Silly Season & A Murder

It’s been over a month now.

I am finding my feet and beginning to find routine.

Weekends are spent dreaming up excuses to leave the Kingdom to visit Bahrain and/or making the most of the sunshine and topping up my tan and vitamin D.

Last weekend, I joined a couple of colleagues from Riyadh who wanted to visit Bahrain. To be honest, I seem to be heading to Bahrain nearly every week. Whether to run an errand, collect a colleague from the airport or just because I bloody well can.

Friday was no different. A colleague had been out in Riyadh for four weeks and - like a proper Englishman - needed a proper breakfast. So we ended up in an American/Irish bar getting confused by the Thai staff who were dressed up to  celebrate St Patrick’s Day. It turns out that St Patricks Day is celebrated each month on the Saturday closest to the 17^th of the month. Given that this appears to be the Companies preferred Bahrain breakfast, (and lunch and dinner and drinking) venue I have a suspicion that this is something that I will be getting used to.

Looking back, this marks the first moment in the week where I began to feel as if all is not well with the World. As if everything is conspiring to confuse me.

The second time this happened was being directed to an article in The Independent newspaper by my Twitter feed that reviewed a single that has been released by Mike Read to promote and raise funds for UKIP back home.

The review noted the horrific nursery rhyme simplicity, stretched truths and an apparent fake Caribbean accent that has had a few people raising an eye brow and questioning whether it constituted racism.

As context, when I read it, I had just read a pretty obviously fake but quite thorough story about Banksy being arrested in Watford.

Was I missing something? Had I missed a decision to celebrate “April Fools day” twice a year?

I mean, breaking the article down, it all seemed like something to lift our satirical spirits after surviving March. A few of the appallingly bad lyrics were quoted. They seemed rushed and crass enough that I could imagine that they resulted from an editor giving an intern 30 seconds to write a brief side bar, with the then said sad soul composing it during a hasty coffee run and bowel evacuation. The Caribbean accent/racist discussion was just incidental to the story; just an obvious layer to pad it out. Dragging Mike Read into the scenario added credence to my logic process that this was a second wind up I had read in a five minute period. 

I mean… Mike Read? Come off it!

When I saw how they described Mike Read, I was utterly convinced that I was going to be no fool. The article described him as – amongst other things - a poet, song writer, and impresario.

This was the clincher. Absolute fake. Not falling for that. No way.

We all know that Mike Read was and is nothing but a great big cock.

He was hopelessly safe in the 1980’s where he disappointed a generation who had been getting excited by Swap Shop and Tiswas by making Saturday mornings less exciting than before. The only saving grace of Saturday Superstore were Sarah Greene’s legs. Mike Read was on the radio before you went to school. Not like John Peel who was on the radio when you were supposed to be going to sleep. Mike Read got “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood banned. Richard Skinner, Kid Jenson and Janice Long played Jesus & Mary Chain. Mike Read appeared on Saturday teatime telly where your mum and dad might see him. John Peel’s dispassion made TOTP cool. Mike Read was just the establishment muscling in on the New Wave/Post Punk/Post Ska revolution that had allowed the young and disenfranchised hope and a voice.*

 Now, given the fuss about the song, it would be easy to make a crass throwaway remark about the banana in Mike Read's hand. But I won't. He was just holding a banana when the shot was taken. Instead, I will note that, YES... that IS David Icke on the left staring into space on the look out for reptiles and a turquoise shell suit.

But, seriously, I expected better of a broadsheet than that. I honestly thought that they would have contrived something more believable and, well… I dunno… funny.

Which meant that I had a nagging doubt.

So I checked on YouTube.

I was left speechless.

    

And empty.

Void.

Then, today, I read about Brian Harvey (ex East 17) turning up at Downing Street and attempting to show his maths homework to David Cameron.

I’ve only been gone a month. Come on, people. What are you doing to my country? 

You’re all losing the plot. Wake up!

So. Back to Saudi.

It’s sunny out here, so on Saturday, I fell into my usual habits. A bit of a lie in and a stroll to explore.

The Corniche is the high spot of Al Khobar. Alongside a calm sea, it stretches for mile upon mile. Landscaped gardens allow shade to relax, listen to the waves and watch the locals. On a Friday it heaves with families but Saturdays are a little quieter. It only picks up toward dusk when the temperature begins to drop off, down to 28 or 30C. But a breeze had cooled the coast on Saturday so I ended up walking down to the deserted section of the parade down near Al Khobar harbour.

The Corniche

And this is where I witnessed and – understandably - got spooked by a murder.

A murder of crows.

Friends will know that I like birds. I do. Always have. Since I was just a kid and my mum made me join the Young Ornithologists Club (YOC). As a youth, I learned a great deal and – because I was a sponge – much of what I learned has stayed with me. I’m not a twitcher per se and I don’t generally go out to purposely look for birds nowadays, but I do take an interest and keep my eyes open. Truthfully, I had looked for and noted websites highlighting how Khobar and Dammam are pretty good sites for passing migrants. I had also noted that where I was ending up on Saturday afternoon is very close to one of the spots that they recommend for a quick twitch.

And I saw Hoopoe. Hoopoe are pretty.

Check Out Hoopoe Here!

And here...

And all was good. 

Until I disturbed a dozen or more crows.**

Crows are incredibly intelligent and they are incredibly strong fliers. As a species they regularly demonstrate reasoning and problem solving. As they did on Saturday.

It took me a few moments to comprehend what was happening. I was taking in the view, listening to the sea and generally choosing a place to sit down for a while when I noticed that the birds were using the power of the wind to climb above me, drop down toward me, matching the speed of the wind to hover.

At first, I watched in awe. I even had a chance to take a couple of snaps with my mobile phone. It was incredible, beautiful and fun. But then I realised that they were getting lower and lower and closer and closer to me. And they weren’t interested in signing release papers for me to market and publish my photographs.

They are big birds. Big, bastard birds. 

And they were clearly pissed with me being there and goading one another to take a pot shot at me. As I turned to face them they would slip off into the wind to get behind me. All the time seeming to get closer and closer.

A couple passed less than a foot above me. Swooping down. Hanging in the wind. Very deliberate. It started to get a bit Hitchcock like and for a few moments, I honestly thought that one of them would come in to make contact and inevitably draw blood.

Have you seen their wingspan? Or the size of a crow’s beak? Or their claws? Or noted how their eyes seem to constantly stare at you and weigh you up?

I have. On Saturday, all too closely.

But the thing that was most un-nerving and disorientating was that after the initial uproar when I first spooked them into flight, they fell silent. Ghostly shadows and shapes dancing and taunting me just above and behind my head, trying not to let me face them down.

Murder.

Just when I thought that it was time to run and make an inglorious and undignified retreat, it stopped. As quickly as they started, they lifted into the air and flew away.

I watched on as they moved onto a different, softer target and started dive bombing a group of Herons at the water’s edge as if to restore their pride in themselves and dominion over the other bird species.

It lasted no more than 30-40 seconds, but once I had a chance to think about what might have been, I was damn spooked.

Of course, it could have been worse. Did you know that many of the large gull species defend their territory by shitting out the entire contents of their bowels and stomachs on intruders?

Being a bit spooked by crows is far easier to disguise on the walk back home than a head full of gull shit. 

Small mercies.

 * Note. I am well aware that the end of that paragraph come across a little like Rik out the Young Ones. I never really liked Mike Read and – today – I really quite loathe him. I guess I got a bit carried away.

** Note. To show a few credentials. I refer to them as crows, but in reality, I should be calling them “House Crow” or one of the other variants… “Indian Crow”, Grey Necked Crow”, “Ceylon Crow” or “Colombo Crow”. This is to differentiate them from Carrion Crows, Hooded Crows, Raven or Jackdaw or other European, black crows. See! I know my stuff!!

An Unhealthy Obsession With Lulu

Back in London, I used to live a two minute walk from Waitrose.

I mean, there was a decent Sainsbury’s nearby, a Tesco Metro at the bottom of the road and an Asda convenience store close by. Despite its rumoured extravagant pricing policy, the two minute walk was always the deciding factor in where I collected my groceries.

Waitrose it was!

It was all too easy to pop in for anything and everything.

Need a pint of milk? 

No problem. Stroll over to Waitrose. Easy.

But I would always return home with a dozen bags of other items that I hadn’t intended to buy but had decided were also essential while stalking the aisles. A task made all the easier by Waitrose having their own “Essentials” range to guide me to the, well… essential choices. I took the title at face value and stocked up on anything and everything in the range. After all, the items in the range must be essential based upon their vitamin range, high fibre, low sodium, low sugar, and low fat or “good” cholesterol content. Obviously.

I mean, John Lewis wouldn’t put anything “bad” in the range, would they? Come on, they’re too trustworthy, too honourable and too – downright bloody - “British” to do such a bad thing.

So. Following this logic, I would regularly end up eating an entire packet of Waitrose “Essential” Chocolate Malted Milk Biscuits as one of my five portions a day.

Maybe moving to Saudia Arabia would be good for me. Kick my bad habits.

I confess, I knew little about Arabian cuisine before moving here. In my head, I assumed that it would be all grilled meats – mostly lamb - with simple veg, flat breads and hummus. Everywhere out this way eats Hummus don’t they?

I knew or expected little else.

My only other thoughts and ideas about food were influenced by a former colleague – let’s call him Sadat, because that is his name. Upon learning that I was moving here, his eyes glazed over and he appeared to explore all the darkest recessed corners of his mind, reviewing everything he knew about the country, before declaring that “Saudi’s love Biriyani”.

On the flight over from London, I was served a chicken biriyani.

Sadat; I thought of you.

So I arrive and find that everything is kebabed. As I expected. Only it’s mutton not lamb, beef and chickens. Oh, how they like chickens. And it turns out, I had missed the obvious one. Dates. Arabs love dates. Loads of ‘em. With coffee that makes Turkish coffee sound and taste like watery pish.

But the Arab food is nothing when compared to the worldly choice that you can get in the Kingdom. Ignoring the restaurant and take away options, the supermarkets are a revelation. Food from every corner of the globe. America, Britain, Europe, India, China, Thailand, the Philippines, Turkey, Morocco and Japan. Unsurprising, really, because the only thing that Saudi’s appear to love more than food is “shopping”. So the Supermarkets/Hypermarkets allow both hobbies to be pursued in pleasurable unity. And – as a Waitrose veteran – I have been pulled in.

I have fallen in love. I am in love with Lulu.

Lulu is beautiful. Lulu is bountiful. Lulu is everything a person could ever hope for, want or desire.

Lulu is a Hypermarket.

And she is a mere ten minutes stroll from my apartment… and five of those are through her car park!

Aisle upon aisle of choice and opportunity. Fresh food, tinned food, dried food, chilled food, frozen food. Home wares.  More home wares. Even more home wares. Cosmetics. Toiletries upon toiletries. The floor space goes on and on for ever and ever. Far beyond the horizon and possibly half way across the desert to Riyadh. It is possible that she spans time zones. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never reached the end.

And upstairs. Fashion stores. Boutiques. Phone stores. Electronics stores. Everything!

But – in comparison to UK supermarkets – it all feels a bit disjointed. Every aisle is a revelation because it bears no relation to the aisles either side. At first this is a bit disorientating. I’m a man. I shop by walking around and picking up exactly what I know I want and nothing more. I have no need or desire to browse. I want to get in and get out. As quickly as possible. Just like making love to a beautiful woman…

Joke.

Lulu is a wily and cunning woman. The disjointed and haphazard lay out eventually breaks you down.

Lulu woos you with her aisles.

Oh my dear, dear, beautiful Lulu.

I love your deli, your hot food/Indian snack counter and the biggest display of McVities digestives that I have ever seen framed in an impressive model of Tower Bridge.

But I am less keen on the way that you close all the tills and indiscreetly lower the shutters during prayer times making me wait in a queue for twenty minutes.

But I forgive you. For I love you.

Lulu. Khobar. Dressed Up For Another Night On The Town.

I read a piece recently about obesity around the world last week. It was on the BBC News website but I can’t find it when typing this. I have found an article - see the linky thing below - that uses the map that it referred to, though noting that 35+% of Saudi Arabia’s population are obese. And it didn’t surprise. From day one, I have been struck by the number of overweight Arabs that I see…

GLOBAL OBESITY

And Lulu offers an insight into this. It’s a lifestyle thing.

I was stunned at the range of “shit” that is on offer. I'm European and am fully aware of how much shit is pushed onto the population through advertising and their retail conduits. But in Lulu, every other aisle seems to offer a variation on sweets, confectionery and dairy produce that makes my eyes water, arteries harden and teeth ache. Saudi has really bought into “western” treats. Aisle upon aisle of European and American confectionery before you bring multiple sections dedicated to fresh, packet and preserved Indian and Asian sweets.

OK. Khobar is a very American city. Her influence is everywhere. But it would be stupid, churlish, wrong, petty and too easy to try and lay blame solely at their door. The stuff on sale is not just being bought by the Yanks. After all, most Americans won’t make it to Lulu because their communities and compounds have their own American supermarkets which – I imagine – pander far more directly to their buying habits. Lulu is there for all the communities. And it appears to revel in the junk as much as the wonderful fresh fish, fruit and vegetables on offer.

But. For the most part, I am being good.

McVities may offer a taste of home in the absence of Chocolate Malted Milk but I'm letting myself absorb the Indian options on offer with fresh vegetables and pulses. I know I used to live in Alperton, Tooting and South Harrow, but Lulu’s options are so much more exciting and enticing.

But I'm all too aware that she’s local enough that I could get back into my bad, old Waitrose habit. 

Wish me luck.

Things That I Miss #1

Photography

There is always something to see in London. 

I will miss my occasional visits to photography exhibitions, stepping outside of my own world and into the world of others. Seeing the world as others see it.

I saw this link on the BBC News website today:

Edwin Smith @ Royal Institute of British Architects

Edwin Smith's work looks incredible.

Such ordinary subjects. But, such beauty.

I like photography that captures a moment. Photography should not be overly complex. I do not generally like obviously created or faked compositions or effects. 

To me simple composition is all. Take what you see. If you miss it, you miss it!

The slide show attached suggests that this exhibition will have an incredible content. 

It's running until 6th December. I am going to miss it. Please, if anyone reading this visits the exhibition, let me know what you think.

Bahrain - Good Intentions & Bad Habits

Monday morning.

I had arranged to do a favour for two colleagues, one of who is over in the UK, the other stuck in Riyadh.

It involved a hop over to Bahrain.

The two kingdoms are linked by the King Fahd Causeway. Built in the 1980’s, it is currently the only land link to Bahrain, although a new project to build a second bridge has been confirmed that will link Bahrain to Qatar to the south (as you all know, Qatar is the current hub of all construction development know that Dubai has slowed down).

The causeway is sixteen miles long with three lanes in each direction and about half a million check points where you have to pay tolls, have your passport and visa checked, where women have to lift their veil and you have the opportunity to visit the Mosque, McDonalds and Costa Coffee. Many of these stops are compulsory, others are not.

For a time, the causeway was best known for being the longest bridge in the World, but China, Thailand and the USA have topped their construction up with Viagra and it now currently only ranks at number 20. In time, other corporate hard-ons will make it droop, flaccid, lanky and impotent to an even lower place in the standings.

The causeway is now best known for its queues. I’m English, I am conditioned to queue. By default, I like the causeway.

Where I stay, we have built up a good relationship with a fine gentleman named Francis. Francis is a taxi driver with a visa that allows him to travel unmolested outside the kingdom. He is the richest man in Khobar because he spends much of his time hopping over the border at close on 500 SAR a time. Knowing the causeway like a brother, he is always good at anticipating and avoiding the worst queue times.

So we set off at 8am in order to reach Bahrain for 10am. Yes. That’s right. 16 miles (OK – closer to 24 by the time you take the two ends into account) in two hours. It’s like being back in London.

The bridge was clear and we made good time until we reached the Saudi border control on the central island. Here, the road opens up to 10 or 12 lanes and you jostle for position.

Queue. Wait. Queue.

You find yourself having the same dilemma as you do in the supermarket. In your heart, you know that whichever queue you choose will be the wrong one.

By that I mean, that the supermarket will change cashier and put in place the 17 year old trainee who is too nervous to ask for help from a supervisor so cannot serve the customer stocking up on wine for the afternoon. Or you discover that three people ahead of you is the moron who has spent their entire trip selecting items without price labels, splitting multi-packs, then having wads and wads of promotional vouchers painstakingly cut from magazines. Only 75% of the vouchers are actually valid but they will happily argue the toss for six hours and talk management into submission to save an extra 10p off Lenor, before paying in coppers and book tokens. The type of moron who won’t pack any of their product away until they have paid for their goods and examined their receipt in painstaking, line by line detail and raised a minimum of 32 queries to the poor cashier. They bring their own bags too. But no matter how much they shuffle the product around, they never quite have enough space to pack all their items allowing them to explain to the whole world in extreme detail how they make the non-recyclable plastic bag they are now being forced to take lesson it’s carbon footprint by re-using it 102 times for other tasks.

We’ve all been there. We have all dreamt up the most repulsive, degrading, dehumanising and painful punishments to bestow on these people while politely gnashing our teeth and smiling in absolute silence.

On the causeway, it’s similar but the border guards that call the shots. I’ve heard a story that having queued for an hour a non-Saudi was turned away to return to the mainland purely because the guard wasn't processing foreigners that day. You are at the mercy of the guards’ whims and moods. 

Everything moves at their pace. Their pace is set to “terminally slow”.

So. Off we go. Take passports. Shuffle passports. Take fee 50 SAR payment. Count fee payment. Recount fee payment. Look confused. Take pencil to work out change from a 100 SAR note. Look for pad to write it down. Find pad. Can’t find pencil they just had. Look everywhere. Walk away to borrow pencil from colleague. Come back and take pad to colleague as deposit on the pencil loan. Look troubled. Play with phone. Maybe phone a friend. Remembers passports. Looks at passports. Stamps passports. Returns pencil to colleague. Looks at pad. Decides to believe “phone a friend advice” and gives 50 SAR change. Looks nervous and waves you on.

Then you go through Customs.

Park car in bay. Open doors and boot. Guard looks in back of car. Reluctantly says “hello” to occupants. Stares in boot. For ages. Even if the boot is empty. Considers whether there is duty to be paid on stale, hot, stagnant air transported across the border in boot of car. Sends you on your way in a manner suggesting that you have imposed on their time rather than the other way round.

Then you reach the same posts in Bahrain. Thankfully, they have a slightly higher setting of “slow”.

All the while, between the various posts, you lean on the horn, frantically shift lanes and cut up as many fellow drivers as you can in the vain hope that you will find the new, keen guard who hasn’t yet been broken by sitting in a hot box for 10 hours shifts 6 days a week and still has a bit of “pace” and enthusiasm for the job in hand.

Francis planned well and we go through in 40 minutes.

But those 40 minutes drag into hours when you are listening to American hit radio. It’s Monday morning. I don’t want eternally chirpy DJs in my life introducing me to Coldplay. I want coffee.

So I reach Bahrain with ten minutes to spare before my appointment.

Thirty minutes later, my work is done and it is time to go home. Except that I have agreed to collect a friend who popped over to Bahrain last Thursday and needs to return to Saudi Arabia to work. We’re a bit late and he calls to say that he is no longer at his hotel but has gone to an Irish/American diner for breakfast.

The Broken

Before I travelled to the Middle East my mate Alex made the observation that I would invariably bump into and meet British expats who were only over here because they are slightly “broken”. I believed it right away and believed it out of hand. I mean, I can hardly say that I am not “broken’. As previous posts have strongly hinted I have only come here to make a break and a change; to shake myself up and most definitely and specifically not work for my previous employer.

So we arrive at the diner to discover that G has been there since it opened and that breakfast consists of Heineken. It is soon apparent that – excluding a mushroom quiche and a steak and kidney pie from a supermarket opposite the diner - most meals since Thursday have had a similar liquid consistency. G is maudlin. G is aware that alcohol does that after a while. G is keen that – whilst he knows he must return – he ekes out the last of the Eid holiday.

It’s Monday morning. It’s 10:50am. I am drinking Heineken for breakfast.

This is Bahrain.

Francis is dispatched to the hotel to collect his luggage but not before he, too, has a swift pint. The timing of sending Francis away is transparently engineered in to get another pint in and so prolong the departure time a little more. G and I discuss what is like to be part of the ‘broken’ set. We touch on events that have led to us working in Saudi Arabia and result in us sitting in a bar drinking beer at 11:20 in the morning. Not particularly deep but relatively honest.

I note to G that I have things that I want to do in the afternoon so will have to leave soon. I argue that my intention is to return for a couple of nights later in the week and have a proper explore. G cannot join me next weekend, so this information spurs him into action to take me on a tour of the best spots so that I know where to come later on…

It’s Monday. It’s not even midday. I am three pints down and starting a pub crawl.

Oh Jeez. Is this Bahrain?

I follow a musician and fine fellow of a man on Facebook and Twitter by the name of Keith Top of the Pops. 

Here he is, here. In this video... With a guitar and loads of his friends. Look. Here:

Most of his status updates include the word ‘Wetherspoons’. I think he would like Bahrain. All the bars serve cider. So on a Monday, without any intention to do so, I appear to be on a pub crawl. I feel as if I am living in the shadow of Keith Top of the Pops life. Except – that even with my dark glasses - I am, inevitably less cool.

I reason that I've been feeling homesick for a few days; so it’s OK to have a bit of fun.

G takes us to a hotel that houses the most happening bar in the Kingdom. I am assured that it rocks and heaves wall to wall with hot women who are allowed to talk to men. We arrive and it’s dark and empty save the smell of last night’s stale booze and cigarettes. We are the only clientèle. We wait for a while, but there are no bar staff.

We move on.

To the seventh floor of another hotel. We get talking with three American’s in the lift. From Idaho and Texas. I get to quote Rainmakers lyrics to them…

“And everyone from Texas is from someplace else”

They agree. Texas is a whole different country.

Look. It's The Rainmakers... Singing "Snakedance". Like I quoted at the American people. Clever, heh:

We follow the Americans into a sports bar with framed rugby tops and Celtic and Rangers football shirts lining the walls. An Australian rugby match is on the telly. One team have won. They appear happy. It seems understandable. G thinks that it's the team supported by that Australian bloke from Gladiators. 

Me - "Er... Can't remember there names. Shadow? Saracen??" 

G looks confused...

Me - "HUNTER!!" 

G - "No. You know. The movie."

Me - "They made a movie? Of the TV show! No way! Bet it's shit."

G - "No. Gladiator! You know with the Australian! Likes a fight"

I'm left blank.

A friendly Bristolian barkeep happily serves us lager. All seems well with the World. The bar is near empty save us and several other American students that our friends from the lift have joined.

I begin to feel so, very tired.

Sensing a slippery slope, I allow Francis to persuade me to leave and return back to Saudi. G can’t face it though. He books himself back into his hotel and Francis returns his luggage back to the hotel from the car; cue a final pint.

It’s 2:30pm. I leave G sitting at a table on the 7^th Floor. Francis assures him that he will return at 10am on Tuesday to collect him.

And then back to the causeway and through all the checks in reverse. The Bahrain bound carriageway is backed up nose to tail for several miles. Francis says it will take them three hours to cross border control. 

It’s busy on our side, too, but we only take ninety minutes to get through the various checks while sitting in a hot and hot tempered queue. I'm in a pleasant, warm alcohol haze. EMF not Coldplay are on the radio. This time it only feels like 40 minutes. Unbelievable.

Back in Khobar, I quickly drain a litre of water and head off the oncoming hang over by having a snooze on the sea front at dusk, letting the sound of the rippling waves lull me into gentle sleep.

And Russell Crowe is a Kiwi. No wonder I was confused.

Al Khobar

So.

Khobar. Al Khobar. Alkhobar… Whichever you prefer.

Wikipedia – renowned source of all truth – tells me that it is third largest industrial city in the Kingdom. In theory, it is separate from Dammam and Dharan, but having travelled around it I am buggered if I can see any boundaries. Wiki kindly calls it’s a “mega city”. It’s a few years since I graduated and I have forgotten my definitions of cities. But "mega city" doesn't ring a bell. I have more memory of Mega City Four. And they were nothing compared to The Family Cat. (Don't believe me? Check them both out!)

But back to Khobar.

It sits in the east of the country at one end of the causeway to Bahrain. Bahrain is the playground of the Saudi’s who visit it to let their hair down and do everything that is outlawed in the Kingdom.

Sex n Drugs n Rock n Roll.

It’s close proximity to the relatively free regime over the water means that Khobar attracts Western businesses. Staff are able to get away from the rather strict Islamic code from time to time for a beer. Aramco is the largest employer. It is the largest oil company in the World.

Lesson over.

But feel free to watch this video. I skimmed through it. The way the music builds and develops has to be heard to be believed... To be fair, it is a pretty comprehensive video showing all the sights:

I live five minutes from the sea front and two of the main drags through the city. One direction, the sea and landscaped gardens, the other crazy shopping streets and markets. The former is tranquil and sedate, the latter threatens to overwhelm all your senses.

I live in a modest apartment block. But it has a pool on the roof, a free gym and a friendly and scenic café where you can waste away hours drinking cheap tea. My apartment is functional but not luxurious. I like it but am keeping an eye for summat better at the same price.

This corner of town is largely Indian Asian, Filipino and Thai. The cafes and restaurants are incredible.

The city is a building site. It is a city very much in transition. For all the impressive glass buildings in the city centre and the modern and slick western style hotels and restaurants on the Corniche, there are a hundred incomplete developments with vast sandy expanses between them where – I guess – buildings will one day be erected. This makes the city feel disjointed and a bit surreal. Wastelands.

But anyone who knows me well or keeps an eye on my photography will know that I am happy as a pig in shit in such environments.

Thankfully, the city is entirely non-threatening. I don't think that it is a result of the severe Saudi penalties for crime but because it is a working city. Everyone is here for the same reason, to make money. As a result, people just "get on".

Although not as obvious as my predecessor who wore near complete sleeves and became known as “The Painted Man”, it is very obvious that I stand out as a “white” man. As a result, I am a stranger. But the locals seem quite chatty, which I like. 

The local kids offer me cigarettes and don’t understand why I don’t take them. They seem excited that I am not American, which - in truth - excites me, too. Being English allows us to break the language barrier and discuss important things in pidgin…

Kids - “Liverpool?”

Me - “NO!”

Kids - “Manchester United?”

Me - “NO!”

Kids – Getting excited - “Chelsea?”

Me - “NOOOO!...... Brentford.”

Kids - “I no understand.”

But they will learn.

Football is all over the Saudi media. Unsurprisingly, the locals follow the European leagues. Barcelona, Real, AC, Inter, Bayern, Liverpool, Manchester City and Chelsea. Weirdly, it only seems to be fat kids who wear Chelsea shirts. No idea what this may mean or signify, but that is what I have noticed. Happily I bumped into a guy in LuLu wearing a Bilbao shirt. So, it isn't all bad.

It’s approaching autumn so is only 38 degrees at the moment rather than the 48-50 found in July and August. Being by the sea, the evenings are really humid. The streets are quiet until late afternoon when the sun is going down. Go down to the Corniche at the weekend and you can’t move for families barbecuing and lounging around under the street lights making the most of the relative cool.

I have to avoid the Ninja’s though. Not allowed to look at them. And come Friday night, they are everywhere. It becomes very difficult.

That said, I'll admit that I have broken the rules. I couldn’t help but note one in “killer” heels the other day. Her Birka hung six inches above the floor to make sure no one missed the crystal encrusted heels and platforms.

I saw her feet.

Oh my god!

Phhhhwwwoooorrrrr!

Flickr

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A Saudi Fridge of Friendship

It’s hard to know where to start.

Two and a half weeks in and so much has happened.

Work started slowly.

I was warned that it would and it didn't disappoint. The first few days dragged along slowly. Not much to do. Shown the ropes by Stuart. Reports and people. People and reports. In truth, it was less than four hours a day. It allowed me to head home, relax, join the gym and plenty opportunity to explore.

Then it all went weird.

The joy of working for a Saudi division of a British company is that we rely on social media to keep communication costs down.

As the result of a Whatsapp message, I found myself over in Dubai for two days working in a cage thirty feet off the ground.

I told my fellow cage occupant that the last time I earned money in a cage this high it was sometime in the mid ‘90’s at the Hammersmith Palais; I was dancing, dressed in leather shorts and covered in baby oil. Thankfully, his English was quite poor. I don’t think he understood.

After Dubai, I endured a nine hour round trip for a two hour meeting in Riyadh. The journey is on a bleak highway through the desert. The desert is not romantic. It is big and expansive. It is yellow, brown and grey. It is hot and unforgiving. The edge of Riyadh – where I meet – is grim and soulless and devoid of hope.

Wednesday, I encountered the frustration of Saudi working for the first time. Everything is conducted at Saudi pace and on Saudi terms. Best laid plans are worthless, as are – it appears - commitments. A lesson was learned. The fact that my “old time” colleagues just laughed helped me realise that some things will forever be the way they are and that it will never change. Some things I will have to learn to just “get over”.

For a few minutes, I felt alone and a very long way from home. I considered checking out flight times and calling it a day… (see the note & picture below)

Finally, pulled off a crazy twelve hour shift on Thursday sorting staff and travel logistics for a job that wasn't expected to start before Eid holidays but needed to get sorted for a Sunday start in areas where my company have no resource – out on the borders of Yemen to the south and Jordan to the north. No mean feat when everything closes on a Friday and Saturday. But it all pulled together sometime before 8pm. Tired but fulfilled!

But – aside a hop to Bahrain and a few emails and calls – I doubt I will have to work more than three hours a day next week. Eid means that my team have holidays and the office is closed. I will work from home. So I can’t complain.

But that is work. 

I'm here for the adventure… 

So tune in next time.

Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel...

Note – I wouldn't have gone through with coming home. The desire was real but fleeting. I knew I would have moments where I was unhappy and insecure. It is only natural. But I was prepared. A great guide book that Paul Rose gave me emphasised the importance of bringing photos from home. I have a series of landscapes and some “godlike hero” images but the most important are those of my friends. 

Gushy as it may sound, they are really important to me… And they helped.

Check out my “Saudi Fridge of Friendship”

Beautiful, huh? 

Fridge magnets!

Some of you dear readers will recognise your faces, torso's or knees. Those missing, rest assured that I show no favouritism; your time for inclusion will come.