Its 1999, and I have arrived in Saudi Arabia. The mysterious desert kingdom. I am here to fix the local refinery in Riyadh (Al Riyadh - The Garden...... someone has comedy here). And yes that Mt Doom emulator in the distance IS my sick refinery.
Riyadh is a modern city built by American contractors around the time of the major oil expansion projects of the 70's and 80's. It has modern high rise, banks, shops, MacDonalds and all other necessities of life for modern existence.
The only remaining part of the old city, which the new one bulldozed into the red sands (piles of the ensuing trash are still there on the outskirts of the city), is the Old Souk. A market of great character, full of spice sellers, carpet shops and piles and piles of old "junk" left by either the Crusaders or the Saracens (no no not the football teams, the real ones from the Fairy Stories). Chain mail shirts, swords, genie lamps, you know, that kind of junk.
Its in this Souk that I meet Abdullah the carpet trader and am awakened to the Muslim world of Arabia.
Abdullah is a simple guy. His Grandfather used to buy carpets from village artisans in Afghanistan and travel overland by camel to sell them in this very souk in which we now stand. He greets me always with the obligatory kiss on the cheek and sends his boys running for Mint Tea. My comfort is always his first concern, I am always his guest and his questions as to my well being and happiness are always real. I see it in his eyes. Eyes never lie.
The Souk is driven by songs of offers (literally sung by old men dressed in robes walking the little alleys) and the wonderful smell of spice, frankincense and Mir. Sandalwood (the real stuff not the little spray bottles) is sold by the kilogram as an air freshener. Transactions happen by the second. Bargaining is furious and poetic as hardships of the day are parleyed into deals by swaying motions of the body and head by robe swathed men sitting on deep cushions.
Five times a day The Mullah calls. The Souk grinds to a halt whilst the faithful duly trot off to wash and pray, and then within seconds, again, on opening, the sway, the nod, the handshakes, the smiles...... cash flows, goods come and go. Centuries pass like this.
My first meeting with Abdullah is basically me browsing his shop. I do this often over the next month until I finally buy one. A small one. Its Afghan, tribal, a little rare. I look at it now as I write, still fascinated by its warmth. He had kept this carpet for me. It was the last of only 10 made and he felt that I should be the owner. I didnt know this at the time, only months later did he reveal. There was never any push from him. When i first saw it, it was love at first sight. He knew it, bundled it up and put it at the back of the shop with my name on it, unbeknownst to me. The day I decided to look again, I asked him if I could buy it by putting a deposit down and pay it off. He gave me the carpet on the spot, wouldn't take any money down. You see, in the Souk, your word and your handshake is your contract and bond. He trusted me. I am not Moslem.
My team grows at Mount Doom. We are a mixed bunch. Nasty boys from Newcastle and the odd (mostly me) Australian. We live in the same complex, work hard by day to impossible deadlines and party hard at night in the various hidden and very very illegal bars and clubs. Not even cinema is allowed in Saudi Arabia. Funny, Cable TV is everywhere and its Johnny Walkers fifth largest consumer for Black Label.
One night, we buy our first bottle of Siddihki ("My Friend" is the literal translation from the Bedouin). Siddhiki is almost neat alcohol distilled by the Bedouin (you remember them, the guys who ride camels and live in funky tents in the desert, the real Saudi people). It had been a long day and tomorrow was off. We were supposed to cut it with water (water it down). But....... it was a long day and the party that night was snappy, lots of bring your own food and good music however woefully under-catered for in terms of Jeddah Gin or the Home Brew Beer, but we did have a bucket-load of coke. So who needs to water it down? Perhaps I should mention here that Riyadh is renown for having the worlds biggest camel market.
The week before on a visit to the carpet shop in the Souk, we all picked up the obligatory white robes and head dress of the fashionable Arab male. The dish dash, the scarf/head dress and the camel hobbling tie (yes thats what the black circlet on the head dress is really for). Like a group tattoo sort of thing, we all had to have the same as our uniform marking our time together in the Kingdom. Too many of us wanted to change the colour of the headscarf from the red/white Saudi standard. We did. Democratic debate ensued settled by violence as is the norm in the west and we chose a grey and white check pattern with a slight orange cast to the edges. very fetching,
This particular party night was fancy dress.
All started well. Convivial. Food. Jeddah Gin. Music. Food. Home Brew. Shit no food. Coke is discovered in a huge vending machine. Siddikhi. Siddhiki. Turn that damn music down its 2 AM, Siddhiki. Who needs coke anyway, Siddhiiiiikkkiiii. What time is it and why is the damn sun rising?
Did I mention that Riyadh has the biggest camel market in the world? It opens at 5 AM, just as the sun rises.
The red sand. Camels as far as the eye can see. Big ugly ones. Small ugly ones. Brown, Grey, White and Dappled ones. Fat ones and thin. The market trades. It hustles. The Wall Street of camels. Mint tea is everywhere against the backdrop of the theatre of the bargaining.
A commotion. A car pulls up and 7 huge and sweaty wild eyed robe covered head dress wearing unshaven suicide bomber lookalikes issue from its side. They take a defensive field position demonstrating to all their military origins. A ripple passes through the thronged market. The suicide bombers march in formation from camel stall to camel stall interrogating the owners in question of the chattel on offer in broken (very very broken) Arabic. Their leader is relentless in bargaining and sways to the ritual dance of the old desert. He is obviously the veteran of many carpet purchases and soon has an audience of camel traders involved in a group self heal on advanced pricing negotiations.
Who are these people disturbing the throb of our markets, upsetting its ancient rhythmic flow. They wear the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement and march like a military squad. Their commander barks orders and frowns at his subordinates who are seemingly edgy, very edgy. They smile infrequently. Their language, guttural and terse, spoken loudly, is so strange.
A small white camel. A price is agreed, a deal is struck. Looking eye to eye, with a handshake the values are exchanged. Camel for Money, Money for Camel. The theatre of the bargaining appreciated by both sides, its actors all take bows over Mint Tea.
Sand. Red sand. The desert. Add now the sun. Its mid morning and I am standing in the middle of this really foul smelling camel market holding onto the reigns of this equally (compared to me) silly looking white camel. The Siddhiki really isnt my friend I am rapidly discovering, and nowhere in sight is a hangover clinic. My boys have all passed out in the truck. Cept me and this stupid looking camel. Ever heard of the term Post Decisional Dissidence? It hits me like a cruise missile, strikes me unawares physically like a Naval bombardment from some far off flotilla.
Hmmmm, hello, excuse me, "wanna buy a camel"? This goes on for what seems like a year. During which, I meet interested buyers from Afghanistan (Taliban no less), Iraq, Jordan, and the ever present Yemeni's. I trade and trade. I drink lots of Mint Tea but have forgotten now how to sweat its so hot. Finally I have a deal. But he has no money. Can he secure the camel with a down-payment and bring me the money later? I look him in the eyes, he has no sly intent, I shake his hand and give him the reigns. Somebody brings me Mint tea and welcomes me yet again. Within 20 minutes my man appears and with a smile and the obligatory blessing from his god hands me the money.
Time to escape. Yet another 30 minutes throbs past as everyone in the market, entertained by our cultural stumblings wants to shake hands with the troop commander. No one has other than a smile or quick laugh in their eyes. We depart for the nearest dispensary, self medicate, and retire from camel trading permanently.
Two weeks later somebody asked us why we chose the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement. Did we? Stumble in good faith and you will never fall. Kind people will always catch you before you hit the ground and indulge you.
September the 11th 2001. I cant reconcile the people I met eye to eye with the picture painted by the media. Just cant. Still cant. Did the entire population of the Kingdom get replaced after I left? My mind cannot see Abdullah with a backpack of bombs attached. Nor can i envision the camel market erupting in a gun battle or metal detectors placed in strategic, corralled entry points at the Souk.
Abdullah, we looked eye to eye and I promised one day I would return. Its 2008 and I am inbound. I hope you all are still there.
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