Dust Settles

I bumped into an IC5 guy in the lobby to my sponsor’s office.

Unintentionally, he made me smile.

One of the repeating themes that amuse me over in KSA are how different cultures, nationalities deal with weather. Looking back at my Instagram feed, I was incredulous back in December looking at the advertising for hot chocolate served in mugs with little cardigans on them. It was 22-24C outside yet I was trying to be convinced that it was cold. OK. Yeah… Right.

22nd December 2014 - Instagram

But around the same time, I witnessed Saudi’s arriving for work dressed in Puffa jackets, scarfs and gloves. Dressed for winter in a climate that I could – from an English perspective – best describe as “June Like”. While dressing in short sleeves day and night, wallowing in the heat of the winter, I spent much of December and January smirking at my fellow Khobar residents.

And the theme continued in the lobby today. The gentleman who made me smile had a full on medical face mask. Nose and mouth covered. Elasticated. Nothing was getting through to the soft tissue of his mouth and nose.

Well, nothing except bacteria and germs.

It’s hardly the first mask that I have seen. They were de rigour on London’s tube a few years ago when the swine was on the spread. Tourists from the Far East seem to treat the masks as an essential part of the city transit uniform. And I’d chuckle because of how ineffective the masks are at stopping the minute droplets and particles that allow disease to diffuse.

But. Stepping outside, I suddenly understood my friend in the lobby. No more mirth.

A wind rattled around the towers and streets at the interchange. The shrubs, flowers (Petunia’s I believe) and trees in the landscaped borders were caught competing for the jauntiest angle to lean. Pedestrian’s zigzag across the pavements, all in the same apparent state of surprise as me. I caught a glimpse of a woman leaving the “women’s branch” of the bank. Windswept. Abaya and headscarf caught and flowing fighting and struggling to reach her car. I’d only been inside a few minutes. The wind had appeared, apparently out of nowhere.

The wind carried sand and dust that immediately stung my eyes and filled my lungs, exciting the remnants of the cold virus that my London friends so kindly saved up and given me.

I grabbed pictures, but they don’t really do justice…

Grey Wall of dust on the horizon.

And Lean...
Note... The Space Travel Agency, whilst I am sure is excellent for most of your travel needs, it offers a poor service facilitating trips to outer space.

Should have switched on the video.

Half blind, gasping for air and stung by sand, I stumbled back to my office with a gale in my face. Back in the office, the wind howled around Special K’s office while a Myna bird sheltered on my windowsill producing ear splitting warning calls. I tried shooing it away but it kept giving me a look over it’s shoulder, saying “fuck off… have you been out here?”

"Fuck Off!"

For a few minutes it was as if the whole dusty desert between Basra and Jubail had been lifted and was being dumped on Al Khobar. Not like a squall in the UK where the wind just grabs a bit of dust from the pavement in a half arsed twister. This went on and on. A wall of dust. Relentless. Face stingingly, eye squintingly relentless.

Now. I’m English. I like weather. It’s a given. I’m conditioned. I can lose days talking to strangers of nothing else.

And I like a bit of drama. I like the extremes weather can produce. I like the “wow” that it can create. Especially when I am in doors.

But – it turns out – just like snow, I don’t like dust storms. Dust storms hurt.

And I hear we have a few more days of it. Days of dust, grit and sand covering the cars. Days of no more sun. Grubby cars. Lungs full of crap.

Oh well.

What to do?

Grubby Car.
I'm breathing that in...

Another Nod...

So. I've not posted for a while.

And now I "cop" out completely...

...

She said “I feel numb”
I said “That doesn’t make sense - numbness is a lack of feeling.”
She said I knew what she meant and I did
I was just talking

I’m not a pedant but I was hesitant to let silence walk in
I took her hand and I kissed each knuckle
It didn’t register at first but then she smiled a smile that meant fuck all

"I don’t think I wanna fight it." she said without eye contact
“I want my last breath to be a laugh, not the last gasp of a lab rat.”
And I had nothing to say back
Just smiled and kissed each knuckle again, comfort rewound and played back

We left through the lobby as I texted Skaghead Bobby - nice name, right?
He said he’d run out, but if we dropped off cash now he could sort us out the same night
So we dropped off a little money and went and had happy meals
“Lady’s choice!” I had said and she chose to pay Ronald McDonald’s bills
 I wore an upper-half face mask of the Hamburglar
And we took it in turns not to laugh as we ate the equivalent weight of a third of her


I used to buy weed off Bobby, back in my late teens
He was as shady as his moniker but he could facilitate our new needs
Neither of us had done ecstasy before but we bought three tabs each
Fuck it! You only live once and that’s at the most it would seem
We walked along the south bank wrapped up warm in coats and gloves
We sang songs, ran in circles, laughed and fell in love

It wasn’t real love of course, just a chemical alternative
But that was all we required; temporary life-affirming shit
We were beauty that night - through drug-tinted glasses
The sun shone on us through the dark skies as the rest of the world passed us

Our long foot adventure took us all the way down to Greenwich
Start to finish four hours give or take oh, a few minutes
Around ten forty-five as we sat on a bench the place glew in the dark
You could see right across the river from the Cutty Sark to Milwall Park

We shared a kiss at that moment with no sexual undercurrents
She jumped to her feet and said “Let’s play a game!”
“If you can catch me right now, I will tell you my name.”
And with that she turned and ran as I promptly gave chase

Through streets and alleyways as laughs cascaded from her face
And again I have no doubt it was down to the chemicals
But she seemed to float and glow as we bounded on like thin blood through white ventricles


All of a sudden, like in slow motion, she hurled herself into the air
And then in the blinking sound of a splash, I was stood all alone there
There was no flailing or splashes - just the first one that broke the surface
I heard that when a girl writes off the world it’s done in cursive

I’d met her that morning in the waiting room at 7am
And 16 beautiful hours later, I’d never see her again.

 

Terminal - Scroobious Pip