Flamingo

MY INSTAGRAM FEED...

I posted the picture above to Instagram a few weeks ago. It is a cropped section of a photo that I have used as a Facebook cover photo for a similar length of time.

It got a bit of attention. It’s quite pretty.

Flamingos are one of those birds that – having grown up in Harrow – seem incredibly exotic. They are associated with hot climates and remote settings. I grew up with images of vast flocks filling TV screens while deep, gravelly and authoritative voice overs explained the size and scale of the flocks, the mind blowing distances that they travel on their annual migrations and the food sources that the eat that allows them to develop such a distinctive colour (Hubba Bubba Bubblegum). Away from the TV screens and images of vast salty lakes in Africa, the closest that I could expect to get to them was at a zoo or wildlife park, where a dozen would sit in a large garden pond and prevented from escaping by the clipping of their wings. When I did see them, apparently open to the elements and free to leave I rarely dwelled to look at them because I found it sad that they were effectively imprisoned in the UKs seasonal cycle. They looked sad and forlorn.

Fuchsia pink and a metre tall, they’re pretty hard to miss. Their slow, methodical gait makes them appear graceful and long necks and social instincts make them incredibly photogenic. Which is why – I guess – I took the opportunity to catch a few shots when I found a group close to shore in Khobar.

They’re not uncommon in Khobar. They’re pretty common down the shallow Arabian Gulf coastline from Jubail to Bahrain. Khobar sits in the middle. I’d seen a few within weeks of arriving and, having not expected to see them, was momentarily excited by it. A few weeks down the line and – you could argue sadly – I had become rather used to them. They were as ubiquitous as the Reef Herons that hang out down the front. But, en masse, I still recognise that they cut a pretty impressive shape, so, having the opportunity to get close to them, I made the most of my limited lens capabilities.

I’m not alone. I follow a number of local photographers on Instagram and have noted over the past few weeks that more and more people are making the most of the seasonal influx in numbers and proximity to the sea front. Several of my Insta-buddies have captured far better shots than I. Here are couple, here:

Pretty Flamingo

Pretty Flamingo Too

And there is romance in these shots.

But, I am now going to let you into a secret.

One of the reasons that I took the shot that I have cropped up and heaved onto social media is that I found the sight far from romantic. It was a busy day while I went for my stroll. The temperature was down around the 20C mark and a breeze from the North made walking a really enjoyable. I walked for about three hours. It was a great day out. That afternoon, The Corniche was buzzing. Families were out in force, walking, playing, roller blading or just kicking back and enjoying the weather. I bumped into a Filipino guy playing a guitar – yeah… music in a public place – and everyone was relaxed. The air smelled of sea food and barbecues.

I’d seen the flock of Flamingo some way off and was pleased that I was able to get quite close to them from the shore and – given that they were sleeping – they didn’t stroll off and keep their distance which is quite common for them. At the closest point, I realised that I would get a fair shot of them. Nothing remarkable, but passable shots of the birds.

But I was really pissed off.

A fisherman with the usual array of rods and kit was systematically ripping up and throwing food and plastic waste into the sea. I watched him for a few minutes, Plastic bags, plastic cups and bread. All was going into the sea. He was just chucking it in.

I asked him what he was doing…

He explained that the coloured plastic and the food attracted the fish.

None of the other fisherman – the dozens of other fisherman – were adopting the same or similar approach, so I assume that the guy is a moron rather than an expert.

You can see, the rubbish he was generating was just sitting on the surface and slowing drifting away.

I always knew that I would need to park my western sensibilities in London while I lived in Saudi.

By and large, I have been successful. I carefully boxed my sensibilities up and left them in a loft in Hanwell, West London. Marking the box; “Do not disturb – Hibernating” and drawing a stylised Blue Peter logo on it, I hoped that if anyone stumbled over it, they would assume that the box contained a Z List TV celebrity tortoise and ignore it.

But, increasingly, I am finding my western sensibilities creeping back. Perhaps it’s because I’ve made the choice to return to the UK and have reached the “counting weeks” stage. I’m no Environmental tree hugger, but I found the fisherman’s actions and waste really illogical and frustrating. Although I bit my tongue and didn’t shout him out, I was quite angry with the inconsiderate, wasteful and stupid fucker of a fisherman. Tongue bitten, I walked on.

Now, I’ve already said that I find London a dirty town.

I bloody well have!

Go back to posts from February last year if you doubt me. I’ve grown to associate it with dog shit. I’m here again, now… as I type… and I still think the same.

Dog Shitty City.

Back in Khobar, though, I have to admit that the cities general dirt and grime is one of the least desirable aspects of my life out there. I don’t live in a compound. I do not have a house with a manicured lawn, I live in an apartment attached to a hotel on the edge of an Indian quarter. It’s real life. It isn’t the richest part of town. I’m comparatively affluent. It’s functional, not pretty. And I knew this when I moved, so the dirty streets were expected. I’ve never been bothered. Even when I have seen roaches the size of my thumb and rats the size of small children in the street. Because I’ve always been a five minute stroll (albeit over two monumentally busy roads) from the Corniche.

So the fisherman polluting the sea with his littering shit, pissed me off. But, stepping back, I have to be realistic. Even my beloved Corniche is far from the litter free utopia that I may have implied. I’ve stated that it gets busy. Families utilising the space to eat and entertain on cool winter afternoons and warm summer evenings. Barbecues abound. And so do cats. Stray cats, in their hundreds. And the cats thrive, demonstrating that there is food to be found. Much as I love the space alongside the sea, I have to admit that the concrete benches and sea walls are all stained by dirt. It can be a struggle to find a place to sit where you won’t be surrounded by the waste of the day before. Meat, fish, rice, bread, paper/card/polystyrene packaging. Although there are bins and there are regularly blue overalled cleaners doing their best to tidy away, the Corniche is a sea of chicken bones on most days. The sea is not the clear blue, dream like sea that you would want, you can see that it is often filled with bloated flat breads and rice portions that the locals have decided not to eat. Algae covers the more sheltered corners in hotter months. At times it can be a little grim.

The fisherman that annoyed me is far from alone.

And it is what it is. With western sensibilities safely disguised as a hibernating TV tortoise, I have been able to accept it and make the most of it. And I have. Dirt included, dirt excluded, The Corniche has become my stalwart escape from the bustling city. It still represents freedom. With its relative clean air, its green lawns, shrubs and trees, its wide seascapes and a view of the bridge to Bahrain.

Thinking back, when I first saw Flamingo I noted on Facebook that I had not expected them in a waste filled lagoon next to a building site and a supermarket. Even I if I found rose tinted (fuchsia pink - flamingo tint) glasses in my early days in Saudi, I fear I may be losing them as my departure draws closer.

Time to come home?

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