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

Engage

Upon my return to the Kingdom, a degree of reintegration was required. A degree of relearning.

Of re-engaging.

Routines and patterns were soon re-established. I’m paid to be here. You do what you do. Get up, go to work, make time for the gym, shop, cook and eat. Easy.

Life.

But something was missing. Something wasn't feeling right.

Not living.

On a Wednesday evening, I realised what it was. I’d stopped exploring. I’d stopped learning about the town that I was living in. I was falling into a rut. It had been so, since earlier in the year. One of the key reasons to make the step over to this part of the World was to see something different, somewhere alien to me. To be excited by it. To learn.

Thankfully, the realisation didn't occur while lying bored, tired, lazy and depressed on my sofa but while strolling into town to go shopping. I’d forgotten how the town changes after dark.

The crowds. The noise. The bustle. The light. The colour.

It’s a different World. People come out to play. The souks, shopping centres and side markets are full. People peruse the lines of shirts that stretch for blocks in the open air. 90% polyester, they crackle and crack as they are pushed, pulled and pawed. Illegal stalls hawk wares from carpets and cloths set out on the roadside. The restaurants – so many restaurants – fill and fight for custom. Traffic fills the street. Mostly static, the sound of horns fills the air and it takes a degree of bravery and/blind stupidity to weave across the roads.

And this is multiplied by ten on a Friday.

And I love it.

As usual, no photos can really do it justice. But I do try…

Coffee

There is a café on The Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road. The night I caught it, there was no-one there. On a night when football is showing, they set up a giant screen in the street behind and lay out plastic patio furniture. It’s never mobbed but always busy. A sea of faces staring at a TV screen that is invisible from the main street.

Bathing in Blue

I stumbled over this residential building bathed in blue light. It called from afar, partially covered and concealed by trees further down the road. As I got close, I realised that it is just a standard block of apartments and that the blue light has nothing to do with it. A hotel/apartment block opposite has blue neon advertising on its roof. The basking blue light on the residential block is just light pollution. All the shutters were closed shut. I’m not surprised. I used to live on Hounslow High Street one Christmas. We had no curtains. The multi-purpose Diwali and Christmas lights were a menace for three months.

Neon Wonderland.
For Sale. Anything. Everything!

Old Concrete

Street lighting is far from ideal. The streets are quite dark. Much of the glow comes from the heavy handed signage carried by many retailers and from lights from private residential blocks. It works. It looks good.

Watch & Light

There is an obsession with watches.

The Souks are full of watch shops and stalls who are always keen to talk to me. I’d suggest that they notice that I never have a watch on my bare arms and see me as a likely customer, but I am a realist. They see me as an American or European with more money than sense, so want me to share.

I’ve worn a watch once since 2006. I was told to in the Spring of 2007. I’d been late for a couple of meetings at work and it was noted that I didn’t have a watch.

I listened to the advice but it stopped. It was a sign. I was vindicated. I never intend to wear a watch again.

Red Light Spells Danger.
Money will be spent here!

The reason I was out on a Wednesday night.

Some people will recall that I have an obsession with stationery items. It’s as if, somewhere deep inside my psyche, there is a teenage girl trapped. Her voice can only be heard in Paperchase or Staples or Rymans.

Jarir Bookstore is just as dangerous.

I may go there to buy computer supplies and stuff, but I will always leave with a new pen… and some colourful post it notes… or something. Anything!

So I have tried to get out and explore, more. Retracing my steps of the evening in daylight on a deathly quiet Friday morning as the population geared up for midday prayers.

American School Buses.
When they are past their "use by" date in the US they are shipped off around the World.
Khobar is full of them. Owned and used to transport labour from accommodation blocks to workplaces.
On a Friday, they rest.

Prince Faisal Bin Fahd Road
From old to new.

Prince Faisal Too...
A view from a colleagues office looking back down toward the old Pepsi Cola factory, The Meridian Hotel and sea beyond.

Flowers and traffic on Prince Turki Street

The road names mean little to me. I know them because they are listed on Google Maps. No-one appears to navigate by road names. Everything is decided by their closeness to landmarks; the older the better. Most people know “Silver Tower”. If they don’t, I drop back to the “Old Pepsi Cola Factory”. It’ll get me on the right road…

Pepsi Cola were one of the first American giants to invest and fund development in the town.
This is the remnants of the advertising on their old factory.
It remains a landmark.

The local Tamimi Market store has a series of old photographs of the town taken over the past thirty or forty years showing Khobar’s humble beginnings as a small fishing town, the addition of King Fahd University (Petroleum & Chemicals) and expansion as a thriving city. I live on the edge of the old town. Few buildings are above four storeys. They are a uniform sandy grey. Most show signs of wear and tear. Steel, breeze block and concrete construction shows its age quite quickly. You can see the original districts, of residential, shopping and industry. As a geographer, the town planning is obvious once you can work out where the boundaries were. But, increasingly, the boundaries are becoming blurred as vacant blocks are turned into whatever can turn a profit.

Old Khobar is slowly being regenerated. Lost. New buildings, better utility provision. New roads, underpasses and bridges. The town feels like a near permanent building site. The old is making way for the new.

Another street dug up and cables being relaid.

Sofitel. Modern out of dust.

The rubble of a demolished building in the old town.
Scrub beginning to take hold.

Fouad Centre
All the food you can eat.

Artificial lake on the Corniche.
Landscaped gardens on the seafront.

Mosque
Gold surrounded by a dusty wasteland and cricket on Friday afternoons.

Municipal Art
Hope. Inspiration and Pride.
Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques Road

I’m liking the mix. The transition. Khobar feels lived in. Rough around the edges but with a pride and determination to move forwards. To change shape. To grow up. To become a swan.

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to Half Moon Bay. I’d been told about it since I was here back from day one. It offers a chance to take in the “seaside” in a Saudi way.

Obviously, it’s more car heavy than in the Europe. Although some provision is made for parking and for beach huts (concrete shelters where families can keep out of the sun and barbecue meat, most of the beaches are a free for all. Cars are driven to the sea front across the sand. Afterall, it’s where the desert meets the sea.

Yellow, orange, and blue. Ridge and furrow. Light and dark.
Check out the litter, though. It's everywhere.

Salt flats and dunes.
Compacted by the wheels of so many cars.

Way back, I posted some pictures of the desert taken en route to Riyadh. A friend sarcastically noted that they didn’t hold the romance of the Lawrence of Arabia images that they have of the desert. And in the most part, that is a true reflection of what I see. The desert is just that. It is deserted. It is big and bleak and lifeless. No romance. But, I get that there is something magical about the formation of dunes. Far from the biggest in the World, Half Moon Bay does – at least – allow a slightly more romantic version.

The front is loaded with temporary market stalls. Clothing. Food. Anything. Like Khobar, the place bustles. Adults relax next to their cars, wind breaks allow family privacy… Apart from the cars, it all feels familiar to me. Kids play. Pony and Camel rides. Bouncy Castles and quad bikes.

Quad and Bouncy Castles.
It was refreshing to see that girls were included in the driving games... Make the most of it while you can!

A guide supports a child on a pony. The camel carried a parent. I love the composition of this shot.
Simple but effective.

And still, I cannot believe my luck that I live by the sea. Beautiful.

Looking South

Hot Beach Action. A man named Francis contemplates the nature of life, love, happiness and sex.
Mostly, though he was contemplating the art of taxi driving.

OK. Not Half Moon Bay. This is the view toward Bahrain a few nights ago at dusk. I love the water colour textures and near invisible horizon.

England Oh England

I guess I was away for five months. 

Slightly more.

I thought that the biggest shock I would face would be the weather. I had, essentially, lived in summer from April 2014 until January 2015. Al Khobar and England are incredibly different in February. I’d watched the weather change on the weather websites with a sense of foreboding.

I didn't fancy the cold at all.

But the cold is just something that you get used to.

And it wasn’t too bad. I was expecting to be near foetal when I walked out of Terminal 4 without a coat to jump my lift back to Oxfordshire. It was dawn. It was a suitably uninspiring grey day. Damp. Dank. But not so cold. It was OK.

Somewhere on the M40. Cold. Grey. Damp. Dank. England Oh England.

I accept that the cold eventually got to me a few days later. There was a moment around 10pm one Tuesday. I walked up to Hornsey from Crouch End in the frost and ice with a shiver that was on the edge of turning into dance and teeth chattering to the point where conversation was uncontrollably retarded. This was the point where I stopped dead and demanded Lukey tell me why people accepted living in such ridiculous and uninviting cold environments. Beyond that and a moment where I had to duck into a Costa Coffee to grab a hot chocolate to thaw on the north side of Kew Bridge, the cold never really got to me.

What shocked me most was the dog shit.

It is everywhere.

I noticed it in Bloxham, where I holed up for a few days before heading back to London. Then Hornsey and Peckerwell seemed to be covered in it. Later in my trip, the area around Deptford Bridge seemed to be even worse.

You don’t get it in Al Khobar. You don’t get dogs.

Well, you do… but the dogs you see are semi-wild and they stay away from you as much as you stay away from them. Dogs are not kept as pets over here. No one walks them around town so there is no shite to clear up.

Don’t get me wrong, Al Khobar is untidy. In parts, it’s filthy. But not with excrement. Give me food waste and building materials any day. Dog shit is – well –is  just shit.

It annoyed me. Irrationally.

After a few days, I was becoming used to it. I moved on. I found other things to prickle; to aggravate.

Victoria, for instance.

I’ve never been keen on that part of town. I’d guess, because it is purely functional. It is not a destination, is it? How many times have you dreamed up a great night out in Victoria? How many times have you thought… “Oh. I fancy meeting a friend for lunch. Victoria. That sounds like an exciting Central London location to meet.”?

NB - See the little note at the bottom, where I admit to arranging to meet someone in Victoria.

Exactly!

You pass through. You move on.

But I seemed to find myself there, all too often. Dragging my luggage down Buckingham Palace Road to renew my Saudi visa; dragging my luggage up from Peckham to meet friends in the John Lewis Head Office bar (don’t get excited… it feels like a Travelodge); dragging my luggage across the station to grab a cab to St James Park; waiting for a friend at the end of platform one as a cold started to form; fighting my way into Boots to get medicine to fight said cold and; finally, battling crowds to retrieve my passport from Buckingham Palace Road, again.

I was away for close on three weeks. I swear that I spent two of them trying to find my way around Victoria’s road works.

I see that the road works will be in place until 2018. I wouldn’t have noticed, except I stopped to take a picture of two Italians in front of the hoardings in the bus station. No idea why they wanted to pose there; I had neither the language skills nor desire to know. But it did get me thinking. Perhaps they are regulars and they need something constant to measure themselves as they age. It is plausible and quite possible that, if I had wasted more time there, I would have seen families arriving from Burgess Hill, Whyteleafe and East Grinstead to measure their kid’s heights. The hoardings around the “walk way” near the bus station having been in situ so long that they have been using them over the past years to record their children’s growth spurts in the same way that the door frame to the kitchen was marked in my childhood home.

As an aside. As I was typing that, I began to wonder when all the dates and marks labelled “Alex” and “Sir” on the kitchen door frame showing our growth rates were removed. My head says that we must have redecorated while I still lived there and that they were lost many, many years before we moved out. But, my heart hopes that they were still visible when the next home owners arrived. If it was the latter, I regret not adding two final measures to record “Sir, age 19” and “Alex, age 23”.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I didn’t spend three weeks in England in a state of depression. I saved that for the days following my return to Saudi Arabia. Three weeks was long enough that it allowed me to realise just how much I miss my family and friends but short enough that it flew. It absolutely flew.

England inspired me. England is beautiful.

It was wonderful to allow myself to visit London as a tourist. All be it a really well informed and “cool” tourist, but a tourist just the same. I was blessed. Friends, intentionally or unintentionally, were able to show me things that I had never seen. Places that I had never visited or never knew. My mental maps of the city were challenged. I explored places on foot that I had never had time to find.

I took in a few places that I don’t really know. Crouch End, Camberwell and Blackheath. I got to revisit places from my past, like Upper Street, Bethnal Green Road and Hanwell. And old favourites like Barnes and Brentford and Hammersmith. I even got a few minutes in Harrow to be told all about hypertension and discuss my hopeless caffeine habit.

What sticks with me most, though, were the skylines.

Now, I can wax lyrical about the impressive nature of the Dubai skyline forever. Regardless of how I feel about Dubai generally – I’m not it’s greatest fan… I don’t like really like plastic – I cannot deny it’s sheer scale and audacity. 

Wow. Wow Squared. Not taken from an aeroplane.

A view I once caught of it from an aeroplane taking off over the sea will remain one of the most awe inspiring and remarkable sights I have ever seen. Dubai really does just appear out of a desert… Mile upon mile of nothing and, then “Bang!”, there it is, just “there”. Jagged, angular and huge. Wow. Wow squared.

But London is my home. London cannot be beaten.

You can get pulled into the classic views. Of Waterloo Bridge, Hungerford Bridge and the stunning vista’s that you can get from the South Bank. And you should. They live up to everything that has been written about them in poem, prose or song. 

I spent a wonderful Sunday afternoon with my brother and Rosie poking around between Tower and Westminster Bridges in glorious winter sunshine. Art, shopping, life, living and a really expensive gin cocktail to die for. I will level with you. I’ve visited a fair few cities that have captured my imagination, heart or soul but that part of London on its day – Southwark… pronounced “Suth-uck”… - is damned hard to beat.

Picture Postcard London

Gull

Gin with a homemade lime cordial that made you squint.
All infused with hops for extra "floweryness".
Heavenly.

But what I really loved to find again, were the views that creep up on you. The ones that are not expected. The view from the railway viaduct between Kilburn and West Hampstead on the Metropolitan line or the view of the planes heading into Heathrow you get on Barnes Bridge station. They are the views I crave and that I love. The ones that are known by the locals and are missed from the guide books. Those are the ones that I miss. And, by venturing into parts of town that I don’t really know, I got to see some more.

There are too many to single out, so I will note the luck I had with my accommodation.

Jodie’s flat up in Hornsey that allowed me to look out over the old church at Hornsey and Alexandra Palace rising up above.

Toe’s spare room that allowed a view of the city and – if you know what to look for – the top of Tower Bridge. All from Peckham/Camberwell borders.

My brother’s spare room overlooking London Bridge’s railway tracks with the awful Walkie Talkie and Cheese Grater over the river.

And Alex’s living room over Deptford Creek and DLR with a vista right across the city, Elephant & Castle, Stockwell and - if you pay close attention - the beautiful BT Tower.

Over Deptford Creek

Back in Al Khobar, I am left with memories that are gold, or oil or whatever commodity hasn’t had the arse fall out of its value yet. I was born in London. I have lived most of my life within its boundaries. I love and loathe the place with equal measure. It has treated me well and badly. And I know it will always be there for me. At the end of a three thousand mile plane ride, it will welcome me.

I shall be back. Quite soon. And I will fall in love with it all over again.

But first...

First, I shall be visiting Bristol.

My future home.

Note – OK. Admission time...

I do remember a really enjoyable lunch date that I had in Victoria, once. And I chose the venue. And it was in living memory, too. There is/was a really good little, independent café down on Wilton Road (?) where I waited an age for someone in a scarlet red coat and shared parsnip cake. Or courgette cake. Or something that wasn’t carrot cake. Whatever it was, it was good but it doesn’t really matter. In truth, I was only there for the company. xx

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…