Return to the Kingdom

Hello, how much is this bag?
Sorry I don’t know I am a customer like you
Sorry forgive my assumptions,
Its OK, are you from Australia,
Did my accent give me away?
Yes I thought I recognised it.
Have you been there,
Yes many times, though a long while ago, nice place, interesting people, the only city I haven’t done yet is Sydney,
Oh you should check it, its where I am from and probably the best place visually.
Hmmm I have a plan to go back early next year and stay around the the harbour, it looks great.
Yeah it is and has some great restaurants there too with great views of the opera house, you should enjoy it. Fascinating place to wander around the streets there.
My only worry is Is it safe?
Safe? Yes yes of course it is.
He smiles infectiously
I am sorry, but i have heard stories about safety of tourists there, i was just wondering
Its Ok, be comfortable, you will be fine
Are you Saudi?
Yep born and bred in this area,
Where you working,
Oh up at Jubail,
SABIC or ARAMCO?
SABIC
Interesting.
Shaking hands, very nice to meet you,
Yes you too I wish you well,
Thanks be well.

There it is again. Eye to eye with a terrorist. In fact, just a plain individual like me out to buy a bag in a little souk (market) in a city called Al Khobar in the heart of darkness, Saudi Arabia.

The streets teem with people literally bustling on the Friday afternoon, the one day off a week, the Saudi Sunday. Its hot and sweaty but I don’t notice as I stare wide eyed at the quantity of boutiques and small shops selling anything and everything. I sip an espresso. The Mullah calls, the street stops literally as the faithful go to prayer, everyone else just sits where they are and waits. All the shops are shuttered closed whilst the shoppers wait for the faithful to return so the orgy of buying can restart.

The melody of the Mullahs song is slightly incongruent with the fashionable streets, one suffers the other I guess. I am searching for the old Saudi I knew from years ago. It’s a struggle. I am confounded with alley after alley of “modern” concrete shop houses. It looks just like India, nah not really its cleaner, but all the shopkeepers talk with a wobble to the head and grin at the mention of cricket, allowing me to escape with outrageous bargains whilst we debate the worlds best batsmen and the worlds worst bowlers. I am beginning to wonder if modernism has overtaken the humble Bedouin trader until……. Hello how much is this bag?

Ahead of myself I get. It’s a week ago, and I am interrupted from a quaint little Italian restaurant (for which someone else is kindly picking up the check) to be asked to pack and ride over the border to the Kingdom, but!!!!…… I exclaim, I am doing dinner, no problem, we will wait, erm…. OK, its gonna be kinda late when I arrive isn’t it? No problem take it easy in the morning. I acquiesce, I am Saudi bound.

Propaganda is an amazing thing. Simple things like a border entry become major stressors when you consider all the things I have been warned could go wrong. Its as though the well wishers and advisors have become soothsayers of doom, and as I am speeding towards what will be my certain death, the “border”, knowing that its all nonsense, my heart starts to speed up and in my mind I start to rehearse my answers to the inevitable Saudi police interrogation. With my failure to provide correct answers, I further rehearse who I can call to get me out of some nasty Saudi gaol. This is plain silly.

Kathump kathump, here we go.

Immigration Official: Hi. First entry to Saudi.
Me: Yes.
Immigration Official: Go to the Police station over there for fingerprinting.
Me: Yes Sir.

Overhead strip lights bleed onto a desk around which an argument is developing about some poor soul standing rather shamefaced at a window facing a small camera and a small glass fingerprint capturing device. They look over at me and sneer, then frown, then argue some more. The place looks like it was recently bombed. I am alone.

The officer (I know he is the officer because he is sitting at the desk), approaches me. I trepidate.
Hi, just one moment, everyone is changing shift, you know what its like.
Oh yes no problem quavers me. I am not in a hurry. Its OK,
I will do this, he says as he fumbles to turn on the camera, I help, we are friends. He guides me through the fingerprints. Thank you and welcome to Saudi Arabia. Please go now to customs.

Back to the car, we (my Indian driver whose head wobbles alarmingly and whose English is limited only to cricket commentary) head through to the customs section. We are directed to park. I am still nervous, what do I have that can be used to make bombs or worse still, could be found offensive to Islam in my bag. The customs guy looks in the trunk, waves hi and then lights a cigarette while shooing us away. He returns to his banter with the next customs official and we quickly disappear into the night.

I calm. I am in Saudi. The drive across the causeway to the Kingdom from Bahrain has only taken 30 minutes. What was it I was concerned about again?

One hour later, I am safely deposited in the hotel.

So I strike up a casual conversation with a guy in a bag shop. The concern in his voice when he asked me if my hometown was safe was real. What propaganda had he heard I wonder. And what really is the purpose of such disinformation. I was a little bemused and quite surprised by his question. I cant think why anyone would consider that we in the liberated free world of the west would live in other than absolutely safe conditions or why we would not welcome visitors to our proud shores. Can you?

I picture my new friend from the souk standing shamefaced at the immigration desk in Sydney airport. I wish him well.

The Isle of the Dead

Heathrow. Six in the morning. I am freezing and hurry through check in to the warmth of the inner hearth known quaintly as the departure lounge.

What seems like aeons later, I sit in a metal tube facing a cotton clad seat for nearly seven hours, dozing, being jolted awake by violent winds, before returning to shallow sleep.

I awaken, and step from the tube onto the bright sands of the desert. The heat is welcomed. It rolls in waves beckoning me to lighten my English morning (mourning) clothes.

This is the Isle of the Dead, so named from Sumarian times as the place of burial for their nobility. 

Bahrain as its called nowadays is an intriguing little place joined at the navel with Saudi Arabia to the west by a road causeway.

It is touted as a swish financial hub and its reason de etre is as a safe money haven for the Saudi Elite.

Little could be further from the truth.

When it was the Isle of the Dead it was a tropical paradise. A jewel like island in an azure sea surrounded by brilliant reefs of coral. No longer.

With the oil riches of the Saudi's gaining ridiculous proportions throughout the last and this century, Bahrain has become more of a vassal state to its western neighbours unfulfilled appetites constrained at home by the feverish swirl of Islam.

What started as a handful of sleepy banks, and the odd tourist hotel catering to the sex trade mostly, has become a full blown testament to an excessive worship of consumerism.

It rivals the world in boutiques per square kilometre. Five star hotels abound and one can find drink and loose women without much search. All this interspersed with the occasional mosque.

So what do I hear you all say? So what indeed. But here is the problem.

Its a small island. The traffic crossing the border grows and grows. The greed of the people grows and grows to match the appetites from the consumptive set. The wannabe consumer kings and queens. The island grows and grows. The coral reefs shrink and shrink as land reclamation projects and more glass towers are deemed necessary. Who needs reefs when gold is king?

Well, as it happens, idyllic jewel like tropical garden islands do. As this is what gave the islands interior it source of fresh water in the form of a ground aquifer filtered by the reefs from the aforementioned azure sea.

I stand now in a flat and featureless desert. All I see is sand and Chanel Boutiques.

If I was one of the Sumarian dead who paid in advance for the heavenly resting place, I would be looking to get a refund.

Maybe It's Because I am not a Londoner

I stand in a men's toilet. The plumbing is straight and gleams. It doesn't smell. It hits me, I am not in Asia anymore.

I emerge into a sunny street scene, there are many people, black, white, brown, yellow, all bustling with unknown purpose. Bright coloured shop facades watched over by authoritarian architecture brim with all manner of goods and people. Cafes abound and are well patronised by the urban set. Could be any major city in the world, except there is a conservativeness, tradition and restraint evident in each direction.

I am in London.

A city of great history. The repository of the vast British Empire of old. Its Military underpinnings evident in its statues and monuments. The stoic never give in attitude of its people and long entrenched social strata  are betrayed by its outward appearance no matter which street or park I wander. Whilst it is enchantingly manicured, the city reeks of omniscient power, obvious is its military heritage and colonial achievements. Imposing is a word which springs to mind whilst sitting on the banks of the Serpentine watching its human ebb.

Its people are a curious mix. From centuries of conquest, the streets flow with the conquered of all colours and demeanour. Its original denizens range from the educated gentrified upper and middle classes to the under world like average working man, all stratified, all bearing different badges of their societal rank.

Three tribes become obvious

The tops of the trees are populated with a well mannered and quiet spoken group, who are unfailingly polite and gracious in demeanour both appearance wise and actual. The dress code is conservative, yet conversations are politically metro. Quite an obvious disparity considering the avant guard nature of the society in popular (especially music) culture and its proximity to the haute fashion worlds a simple channel crossing away. And yet, everyone looks like they aspire to be an old aunt or a cardigan clad uncle. The High Street fashion windows reflect an old maiden outlook, slightly sterile, definitely nothing riske.

It's when you interact with this group that you realise the connection between the words polite and political. The intrigue of the court comes to the fore, never outwardly expressed yet always behind the smile and polite nods. One feels as though speaking in a straight line would expose one's lack of educated gentility, standing one apart from the ruling classes. And so friendly banter seems to take on a circular bureaucracy after which the non astute player (me) is left to ponder and strain at the limits of perception.

This group once (maybe still does) ruled the world. And yet, they are so self sufficient as only an island country can be, that I am left to wonder why they ever bothered to leave for foreign shores. 

Maybe the weather? 

I land in great sunshine and wander and photograph the streets in what can only be described as a glorious climate. Two days later I am wet, shivering and now have a full understanding of the term "a bitter wind blows".

Maybe the food?

Outside of the pub roasts and fish and chips, there is nothing, repeat nothing of consequence to offer world cuisine. Maybe all the conquering over the centuries was a crusade for spice.

The second grouping of the classes is most obvious at the "football match". Cages separate each teams supporters. Yes cages, to prevent violence during the game. It is chilling to watch one race of people divided only by a bus line hurl the most foul abuse at each other over a game of football. Lucky the cages are in place.

The violence then overflows to the many pubs and streets around the original arena, causing large numbers of Police to be in attendance in full riot gear.

And these are not testosterone over dosed kids gone errant making all the noise, but men and women of all ages. Bewilderment as to why is an understatement from my end.

Maybe this was a more true reason why the English have been involved in most of the intra planetary wars, I mean, what exactly should one do with these people? Unleash them on someone else's football team of course.  And if said intended war partner was  "sans" a football team then is this not just cause for a good conquering?

Group three is invisible to the average Londoner. When I point them out, the average Londoner replies politely with an "oh I never noticed". Indeed.

To me this group stands out for two reasons. 

First thing I notice is Chinese, Indian and African people whom I have met in their home countries, speaking to me in broad cockney (London) accents. At first I try not to giggle as its really not congruent. A bit like me speaking in a cockney accent, its all too theatrical.

The second reason I notice them is perhaps the most bewildering. They are happy. They smile and say hi and seem to have all of the good food and best fashion sense.

And yet they are ruled by the court intrigue brigade and rash violent lager louts are ever hovering. They are still the most socially happy grouping despite not having football teams at home and dominate the streets of central London on any weekend. This is where London gets it colour and vibrance as a city.

Despite the bleak and powerful outreach of the English exterior, the streets are filled with trappings of empire in the form of slick and red colourful Chinese restaurants, Indian take aways and wonderful African art in dance and music leaving one to wonder who conquered who?

For all who aspire to a taste of tradition served with a dash of the fruits of empire, London is THE place.

Avoid all the chicken shops and make sure you take an umbrella though.