Of Drakes & Kings

There was a park behind the house I grew up in. It was an area of open land, split into three fields. Closest to my home, there was a field that two local schools shared as a sports ground. Cricket pitches, football pitches and a 400 meter running track overlapped and competed for space. The second field had more footie pitches, landscaped borders and a kids’ play area. The third was an open field that was waterlogged by a stream most of the time. It wasn’t impressive but was a fair, adventure playground for a kid growing up in the suburbs.

The park was accessed by three or four formal entrances from local streets but the local kids had decided to cut through the chain link fences that lined service alleyways along three sides. As a kid, I always took the informal, vandalised short cuts. It’s just what you did.

But what got me thinking about Drake Park and my childhood?

Let me explain.

It started at a desk in Khobar.

Mel dropped a pair of tourist brochures on my desk. He says he found them while not working at a local shopping mall. One featured iconic and historic buildings in the Eastern Province, the other was a vivid green, highlighting all kinds of places that you can visit to explore the great outdoors. I chuckled. I’d been through this before. Look back in my past entries and you’ll find my dismay at finding a fenced off castle and yet to be built museum being advertised. I flick through the brochures and – sure enough – both places are still there, encouraging others to be disappointed.

Flicking through the list of “sights”, I ignore the obvious disappointments; the archaeological remains that are listed as being vaguely close to an ill defined main road in South Dhahran and a natural hot water spring that is clearly housed in a building surrounded by barbed wire. But I am drawn to a sight/site that I had read about in other sources. King Fahd Park in Dammam.

Before I set foot on a plane to Saudi, I’d researched things to do in the area. In part to allay the fears of my mother who was convinced that “there would be nothing to do” and partly my own identical fears.

Google it. King Fahd Park is there in full glory. Much of it is just like the green tourist pamphlet dropped on my desk. Cafes, green space, lakes, cafes, a theme park, cafes and coffee shops.

I’d been meaning to go for over a year but never got around to it until last Saturday.

And the curse of Saudi Tourism strikes again.

You see, King Fahd Park is being redeveloped. Much of the once beautifully landscaped grounds around the edges have been ripped up by diggers ready to build new 21^st Century facilities like Paintball Centres and football pitches. A drive around a wasteland and a quick chat with a gate keeper in a ramshackle entrance to the deserted Cobra Theme Park – where rollercoasters sit idle and rust – we established that there is only one entrance remaining open to the public, way back in the direction that we had already come. Retracing our steps, we found a massive car park alongside a 500 meter square children’s play area that is protected by a wire fence that blocks it off from the apparently, once beautifully landscaped park.

Which is how I got to thinking about Drake Park in Rayners Lane.

Back in my teenage years, I would sometimes while away the evenings watching joy riders racing and trashing their hot-wired cars around Drake Park from my bedroom window. Naming no names, I recall discovering one of my class mates had almost flipped a car when he misjudged where a concrete platform for tennis courts used to be in the dark. I’d watched it live. It was the talk of the school for a few days. The occupants boasting of their near death experience and of the excellent driving skills averting disaster. All I recalled watching was a car getting stuck in a rut and the occupants bailing out, trying yet failing to push the car back onto smoother ground before running away.  Another time I watched the same kid, again, abandon his stolen car after forgetting how physics works when you plough a large, heavy item at speed into a static post buried deep in the ground. The second incident I found strange because Roger Christopher (damn!) always seemed quite good at the science subjects at school.

Anyway, before I saw the chain link fence separating the kid’s area from the former park, I was already thinking about Drake Park based of the number of apparently abandoned cars parked at jaunty angles with their doors left wide open in the car park and on the access road. It seems that this, too is a place for the end of a joy ride.

Saudi Tourism really excels. Perhaps they misinterpreted UK news footage of kids joy riding in Cowley, Oxford in the 1990’s as a travel guide.

But, like Drake Park, King Fahd Park has the same myriad of informal entry points. Within minutes of my arrival, I had found a hole in the fence and started to explore the old park.

You may recall my visit to the old castle on Tarout Island that I wrote about last year. It seems that Saudi isn’t big on visitor centres and entry gates when a simple vandalised chain link fence will do. And who am I to argue. Informal works. It discourages the civic minded and makes the place more interesting to me.

Camera in hand I started to explore.

And I liked what I found.

The lakes have drained and are now shallow remnants of what they clearly once were. Brown water with stubborn plants cracking the concrete retaining walls and floors. Street lights, smashed and dirty. Old benches rotting from concrete cancer, exposing their rusty steel frames. Once manicured lawns yellowing with age and reverting to desert as the winds do their erosive best or worst. Picnic tables – empty - stretch away in all directions, many having had their shades removed, I assume to keep them safe(r). The entrance gate houses now stand empty with smashed windows. The gates are wired shut. The many, many coffee shops now stand idle with faded Coca-Cola signs atop and the windows shuttered with wire; inside their shelves lie barren save pigeon shit and the fuse boxes are ripped open.

The only place that still seemed to be maintained was the mosque at the centre of the park. It was the sole building that continued to look cared for – albeit that it was closed – and up to standard, surrounded by colourful plants and shrubs.

Thirty minutes into my exploration, I realised that I was finding it heavenly.

No surprise. I am a sucker for that type of stuff. I’m a loner and love large spaces where I can get away from everyone, the sounds of the outside and leave the civilised world are far away. Many of my adventures and trips, if you were to see them in isolation at the start of a horror movie would cry out either:

“OK. This is the bloke who will be first to cop it”

Or: 

“OK. He’s gonna find the dismembered body and become possessed by its evil spirit”. 

I like it that way and – to date – I have neither “copped it” nor (aside for a flamingo, a small deer and a cat) ever stumbled over a dead body.

But in King Fahd, I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t the only visitor on the wrong side of the fence.

A few hardy souls were there before me. A family had chosen a decaying slide to play on rather than the well maintained equipment in the “official” site down the hill. A couple of older guys chilled out on a beaten up a concrete bench in the shade of an over grown and badly manicured tree. And we all, politely, ignored each other. It was as if we all knew we shouldn’t be there and were all worried that we’d have to kick each other out.

The park, with its shabby abandonment, reminded me of my all too brief visit to Pripyat near Chenobyl (a whole different story for another time) ten years ago. Ghost like, sure, but with a character and a charm all to itself. Far from the character that the municipal authorities envisaged of a large happy go lucky, clean living, family friendly open space full of happy go lucky, clean living families; but a character all the same. It was a little like walking into a time capsule. It felt as if all the park’s inhabitants had left with the intention of returning a short period later. It is just that they never have and each passing day, week, month and year make the amount of polish and elbow grease required to make it shine again increase exponentially.

But the park still feels lived in, wanted, needed and desired. The hole in the fence shows that people still crave the space. Recent tin cans and gaudy coloured footballs discarded in the lakes show that despite attempts to exclude, people – like me – are still visiting. And that is good. It makes me happy.

Khobar and Dammam both possess beautiful formal parks along their sea fronts, but they are just narrow strips of land that encourage people to stroll back and forth in straight lines. Neither city has enough space where you can wander and become momentarily lost. King Fahd Park still holds a bit of that.

Fenced off or not, King Fahd Park has become one of my favourite places in Saudi Arabia.

A Gatehouse and a Roller Coaster

The Tourist Leaflet

Official Entertainment

Abandoned Car

Once There Was Light

Drained

Coca-Cola

Hardy Souls In a Wilderness

Landscape

Rubbish

Seats

Towers

A Drained Pool & The Mosque

Informal Entrance

I spoke with colleagues and friends about the park. No-one seemed to know anything about it. Where it is? How big it is? What you can do there? 

While it may not be Brigadoon, it is certainly an enigma.

I have no idea how long it has lain in decay. With hindsight, I guess I first read about it on my favoured bird watching website. Looking again, although it is listed, I can find few references in the site to suggest that its contributors visit on a regular basis or have visited recently. I am guessing that the park has been closed for years.

And I am left astonished at how wrong Saudi Tourism seems to get it. How can you promote and push somewhere that is so clearly out of bounds?

I’m sure that something will rise in the parks place. It will have a second shot at being a public place that people want to go to. The hoardings around the edges promise all sorts of family based entertainment. Football pitches and a gym have already been opened. Shiny and new. With heart and hope. In time, I expect that the cash will be found to revisit the gardens and to clean the lakes, tidy the trees and grass and replace the dying concrete. And King Fahd’s Park will rise again. But not for a while…

But before that. Before I get on a plane bound to Europe for the last time, I think I may go back and find a shaded bench one more time to watch the world go by for a little while. But when I am there, as with most of my strolls into isolated places, I will be hoping that I don't stumble over Roger Christopher’s dismembered body in an abandoned car.

A Short Walk to Nowhere

There is small, open gate in the fence along the road from Dammam Airport to Al Qatif. You leave the car there, next to a mobile telephone mast.

You are below sea level at this point. It’s marginal, but you are just below. It is a natural basin at the edge of the desert. Which explains why water gathers there in a lagoon. A lagoon surrounded by reed beds that, undisturbed, grow in excess of nine feet tall.

It is barely past dawn and the start of a short walk to nowhere.

Soon after I arrived in Saudi, a friend posted a comment about a picture I posted of the Dammam Riyadh highway suggesting that it lacked the romance of Lawrence of Arabia. He was right. It did and where I live, it does. The mental image of the desert is of vast rolling peaks and valleys of golden sand. Of light and shadow. These exist. There are thousands of square miles of them. Vivid reds and yellows, stretching toward and beyond the horizon toward forever. Most are to the south of Arabia in the Empty Quarter. The south of Saudi and the edges of UAE, Oman and Yemen. But out in the Eastern Province, it isn’t really so. Its pancake flat and a dull yellow brown. Worse still, it is regularly littered with building rubble, scrap metal, food waste and plastic bags. One day, I swear, I will find a faded Sellanby bag from South Harrow which I will save and keep. Treasure.

Sellanby was a 2nd hand record store in Harrow.
It's plastic bags were legendarily strong and long lasting. When it closed, 1,000+ students had to swallow their pride and buy proper bags to carry there stuff. It was a sad day. 

Despite the above, I still hold a romantic notion that the desert will offer me drama; offer me the long shadows of dunes at dusk and dawn. Failing that, it’ll offer me the unexpected. Which is what led to me heading out close to Dammam airport for a walk on an early morning in early July. I’d read about a place on a great Saudi Birdwatching site called, unsurprisingly, “Birds of Saudi Arabia”. Out of the way, remote and isolated. Heaven.

Birds of Saudi Arabia Website - see note below

It starts in low drifts of sand with grasses and roots holding it together. Occasional exposed stretches of sand show tell-tale signs of lizards. Twists in the sand showing the twists of their bodies and tails. Fragile and small paw prints – hand prints – showing the direction of travel.

The paw prints bring relief. You would rather be walking in knee deep grass risking a casual encounter with a lizard than a snake. I’ve left my antivenom at home. Come to think about it, I don’t have any antivenom.

Francis, my ever intrepid if vaguely unwilling companion, stops to draw my attention to the tracks. We argue for a while about whether they are snake or lizard tracks. I think that he is trying to convince me that they are snakes, so that I will relent, give up and go home back to bed. He is clearly knackered and his heart isn’t in it. But I remain steadfast and bullish.

Walk on.

After five minutes you are up close to the reeds; a formidable, verdant barrier in a barren waste. Tall, lush and thick. You cannot see through the barrier but can tell that the lagoon is behind them, but only because of the myriad, non-plussed alarm calls of one hundred invisible birds rising around you.

Heading north you look and fail to find a gap in the reeds bar one that is waterlogged and unpassable to idiots with unsuitable footwear. Sure, Peter O’Toole would flounce off through the gap, carrying his supplies and camels on his shoulders.

But I am not Peter O’Toole. I am an idiot.

Walk on.

4x4 tracks skirt the edge. The sand is flattened down to concrete. You follow, as it is easy on the feet, and begin to disturb Egyptian Nightjar. One. Two. Four. Sixteen. The numbers are close to becoming exponential. They are sitting, invisible at the side of the track until they rise in silence on long wings that betray their relative small size and silently glide to safety. They start ten meters away from you. They are happy when they reach twenty five, where they settle down again and, static, blend back into the dusty grey brown soil and heat haze. In time you grow use to them and you start to pick their shapes out and focus on their wide, watching eyes. Watching them, watching you. You walk, guessing how many steps it will be before they are again spooked into rising above you to twist and turn their way to safety.

The car tracks break away from the reed beds.

Stretching to the horizon, two tyre width strips lead the way. You follow and become increasingly aware of the damp presence of water. The soil surface is dried and caked. Salt crystals have formed at the surface. The top soil cracks and crunches under foot exposing a dark brown undersoil that is sponge like. Where you pick the wrong place, the top soil sinks to an ankle depth. If you stand still, you seem to sink further. If you hurry through, you trip yourself up. It is abundantly clear that you you’re walking on a dried lake bed that appears to have no boundary or border.

So you choose the car tracks. Progress improves as you follow the crushed soil lines. You walk, single file in near pigeon steps onward toward the horizon where you see sand dunes, proper sand dunes waiting. Light and shadow. White and gold.

You walk for fifteen minutes in a straight line and reach the first of the dunes. Unimpressive. You feel cheated at dunes that would look half-hearted in parts of north Norfolk. Even in a low breeze you can see the shifting sands but the presence of thick grasses testify that this is not the dynamic moving dunes of your dreams. But that is where you stop.

The low horizon has already caught you out. What you thought were the start of a range of dunes is merely a low hedge like barrier to another endless and barren salt crusted plain. It seems to stretch for miles, again with the faint promise of sand dunes on the far side. This time, there are no car tracks to aid your trekking.

You are forced into a choice. Onward or bust.

Way behind you, Francis is walking in the opposite direction. Toward his car where he has shade from the fast rising sun, air con, Saudi Aramco Studio 1’s classic rock on the radio and a place to sleep.

Decisions have been made. 

Lawrence of Arabia will have to wait for another day.

Notes

As a rule, when travelling, I tend to look for local ornithology sites. Yes, I am interested in bird life, but generally the sites are great starting points to identify areas to get out and about exploring, often off the beaten track. The Birds of Saudi Arabia website offers not only great tips on locations to watch birds but also posts some great photos that capture nature/natural life in the region. I'd recommend a look.

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:

Lucky Pants and Handbags

Football is a ridiculous game.

Twenty two men chasing a bag of air and trying to kick it into an onion net.

Football is illogical.

The sport generates a nonsensical money for a very small minority while being simultaneously fawned and obsessed over by a herd of vulnerable and gullible fools who spend way too much time investing emotion into it. It creates it’s own irrational superstitions in people. Players and fans alike fall into routines, habits and practices that can take on a life of their own. Obsessive, compulsive and beautiful. What to wear? What not to wear? Quasi-religious devotions and statements of blind faith. It drives people, it owns people. It can define people and become a way of life.

Football is wonderful.

I gave up a season ticket at Brentford FC to take up my opportunity in Saudi Arabia.

It was a big decision for me; giving up my season ticket… 

… 

And moving to Saudi Arabia. 

Brentford had just reached the second tier of the football league structure in the UK for the first time in 21 years. They did it by playing positive, attacking and attractive football. My previous employer had agreed to weight my shift pattern against home fixtures so that I could attend matches. I was looking forward to the 14/15 season. But I managed to gain sight of a bigger picture and took the plunge. A full refund was obtained and a replacement air ticket to Dammam acquired.

But, I still managed to take in a couple of games before I left. I witnessed a draw against a strong looking Charlton on the opening day of the season and I witnessed my beloved’s exit from the League Cup against F*lham. And it was that F*lham game that I was reminded of last Friday evening when I attended my first football match in Saudi Arabia. The evenings had much in common in football terms and a series of apparently unlikely circumstances or coincidences.

Let me explain.

The story starts on a cool August evening where a wind squalled and it felt as if the heavens were about to open at any time. I met with Hel at Ealing Broadway station and travelled to the cathedral of football that is Griffin Park, Brentford.

Hopes were high. There was a real buzz about the club and a local derby in the cup just turned it up a notch. It was Brentford’s first meeting with F*lham for something like fourteen years. Our league form was good, there’s was appalling. They had been relegated, we had achieved the opposite. “Bee’s up, F*lham down” had been a staple terrace chant for months. We were at home. We have always been and always will be a better team. Good times!

On a personal level I really thought that we would win that night. I felt it in my heart. I’d followed my little pre-match routines. No colours (I’ve never seen Brentford win while wearing one of their shirts), The Clash’s London Calling was played en route and I said a quiet prayer to the playing spirit of Bob Booker. Nothing could go wrong.

But something was amiss. I could sense it immediately when I arrived. The vibe on the Ealing Road terrace wasn’t as good as I had imagined or as it should be. As if something in our mutual, shared, superstitious hearts knew that it was all about to go wrong. We were jumpy when we should have been jumping.

Neither team were good that night. We played at F*lham’s level. Inevitably, we conceded a goal and couldn’t pull back. Knocked out the cup by a near neighbour and fierce rival. A truly horrible way to say goodbye to my beloved. And it bothered me. My thoughts have drifted back to the evening on many occasion and I have endlessly tried to figure out what went wrong.

Then, a couple of nights ago, I lay awake in my Khobar bed and everything began to fall into place and I worked out what had happened.

It was about superstition. Something happened at Griffin Park that night that meant that lady luck favoured F*lham not the righteous “Bees”.

In a sleepless stupor, I seemed to recall strange glances, nervous half glances toward the section of the stand where Hel and I were standing. I recalled Harlee Dean, Stuart Dallas and Jake Bidwell all seemed to involuntarily glance up, nervously, into the corner where we stood. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and trawled the net for videos of the game. I watched the decisive goal over and over. And, then... again, I saw it. David Button’s eyes flitted toward the Ealing Road stand as the shot was taken. He looked confused, preoccupied and nervous.

But why? What would cause such nervousness and involuntary concern?

Well. I think I have pieced it together. And the truth is shocking…

Hel is a “Gooner”. But only as the result of a bet. It’s her story to tell and I can’t recall all the details but I know that she either won or lost a bet leading her to support Arsenal. All I know is that the alternative was not her local club – Leyton Orient – but West Ham United. In truth, if I had the energy or inclination, I would be able to build a stronger case to be a “Gooner” than a “Hammers” fan, so whether she won or lost is irrelevant, she walked away supporting a better side. That said, I can’t help but feel that it was just a bet over two “shitty” sticks.

Despite her North London affiliation, Hel agreed to come along to keep me company. I was happy. I like Hel. She’d been before and we had beaten AFC Wimbledon. She bought no negative superstitious baggage to the game.

But, that night, I recalled that Hel had come along with a two tone, black and white handbag. I liked the bag. I honestly did. It looked good. Hel has a sense of style. Hel has taste. But the bag depicted the colours of F*lham football club. That night, Hel bought actual, physical baggage to the game and I think this is the reason Brentford lost.

It is why the atmosphere was a bit down. It is why Brentford never really got into their stride. The players could sense it. A shadow like presence on Ealing Road which explains the player's nervous, involuntary glances into the stand. It’s what prevented David Button from making a routine save.

Hel’s handbag cost Brentford the match.

Now, I’m not blaming Hel. That would be totally unfair. But every rational person will have to admit that the handbag belonged to her, so - unfortunately - there must be a bit of guilt by association.

But why was I thinking about it last week?

Last Friday, I chose the local Dammam derby as my first Saudi Arabian football match. Al Nahda vs Ettifaq FC. 

Dammam is just up the road from Khobar. Maybe a twenty minute drive. Both teams are in the second tier of the Saudi league system – like Brentford are in England. At the time of the game, Al Nahda were top and Ettifaq were second in the league. Real grudge match territory. Just like Brentford v F*lham, Arsenal v Tottenham, Real Madrid v Barcelona or Harrow Borough v Wealdstone.

I asked an Arab work colleague what football was like and told him about the match. We spoke a few times. I even invited him along. A is a Real Madrid fan. Both times, A would keep saying is;

“Ettifaq. I know them, I know them. <smoker’s chuckle> They play Dammam.”

“Yes. Yes. Big stadium. Good stadium.”

“Yes. Many, many tickets… Too many tickets.”

“But, <adopts serious voice and leans in toward me> Saudi not good football, you know.”

“Not like Chelsea, Manchester United you know.”

“These team. Not top league. Second. <tone becomes dismissive>Very, very bad.”

“You must not go. You have good football on TV, no?”

Little did A know that this was just the confirmation that I needed to tip me over the edge? After his pep talk, it was confirmed. 100% certain. I had to go!

My boss and friend “K” agreed to join me and we set off with slightly differing levels of excitement. K is not a football fan preferring Union as a sport. At one point he requested – instructed, perhaps even pleaded – for me to kick him when he fell asleep and kick even harder if he snored. We both accepted that the quality may not inspire and we harboured fears that we would be alone in a vast football stadium.

We were not to know. There would be no opportunity to sleep.

I chose to support the away team – Ettifaq. Not that they were really the away team as they share the stadium with Al Nahda, but it was a principle. By the power of Google, I had established that although second, they were the “bigger” of the two clubs and most importantly, I liked their kit.

By the Power of Google!

The experience was far different to a UK game. Outside, the stadium map was dominated by a “mosque”. I know that I have had some near religious experiences at Griffin Park but I am rational enough to know that it is hope rather than faith that I rely on when we are a goal down with a minute to go… or a goal up with a minute to go! We were warmed up by images on the score boards from the two holy mosques. Half time was prayer time, so - obviously - the call to prayer was played over the PA. Seriously, I was seeing more religion at football than I had seen since I was at Ibrox or when Walton & Hersham visited Vale Farm in Wembley. But this was actual, real religion rather than a blind bigotry dressed up "religion's" clothing.

Devotion at Prince Mohammed bin Fahd Stadium, Dammam

We were checked twice on the way into the ground by police officers. We had to empty our pockets in front of childlike officers… the second displaying the type of train track braces on his teeth that go out of style in the UK at the age of twelve. We were warmly welcomed by some local fans who thrust free water bottles into our hands. Through broken English it was apparent that they were impressed that Europeans were coming to the game.

A big difference between this experience and other games and stadiums I have visited was that it was free entry. FREE! For what was, arguably, the biggest game of the season to date. But no-one appeared to be able to explain why. I am guessing that it relates to pride. Much of what I have seen in Saudi Arabia does. Last season, Ettifaq were relegated from the top tier of the game, I am guessing that they are encouraging as many supporters as possible into the ground to spur them on to achieve an immediate return to the top flight.

A Car Park Next to a Football Stadium

The ground was only a third full. Ten minutes prior to kick off it had fewer than 500 people present. Myself and K thought it could be a long soulless evening. A bit like winning a ticket to watch QPR. But the club were not content to let it be dull. Huge banners and flags were draped over the seating forcing the (fool) hardy fans who did attend to be packed together. The flags were on both sides of the ground, green red and white at our end and sky blue and navy at the opposite end. The club crest and team names dominated. There were no sponsor’s advertising spoiling the effect. Unity was further enhanced by a small group of fans using megaphones to drive chants and songs with the backup of drums and some kind of traditional reed, wind instrument.

From the moment the teams took to the field, the noise was deafening. The terraces rocked as the crowd drifted from chant to chant cajoled and encouraged by a small group of “faces” who stalked the stand driving everyone to join in. It was impossible not to. Before long, both K and I were wrapped up in the experience. I have no idea what the songs and chants were about but, silently imagined they were about F*lham and QPR losing. Everything remained good humoured. The atmosphere was inclusive and inspiring. This was the first place where I saw Arabs “letting their hair down”. Dressing in coloured thobes (green and red stripes), replica kits, flags, scarves, singing, dancing embracing friendship from others. The country feels so restrained and conservative at times, it was incredible and beautiful to witness the fans in full song and acting so similarly to their English counterparts. It made the World feel a bit smaller.

But, of course, even if Hel had wanted to and had made the long journey to Dammam to join me that night, she wouldn’t have been allowed into the ground. Not because Ettifaq would fear her losing the game for them by an accidental accessory faux pas but because women are not allowed to attend football matches.

Check out the attached:

Female Football Fan Causes Outrage

All the time, the Directors box on the other side of the ground was bathed in a gold light. Dressed in white thobes and red/white checked gutra. The power and influence was obvious. Football in Saudia Arabia is a rich man’s hobby. The ground was segregated in such a way to make it obvious. None of the crowd could miss having a direct view of the owners. Given that it was free, it was almost as if we were there for them to have a “real match atmosphere” as it was for us to enjoy.

Although there were advertising hoardings around the pitch, they were visible only for the TV cameras. None faced the crowd. Neither of the teams wore sponsorship. It was very different to the English and European games where sponsorship of the smallest thing is driven and encouraged. Shirts, players, players shirts… players boot laces FFS are sold to companies and individuals to encourage involvement and deliver revenue. I’m not saying it is wrong and I understand that most football in the UK would cease to exist without it, but it really is not something that I like about the game. It felt refreshing to watch a football match where I did not feel as if I was consumer fodder at every turn.

And all the time the crowd entertained and enthralled. Which is more than can be said for the football. My colleague, A, was right. The quality is far from the best.

Neither team impressed. The game seemed dominated by players trying to exhibit their personal skills rather than deliver a team performance. For every deft touch of the ball, attacks were easily countered and the two teams quickly fell into a cold, bleak stalemate. The only footballing highlights were the referee taking a ball to the gonads on the half hour resulting in a few minutes delay and a penalty scored by Ettifaq. 

GOOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL! A GOAL!!

Although happy, the goal only encouraged a slightly increased noise from the fans. The fans seemed happy just to party. A goal was just a bonus. Both teams played the type of game that gives the sport a bad name. All players were faking foul and injury. I swear that one Al Nahda player covered more distance rolling around the pitch in apparent “agony” after one innocuous challenge than he did playing through the rest of the bloody game…

Another player needs a lie down so orders a taxi.

Check Out the Directors Box

So I continued to find my solace and inspiration in the crowd.

K and I stood out. We were the only outsiders, the only white faces and the only Europeans at the match. We were welcomed with good humour and open arms. I’ve already said that we were greeted at the gates but the warmth continued inside the ground. Football has this ability to break language barriers. I’ve found it the World around. From conversations in Milan taxis, Ukrainian bars and more recently in the aisles of – the love of my life – LuLu in Al Khobar, a football shirt, scarf or badge allows a mutual context to drop your sparse language skills into. In Saudi Arabia, especially over on the eastern coast, it is even easier. The presence of so much American money and past British colonialism close to the region means that most people have a better grip on English. Certainly better than my appalling Arabic. Into the second half K and I ended up chatting to a man close to us who had worked and lived in Leicester. We spoke Chelsea and Manchester United. He had not heard of Brentford. Many fans wanted to pose with us for photos. We duly obliged. We were rewarded with free scarves…

Oh Dear...

K and I agreed that the atmosphere and the spirit of the crowd made it both one of the best but most surreal nights that we have witnessed in the Middle East or beyond. One of those nights that will live on and on in the memory.

But back to the game and back to my memory of Hel’s handbag costing Brentford a League Cup match.

Soon into the second half, I confided in K that I thought that Ettifaq, having taken the lead were doing enough that the only way that they would lose is if they gave the game away.

And they promptly did. A soft penalty and a lack of concentration in the 90^th minute resulted in them losing 2-1 heading deep into the forth minute of injury time… And – as would be the case the World round – the fans started to turn and show frustration and impatience for the first time. The game appeared sown up for Ettifaq but two stupid, unnecessary errors had cost them. It was then that the actual game took precedence. For the final five minutes, Ettifaq threw caution to the wind and really pushed the game. The final kick of the game was a thirty yard pile driver shot that would have hit the net had a butterfly in Thailand or possibly a moth at the stadium, compelled to take flight toward the stark, bright floodlights brushed its wings, creating a reaction of energy that caused the ball to change path mid-air and hit the inside of the post.

Ettifaq had lost. K and I made the twenty minute journey back to Khobar.

Later that evening, as I undressed for bed I realised that I was wearing pants in the colours of Al Nahda’s kit.

Near naked and with a hollow heart, I realised that Ettifaq FCs loss had been inevitable. Worse still, football superstition dictates that it was my fault. All my fault!

A final note…

For the record and before I start getting blunt emails and become the unlucky and deserved recipient of her legendary “I’m not happy eyebrow/frown/pout combo”, if Brentford lost the game as a direct result of Hel bringing her black and white handbag to the game, I forgive her.

I forgive Hel entirely and completely. 

I forgive Hel because I have no doubt that it was unintentional. Hel was unknowing, she didn’t set out to scupper Brentford’s chances in the League Cup. She’s not like that. I know her well. I forgive her because, one day, I want Hel to join me at Brentford’s new Community Stadium to watch a game… maybe one where we beat Tottenham Hotspur, so that she can feel properly involved and really enjoy it.

And I forgive because, I am a forgiving type of guy.

But, mostly, I forgive her because Brentford need to concentrate on their league form this season. After all, it was only a crappy cup competition, anyway.