WARNING: NO PHOTOS.
“Tell me, Taylor, how long have you been here now?”
“Two weeks or so.”
“How do you find Saudi Arabia?”
Given that he’s been here a long time and is part of the Beirut Mafia running this show, my paranoia was aroused immediately.
Answering honestly, but not fully: “It is an adjustment, of course, because things are so different than in the US.”
“But how do you mean? Can you share some examples?”
There was still ten minutes left in our journey, so I decided to share a little more – not much more, only a little more.
“Well, the small things make me constantly aware that I am a stranger here: light switches push down to turn on. Saudis measure in kilometers and Celsius. I am constantly dividing money by four to convert to US dollars. Arabic writing is a mystery; perhaps in six months I could speak enough Arabic to go grocery shopping alone, but I doubt if I could learn to read your language in all my remaining life.”
There was silence for a few moments, and it was my turn to ask. “You have been here for several years. How do you find Saudi Arabia?”
“I find it lonely and sad.”
A lightning bolt went through my head, and the silence reflected my effort to understand what he meant – not what he said, what he meant.
How do I respond to this? In the US, guys don’t really open up like that. With brothers, sons, and very close friends … maybe. With men you met two weeks ago? Not a chance.
We drove for a short eternity, tires whining on the pavement and that damned 120 kph alarm beeping every two seconds.
“I understand what you mean, I think,” I replied at last. "The horizon is always there, across miles of unbroken desert. The sand and dust and heat are always there, too. The emptiness of this place is one of the characteristics that also requires adjustment.”
Another short eternity went by and I added, “This may become an issue for me as well, in a few weeks.”
We arrived at the apartment building and wove our way through the convoluted parking garage to his favorite spot. The same path we’ve taken a dozen times or more.
I did not offer to continue the conversation. “See you tomorrow,” I quipped, as we rode up the elevator together.
=============================================================
The distance between the apartment building and the port site is fully 20 km (12 miles). The distance from the apartment to the front gate, the outside world, is at least 10 km (6 miles). The distance from KAEC to Jeddah is 80 km (50 miles), and easily one hour’s drive with the rampant congestion in the city. Rabigh, a full-bore “wild west” version of a third world town, is 30 minutes at the national speed limit of 120 kmh.
The visual distance to the horizon is always present. Almost always, there is nothing between your face and the horizon but sun and sand. Sometimes there’s dust from a strong breeze. Occasionally there’s a small patch of scrub grass or bushes, surviving in a slight depression that must hold water from the rain that almost never falls; pity-inducing scrub grass and bushes, existing on the very edge of dehydration and death.
Don’t get me wrong; there's always been aloneness in my life, and I often seek it out. A week backpacking the Appalachian Trail, quiet evenings on the balcony at the Home in the Sky, solo camping trips in the north Georgia mountains, and snowy nights in Charlestown.
That’s different – it’s my choice, humanity is always within reach, and Miss Pallas Athena, good and faithful dog, provides someone to talk to.
I reflected on this conversation. My solitary time in the US also includes trees, grass, cars, insects, other examples of life.
And then it struck me: there’s no life here. This climate, this topography, this soil, this place, is blatantly inhospitable to life.
Perhaps that’s what makes Arab culture such a powerful thing. Arabs have survived in this godforsaken part of the Earth for generations, and their heritage includes an indescribable life force bordering on survivalism.
It’s reflected in the sword on their national flag; the crossed swords on their national seal; the ceremonial knives that were brandished at a recent community celebration; and their difficult life may indeed be the basis for fasting during Ramadan.
This will require further research as I float in the pool at midnight.
==================================================
This morning, my colleague and I rode in together. “What are your plans for this weekend?” I asked.
“I have no plans,” he replied. Interesting, since he is one of the few with car keys.
“Shall we have dinner together tonight?” I asked.
“That sounds good.”
A colleague and I were alone in the car for fifteen minutes
yesterday, driving back from the office to the apartments. The distance is quite far, fully 20 km (12
miles); a fitting distance between a residential area and a seaport.
“Tell me, Taylor, how long have you been here now?”
“Two weeks or so.”
“How do you find Saudi Arabia?”
Given that he’s been here a long time and is part of the Beirut Mafia running this show, my paranoia was aroused immediately.
Answering honestly, but not fully: “It is an adjustment, of course, because things are so different than in the US.”
“But how do you mean? Can you share some examples?”
There was still ten minutes left in our journey, so I decided to share a little more – not much more, only a little more.
“Well, the small things make me constantly aware that I am a stranger here: light switches push down to turn on. Saudis measure in kilometers and Celsius. I am constantly dividing money by four to convert to US dollars. Arabic writing is a mystery; perhaps in six months I could speak enough Arabic to go grocery shopping alone, but I doubt if I could learn to read your language in all my remaining life.”
There was silence for a few moments, and it was my turn to ask. “You have been here for several years. How do you find Saudi Arabia?”
“I find it lonely and sad.”
A lightning bolt went through my head, and the silence reflected my effort to understand what he meant – not what he said, what he meant.
How do I respond to this? In the US, guys don’t really open up like that. With brothers, sons, and very close friends … maybe. With men you met two weeks ago? Not a chance.
We drove for a short eternity, tires whining on the pavement and that damned 120 kph alarm beeping every two seconds.
“I understand what you mean, I think,” I replied at last. "The horizon is always there, across miles of unbroken desert. The sand and dust and heat are always there, too. The emptiness of this place is one of the characteristics that also requires adjustment.”
Another short eternity went by and I added, “This may become an issue for me as well, in a few weeks.”
We arrived at the apartment building and wove our way through the convoluted parking garage to his favorite spot. The same path we’ve taken a dozen times or more.
I did not offer to continue the conversation. “See you tomorrow,” I quipped, as we rode up the elevator together.
=============================================================
The distance between the apartment building and the port site is fully 20 km (12 miles). The distance from the apartment to the front gate, the outside world, is at least 10 km (6 miles). The distance from KAEC to Jeddah is 80 km (50 miles), and easily one hour’s drive with the rampant congestion in the city. Rabigh, a full-bore “wild west” version of a third world town, is 30 minutes at the national speed limit of 120 kmh.
The visual distance to the horizon is always present. Almost always, there is nothing between your face and the horizon but sun and sand. Sometimes there’s dust from a strong breeze. Occasionally there’s a small patch of scrub grass or bushes, surviving in a slight depression that must hold water from the rain that almost never falls; pity-inducing scrub grass and bushes, existing on the very edge of dehydration and death.
Don’t get me wrong; there's always been aloneness in my life, and I often seek it out. A week backpacking the Appalachian Trail, quiet evenings on the balcony at the Home in the Sky, solo camping trips in the north Georgia mountains, and snowy nights in Charlestown.
That’s different – it’s my choice, humanity is always within reach, and Miss Pallas Athena, good and faithful dog, provides someone to talk to.
I reflected on this conversation. My solitary time in the US also includes trees, grass, cars, insects, other examples of life.
And then it struck me: there’s no life here. This climate, this topography, this soil, this place, is blatantly inhospitable to life.
Perhaps that’s what makes Arab culture such a powerful thing. Arabs have survived in this godforsaken part of the Earth for generations, and their heritage includes an indescribable life force bordering on survivalism.
It’s reflected in the sword on their national flag; the crossed swords on their national seal; the ceremonial knives that were brandished at a recent community celebration; and their difficult life may indeed be the basis for fasting during Ramadan.
This will require further research as I float in the pool at midnight.
==================================================
This morning, my colleague and I rode in together. “What are your plans for this weekend?” I asked.
“I have no plans,” he replied. Interesting, since he is one of the few with car keys.
“Shall we have dinner together tonight?” I asked.
“That sounds good.”
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