by M S James
‘Hello, I hope we are not late,’ I shouted.
‘No, no, nothing will be happening for a while,’ she shouted back, but with a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Come with me, you can sit with my friends.’ We threaded our way through dozens of circular tables laid with white tablecloths, cups and saucers and bowls of sweets. At each table there were eight or so Arab women, some Saudi and some Egyptian. They were all in festive mood, laughing, chatting and greeting each other. At our table was a party of Egyptian women who had enough English to explain what was happening. They were friendly and made us welcome. Both Jenny and I were startled by the quantity of make-up and ornamentation that was deemed suitable for such an occasion. We were sadly underdressed. All the women wore lamé or spangle-covered dresses. Their faces carried layers of multicoloured make-up and extravagant eyelashes. Their hair was piled up on their heads in wondrous arrangements secured by layers of gold or silver lacquer. We must have looked like pale imitations of womanhood.
We tried to make conversation, or as much as was possible with the drums thundering away nearby. Most of the time we sat with fixed smiles, occasionally checking our watches to see the time. ‘I wonder what’s the hold-up?’ Jenny shouted into my ear. I shrugged. It was all a mystery. From time to time we dipped into the bowl of Polo mints and crunched away. A large lady with a teapot arrived to refill us with cardamom tea which tasted foul. I called out to Yasmin as she wended her way past. ‘Hello, we were wondering when the wedding will start?’
Yasmin smiled but said little by way of explanation. ‘They are resting,’ she replied. This enigmatic remark had to suffice.
‘Hmm,’ I said to Jenny, ‘perhaps someone should point out to Mahmud and his fiancée that there is a crowd of people here waiting for a wedding to happen.’ It was now approaching midnight and we were worried that we would miss whatever was going to happen.
‘I’ll pop out to the front entrance and tell Archie to come back in an hour.’ Jenny made her excuses and headed for the door. While she was gone it suddenly dawned on me the reason for the hiatus. How dumb could I get? The happy couple were obviously enjoying conjugal bliss and not resting at all! I had heard of Saudi weddings where the bloodstained sheet of the wedding bed was displayed to the wedding guests as proof of the bride’s chastity. I hoped to God we were not in for that treat this evening. No sooner had Jenny returned than a massive commotion started.
The huge double doors at the end of the room were flung open and a cacophony rent the air. The band went into overdrive and the entire body of guests ululated with ear-splitting shrillness. A slow procession entered the ballroom and made its way down the central aisle, led by a small boy dressed in white silk carrying the Koran on a white silk cushion. Mahmud and his wife followed arm in arm, she with a white veil over her face, although you could see her demure expression and lowered lashes. Mahmud wore a slightly embarrassed smile, as well he might, since we all knew what they had been Up To for the past two hours. Flower girls, also dressed in white silk, processed either side of the happy couple. Then an astonishing thing happened. There was a great flurry of black veils throughout the room when the guests covered their faces as Mahmud passed by. How insulting to him. As if he would even look at them with his newly bedded wife on his arm. Being chaste is one thing but to ward off the lustful gaze of a newly married man was taking things to extremes. After he passed by the veils were lowered. Jenny and I raised our eyes to the ceiling. Whatever next?
The bride and groom mounted the dais and sat on their thrones smiling happily at the female photographer and video operator. As with all weddings, the photography component went on forever. But there was nothing to be done except to crunch a few more Polo mints. A side door suddenly opened and there was another flurry of black veils. In came the bride’s father and brother who climbed up to the thrones and greeted the couple. More photography and more Polo crunching. Eventually, Yasmin said, ‘We go in to eat now!’ All Jenny and I wanted to do was go home but that was not possible. ‘I’m afraid we can’t stay much longer,’ I told her with a sad expression.
‘No! You must not go, we have a feast ready for the guests!’ It was now half past one and neither Jenny nor I could face a large quantity of food. Poor Archie was probably outside sitting on his car bonnet wondering what was holding us up. All the guests filed out of the ballroom through a lobby where the towering wedding cake took pride of place. Mahmud and his wife posed with a long knife resting on the bottom layer. All the diners again covered their faces in case Mahmud glanced in their direction.
The food soon arrived – great plates of rice, lamb and chicken. I put a suggestion of each on my plate but my neighbour was shocked and said, ‘You eat! More! Eat! Eat!’ Not wanting to offend I put more on but it in no way competed with the mountain of food on her plate. Jenny and I looked at each other and gestured towards the exit. ‘Excuse me, hammam,’ I smiled at my neighbour. She was too busy eating to hold me back so I snuck out, closely followed by Jenny. Archie was still waiting by his car. ‘What kept you so long?’ he wanted to know.
‘It’s only just starting! Go now! Before Yasmin spots us and calls us back,’ Jenny yelled. It was a pity that we couldn’t stay to see the full wedding and the feast but we hadn’t had the benefit of a preparatory day in bed as had the other guests nor did we have their gargantuan appetites. At least we had been spared the bloody sheet.
The Hash made a Big Thing of Guy Fawkes Night and we were lucky that 5 November fell at a weekend. A huge bonfire was to be lit in the Wadi Hanifah, which was a comfortable distance from Riyadh, not too far away but well away from the normal Saudi picnic area. Everyone loaded their cars with scrap wood as well as camp beds, bedding and food for the barbecue. It was probably going to be the last overnight camp for a while since the nights were becoming too cold to sleep outdoors.
The Wadi Hanifah was a dried river bed where, at some time in history, a river had carved out a valley bordered by high escarpments. This made it relatively sheltered and a favoured place for a Hash camp. On arrival, cars were parked along a lower escarpment which afforded enough shelter for a row of acacia trees to grow and give the Hashers more shelter from the noonday sun. A Bedouin drove through the Wadi in his Datsun pickup with a camel serenely seated in the back. We had passed a Bedouin encampment several miles back so he probably belonged to them. They wouldn’t be interested in us and we left them well alone – though it would have been nice to visit a Bedouin tent complex, if only to see how they arranged their living quarters. There were often four or five large tents which were woven from black goat hair and had several sub-divisions for different activities. The black fabric would have made the tents very hot but, no doubt, they had their reasons for making them that way.
A massive bonfire was constructed well away from cars and tents, ready for the evening entertainment. The trail had been laid, so at four o’clock sharp the runners set off and the walkers followed on. We walked mile after mile over what, essentially, looked like moonscape. A Jordanian college friend of Philip’s who had watched the moon landings on television with a servant said his man had refused point blank to believe that he was looking at the moon. ‘I know that place!’ he said. ‘I was brought up there. The Americans tell lies!’ The silence was almost palpable; no sign of human activity, just emptiness. The Bedouin must be incredibly resilient to survive in such a harsh, pitiless environment. Yet they could probably have taken up an easier life if they had wanted it, given the vast wealth that was now awash in the country.
As night fell, the barbecue was set alight and the cooking began. The chief bonfire maker checked his construction and, much to everyone’s delight, pulled a Guy from the boot of his car and carefully clambered up the structure to place a very realistic effigy of Guy Fawkes on top. The Hashers gathered round and enjoyed the heat from the crackling fire and watched the flames licking up to the top. ‘Are we going to have fireworks?’ asked Jake.
‘No, sorry, old chap, you can’t get them in Saudi. At least, people like us can’t get them,’ replied his dad.
‘Ow,’ said Jake.
The fire would have been seen miles away, probably as far as the Bedouin encampment. I was suddenly aware that a Bedouin shepherd with his flock of sheep/goats had joined the ring of watchers. Someone nearby gave him a glass of Coke and pointed to the fire. ‘Kebir (Big),’ he acknowledged. ‘Kebir iktir!’
‘A British tradition,’ explained the Coke-giver.
The shepherd continued to gaze at the fire. ‘Why you burn Saudi?’ The Coke-giver stared at the Guy in horror, for sure enough, Guy Fawkes looked a dead ringer for the Saudi he was standing next to. Long dark hair, dark eyes, dark moustache and pointy beard.
‘No, no! That’s not a Saudi, that’s Guy Fawkes. He was English. Bad man. Tried to kill the King of England! We are happy he did not succeed.’ The shepherd looked unconvinced and perhaps his English wasn’t up to the niceties of British history. Several others joined in with affirmations that the chap on top of the bonfire was a bad Englishman and not a Saudi. It was vital that reports of anti-Saudi behaviour would not be relayed to the authorities. The consequences could be catastrophic for the Hash.
As the fire died down, the shepherd and his flock melted back into the night, hopefully with a positive account of what he had seen.
Festive Greetings
Winter in Saudi was rather nice. The sun still shone most of the time but it was very cold. The winter winds blew down from the Urals making the mornings very fresh. Fortunately, I had packed winter jackets and coats (for our mid-year break) so we could still venture out into the desert, although sleeping out under the stars was over for the time being.
We were fast approaching Christmas so, meeting Sarah in the kindergarten one day, I asked her what arrangements the Madrassa made for the day. She laughed, ‘None. They completely ignore it. In fact, you are best advised not to mention the subject. It is just the same as any other day to them. Everyone obliquely refers to Christmas as The Time of Festive Greetings.’
‘Oh.’ That sounded grim. ‘No Christmas cards on sale?’
‘No, but if you are quick off the mark there are a limited number of Festive Greetings cards on sale at Al Kitab, the bookshop.’
‘So, it’s school as usual?’
‘Not this year, Christmas falls on a weekend. You can cook a festive meal and pretend you are home. Better still, book yourselves into the Riyadh Marriott for their Festive Greetings lunch. They produce roast turkey with all the trimmings though not Christmas pudding, I’m afraid.’
This sounded more promising. The Marriott Hotel was at the end of our street so we called in on our way home and I made a booking. Al Kitab had a few Festive Greetings cards decorated with camels which I snapped up. At least the family at home would get a card from us.
Buying presents was not a problem other than ensuring the appropriateness of the item; shopping was the Saudis’ and expats’ favourite pastime. Jake was desperate for a Swiss Army knife which I absolutely refused to let him have. ‘Ow’ was the usual response. However, he cheered up when a remote-controlled car was suggested as an alternative. Anna lusted after a Spanish flamenco dress with layers of frills and a swirling train. They cost an absolute fortune so I was reluctant to commit such a large sum of money for a garment she would soon grow out of. I still regret not buying her one. Philip and I treated each other to new expensive watches, items we had hitherto been unable to afford.
Earning two substantial tax-free salaries was delightful after years of ‘getting by’ on English wages. The expat mantra for life in Saudi was ‘First year need, second year greed, third year brain damage.’ We were still in the first category and our main aim was to save as much money as possible for our future life in the UK, although some expats were seduced by the good salaries and exotic holidays and became perpetual peripatetic nomads, moving around the Middle East, the Far East, Australia and the States. However, a little splurge at Festive Greetings was, in part, a reward for overcoming the challenges of the previous few months. We lived on my salary and sent Philip’s home to our English bank every month. The new moon heralded ‘Pay Day!’ and I indulged in my monthly pastime of Counting the Money. (Our employers, like all others in Saudi, paid salaries in cash only.) Heaps of cash were deposited in piles around our double bed as I allocated how much could be spent on which items. Christmas was going to put a hole in the savings heap but we were due an indulgence. The savings heap was carried to the exchange bank to be converted into a sterling cheque to be posted home. It was my job to enter the lions’ den with our wodge of riyals. The bank was crammed with expat workers, mostly third world nationals, all converting their wages into home currencies. If Philip had gone into the bank he would have had to queue up with everyone else but since I was a woman with children in tow (not a common sight in the bank) I was ushered expeditiously to the front. ‘Come, come, madam!’ called the teller from behind the grille. The men parted like the Red Sea before Moses and it took only minutes to process my business. My grateful husband waited outside in the car relieved of at least one tedious task.
Christmas morning arrived with gleeful cries from Jake. ‘Look what Father Christmas gave me!’ He stood grinning at the foot of our bed brandishing a Swiss Army knife. ‘You wouldn’t buy me one but Father Christmas did! I knew he was real!’ I turned and stared at Father Christmas on the pillow next to me. It was his job to buy the stocking fillers and he had broken ranks to give Jake his heart’s desire. I forced a smile and said, ‘You are a lucky boy. Though I might have a word with Father Christmas if I ever meet him…’ Father Christmas was not so magnanimous to Anna who had found a doll dressed in a Spanish flamenco costume in her stocking rather than the real thing. Obviously, Philip could relate to getting an army knife more than a flouncy frock. Even so, she was happy to get it. The children each enjoyed new remote-controlled cars which they later raced up the road to the Marriott Hotel.
The main dining room was packed with Europeans trying to be as festive as was allowed. ‘Happy Christmas,’ we daringly greeted one another. The tables were decorated with holly and poinsettias, flown in especially for the occasion, and we all toasted each other with Rausch fizzy grape juice, in lieu of anything more intoxicating. The festive meal was pretty authentic and we shared a collective bonhomie with our fellow sufferers. The background music was the usual anodyne hotel playlist with not a hint of a carol. A grand piano stood nearby and I was desperate to go over and regale the company with renditions of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and ‘Silent Night’. But I suspect most of us would have been in tears if I had. And I would probably have spent the rest of the day in the neighbourhood police station.
After Christmas I turned my mind towards the mid-year break and how I was to extract an exit visa from the Madrassa.
Back to Blighty
I kept an eye out for the mistress-in-charge at the Madrassa. She didn’t seem to have an office but floated about checking that all was in order. Aisha thought she might be found in the junior department so whilst my class was receiving their religious instruction I went off to find her. I marvelled yet again at the tea-heating contraptions plugged into the corridor walls and found my quarry indulging in a pleasant chat with one of her minions. When she spotted me advancing towards her, her face assumed a ‘What now?’ expression.
‘Marhaba, Salaam alleykum,’ I greeted her, showing off my newly acquired Arabic.
‘Wa ’alleykum, as’salaam,’ she replied warily. ‘How can I help you, Mrs Kate?’
‘Please could you ask the office to process exit visas for myself and my children for the mid-year break?’
‘That is not possible,’ was her opening gambit.
‘Because?’
She smiled condescendingly and replied, ‘Visas are only granted in special circumstances.’
‘Such as?’
‘My mother is ill.’ We stared at each other both working out our next move. She knew I was lying and I knew she knew I was lying. ‘She lives alone and very much wants me and my children to visit her.’
‘In London?’ I wasn’t going to quibble. To most Arabs, the whole of the United Kingdom was London, even Scotland, much to Archie’s irritation.
‘Yes. When we came in September, the London visa office failed to put my children’s visas onto my passport. They are here illegally.’ Her eyes popped open wide at this information. ‘I would like the Madrassa visa office to be very careful in giving us all correct exit and re-entry visas. I don’t want to go through the terrible trouble I had at security again, trying to get into Saudi.’ Having laid it on pretty thick about getting back into Saudi I think I convinced her that I would return after the break. I decided not to tell her about the reading books that I hoped to bring back with me. She might have been pleased or she might have been insulted that I thought their provision of Gestetner sheets was inadequate.
‘Your husband is going also?’
‘No, he is happy that we can visit my mother and two weeks away is not very long.’
‘I will speak to the office.’ And with that, she waddled off. I felt a great sense of achievement.