “modern” tandoori restaurant that glows orange at night. Yeah. The one where the friendliest staff in the World work make you feel such a leach when they see you walking away with a takeaway from the substandard competition on the other side of the road. Yes. That bus stop!

Davey was early. Very early. Beyond early. About an hour earlier than we had agreed to set off. We boarded a bus to Kingston. It may have been a 131. I cannot recall. We were in good spirits which improved when we realised that leaving early meant that we were banking precious minutes for delays along the route. Kingston was a blur and we remained a full hour ahead when we reached Heathrow Airport to board our bus to High Wycombe.

High Wycombe seems a strange route to take to get to Bristol and you are right. But it got stranger. We were heading for Thame, which sits to the North East of Oxford, before heading to Swindon, Chippenham, Bath and – eventually – Bristol. All in it took about nine hours, I guess. Nine hours is better than the ninety to one hundred and twenty minutes by car.

The geographical reasons for the unusual route are locked in economics clashing with the physical environment. I won’t discuss it in detail here, I did too much of that at UNL in the 1990’s…

But, you probably want to know why we were doing this. And – my dear friends – I am unsure whether I will ever be able to quite explain. Certainly, I know I will not convince many of you to re-tread our steps and I don’t seek to. But I will give a go at thinking through some of my motivations:

As a starting point, I loathe advertising.

I loathe being told what to think, what to buy or how I should feel. I distrust any organisation that tries to convince me that something that I might covert, want or desire is something that is an actually necessity. Want and need are two words that have become synonymous. And that is wrong. I have a default setting of “contrary”. I always have. Perhaps it’s born of arrogance, I don’t know. But back in late 2007 or early 2008, around the time of Lukey and my conversation at The Sultan, I had been annoyed seeing a poster at Stockwell station day after day after day on my commute to work. It told me that if I was feeling lost or direction-less, I needed to visit Goa in India. The advert implied that it was only here that I would be able to clear my head and make sense of my life and place in the World. Of course, I may have been reading too much into it, but that is how I was perceiving it. And – given that this was my perception – at a level it was “true”. The opportunity to travel by bus, I decided, would demonstrate that I could do exactly the same sitting on the back seat. You can "find" yourself anywhere you wish to. Sales executives are liars. 

Whether travelling from Redhill to Crawley or Thame to Oxford, I knew that I had as good a chance of “finding myself” as I did giving a holiday company a stack of cash to travel half way around the World to stay on a Western owned, compound holiday resort in India. Beautiful beaches or no beautiful beaches.

This encouraged me to make the initial journey. We decided that we would head to Brighton but not stay. Once we arrived, we would turn around and hot foot back to London by train. We would not be drawn in to the idea that Brighton was our destination. It was just the end of our journey that day. 

Fuck Brighton!

I like the idea of seeing what space looks and feels like. How towns fit together in the landscape. Modern travel destroys this. You set off from one location, cocooned in a vehicle, and magically appear in another sometime later. Automotive travel has made it progressively easier. Roads cut through hills and valleys to fit the most practical lines and routes. By-passes allow you to avoid bottle necks and make the world a far smaller place. 

There is absolutely nothing wrong with this. It serves mankind well, but it can be a bit boring, can’t it?. I mean, how much do you miss seeing while you sit in your plane, train or auto mobile? 

Local buses take the long way round. They provide those links to places off the beaten track. They need to dwell and pause in order to fulfil their function. They can be laborious and - at times - tedious, but they give you an opportunity to watch and see and listen and observe. They make it easier to better to understand the space around you. Better to build your mental maps…

Sometimes it is good to be “slow”.

I love people watching. And, buses are a great place to watch people.

Here is an example. Back to The Mission. 

We encountered DJ Choons.

DJ Choons joined us one stop beyond Oxford Coach Station. Not quite at the railway station. There was immediate tension. Davey, Lukey and I had spaced ourselves out across the back three seats of the bus making it’s way to Swindon. Route 66. Given the iconic route number and our own pilgrimage to the West and all the opportunities available in Bristol, Severn Beach and Clevedon, we had high expectations. Something good was going to happen. DJ Choons meant that we would not be disappointed. It was clear that we, or more pertinently, I was sitting in DJ Choons preferred seat. The spacious one by the fire escape. The one with the leg room. The best seat in the house. To the obvious hilarity of Davey and Lukey, DJ Choons spent the first ten to fifteen minutes of the journey intermittently staring me out.

DJ Choons boarded the bus with a skate board. I forget the design but it was scuffed to shit. He had all the kit befitting his attitude. He was no poser. It was clear that he skated and he was serious in his pursuit. Wearing cans that put my little £2.99 bud earphones with a loose connection on the left ear to shame. Perhaps they were Beats, I cannot honestly recall. He added this to a garish hoodie, a beanie hat, faded/worn and loose fitting jeans finished off with a battered and bruised a pair of Vans.

And a Freedom Pass.

DJ Choons was in his mid 60’s.

He eventually forgave me for the theft of his seat. We ended up in discussion with him about skateboarding. Turns out he was there since it’s (inexplicable) rise in popularity in the late 1970’s. Once a month he crosses from Oxford to Swindon to visit what he told us was one of the best skate parks in the country.

I’m never going to understand skate boarding. Never. As a kid, I was rubbish and that was my best chance to learn. Even if I had the spirit and heart to give it a go, I doubt I could get over the embarrassment of failure. Sheepishly, I would claim defeat and give up. But, regardless, I genuinely hope that when I reach DJ Choons age, I have the spirit, passion and desire to keep doing what I want to do for myself and on my own terms, regardless of convention or what others may think or say.

DJ Choons is an inspiration.

A terrible little sketch of DJ Choons from my notebook.
Inspirational.

And this pulls me back to another reason why I enjoyed the adventure.

After the failed trip to Brighton I happened to reread “45” by Bill Drummond. 

Later that year, “17” was published. Both feature inspirational stories of journeys that he has or may not have conducted. I still find Bill’s observations of the norm or the mundane hopelessly inspiring and have been absorbed and lost in videos of Gimpo’s adventures on the M25 or listening to his rambles as he filmed the Docklands Light Railway. I've lost hours of my life far, far too often. With the buses, I didn’t start with an intention to ape Bill’s attitude and approach, but his work resonated in my heart and head. I recognised the spirit of the journey as a worthy endeavour or adventure.

And, finally, I guess, I made that journey "just" to be with my mates. Doing something a bit different that sitting in a pub. Looking for a different stimuli that would allow us to spark and spar off each other, like mates do. So, we ate Tunnock's Caramel Wafer Biscuits and tried to work out what possessed Lukey to bring so many Scotch Eggs. We decided that Pheasants had evolved and changed their natural call to mimic "The Fonz" from Happy Days and generally talked a lot of bollocks.

But why am I writing this today?

I happened on a series of posts on Instagram by an American/Cambodian psychedelic band called Dengue Fever. They are travelling to playing some gigs out in the Far East. But it made me recall that day travelling to Bristol.

Chhom Nimol of Dengue Fever on Instagram

All through “The Mission” I had a Dengue Fever track running through my head. “Seeing Hands”. I’d just bought the “Venus on Earth” album and was in love with the opening track.

Before Lukey and I set off to meet Davey at the bus stop in Colliers Wood… you know the one etc… I played “Seeing Hands” to him. I explained that it wouldn’t leave my head and that it would be my soundtrack to the journey. And it was, all the way through Kingston, Uxbridge, Thame, Wootton Bassett, Box and Keynsham.

Back in my post titled “22^nd August - Alive With Pleasure”, I noted how a Viva Voce track got me thinking about cycles and closure. Fate. Well the same thing happened that day.

Arriving in Bristol we stumbled over a bar on Balwin Street called “Start the Bus”. Inevitably, we had to go in for a drink. We didn't know it existed and had walked into Bristol aimlessly looking for somewhere that was "calling" us. We passed and declined a fair few venues, before "Start the Bus" came into view. Inevitably, “a drink” turned into “many”. But as soon as we were first served our first, Dengue Fever's “Seeing Hands” fired up on the PA… I didn't request it, I didn't expect it. It just worked out that way. It told me that the mission was complete.

Here is a cracking live version... Check it out... If you listen closely to my head, you can hear it playing, still...

But how does all this relate to my time in the Middle East?

I’m not sure. Perhaps I’m choosing to tell this story because I have waited too long to write my version of events down. I've tried and failed a few times. One day, it was inevitable that I would reach the end of the story.

Alternatively, I could include references from my past couple of month’s experiences to support or illustrate some of the points that I have made. I mean, I’ve travelled to and from Riyadh a fair few times now but seen nothing of what is between. To me, it is just an endless, tiresome strip of tarmac through a dusty, yellow, grey desert between Dammam and Riyadh, but a journey at night betrays the number of settlements that lie between. The continual lights on the horizon show how little I have seen so far in my stay. And that inspires me. I want to take the long road. I want to stop and to listen and to see how Saudi Arabia slots together settlement by settlement.

Grey Road From Dammam to Riyadh

Or you could take another look at the photographs of Khobar posted a couple of weeks ago. Again, I deliberately stepped away from the bright lights and undoubted, impressive beauty of The Corniche. The photo’s sought to seek out an alternative real life in Khobar to the one that is so readily available to see online. My urge to seek the mundane, the average and the normal continues.

A Little Version of Khobar

Of course, it may be that I chose to tell the story because I have little to say this week (I’ve been locked into work and physically and mentally broken) but that I am enjoying the discipline of sitting down and writing.  

Who knows?

Does it matter?

More Giggles & Alarm

Yesterday, I ended up in a one on one meeting with the woman I mentioned last time. 

You remember the one. The one from the advertising/marketing agency.

We were alone in the office.

And she has a name… which I will say is “Sh”.

All my colleagues had left on errands, leaving us alone. I suddenly felt exposed. Everything that I had been told would not happen and was utterly frowned on was going on around me. I started this irrational thought process, convincing myself that I was part of some elaborate set up to prove the decadence of Western Men. As the meeting continued, I assumed that a couple of fully bearded and robed Arabs would arrive backed up by a couple of overweight coppers to take me down the Clink and give me a whipping. Before the Embassy could say “excuse, me… please show restraint”, I’d be passed across to her family for the real beating to start.

Later, I spoke about my concerns with A from my team. He gave his usual faggy chuckle and assured me that:

“There are many, many women. Too many women working now. It is usual in business.”

Please rest assured, A’s native tongue is Arabic. When he says “too many”, he means “so many” or “a great many”… He is not hopelessly anti women.

I was assured that I wasn't being set up…

The meeting – as you would expect from a professional marketing executive and a semi-professional man – went without hitch. The detail is as dull as you would expect but we achieved the aims and goals that we intended to achieve.

But, we chatted a little. I established that “Sh” had studied at Dammam University where she had picked up her pretty good English. As I accepted a receipt in Arabic, she appeared a little embarrassed that she couldn't write with the same confidence as her spoken English. I found it quite charming given how shockingly my Arabic is developing.  

I found out that it was “Sh’s” birthday, establishing that she didn't celebrate but that it was custom for people to wish her “happy birthday”. I'm a gentleman and I have a default “polite” setting that is fitting for an Englishman. I duly wished her a happy birthday.

This is really mundane and unexciting stuff, but I draw reference to it because it is so far removed from all my expectations and those of the people who I spoke with from the UK and beyond before I set off to live here. Put aside the meeting content that was essential and timely, I was really aware of how exposed I had left myself - and, possibly more pertinently - how exposed I may have left her to criticism. I've said before that the law is very much open to interpretation. I've always tried to err on the side of caution. 

As the meeting concluded, the fire alarms sounded. In itself, this is not unusual. They have been going off now and again for a few days, but this time they went on and on and on. Initially, my irrational side thought “Ok, this is it. There are sensors. They know that a single woman is with a godless man.” They were the pre-warning of the arrival of the religious police.

But, “Sh” didn't seem to care, so I concluded the meeting rather than make a run for it trying to outrun them in a cab to Bahrain.

Of course, I should have been making my way quickly but without running to the established fire evacuation muster point. But I didn't. I still waited for the meeting to conclude. In part, this is because I don’t know where the fire muster point is and also, because I knew that I was the only one there. Conducting a head count for the team was quite easy. As long as I knew where I was, I couldn't consider myself “missing”.

After a while we strolled downstairs and discovered a hot, plastic smelling haze on the ground floor. All the Facilities guys were running around with fire hoses and extinguishers while desperately making phone calls. One brave soul was pushing the suspended ceiling tiles up to see if he could see the fire. But most people just stood and watched. They didn't leave the building, they just seemed content to offer support, advice and criticism to those involved in trying to work out what to do. It was like being back at Topshop… utterly disorganised, stupid and walking the edge of dangerous.

My survival instinct kicked in. 

No. That is untrue. 

It didn't so much kick as give me a little nudge. So I left the building and stood in the car park. Ignoring that it is always quite nice to stand in the sunshine, I guessed it would be in line with the appropriate “fire” protocols. 

I performed a quick head count. 

I confirmed that I was still there. No-one was missing. I didn't need a laminated sheet or clip board. Everything was good.

A joined me. He had a big smile on his face. He appeared to find it just as funny as I that most of the neighbouring office workers were content to stay in an apparently burning building. It’s different over here.

Then the Fire Brigade arrived; they were waved in by the Facilities guys. Chains were locked in place on the gates, so the Facilities guys returned to the apparently, burning building to get the keys to allow the fire fighters access. It was beautiful to behold.

Last week, while exploring Khobar, I stumbled over a Fire Station. I took a few snaps of the engines, tenders and equipment and would have strolled on without thought had a Fire Officer not chased me down shouting at me in Arabic. Although I didn’t understand a word, it was clear that the presence of my camera was not welcome…

So I took a snap of the engines arriving and was immediately shouted at by A.

A - “No. Mustn't photo. You mustn't photo.”

Me – “Why?”

A – “Mustn't photo.”

Me – “Oh. Why?”

A – “Not allowed.”

Me – “Oh. OK. WHY!”

A – looks puzzled… my incisive line of questioning appears to have him thinking… he dismisses me with a shrug and an arm gesture and lit a ciggie.

It seems that Government agencies do not appreciate, encourage or allow you to photograph them. I knew that. It’s pretty standard the World around. Everyone is sensitive nowadays. But, I've never considered the Fire Brigade as being included. It appears they are.

But, I'm clearly turning into some kind of rebel.

I talk to "chicks". I sit alone with them in offices. I'm unintentionally turning into a walking revolution…

So here are a few snaps that I am not supposed to have taken.

Man runs.

Where you get shouted at...

Close Up and Piss Yellow.

Of course, the fire wasn't really a fire. It was just the air con overheating… 

After an age, we were allowed back into the building. No-one officially said we could but we made unilateral decisions once the Fire Brigade had ambled off. I went to the office to find that all the electrics had tripped. My work mojo was broken. I took it as a cue to go home.

Yeah. Just like being back at Topshop…

Snickers, Giggles and Contradictions

“Excuse me, sir. You've left a bag”

I turned and returned to the counter where the assistant who had packed my bags for me was holding the LuLu carrier bag that I had – indeed – forgotten at arm’s length toward me.

I thanked them out of courtesy and retrieved my shopping.

As they passed me the bag they added:

“Don’t forget your Snickers!”

The conversation was surprising. Not because it was conducted in near perfect English, nor that a person in the, frankly, rather selfish Saudi Arabia had chosen to help me.

It was shocking because the staff member was a woman.

After two months in Saudi Arabia, she was the first woman to speak to me.

I’d had a crisis of confidence as I chose an aisle to queue at. It was Tuesday, mid-afternoon, and it seemed that many of the cash desks were staffed by women. Women working the tills. Women packing the bags. Given that men and women are not allowed to mix or interact, I had held back joining a queue until I had seen another lone male being served further down the line of tills. Throughout the transaction, neither spoke to me. They were quick, efficient and organised. But neither made any attempt to make any contact with me. It was as if I was not there.

Until I forgot the bag.

As the bag packer passed it to me, we made fleeting eye contact. Although only her eyes were visible through a post box slit, I swear that she was smiling.

I recounted this tale to my boss K. He was as surprised as me. He’s been in Khobar on/off for years but reckons that he had only had one conversation with a woman.

And the thought that she gave slight, implied and possible smile made my day. It showed that beneath the covering, her culture and social conditioning she was as human as me.

And that was that…

Except, last Monday a woman walked into my office with a male chaperone. We often get strangers walking in. They are always lost and searching for directions. They always look me up and down and converse in Arabic with A and AK who work alongside me. After some blunt, guttural banter that usually sounds like an argument, they leave.

Last Monday was different. A stood up, spoke with both the woman and the younger male she was with (he can’t have been more than 20) and brought them into my office. I was introduced to the woman and informed that she wanted to have a meeting with me.

She was soliciting…

No. Not like that!

You dirty minded, filthy, heretic, shameless, godless, Western stereotypes!

She was soliciting for business. She owns and runs an advertising agency. So I had a conversation with her. Her English was good. She assured me that it would be fine to converse and that she would understand. But it turns out that my English is fast, though. I still needed A to stay to translate.

This reminded me of two conversations from my days back in The Magic Kingdom. An Italian manager once berated me for speaking far too fast. He said that he understood English thoroughly but my accent was too strong and I jumbled my words together…

The second person who complained was from Los Angeles. We were on our way to a meeting where I would introduce her to a district manager to talk through initiatives or summat. It went something like this:

LA Woman – “You know, you tire me out.”

Me – “Eh?”

LA Woman – “I don’t know where your accent is from but you talk really fast. Too fast.”

Me – “OK. I’m from London. My accent is bland English.  I don’t think that I speak that fast. Not in comparison to some.”

LA Woman – “You’re doing it again. Slow down”

I tried to imagine that I was from Bristol...

Me – “OK. I will try. To slow down”

We reached the room where the meeting was being held…

Me – “Megan. This is Sean. He’s from Newcastle. He is a Geordie. You may think I speak fast… er… Best of luck.”

I left them to it. She looked perplexed, confused and utterly knackered when she returned to my desk.

Back to Saudi.

In short, the company that my female visitor works for have received an order from me. Not because she is a woman. Not because I am trying to be a rebel. They got the order based on them being in a position to supply the goods I need at a competitive price.

Later in the week she phoned me. We chatted and agreed some more detail. She kept giggling. Maybe the legendary Shabbs “phone voice” was working its magic – yet again – or, maybe I was talking to fast… who knows?

The whole experience surprised me. It was refreshing and exciting to witness and be part of.

It's not illegal for women to work over here. I believe that it is becoming increasingly common. I have seen women working but have never had an interaction with them. Indeed, I recall seeing two women recoil when a descending lift stopped at their floor. Although clearly wanting to go in the same direction, they would not get into the lift presumably because there were men inside. And, although it may be legal, women are walking thin lines. Much of the law is open to interpretation based on circumstance. Business or not. I do not know how it would fair for a Saudi woman to be seen initiating a meeting with an unmarried European man.

My predecessor had an ugly encounter with the Religious Police (yes… google it. There are quasi authorised people acting to police adherence to Islamic code out here... Like The Taliban had in Afghanistan). Stuart was having a cigarette outside a shopping centre. His arms with near full tattoo sleeves were exposed. He was tackled and would have been dragged away to be whipped if staff from the shop he was working with had not intervened, distracted them enough to allow him to run and hide in the shop. The idea of a woman not only conducting a meeting but initiating it may be beyond the pale for many. Catch the wrong person on the wrong day at the wrong time, I dread to think what could happen to her. I hope for her sake that she and her family are well connected!

Saudi Arabia is a country full of contradictions. I was talking with K last week about the country and how we are living through a fascinating period in its history. It’s natural and religious conservatism is being exposed to more progressive, western influences. It is almost as if the 80’s like economic transition that the country is experiencing resulting in economic growth, consumer spending and individualism is meeting a 50’s like youth revolution where the kids are demanding far more attention, recognition and freedom. Daddy-o.

And the media suggests that it is filtering to government decisions. Liberal voices are being heard above the traditionalists.

Again, the perpetual question of whether women should be allowed to drive has come back to the fore in both local and international media. Within days of an apparent proclamation that the government were proposing to allow women over thirty to drive in time (hah!… viva la revolution!), it was being dismissed as social media propaganda by the same government department. They are not proposing that women would be able to drive but that it isn't really outlawed anyway it’s just that women choose not to… (When you experience the driving in Saudi, this makes some sense! That all choose not to is a little far-fetched, though).

This was announced around the same time as the government decided to beef up punishments for Saudi’s travelling to Syria to support ISIS by deeming all none believing, atheist, and heretics as terrorists. This allows them to be punished by 30+ year prison sentences or death. On one hand this sounds fine; the state is showing it’s hand to those wanting to join the fight and demonstrating the risks that they are taking should they return or lose. On the other hand, it’s pretty heavy handed. All non-Sunni Muslims are now labelled as atheist… and – by default - terrorist.

Think it through. That includes me.

Go look up Amnesty International to take a look at how the legal system can work over here. There will be abuse.

But, it feels as if change is inevitable. US radio stations broadcast over the eastern province pumping out 80’s AOR hits. Youths forego traditional dress. Logo’s abound on tee shirts and tops. The malls are full of western retailers.

Female TV newscasters and weather girls are on the TV, though when one based in London dared to go on air with her hair uncovered, TV executives were forced to resign.

OK, I am yet to visit the Western province closer to the two Holy cities, so I am possibly getting a distorted, jaundiced view of the apparent progress but the country does not feel like I was expecting from the research I conducted about life before I came. It seems more open and free than I expected.

Not that I would want to stretch it or take too many risks.

Today, I walked the Corniche to take in the sun. Not one of the woman that I passed or saw made eye contact with me. All were fully covered. A very few had their faces showing. It was the usual lines of Ninja’s with post box eyes.

Change may be coming. But I am not going to see it in my time here.

Real change – and gender equality - is still many years away.

…

…

…

Oh. Now, not that I want to steal other’s stories and tales but K let slip to me last week that he had a short period in the early 1980’s managing The Vapors.

THE VAPOR’S!!!!

Yeah!

A Nod Back to Influence

Through encounters on WhatsApp, Facebook, face to face and face time conversations with colleagues and friends I am led to believe that my prose is written in the same way that I speak. 

Several people say that they can hear my voice when they read it. I’m told that it adds to it’s strength.

I like that.

But it got me thinking.

I think a lot.

It made me think of influences… Of the story tellers that have influenced me, captivated me and inspired me.

So.  Here is a nod back to influence. Something to read without hearing my voice.

Enjoy

Wickerman

Just behind the station, before you reach the traffic island, a river runs through' a concrete channel. 
I took you there once; I think it was after the Leadmill. 
The water was dirty & smelt of industrialisation
Little mesters coughing their lungs up & globules the colour of tomato ketchup. 
But it flows. Yeah, it flows. 

Underneath the city through' dirty brickwork conduits
Connecting white witches on the Moor with pre-raphaelites down in Broomhall.

 
Beneath the old Trebor factory that burnt down in the early seventies. 
Leaving an antiquated sweet-shop smell & caverns of nougat & caramel. 
Nougat. Yeah, nougat & caramel.

 
And the river flows on. 

Yeah, the river flows on beneath pudgy fifteen-year olds addicted to coffee whitener
And it finally comes above ground again at Forge Dam: the place where we first met.

I went there again for old time's sake
Hoping to find the child's toy horse ride that played such a ridiculously tragic tune. 
It was still there - but none of the kids seemed interested in riding on it. 
And the cafe was still there too
The same press-in plastic letters on the price list & scuffed formica-top tables. 
I sat as close as possible to the seat where I'd met you that autumn afternoon. 
And then, after what seemed like hours of thinking about it
I finally took your face in my hands & I kissed you for the first time 
And a feeling like electricity flowed through' my whole body. 
And I immediately knew that I'd entered a completely different world. 
And all the time, in the background, the sound of that ridiculously heartbreaking child's ride outside.

At the other end of town the river flows underneath an old railway viaduct
I went there with you once - except you were somebody else - 
And we gazed down at the sludgy brown surface of the water together. 
Then a passer-by told us that it used to be a local custom to jump off the viaduct into the river
When coming home from the pub on a Saturday night. 
But that this custom had died out when someone jumped 
Landed too near to the riverbank 
Had sunk in the mud there & drowned before anyone could reach them. 
I don't know if he'd just made the whole story up, but there's no way you'd get me to jump off that bridge. 
No chance. 

Never in a million years.

Yeah, a river flows underneath this city
I'd like to go there with you now my pretty & follow it on for miles & miles, below other people's ordinary lives.
Occasionally catching a glimpse of the moon, through' man-hole covers along the route. 
Yeah, it's dark sometimes but if you hold my hand, I think I know the way. 

Oh, this is as far as we got last time 
But if we go just another mile we will surface surrounded by grass & trees & the fly-over that takes the cars to cities.
Buds that explode at the slightest touch, nettles that sting - but not too much. 
I've never been past this point, what lies ahead I really could not say. 
I used to live just by the river, in a dis-used factory just off the Wicker 
The river flowed by day after day
"One day" I thought, "One day I will follow it" but that day never came
I moved away & lost track but tonight I am thinking about making my way back.
I may find you there & float on wherever the river may take me. 
Wherever the river may take me. 
Wherever the river may take us. 
Wherever it wants us to go. 
Wherever it wants us to go.

Jarvis Cocker

Picture Update. Beauty & the Beast

Never let it be said that I do not listen.

Less verbs, more pictures. I hear you!

So. Here you go…

Some are taken on trips and jaunts to Dubai and Bahrain. The rest were taken in and around Khobar where I am living.

It was quiet. Friday mornings always are. It is the day of rest. A religious day. No-one works. Well, not until after midday prayers, anyway.

The photos I took do not reflect the bustle, but when you look through them please appreciate that waving a camera in people’s faces in Saudi is not something that is encouraged. Ignoring the potential for provoking religious or personal outrage by snapping women or strangers, I was really aware that I was heading into the poorer parts of town. My camera is worth more than a month’s wages to many of the people around these parts. Maybe in time I will increase my confidence and get more involved with the population… but this was the first time and I was really conscious of flaunting my comparative wealth.

Readers: "Eh? We’ve seen the middle east. In brochures. It’s incredible." 

Readers: "Hey! You keep posting amazing pictures of the seafront… What do you mean?"

There are two worlds out here. The need each other so they live on top of and alongside each other. They feed off each other. They are symbiotic. They are both beautiful and ugly simultaneously.

First we have the exciting, planned, developments. Highways and bold developments of shopping centres, hotels and office blocks. They are built around landscaped parks and recreational spaces. They are built to impress. They regularly succeed. I've been lucky; I've seen some incredible sights:

Dubai - From Grand West Media City

Bahrain - World Trade Centre

Bahrain - Movement

Saudi Arabia - Al Khobar Corniche

Bahrain - Lanterns... Where I spent my Birthday :)

I love these parts of the region. I feel comfortable. I understand and relate to them.

No photo’s I am afraid, but a view the view of Dubai as you land/take off from the airport takes your breath away. The palm shaped residential developments and map of the world sculptured as sand banks in the clear, still waters backed up with the tower blocks behind isolated and alone in a flat, pancake desert stands out as one of my favourite views of all time.

But in order to have these, you need to have service. And I have seen it. It shows the rougher, far less glamourous side of the countries. They are not included in the brochures but I am finding them just as impressive and – sometimes - more interesting and engaging from a life experience and creative perspective. I am passionate about photography and geography, after all.

Saudi Arabia- A mosque in a warehouse district between Al Khobar and Dammam

Dubai - Warehouses, Office Blocks & Trailers

So this is where I got out to explore Al Khobar...

Khobar Back Streets

Clothes Drying and Low Cost Housing

Golden Hyderabad. Selling tea in plastic cups. Busy before Prayers.

Bridge over The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road.
Where you can find beggars with missing their lower arms, hands and/or feet. Victims of Justice.

The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road

Shop Front

Apartments

Cables

Decorated Truck. Many of the vehicles are driven by Pakistani and Indian immigrants. Most are personalised...

Abandoned Car. Remember... Khobar sits between the desert and the sea.
Anything that stays still starts to get buried. 

Street Signs.
In all honesty, I took this as a reminder to help me locate a Malaysian Restaurant I stumbled across.
Used to eat Malaysian on Holloway Road and down near The Riverside in Newcastle Upon Tyne. I doubt either place are still there.
Love Malaysian food!

Offices? Apartments? I dunno.
I stuck my head in the doorway. You will be relieved to hear that it had the same rank, stale urine smell that it would attract in London, Berlin, Kiev... The  whole world round.

This battered and grubby stair well was in a parade of jewellers which will explain the discarded cabinets.
I love the disparity between the rubbish strewn hall way and the apparent value of the cases.

Adverts.

Parking Rebel

This reminded me of The Lanes in Brighton... Joke :)

Never Back Dawn...
Too bloody right. What's Dawn ever done for me?

Not quite the same the word round.
There is a bit of graffiti around. On the walls or in the dust on cars. But I am yet to see a comedy cock n balls!

Street Scene - Khobar

Dereliction - Back Street Khobar

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Street Scene - Khobar

Street Scene - Khobar

To close, I experienced my first sandstorm on Tuesday. I flew back to Dammam from Dubai and dropped into into a yellow wasteland...

On the Apron at Dammam

On the road to Khobar
The wind was blowing straight off the desert. The four by four we were in was being brushed out of lane. The sand on the metalwork and windows sounded like the most torrential rain.

And, finally... back to the pretty.

The beach at Khobar.
Low tide in the Arabian Gulf. Egrets, Reef Heron and Flamingo grazed and hunted on the sand bar just off shore.