The Saudi Experience Part 2

So what exactly does an ex-pat wife get up to in Saudi? The bus goes daily to the nearest supermarket and Mall, and if venturing anywhere else, a car and a driver are supplied.  An abaya – any shade of black will do – has to be worn outside the compound at all times, although western women can get away without covering their heads.

Saudi Arabia has little or no agriculture of its own and most food supplies are imported.  The quality of fruit and veg available in the supermarket was poor, but I’d been shopping in Ralphs in California for the last three years, I was used to a cucumber well past its best. 

My ex-pat friends explained the continuity of food supplies was erratic, hence the need to grab several packets of Maltesers  in one go. It also explained why I’d found several the boxes of Rice Krispies stashed in the kitchen cupboard. Buy it whilst you can, appears to be the western shopper’s motto, when it’s gone it’s well and truly gone and you have no idea when, if ever, it will be back.

After we had stocked up on food, we headed for the Mall, where I was surprised to discover a New Look – staffed entirely, of course, by men. A lingerie shop  clearly signed ‘Families Only’ had its wares on public display, and was one of the very few places with female staff (the Body Shop was another) yet images of scantily clad women on the packaging for pop-up swimming pools had been blacked out in another store (although in many cases the stickers had been subsequently scratched off ).

There were designated places in the Mall where women could sit and take a coffee, but I was told dining out was fraught with difficulty.  Not only did you have to time your arrival not to coincide with prayer time – if it did you simply wouldn’t get served – but women were confined to ‘family areas’, separate booths behind curtains. That’s really not my idea of a fun night out.

So despite the presence of MacDonalds, Pizza Hut and the American ice cream chain Baskin’ Robbins, I decided I would prefer to dine in.

I was told I had chosen the busiest week of the year to visit the compound; social life was rife.  There was the project team dinner, a birthday BBQ and the annual ‘fun run’ – as many times around the perimeter fence as you can in 45 minutes  (the winner managed 7, I managed 3).  

I did catch sight of the souks and markets, but forget those colourful holiday images of bustling spice stalls in  Morroco or Tunisia, Yanbu market was a shabby selection of vans and tents, elderly Arabs sheltering from the heat selling goods from the backs of their cars.  Down town Yanbu is grubby, dusty and dirty. Men gather on  corners, the buildings  are old, uncared for and decrepit.  Apart from in the Mall, Saudi women were noticeably absent on the street. Did I feel safe? No. Did I want to get out of the car? Only to  scurry into one shop and then back into the Range Rover to be driven to another.

It was great catching up with my old friends from California and I have every admiration for those wives who had committed to accompanying their husband to Saudi, but I knew it wasn't the lifestyle for me.  Days filled with gym sessions, coffee mornings, lunches, lengthy games of cards and presumably extreme jigsaw puzzling do not appeal.  I like my freedom. A nursery is provided on the compound, but children of school age have to be bussed to the International School half an hour away in town. The constant sunshine sounds idyllic, but even in March, an hour in the intense heat was about the most I could take.  In high summer the water in the pools is apparently as hot as a bath.

Although I was sad to say goodbye at the end of the week, I wasn’t sad to be leaving Yanbu.

On the long drive back to Jeddah we passed hundreds of camels, Bedouins herding goats and families sat by the side of the road, stopping for what at first I thought was a rather inappropriate picnic, until I realised it was prayer time.

We westerners believe Saudi women must be totally repressed, desperate to escape the strict  regime, yet at the airport, sitting in my abaya with my head uncovered, a heavily veiled  young Saudi girl gave me a look of pure venom. I had feared the hostility of the native men, I had been prepared for the disapproval of the the mutawa, the religious police, but I had never expected to receive a look like that from the sisterhood!  So sad that we have so little understanding of each other’s culture, and no opportunity to integrate. As long as she hides behind her veil and we are confined to our compound, never the twain shall meet.

The Saudi Experience Part I

 A dose of winter sunshine is good for the soul, although I have to admit Saudi Arabia wouldn’t have been my first choice for a holiday.  300 km north of Jeddah, the town of Yanbu sits on the  Red Sea, and is temporary home to a vast number of western oil and construction workers, including my other half.

The abaya had been purchased; the teenager’s ready meals  placed in the fridge, and her instructions for the week pinned to the door (NO PARTYING was top of the list). After a three month wait for a visa, I was finally off on a trip to the Middle East.

It would have been nice to have sprinkled this post with exotic holiday snaps  but alas, photography is not encouraged in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, and within minutes of leaving the airport, I could see why. Quite frankly the place was a mess. If this was my kingdom, I certainly wouldn’t want anyone hanging around taking pictures of it.

I had been warned. Yes, he assured me, I would see camels, but I would also see lots of litter – the plastic bag is commonly known as the Saudi desert flower, I would seen the abandoned wrecks of car crashes on the road side, and empty buildings left to crumble into ruin and decay. The standard of driving, he told me, was worse than LA. No! How could it be?!!

Well it was. Two armed Check Point Charlies and three hours later, I was relieved to see the desert skyline becoming dominated by a succession of oils refineries, chemical plants and power stations. We had reached my holiday destination – the industrial oasis of Yanbu.

A massive modern construction programme has resulted in an influx of foreign workers into Saudi. Fortunately for me, I would be accommodated in a secure, luxurious western style compound. If my husband was one of the many Indian, Pakistani or Filipino workers, he’d have been confined to barracks, with his passport confiscated and a trip home planned once every two years.

Another Check Point Charlie and we faced the 10 ft high perimeter concrete wall topped with barbed wire. Sliding  gates drew back to reveal a holiday style village; attractive villa’s and apartments set around courtyards with pools, amongst neatly tendered gardens bursting with exotic bougainvillea and tidy lawns of well watered green grass.

Wow, I thought, slipping out of my abaya and into my bikini, this isn’t so bad. I took a welcome dip in the pool and reclined on a sunlounger whilst my poor hubby hurried off back to work.  I flicked through a couple of pages of a magazine. If I ignored the barbed wire, and the fact that I couldn’t leave the compound under my own steam or without being garbed from head to foot in black, perhaps I could get used to this.

A friend from California arrived to take me on a quick tour. Ten minutes later I had seen the gym, the library, the shop, the restaurant. I passed the nursery, the play areas, the football pitch and tennis court.  What next? We called on another friend for a cup of tea.

Tomorrow,  they promised, we could book a driver and go on a trip. Perhaps, I hoped, I would get to see some of the real Saudi, those colourful market places and exotic souks.  Welcome to ex-pat life, Yanbu style. 'We'll do the Mall and the supermarket,' they told me. Even that, I assured them gratefully, would be a treat.  

Week 10

With the hubby home for a couple of weeks we headed off for a night out in Brighton.

The main purpose of the visit was to meet up with some of his former UK work colleagues to celebrate an endurance award (sorry long service award), but it was also a good opportunity for a night away in a seaside hotel, a chance to explore the antique shops in Brighton’s tiny Lanes and a bit of a blustery stroll along the sea front.

I like Brighton, it’s a slightly faded,  shabby chic sort of place. It’s not quite Santa Monica although there are certain resemblances – a vast of expanse of beach, an old wooden pier with a fairground and amusements and  several down and outs. Of course pebbles in Brighton replace that soft Santa Monica sand and the homeless huddle in sleeping bags in doorways as opposed to lying flat out on the grass, but I could definitely see the similarity between the two places – I even spotted one brave surfer in the water.

Brighton does have great architecture although most of it needs a bit of sprucing up.  The jewel in its Regency crown is  the Royal Pavilion.  Back in 1787, the Prince Regent -  later George IV -  liked his seaside holidays just as much as the rest of us, and positively embraced the idea of escaping  for a weekend away with his mistress. Unlike the rest of us, he decided to build himself a palace in the centre of town.

Designed on the outside to look like a home fit for an Indian Maharaja, inside the Pavilion is a shrine to all things Chinese – in terms of decor at least. Even the metal stair bannisters are painted to look like bamboo. When Queen Victoria inherited the Pavilion from her deceased uncle she declared it too tiny and impractical for her growing brood, and sold it off to Brighton town council who have been paying for its upkeep and restoration ever since.

Ornate is too small a word to describe the interior of the Pavilion; it is ostentatious in the extreme. I’ve never seen a dining room like it – full size palm trees, fresco’s on the ceilings, ornamental silver dragons and an absolutely massive, as big as a hot air balloon,  chandelier.  The Prince even installed a ‘show’ kitchen, complete with yet more plaster palm trees, adjacent to the dining room and was known to entertain at the kitchen table, although he insisted a red carpet be laid over the flag stoned floor.  

There is nothing like a good old piece of extravagant opulence to remind me how lucky I am to live in a country that has preserved so much of its history. A great weekend, and a lot of hangovers, were had by all. George IV certainly wasn't the only one who over-indulged.

Week 9

This week’s good news is that the teenager has finally been offered a part time job. She has been applying for jobs for ever since we got back from the US.  No longer mixing with the rich and spoilt of Beverly Hills, I felt the amount of pocket money handed over every month could now be decreased. What better incentive could she have?

To give credit where it’s due she has been an avid  job hunter – but the frustration of on-line applications, and a standard procedure designed to cover everything from prospective store managers to a Saturday girl - has had her thwart. My teenager does not fit the norm; she hasn’t had a standard UK education, nor has she any work experience.

Apart from the major stumbling block of no GCSE’s and very often no room on an on-line form to explain their absence – ie three years in the US education system – I imagine most of these applications are assessed  by a rigid tick-box short-list criteria at company headquarters, and quite naturally on paper she doesn’t look like the ideal candidate.

Back in the old days when I was a girl Saturday jobs could normally be procured simply by going into a shop and asking, or at the very most handing in a CV.  Today’s job market is very different.

She has no work experience – she is a student.  One on-line application absolutely refused to let her move onto the next page without putting in a date she left her ‘previous employment’.

My teenager is intelligent and articulate – I knew if she could just secure an interview she could probably secure a job, and thankfully, eventually it has happened. It’s only temporary but it’s a start, and at least it will be something to put on the next application form even if this one doesn’t work out.

 I recently met up  with an old college friend also the mum of two daughters, for a chick flick and a long walk in the countryside.  We reminisced about the good old days - how different our teenage years were. Life really was so much simpler then.  I'm pretty sure it was also a lot quieter. 

I want my teenager to bring her friends home  – I’d much they were where I could see them than wandering around the streets at night. What I don’t want to do, however, is hear them.  The teenager is pretty good at turning up with waifs and strays, and to be honest, I don't mind. We've a big house - we need to fill it. However, last weekend I was sorely tempted to send a text upstairs at 2.00 am in the morning asking when chatty man was finally going to quieten down.

‘You should be glad we were only talking,’ was the teenager’s cheeky retort when I complained about the noise the following morning.

Yes I know I should be thankful for small mercies –  as my health visitor once told me when I complained a certain baby only slept for twenty minutes at a time.  Be grateful for those twenty minutes she said.  However I never  anticipated that seventeen years later I'd still be struggling to get a  decent night’s sleep.....