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.