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.....

Week 8

Last week it was a war on storage. This week a war on paperwork and the amount of it that is currently coming through my letterbox regarding the Eastleigh by-election.  I think the Conservative Party have felled an entire forest in order to produce a daily bulletin extolling the virtues of their candidate.  I know she is local, and I know she is a ‘working’ mum with 4 children – this point is stressed in every pamphlet as if it should be main reason she deserves my vote. What  is it exactly that she works at? The omission of any specific job title makes me suspect she is a business woman earning mega-bucks. She’s obviously not a teacher, a doctor or a nurse, if that was the case her publicity machine would be crying it out from the rooftops. I suppose if I was that interested I would Google her to find out but to be honest, I’ve got better things to do. Several trips a day to the recycling bin are currently taking up my time.

Of the other dozen or so candidates all I know from the mountains of literature accumulating on the doormat is that they are all very good at slagging each other off. There are faults with all of them and it is becoming quite a dilemma. Who do I vote for?

The fact that I am even thinking about or debating this matter makes me realise I have too much time on my hands and I need to get busy. Having the teenager at home for half term has helped. I have to take her shopping for new shoes - always fun. I need to remember she has requested my presence on the shopping trip solely for my financial support - not my fashion advice. I must learn to keep quiet.

The sunshine has also fuelled my enthusiasm to get outdoors – the garden has been dug over, and is readily prepared awaiting the arrival of the landscaper who is going to aid my creative vision of horticultural heaven with the installation of a new patio and path. Hard landscaping should always be completed before any planting, according to my hero Alan Titchmarsh. I wish someone had told my sweet peas that. They need to stop growing. Religiously following the guidelines in my Gardener’s World magazine it said now was the time to sow sweet peas. I love sweet peas, they are one of my favourite flowers and I thought I would get ahead, sow the seeds indoors as per instructions, then have them ready to plant out around some fancy French rustic obelisk as soon as the new garden was ready.

However within a matter of 48 hours the seeds had germinated and are now romping way ahead of schedule in scenes reminiscent of Jack & the Beanstalk. These are not sweat peas, these are triffids and they are going to need planting outside long before the garden is ready.  What have I done to them – not enough light, too much light, have I deprived them of water or given them too much?

If one of those by-election candidates could actually do something useful and put some gardening advice into their leaflets, I might well be tempted to get out there and vote.

Week 7

I didn’t think I was a hoarder – I’ve watched those programmes on TV and I’ve seen the state real hoarders live in.  My spare room is nothing like that but it did need sorting.  Plastic crates that were carted from one loft to the next; a large selection of travel brochures and tourist information leaflets transported back from the US. It all takes up a considerable amount of space. This is a new house and a new start and some things are going to have to go.

Such as? I have collected greetings cards.  I have Wedding cards, Congratulation on the Birth cards; Anniversary cards; 18th, 21^st, 30^th and 40^th birthday cards.  Do I really need to keep them all? I have Sorry You are Leaving cards – leaving where? We’re Going To Miss You cards from former work colleagues from over 25 years ago and Welcome to your new house cards. I’ve moved  so many times I can’t even tell which house these relate to.

I have drawings and works of art that were once lovingly pinned to the front of the fridge when the kids started school. Do I really need to keep those? Will they thank me for them? Which way up do they even go? I have their first shoes, and the baby shawl. I have the photos,  I have them – what more do I need?

It’s not as if I have kept every back issue of Jackie or My Guy magazine like some hoarders, but I do have treasured old records.  Why? I have nothing to play them on. It’s all very good keeping an original vinyl of Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret by Soft Cell because of the happy memories but I’m never going to listen to it.

The wedding dress produced shrieks of hysterical laughter from the teenager – but we could both fit into it (not, I hasten to add, at the same time).  What an earth am I really keeping it for? It’s a two piece suit from Debenhams and I’ve donated far more fashionable outfits to charity bags over the years.

Sometimes we have to let go.

The cat had great fun playing with the knitted Clanger my mother made me when I was about five – although that was retrieved and put back in the box, along with nearly all the birthday cards, including  all the home-made ones, every Mothers Day Card, every Valentine’s card....

I still have the same number of plastic crates as when I started my clearing out. I retained the Dressing Up Princess Diana kit in the hope that one day it might be worth a fortune (definitely regret not taking that and putting it on e-bay in the US). I did retain the wedding dress although I’m still not sure why, and the masses of travel leaflets remain just in case, you never know, I might go back there one day.

And I suppose that’s the dilemma that all hoarders face – you never know I might need it. We never think   highly likely that I might not.

Despite a sub-conscious yelling BIN BIN BIN I took most things out of my boxes, wistfully reminisced, and then put them straight back in.

Week 6

I generally try and keep these posts to something that effects me personally and do my best to keep them humourous and light-hearted.  Any comments I make are my own personal opinions.

 I am not a political animal but  I’ve always voted because women died so that I could vote.

When we left the UK in 2009 Gordon Brown was Prime Minister. Things have changed a lot since then. We missed the 2010 general election but I will now have my chance to vote again because I live in the constituency of disgraced Lib Dem MP Chris Huhne. I’ve never met Mr Huhne – what little I know of him is from what I’ve read in recent newspaper reports and what I can remember from some dim and distant electoral bumf his supporters shoved through my doors several years ago.  I do remember him personally phoning us up at home on a previous general election evening to remind us to go and vote, even though we already had,  although not necessarily for him. My former neighbour happily recounts the story of his daughter handing him the phone on the loo when Mr Huhne phoned their household - obviously a man determined to go to great lengths to get himself elected.

Personally I don’t care whether Mr Huhne’s wife took his speeding points willingly or under coercion – we wives do an awful lot of self-sacrifice in order to support our husband’s careers – as I continually point out to my loving partner.  Mr Huhne must have known that as a politician every skeleton would one day come out of his closet. This was a man who could easily afford to take the taxi fares resulting from a speeding ban and while I often tell my husband he has sold his soul to the corporate dollar devil, Mr Huhne definitely sold his to further his own personal political ambition. As always in these cases it is the children who suffer – we are adults and make our own decisions; unfortunately our children have to live the consequences.

As women we learn very early on to make sacrifices – especially when it comes to career v family.  I was once a PA but exchanged that glittering career to become an undervalued underpaid NHS audio typist – because it meant I could take my kids to school at 9 and pick them up at 3. I have every admiration for anyone who wants a high flying career; ambition is not a crime, but deception and dishonesty are.  Mr Huhne was asking an awful lot to expect his wife, and his children, to remain forever silent, sacrificing their own integrity to support him.

Sadly I’m quite sure he is typical of many politicians.  And to think suffragettes died so that we could vote for men like him - that's what really makes my blood boil.

(Next week I promise to get back to something light and fluffy.)