Folks, we're descending into the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Saudi encompasses most of the Arabian Peninsula, with Red Sea & Persian Gulf coastlines. The birthplace of Islam and home to Mecca and Medina.
The aircraft door opens, that old familiar cauldron of desert heat hits. I nod in appreciation, like you do, in the direction of the experienced BA aircrew. Two of whom look like they flew with the Wright Brothers.
Countries where belly laughs are few? North Korea, Yemen, France, Somalia, Syria, Iran, Scotland, and heading the list, Saudi Arabia.
British Airways, I'll see you in 15 days. After Riyadh and Yanbu and Jeddah and Dhahran and Dammam and Al Khobar.
Since I was last in Saudi, some groundbreaking changes have taken place. Women are permitted to drive cars, ride motorbikes and attend live sporting events. Even cinemas, shut down in the 1980s, are making a comeback.
Women drivers, which of course is terrific for equality. Has to be said, also a boon for panel beaters who are reportedly in high demand on the peninsular.
However, some things haven't changed. Remember, it's only nine months since a Saudi dissident, and well-known journalist, went into a Saudi consulate in Istanbul and never came out. Well, not in one piece (allegedly). By most accounts, Winston Wolf in his heyday would have struggled to clean that one up.
Oh, and what do Toronto and Saudi Arabia have in common? Answer. It's legal to get stoned.
There's not much time for running on this trip, at least outdoors. This post is probably more of a postcard from Saudi.
First stop. Riyadh. The capital is a skyscraper-filled metropolis. Riyadh was interesting.
Second stop. Yanbu. A one-horse town on the Red Sea. Yanbu was interesting.
Third stop. Jeddah. A wet shave on the road. Meet Mustafa, in his off white thobe and bulky brown grandpapa sandals. He's a joy to behold the way he wields his cut-throat razor: incredible precision, such artistry. A pity his long greying beard is so unkempt.
Despite the blowtorches piercing blue flame, I'm nervous the blade might lack sharpness. Fret not; it's flipping sharp. Lovely perfume and talc as well.
He points at my nose, my ears, my eyebrows, my throat (kidding). "Aywa," I say, "lays hunak 'aa mushkila."
He finishes the mini facial and spins the chair theatrically extending his arms saying the Arabic version of 'ta-dah'. I shake his hand, 'ta-dah' indeed. "Shukraan jazilann, sadiqi."
As I look in the mirror and admire his handiwork, I reflect on the three ages of man. Youth, middle-aged, and you look terrific - phase 3 beckons.
Fourth stop. Al Khobar. Interesting. Hot.
Fifth Stop. Dhahran. Out for an early morning jog at long last. Well, a billy bonus right out of the gate. Look at this gym, it's a monster and directly outside my hotel.
I step inside - one of the best I've seen. I want a day pass for later. The impressive muscle-bound Gulf Arab, after no small talk, quotes me 250 dib dobs. Two hundred fifty dib dobs, I exclaim. We agree 200 dib dobs. A fool and his dib dobs what can one say, other than, see you later alligator.
Back to the run. As we jog through this shiny metropolis, do you know where this wealth started? That's right, Dammam oil well No. 7. Way back in 1938 in what is now modern-day Dhahran. Things in this former nomadic dessert would never be the same again.
Sixth stop. Dammam. Interesting.
Time for a quick story?
OK. Saudi 2004. The Eastern Province was tense. Companies had evacuated staff across the causeway into Bahrain after a significant terrorist attack on a mostly ex-pat compound, around 20 foreigners killed.
My client would later begin travel back into the Eastern Province Sun-Thurs. Weekends in liberal Bahrain. What a result, for four months. Every cloud...
Al Khobar. I had made a Saudi friend, a local project manager. Let's call him, Arthur. Arthur travelled with his fellow Saudi cohorts for R&R in Bahrain most weekends.
Liberal Bahrain. "Mark, my friend, come to party at the Ali Bongo Hotel top floor on Friday night, meet my friends. We make private party & drinking & dancing. You come?"
"Arthur (you've got to be kidding me, give up my precious Friday night), of course, what time, I will stay for a short time, shukraan."
Friday night. The Ali Bongo (20 mins tops, I'm outta here). Where's Arthur, everyone is dressed the same, in white. Large tables, 10-12 people per table. Packed. Mr Phil [Collins] in the background.
Arthur spots me. Holds my hand to the table, and as we sit. I quickly forget all the names. His best friend, who I recognised from work, Ernie, another name change. Can't be too careful.
About 100 Saudi's in national dress. One bemused Anglo Saxon. No waiters. Half a dozen bottles of Mr Johnny [Walker] spread around our table. A tray of mixers. An ice bucket. A well-lit stage.
"Mark, whiskey? Help yourself, my friend."
"Arthur (I won't, I've just popped by for half an hour), sure, pass the bottle."
"Well, it was great to see you and meet Ernie and your friends. I have to be going soon, a boring dinner with the client. I'm sorry." (Pinocchio would be so proud).
"Please stay for a short time. You must see the entertainment. Just a little longer. Another whiskey."
"Arthur (I'd rather blowtorch my nipples off), sure, then I must be off."
The lights dim. 'Another Day in Paradise' fades out. Arabic music fades in. From behind the velvet curtains appear four women dressed head to toe in black. Eyes only are showing. The room becomes increasingly animated.
The four women in black begin to 'gyrate' Egyptian style (oh oh, what am I doing here). "Mark, you like?"
Yes (never in a million years), very much."
Ernie whispers in my ear, "They're from Iraq."
There's the odd glimpse of the ankle and some furtive eye movements. This Iraqi dance band sure know how to work a crowd.
The Saudi's are loving this. I sense a finale. The place erupts. The Saudi's are on their feet.
In unison the 4 Iraqi's whip off their headwear, we see their long hair and faces. Arthur can't contain himself. He grabs my arm, and we hold hands again. Then the climax, the 4 Iradi's bend forward and pull their hair back over their heads letting it hang down. Applause, noise, everyone is happy, the dancers leave the stage.
Arthur is thrilled I came. He invites me to visit his house in Al Khobar. Arthur tells me of his private shed and that we can sit together in his private shed. He says he wants to show me something in his private shed. I gave my farewells and smiling head out into the heat of Bahrain. Private sheds...
Footnote:
This post, the first of 2019, has sat unfinished for a while, until tonight. I've waited for Rick's Cafe in Casablanca to edit & sharpen. This restaurant featured in a 2017 post from Morocco. Sadly, I've learnt tonight the founder & owner, since 2004, Kathy Kriger, passed away last year. In 2017, Kathy walked the tables and told me she lived upstairs, just like Rick, and told me there was a roulette table as in the movie.
I can't walk past a roulette table without betting on my favourite number. Later this evening, my bet, my money goes on... 22.
This place was her dream, which she realised.
Finally, Beverly, I hope you are reading this.
The aircraft door opens, that old familiar cauldron of desert heat hits. I nod in appreciation, like you do, in the direction of the experienced BA aircrew. Two of whom look like they flew with the Wright Brothers.
British Airways, I'll see you in 15 days. After Riyadh and Yanbu and Jeddah and Dhahran and Dammam and Al Khobar.
Since I was last in Saudi, some groundbreaking changes have taken place. Women are permitted to drive cars, ride motorbikes and attend live sporting events. Even cinemas, shut down in the 1980s, are making a comeback.
Women drivers, which of course is terrific for equality. Has to be said, also a boon for panel beaters who are reportedly in high demand on the peninsular.
However, some things haven't changed. Remember, it's only nine months since a Saudi dissident, and well-known journalist, went into a Saudi consulate in Istanbul and never came out. Well, not in one piece (allegedly). By most accounts, Winston Wolf in his heyday would have struggled to clean that one up.
Oh, and what do Toronto and Saudi Arabia have in common? Answer. It's legal to get stoned.
There's not much time for running on this trip, at least outdoors. This post is probably more of a postcard from Saudi.
First stop. Riyadh. The capital is a skyscraper-filled metropolis. Riyadh was interesting.
Second stop. Yanbu. A one-horse town on the Red Sea. Yanbu was interesting.
Third stop. Jeddah. A wet shave on the road. Meet Mustafa, in his off white thobe and bulky brown grandpapa sandals. He's a joy to behold the way he wields his cut-throat razor: incredible precision, such artistry. A pity his long greying beard is so unkempt.
Despite the blowtorches piercing blue flame, I'm nervous the blade might lack sharpness. Fret not; it's flipping sharp. Lovely perfume and talc as well.
He points at my nose, my ears, my eyebrows, my throat (kidding). "Aywa," I say, "lays hunak 'aa mushkila."
He finishes the mini facial and spins the chair theatrically extending his arms saying the Arabic version of 'ta-dah'. I shake his hand, 'ta-dah' indeed. "Shukraan jazilann, sadiqi."
As I look in the mirror and admire his handiwork, I reflect on the three ages of man. Youth, middle-aged, and you look terrific - phase 3 beckons.
Fourth stop. Al Khobar. Interesting. Hot.
Fifth Stop. Dhahran. Out for an early morning jog at long last. Well, a billy bonus right out of the gate. Look at this gym, it's a monster and directly outside my hotel.
I step inside - one of the best I've seen. I want a day pass for later. The impressive muscle-bound Gulf Arab, after no small talk, quotes me 250 dib dobs. Two hundred fifty dib dobs, I exclaim. We agree 200 dib dobs. A fool and his dib dobs what can one say, other than, see you later alligator.
Back to the run. As we jog through this shiny metropolis, do you know where this wealth started? That's right, Dammam oil well No. 7. Way back in 1938 in what is now modern-day Dhahran. Things in this former nomadic dessert would never be the same again.
Sixth stop. Dammam. Interesting.
Time for a quick story?
OK. Saudi 2004. The Eastern Province was tense. Companies had evacuated staff across the causeway into Bahrain after a significant terrorist attack on a mostly ex-pat compound, around 20 foreigners killed.
My client would later begin travel back into the Eastern Province Sun-Thurs. Weekends in liberal Bahrain. What a result, for four months. Every cloud...
Al Khobar. I had made a Saudi friend, a local project manager. Let's call him, Arthur. Arthur travelled with his fellow Saudi cohorts for R&R in Bahrain most weekends.
Liberal Bahrain. "Mark, my friend, come to party at the Ali Bongo Hotel top floor on Friday night, meet my friends. We make private party & drinking & dancing. You come?"
"Arthur (you've got to be kidding me, give up my precious Friday night), of course, what time, I will stay for a short time, shukraan."
Friday night. The Ali Bongo (20 mins tops, I'm outta here). Where's Arthur, everyone is dressed the same, in white. Large tables, 10-12 people per table. Packed. Mr Phil [Collins] in the background.
Arthur spots me. Holds my hand to the table, and as we sit. I quickly forget all the names. His best friend, who I recognised from work, Ernie, another name change. Can't be too careful.
About 100 Saudi's in national dress. One bemused Anglo Saxon. No waiters. Half a dozen bottles of Mr Johnny [Walker] spread around our table. A tray of mixers. An ice bucket. A well-lit stage.
"Mark, whiskey? Help yourself, my friend."
"Arthur (I won't, I've just popped by for half an hour), sure, pass the bottle."
"Well, it was great to see you and meet Ernie and your friends. I have to be going soon, a boring dinner with the client. I'm sorry." (Pinocchio would be so proud).
"Please stay for a short time. You must see the entertainment. Just a little longer. Another whiskey."
"Arthur (I'd rather blowtorch my nipples off), sure, then I must be off."
The lights dim. 'Another Day in Paradise' fades out. Arabic music fades in. From behind the velvet curtains appear four women dressed head to toe in black. Eyes only are showing. The room becomes increasingly animated.
The four women in black begin to 'gyrate' Egyptian style (oh oh, what am I doing here). "Mark, you like?"
Yes (never in a million years), very much."
Ernie whispers in my ear, "They're from Iraq."
There's the odd glimpse of the ankle and some furtive eye movements. This Iraqi dance band sure know how to work a crowd.
The Saudi's are loving this. I sense a finale. The place erupts. The Saudi's are on their feet.
In unison the 4 Iraqi's whip off their headwear, we see their long hair and faces. Arthur can't contain himself. He grabs my arm, and we hold hands again. Then the climax, the 4 Iradi's bend forward and pull their hair back over their heads letting it hang down. Applause, noise, everyone is happy, the dancers leave the stage.
Arthur is thrilled I came. He invites me to visit his house in Al Khobar. Arthur tells me of his private shed and that we can sit together in his private shed. He says he wants to show me something in his private shed. I gave my farewells and smiling head out into the heat of Bahrain. Private sheds...
Footnote:
This post, the first of 2019, has sat unfinished for a while, until tonight. I've waited for Rick's Cafe in Casablanca to edit & sharpen. This restaurant featured in a 2017 post from Morocco. Sadly, I've learnt tonight the founder & owner, since 2004, Kathy Kriger, passed away last year. In 2017, Kathy walked the tables and told me she lived upstairs, just like Rick, and told me there was a roulette table as in the movie.
I can't walk past a roulette table without betting on my favourite number. Later this evening, my bet, my money goes on... 22.
This place was her dream, which she realised.
Finally, Beverly, I hope you are reading this.
