Houses of Sand
by
Judy MacDonnell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
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Books written by Judy MacDonnell can be obtained either through the author’s official website: http://www.judyspatch.com or through select, online book retailers.
Cover Art by Laura Shinn.
To view more of Laura Shinn’s works or cover designs, visit: http://www.laurashinn.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be copied or reproduced in any manner without express written permission of the author or publisher.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Houses of Sand is a personal memoir. Names and other details of the stories herein have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals concerned.
Cover picture: Escarpment near Riyadh.
DEDICATED TO: ZALIKHAH
SPECIAL THANKS TO:
Penny, Josie, Susan, Norma, and my husband, who tirelessly edited and advised.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1 - WELCOME TO A NEW WORLD
Chapter 2 - THE MAGIC KINGDOM
Chapter 3 - BEGINNINGS
Chapter 4 - OUT AND ABOUT IN AL KHOBAR
Chapter 5 - KIDNAPPED!
Chapter 6 - WITHIN THE WALLS
Chapter 7 - LIFE IN THE ARAMCO LANE
Chapter 8 - OUT IN THE SANDPIT
Chapter 9 - FORBIDDEN LOVE
Chapter 10 - TYING THE KNOT, SHIITE STYLE
Chapter 11 - THE FIRST KING
Chapter 12 - FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCES
Chapter 13 - WEEKEND ESCAPES
Chapter 14 - GOLD, FRANKINCENSE AND MY FIRST CHRISTMAS
Chapter 15 - FIRST REPAT
Chapter 16 - IN TROUBLE
Chapter 17 - THE BIGGEST OASIS
Chapter 18 - BLACK PEARLS
Chapter 19 - PLAYING TRAINS
Chapter 20 - GETTING TO THE BOTTOM OF THINGS
Chapter 21 - DIFFERENCES
Chapter 22 - ON BEING STRUNG ALONG
Chapter 23 - TYING THE KNOT, SUNNI STYLE
Chapter 24 - RED SAILS IN THE SUNSET
Chapter 25 - BAD APPLES
Chapter 26 - LAW AND ORDER
Chapter 27 - SHOWCASE IN THE DESERT
Chapter 28 - A WOMAN’S PLACE
Chapter 29 - BIG HILL
Chapter 30 - BACK IN THE SAND PIT
Chapter 31 - GATED!
Chapter 32 - RAVENS, RATS AND SAUDI CATS
Chapter 33 - ON THE MAT
Chapter 34 - A BURNING QUESTION
Chapter 35 - HARD PRESSED
Chapter 36 - TO HAVE OR TO WITH-HOLD?
Chapter 37 - AN ANCIENT LAND
Chapter 38 - BLACK THURSDAY
Chapter 39 - TYING THE KNOT, AUSSIE STYLE
Chapter 40 - CASUAL OR CASUALTY?
Chapter 41 - A SLIP OF THE FINGER
Chapter 42 - THE BIGGEST SANDPIT OF ALL
Chapter 43 - OOPS!
Chapter 44 - A HOLE IN ONE
Chapter 45 - EXIT ONLY
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
I spent the greater part of the 1990s in Saudi Arabia, working for the giant oil company of Saudi Aramco. The boom time of the 1970s and 80s had passed, and lifestyle and company benefit restrictions had affected expatriates in the camps to some extent.
However, the benefits of “Mother Aramco” were still numerous. Repatriation benefits and shipping allowances were generous, and housing was cheap and comfortable. Travel within Kingdom was unimpeded and never did we feel threatened or in danger in any of our desert wanderings. I look back with nostalgia on the wonderful things I was privileged to see and do.
In writing this book I hope to show the personal side of an expatriate’s life and work in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. It was perhaps the most interesting six and a half years of my life and during this time I gained much respect and admiration for this country and its people.
And so I invite the reader to come with me to a land still unavailable to the casual traveler, to a place where the ancient touches the modern yet retains its charm and dignity, to a land we called the Magic Kingdom.
JUDY MACDONNELL
Chapter 1 - WELCOME TO A NEW WORLD
THE PLANE SLAMMED onto the runway, weaved and bobbed, then slowed to a walking pace. I pressed my face against the window, straining to see through a foggy yellow glow. The Asian flight attendant had bid me a “good fright,” when I boarded. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. The plane paused as though considering its possibilities before rolling to a stop in front of the terminal building. Finally the doors burst open and passengers began to spew out onto the steaming tarmac.
Soon it was my turn to grab hand luggage and stumble down the steps. It was only two in the morning, but humidity engulfed me in its clammy arms. The area was lit up like a Hollywood stage, the lights joining forces with the weather to start rivulets of perspiration flowing within the dark and modest outfit I’d worn for my entry into this Muslim country. I was the antithesis of a movie star.
Like an immense and drunken millipede, the line of passengers wobbled into the airport terminal. A blast of cold air stung my wet skin as I entered the building. I was the only female in the line that settled in front of the customs desk under Foreign Passports. All of the other passengers were men—from places like India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka and the Philippines, seeking, I guessed, a fast buck in the land I came to know as the Magic Kingdom. Everyone stood quietly and only the clang of luggage carts echoed in the great hall.
“Can I hook up with you going through customs? It’s quicker if they think you’re a couple.”
I spun around, startled at the English accent. A gloomy white face peered into mine.
“Sure, where are you going?” I asked.
“The British Aerospace compound in Dammam. I’ve just been out on leave. What about you?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know, really. I’m starting work with Aramco as a Physical Therapist. I think someone is supposed to meet me here.”
“Aramco, eh. Lucky you; it’s very comfortable on their compounds. Americans really know how to look after themselves. Most of these guys here are contractors, coming to work for a few dollars a day for various companies. Poor buggers won’t get to go home again for several years.”
I glanced again at the gaunt brown figures ahead and felt guilty at my good fortune.
“Crazy place, this,” said the Englishman. “You’ll get to know the ropes after a while. Doesn’t take long. Hot as hell and some idiotic customs, but the pay is good.”
“It’s hot all right,” I said. “It’s eighty-five degrees at two in the morning!”
Someone left the customs desk and everyone else moved forward one pace. My self-appointed companion kicked his carry-on bag along the floor behind me.
“It’s going to get worse,” he said. “It’s only May. And what kind of country is it where the men dress themselves in white and keep their women in stinking-hot black?”
“It feels like a different planet here. I didn’t see much coming in except a lot of lights.”
“They always bring you in at night,” he said sagely. “Because if you could see what the place was really like, you’d turn around and go straight back home.”
Suddenly an official in a white robe appeared at the head of the line, his eyes searching. He flicked the ends of his white headscarf up over his head then beckoned in my direction. I panicked—did he want me? What had I done? I had barely arrived; was I in trouble?
“You’d better go,” said the Englishman with a sigh. “There goes my quick trip through customs. You’re a female—they want you out of here.”
I plucked myself from the line and stepped toward the little man in white.
“Come!” he said, ushering me through immigration with a smile and a nod. I handed over my passport to the immigration officer, remembering not to look him in the eye. The recruiting officer back in Australia has said it could be misconstrued as a come-on.
A tall, slender Arab, hand outstretched, stepped forward and exchanged greetings in Arabic with my guide. Then he nodded to me.
“Hello! My name is Salim,” he said in impeccable English. “Did you have a good flight?”
I shook his hand, grateful to find the common ground of hospitality between the distant familiarity of home and this strange new country I was entering.
I’d brought only one suitcase and, as soon as I collected it from the carousel, an Indian porter attached himself to it. He stuck to it like a leech until we’d left customs and reached the exit doors. Then I realized I had no riyals with which to pay him. There was only a UK ten pound note in my purse.
“That is OK,” said the porter, his eyes glinting. I shook my head.
Salim thrust a ten riyal note at the porter. He took it and faded away, and Salim led me outside to a white van. I fell into air conditioning and a heavenly-soft red velvet seat, and suddenly my tension drained away. Being a woman in Saudi Arabia was not going to be all bad!
Chapter 2 - THE MAGIC KINGDOM
BRRRRRINGGGG! MY EYES flew open in a panic—oh! It was only the alarm clock. I allowed a minute for my heart to slow down. Then I rubbed the grit from my eyes, rolled out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a rock, and landed with a thud on the floor. I’d had precisely three hours of sleep.
The taxi had arrived in the main Aramco compound of Dhahran at about three-thirty in the morning. After much fruitless searching for the key to my new apartment, Salim had decided to drop me off at the company’s guest accommodations for the rest of the night.
“I’ll come and get you at eight-thirty in the morning,” he’d promised. “And I will have the key to your apartment. We’ll go shopping.” I’d set the alarm for seven-thirty.
I washed my face in the bathroom and tried to make the best of my bleary blue-eyed countenance. My streaky brown-and-blonde hair insisted on waving the wrong way. I thought my clothing was fairly acceptable, considering the lack of an iron, and hung not too badly over my slender (let’s face it—skinny) body. At thirty-six I still looked fairly youthful, but this morning’s lack of sleep was a definite disadvantage to my appearance.
I ate some cereal from a food parcel in the kitchen, which looked through an arched opening into a combined lounge and dining area. Through the window I saw nothing but sand. In the bathroom were the toilet, hand basin and a bathtub with a shower and curtain. The bedroom was large, with a double bed under the window. There was a blank wall opposite this window.
After dressing, I dared to explore my immediate territory. Beyond the entry door the halls in the apartment building were empty, the doors to other apartments locked. I wondered what lay beyond the main doors of the building but dared not wander too far in case Salim called while I was away.
Salim didn’t show at eight-thirty. Time passed. Ten o’clock. Then eleven o’clock. Questions boiled in my mind. What kind of a place had I come to? And where was Salim? The panic and uncertainty of the previous night struck again.
Why was I here, anyway? Why hadn’t I stayed in Australia within my comfort zone? My family was used to moving about. They’d both been school teachers with a desire to help educate those in less fortunate countries than their own. I’d grown up in such remote places as the Cook Islands and Samoa, in the days when regular flights were unheard of and books and groceries came in on a six-monthly supply ship.
My otherwise supportive parents had become increasingly concerned as I’d read to them news items I’d gleaned from books and magazines about Saudi Arabia. Just two days previously my father had said, “The more I hear about this place the less I like the idea of you going there.” Their faces had been a picture of concern as they’d waved goodbye at the airport in Sydney.
Several months previously I’d realized that I was making little headway against the bills accrued since building a small house. At this point, I’d had the bright idea of applying to work for Saudi Aramco, the largest oil company in the world, which was based in the eastern province of Saudi Arabia.
“Please send your résumé in immediately,” the agent had said on the phone. “Someone is interviewing for Aramco Medical next week.”
The interviewer was Abdalla, the supervisor of Rehabilitation in the company. He had gone through my résumé point by point. It was almost like a test, I mused, to see if I’d remembered what I’d written down.
He wound up by asking if I’d ever married, and when I said no, he wondered how I had ‘escaped’—at the ripe old age of thirty-six. Then he asked me how long I planned to stay in Aramco, should I get the job. I suggested I might go for a year.
He shook his head sadly.
“I am interviewing you for a special job, to set up a new physical therapy unit in a clinic away from the main compound. We would want someone for two years or more for this job. What would entice you to stay longer?”
I thought for a moment. Even if they offered me a good wage, I wouldn’t stay if I was unhappy.
“If I like the work and the people I work with, I would stay longer,” I said finally.
The next day a phone call assured me that I had the job. But it was to be five months before all the preliminaries were over and I could start work. The lists went on and on. Complete dental x-rays, a full medical examination, audiology tests, references from all previous employment, notarized copies of all documents… And Aramco paid for all of it, even the transportation, asking only for the receipts so they could reimburse me.
Even after these evidences of Aramco’s care and consideration, I felt very vulnerable and uncertain. Mustering all the obstinacy of my Scottish and German ancestry, I determined not to give in to my fears. There must be a phone book somewhere around—and there it was, in a drawer below the phone. All the company departments were listed. Which one to call? Personnel?
After half a dozen calls I got lucky. Yes, the secretary knew Salim. Yes, he was the same Salim who had picked me up the previous night. He should have come to collect me by now; she’d call his home and get back to me.
A few minutes later the phone rang—Salim’s wife had informed the secretary that he was still asleep in bed. He’d be in after lunch. I sighed with relief and stretched out on the knobbled white sofa to read through my orientation notes for the twentieth time.
Salim arrived at five thirty. He smiled as I opened the door to his knock.
“Would you like to go shopping now?”
“Don’t you think the shops will be closed?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he replied doubtfully. “Anyway, here is the key to your new apartment. Are you ready to come?”
“Ummm, I think so.”
My new apartment was identical to the one I had been in all day, but was on the ground floor of a residential block bustling with life. Apartments sprouted on both sides of a long corridor that ran the length of the building; the layout was the same for the two floors above, apart from a laundry on the middle floor.
My apartment opened out through a sliding glass door onto a little outdoor patio where dry sticks, propped against a high concrete wall, proved that there had once been a garden.
I found bed linens, kitchen utensils, saucepans, cutlery and dishes in the cupboards—everything one could possibly need. A large package of groceries in the kitchen would nourish me until I could get to the grocery store and stock up. Gratitude to my new employer surged within me. And then exhaustion took over and I fell into bed.
The next morning I reported for orientation. My guide, Martha, was a friendly American woman with Big Hair and impeccable makeup. She explained the workings of the company before driving me around the compound of Dhahran.
Aramco was huge. It used more paper than any other organization in the world, apart from the White House, and provided all that an employee might need in the way of free medical care, transport, house maintenance, power and water. I would be paid to leave the country every year on repatriation, or ‘repat’, and a very generous shipping allowance would be mine should I wish to bring anything into Kingdom.
Houses were of many types and sizes, some in rows, others detached. Tall palms lined wide streets; flower gardens bloomed everywhere. It was an oasis in the desert. Martha pointed out the school, the swimming pool and other recreational facilities, the various mosques on the compound, the administrative hub surrounded by fences, the oil wells on the perimeter. There was almost reverence in the way she spoke of the well called simply ‘Dammam number seven,’ the first well to have produced oil in four years of fruitless searching.
At the post office in the Al Mujammah building, I was given a mailbox and a code to open it and then we moved on to the grocery store, commonly known as the commissary.
“Most items you might need are stocked here,” said Martha. “Of course, it always pays to check that you have all your ingredients before starting a recipe, in case the commissary doesn’t have something. You may find that they’ve run out of chocolate chips, for example, or waffles, and won’t have any more for a few months. When something comes in, people often buy up and hoard it in case they don’t see it again for a while!”
I thought back to my childhood on a remote island in the South Pacific, where we had lived mainly on local produce supplemented with bins of weevilly flour and powdered milk, and where shipments only arrived at six-monthly intervals. Life would not, I decided, be too difficult without chocolate chips or waffles.
Everything depended on the oil industry. When oil prices rode high, the company did too. Recruiting increased, new buildings went up, services expanded. When the oil industry took a dive, the company tightened its belt. Employees were offered retirement packages; buildings and occasionally entire compounds, were ‘mothballed,’ locked up to bake in the sun until they were required again.
Several Aramco compounds had been built around the Arabic peninsula. Some were family compounds but others, particularly in remote areas, were for working men only. I, as a female, would be working, of course, in a family compound.
After a thorough tour of Dhahran and a buffet lunch at a five star hotel near the airport, my head was spinning. When I was finally dropped off in the late afternoon near my apartment building, three young women approached.
“Are you Judy?” one of them said hesitantly.
“Yes,” I replied, mystified.
With squeals of delight they introduced themselves—my new co-workers! Maria, a bouncy American with sparkling blue eyes would be my immediate boss. Smooth-skinned, tanned Jeannie was a New Zealander and Seaghdha was an Irish lass with a head of black curls.
They all spoke at once and I was overwhelmed. I had never felt more welcomed in my life.
“You’ll be here for a month or so before you start work in RT,” Maria said.
I stared at her, not understanding.
“Oh my goodness,” she whispered, glancing guiltily at the others, “you haven’t been told yet, have you!”
What?” I asked frantically. The blood in my veins felt cold.
“I’m so sorry—you should have been told earlier. You won’t be staying here in Dhahran with us. You’re going to be working in Ras Tanura,” she said. “Starting a new physical therapy clinic.”
I leaned against a wall, stunned, and suddenly remembered what the interviewer had said several months ago—I was needed to start a new physical therapy unit away from the main compound. My new friends suddenly seemed to fade out of reach.
And then a picture came to mind of a white beach and blue water, which I had seen during my orientation in far away Australia. A picture taken at the place called Ras Tanura, which seemed more like a seaside resort than a company compound. My pulse began to quicken.
Chapter 3 - BEGINNINGS
“MY FIANCÉ AND I are going out to eat in Khobar tonight,” Maria said. “Would you like to come with us? Dean and I could pick you up in an hour or so.”
I was suffering from jetlag and my head felt as if it was beginning to float away from my body, but it seemed a pity to pass up this opportunity.
“Thanks, I’d love to,” I said.
“Khobar is the nearest town to us,” said Maria. “It costs ten riyals, about three dollars, to get a taxi but Dean usually drives me in.”
I liked Dean immediately. He was quite a bit taller than Maria and well-built, with an open, friendly face. They were a handsome couple. We drove through the gates of the compound and were speeding along a modern four-lane highway when a sudden thought struck me.
“Oh no!”
“What’s the matter?” cried Maria.
“I just realized—we’re in this vehicle together and none of us are married! Won’t we get into trouble?”
Maria and Dean rocked with laughter.
“That’s the case in some parts of Arabia,” Maria said, “but here in the Eastern Province we have more freedom. Nobody has ever challenged us and we travel together all the time. ”
“If ever you are walking with a man and a religious policeman, a mutawa, approaches though, the man should walk off and pretend he doesn’t know you,” Dean piped up. “A woman is safer on her own than with a man.”
“Really?” I asked. “Why is that?”
“Because mutawas are not allowed to touch women, or even to speak with them, actually. A man can be dragged away to jail, but if a woman is doing something wrong, they can’t touch her. If she is with a man, the man is automatically to blame for not controlling her.”
Maria told me of a couple who had been stopped by a mutawa in Riyadh. A man had offered to drive his friend’s wife to town as his friend couldn’t take her. The mutawa asked them if they were married and they said, “Yes.” After examining their papers carefully he said, “You may both be married, but not to each other!”
There was so much to learn. I felt so comfortable with these two. They were just like family.
“Call me if you need help, anytime,” said Dean. “We guys are aware of the difficulties women have in getting around here. You can’t drive. We can, and we’re happy to help you out.”
“What about clothing?” I asked. “I understand that we don’t have to wear the abaya, or black cloak, that the Arabian women wear.”
“Right,” said Maria. “In some areas of Saudi Arabia the expat women have to wear abayas and sometimes even headscarves, but here we only have to dress modestly. Always have your knees and elbows covered. Long baggy pants are good, and make sure your top is loose and long and you won’t get into trouble.”
Now the road was fringed with tall palms.
“This is beautiful downtown Khobar,” said Dean wryly. “Actually it’s a pretty good place to shop. You can find just about anything you want here if you know where to look.”
Squat, flat-roofed concrete buildings lined the streets, and litter over steps and sidewalks of varying levels lent a shabby touch to the scene. On either side of us vehicles jostled, honking horns, revving engines, passing across double lines.
“Defensive driving is part of life here,” said Maria. “I don’t care at all that females are not allowed to drive, I don’t want to.”
People hurried here and there, some obviously expatriates, but most of them Arabs in traditional dress. Men glided along in flowing white robes (thowbs) and white, or red and white checked, head scarves (guthras) on their heads. The women, however, were draped from head to toe in black, their faces completely covered.
“How can they see?” I exclaimed.
“They can’t.” Maria glanced at me sideways. “Not very well anyway, especially when the light isn’t good. You’ll see Bedouin women with eye slits in their veils, but the town women usually have their eyes covered along with everything else.”
I remembered a photo I had seen, at my Aramco orientation in Australia, of a woman smoking a cigarette through the black cloth that covered her face.
“That’s the Al Shula Mall,” said Dean, pointing out a four storey concrete building, which filled a whole block. “It’s a bit down at heels but is the best-known landmark in Khobar. It has gold souks, electronic stores, clothing, food, stationery…anything you can imagine. On the top floor is the Big Apple, a shop that sells great cards and mementoes of Saudi Arabia.”
Dean parked on a side street in front of the restaurant.
“Here we are,” he said. Through large windows I could see men sitting at small tables. “We’ll go upstairs to the family area.”
“Females aren’t allowed to sit and eat in public,” Maria explained. “Single women or families are given special cubicles in restaurants. And actually, it’s rather nice to have the privacy.”
Our cubicle was shrouded by screens. The Indian waiter brought large jugs of water and Saudi champagne—apple juice mixed with Perrier water. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was.
“We should drink a lot in this heat,” Maria said. “It’s very easy to become dehydrated.”
After the meal, we sat and talked for a short while before Dean and Maria decided it was time to leave. With a seven o’clock start in the mornings, most Aramcons hit the sack early. My head was throbbing by the time we returned to the Dhahran camp.
The next morning I dressed in the uniform I had brought with me from Australia and found my way to the hospital before seven. It was a large, modern building, air-conditioned and bustling with activity.
“Parents must not accompany children when entering the hospital,” read signs at the entrance. Yes, English is a strange language, I thought.
Down a flight of stairs from the ground floor, I found the Rehabilitation Unit. There Maria introduced me to James, the Rehabilitation Supervisor. He was tall and thin, with a mass of fair hair and a wide crooked smile.
“Welcome to Saudi Aramco!” he said.
After a tour around the building we returned to his office.
“You’ll be in Dhahran for a month, learning the Aramco system and taking some Arabic classes,” he said. “And after you start work in Ras Tanura you’ll come down for meetings once a week.
“The clinic building in Ras Tanura was built several years ago. It was originally meant to be a hospital with full services. Shortly after it was finished oil prices took a dive and so it was ‘mothballed,’ never opened as a hospital but gradually, over the years, day clinics were opened.
“We’ve been planning to open a Physical Therapy Unit there for some time. Now, whenever anyone needs treatment, they have to take a bus down from RT to Dhahran, have their treatment, then catch another bus back. Altogether it takes a minimum of three hours off work. More if the patient misses a bus on either end of the run and has to wait. With you up there, patients will be able to have their treatments and get straight back to work.”
“Will I live in Dhahran or Ras Tanura?” I asked.
“Well, you’ll have to be in Dhahran for a while, because we don’t actually have the equipment for Ras Tanura yet!” he said sheepishly. “It has been ordered and we know it’s coming. When the equipment arrives we’ll get you started up there. One of our Physical Therapy assistants will go with you for a few weeks until you feel comfortable on your own.”
I could hardly wait to visit Ras Tanura and James drove me there a few days later. We sat in air-conditioned comfort in a company car, gazing out through a white-hot haze. A four-lane highway stretched ahead like a black and white striped snake toward the horizon, the sandy plains on either side dotted with scrubby brush and over everything the vivid blue canopy of the sky.
“We don’t have a budget,” James told me. “If you find you need anything in your work up here, just let me know and I can order it. It will take time to arrive, but it will come.”
I marveled at the difference between Aramco and every other place I had ever worked, where space and money for equipment had always been at a premium.
“Look! That’s Qatif, a Shiite area. It’s an oasis.” James pointed at trees and grass in the distance, contrasting starkly with the desert through the shimmering haze. “Shiites are a minority sect of Islam here. They are usually the last to get running water, telephones, power…they are at the bottom of the list for employment and are desperate for jobs. A couple of years ago there was a riot, and some of the locals burned a bus. Army troops were sent in and started shooting. Twenty or so Shiites were killed before it was all over. There’s some ill-feeling between the Shiites and Sunnis, even now.”
We were back to the sandy landscape, and suddenly a ship appeared in the middle of the road. I laughed in surprise.
“That’s the Suwani family monument.” James chuckled. “The Arabs love big centerpieces as features on their roads and highways. You’ll see a lot of it. There’s a spaceship in the middle of an intersection in Dammam.”
“Interesting!” I said. “In Australia we do the same. We build big pineapples, bananas, mangoes, prawns, sheep, and various other things to catch people’s attention.”
“Here we are,” said James as we rounded a corner. The walls of a large compound stretched before us, palms peeping over them. “Ras Tanura is about three miles long and half a mile wide and lies along the beach front. Everyone in Dhahran rehab unit is jealous of you. I would love to work up here and so would half of Dhahran.”
“Why don’t you appoint someone else to come here, since it’s a solo position?” I wanted to know. “Wouldn’t it make sense to send someone with more Aramco experience here and keep me in Dhahran?”
James shook his head.
“It might make sense to you but it isn’t how the company works,” he said. “You can’t get transferred that easily. You have been recruited for this specific purpose, and so this is where you go.”
We flashed our ID cards to the security guard and drove slowly through the gates.
Ras Tanura was a family compound on a peninsula surrounded by the Arabian Gulf. The largest oil refinery in the world smoked silently off one end while the Yacht Club and Hobby Farm (horse stables) sprawled off the other. The community was bordered on three sides by substantial security walls which were punctuated by several gates around its perimeter. Security guards manned each gate to ensure that only those with Aramco ID or those signed in by residents could enter.
It’s more like a holiday resort than a residential compound, I mused, as we cruised around the streets. Palms waved, Japanese grass flourished along the roadsides and median strips, and flowers bubbled out of manicured beds. Unlike Dhahran, the streets were almost deserted. They bore names like Beach, Surf, Sandpiper, Sunrise and Egret.
“There’s the commissary, or grocery store, where you’ll buy your provisions,” said James, pointing to large square buildings at the edge of the compound. “There is the mail center, also the hairdresser and community services. You’ll have a post box with an access code, as we do in Dhahran.”
We coasted past a bus stop where a green and white Mercedes bus was pulling away.
“Buses go between here and Dhahran every hour, even if there is only one person aboard. Transport is free; just show your ID card. So are local telephone calls, all your house maintenance, power and water. You also have free access to the swimming pools, squash and tennis courts, golf course, gymnasium and library.”
“Is there anything you have to pay for?” I asked.
“You have to rent your house of course, although it isn’t much, and there are small membership fees for any clubs or special groups you choose to join while you’re here. There are special groups for photography, computers, sailing, darts, dancing, sports of various kinds, painting, various crafts, and the Arabian Natural History Association. The DOG group, or the Dhahran Outing Group, runs trips to many parts of the world.”
“It sounds as though there may not be enough time for work!” I laughed.
We turned around at the sign, “No photography allowed.” I knew that the Arabs were justifiably sensitive about security around the refinery. During the Gulf War in 1991 it would have been a prime target for the Iraqis and it was thought that the early strikes from the allies had fortuitously taken out some long-range missiles, which were doubtless aimed at this area.
“Now for the clinic,” said James.
We drove down a side street and parked in front of a large, freestanding building with glass doors. As the car door opened, I was greeted by a blast of fiery air. I winced. Air conditioning was not an option in this country—it was a necessity.
Inside the clinic our first stop was to introduce me to the Chief Physician, Dr Bato. He shook my hand warmly.
“We are so pleased you are here,” he said. “We’ve all been waiting for you!”
The Physical Therapy unit was to be in the middle of the building on the ground floor. I was disappointed that there were no windows, but otherwise it was well suited to our purpose. Right now though, the large room was nothing but an empty shell.
“You can have cubicles set up here, here and here,” said James. “The parallel bars could be over there against the wall, and that area could be the treatment room. We can put storage shelves in that space and the reception area will be here.” He sounded as excited as I felt.
“I think I’m going to enjoy working here,” I told him.
“You will have a grade code of ten, the same as a regular therapist in Dhahran, but we’ll apply for a grade code of eleven after you get started,” said James. “Now, let me show you where you’ll be living.”
He picked up a key from Personnel, in a long administration building, and drove me to a row of apartments.
“They’re called ‘windmills’ because of their shape on the building plan. In each block are four apartments, which have their own courtyards and storage sheds.
“They are old buildings and will probably soon be replaced, but lots of single employees like them. Of course it is only temporary housing—you’ll soon be eligible to bid for permanent housing, if you want to.”
Maria had explained the system. Every month a few houses were made available, some for males and some for females, and bids were considered on the basis of time served in the company plus the grade code of the employee. Even with a grade code of ten I would have an advantage over many of the other women on camp, except the female doctors and those who had gained points from long service with the company.
My windmill was small and old, but comfortable. The front door opened into a roomy lounge with a kitchen on one side and a bedroom and bathroom on the other. Guests would have to walk through the bedroom to get to the bathroom, but I could use a screen to advantage. Yes, for the present the windmill would do very nicely indeed. I would look through the Aramco furniture catalogue later to select the furniture I needed.
“OK,” said James. “Let’s carry on.”
He pulled up outside a large building and we got out of the car. I gasped. A band of white, silky sand divided green lawns and palms from the turquoise waters of the Arabian Gulf. Gentle surf rustled over the sand. The shoreline stretched out as far as I could see in both directions with thatch-shaded picnic tables dotting the beach. It was the picture I had seen at orientation in Australia. Salt air tingled in my nostrils. People paid big money to vacation in places like this!
James was watching my reaction, a grin widening across his face.
“I told you, you’re the envy of everyone in the Dhahran clinic. Now, let’s have lunch.”
The Surf House, a community building containing a cafeteria, library, bowling alley, pool hall, various convention rooms and an open area under cover, looked out over the beach. We served ourselves and paid the cashier at the end of the line. It was cafeteria food, but not bad at all. The prices were minimal due to company subsidies.
We returned reluctantly to Dhahran. For a month I reported to work in the Dhahran clinic rehab unit, learning the ‘Aramco system.’ Malouf, the Lebanese Arabic instructor, worked with me on all the questions and responses I would need to know in Arabic for evaluations and treatments. I attended classes but also had individual lessons, teaching muscles in my mouth and throat to produce sounds I had never imagined possible. I had always enjoyed French lessons at high school and now I found Arabic equally as satisfying.
The computer was one of my greatest concerns. I’d never even laid hands on one before, and was quite afraid of it. Maria carefully wrote out all the instructions I would need to keep statistics for the new unit. She was a kind and gentle guide and was becoming a dear friend.
A computer had been ordered for my new job but would not be forthcoming for some time, so I’d have to do the paperwork twice every day. First in longhand on printed sheets and then, after work, all the information from the day would have to be transferred onto the central system via a computer somewhere else in the clinic.
Aramco ran by computer. Every morning before the workday began, the computers spewed out updated schedules for the appointment desk—in duplicate. The piles of paper were several inches thick. Duplicate pages were automatically discarded or used for scrap.
“I know, it seems wasteful,” Maria murmured, “but we don’t have single paper sheets and we don’t yet have a means of recycling.”
When the new equipment arrived, James drove me to Ras Tanura again. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, tearing boxes open, figuring out how to put machines and trolleys together and planning where everything should go.
“I shouldn’t be organizing this,” he said suddenly, with a laugh. “You’re the one who’s going to be working here!”
“You’re doing a great job,” I told him. “I’m grateful for your help.”
He chuckled self-consciously when the treatment couches were unwrapped.
“I ordered pink,” he said, “because you are a girl.”
It was touching that he had taken time out from his administrative work to help with this. His support continued over the next months while I wrestled with the new job, language and culture, although Maria was the one I turned to for help on a day-to-day basis.
On the telephone, I told my parents how thrilled I was with my new job and the many benefits of the company, and they sounded greatly relieved.
“You may as well stay as long as possible and earn as much as you can!” my father said happily.
I moved into my windmill and became permanent in Ras Tanura, but once a week for several weeks I went to Dhahran for Arabic lessons and to talk over problems with James.
One day in Dhahran I wandered into the Al Mujammah building, which housed the mail center amongst other services, to escape the heat. A tall, dark-haired girl passed by and I yelped in recognition. She turned and paused, and we stared at each other.
It seemed a lifetime since we’d met at the Aramco orientation back in Australia. Tanya was one of four secretaries, recruited at the same time as I and who had arrived a month previously. Tanya and Marcia were settled in a large house on the Dhahran campus, Kathy and Monika in Ras Tanura, she told me.
We exchanged phone numbers and vowed to keep in touch. She was working for Security, a job that suited her as she’d had experience in police work before coming to Arabia.
“Something really big is happening and I am busting to tell you about it! But I can’t,” she would sometimes say.
She never did break the trust of her department, and I was glad she could keep a secret for she had some of mine to keep as time went on.
“You should get in touch with Kathy and Monika,” Tanya said. “They really like it in Ras Tanura.”
Monika was already involved with a boyfriend and had little time to socialize, but Kathy and I quickly bonded. I loved her warm, confiding nature and whimsical Australian humor. It was refreshing to meet her after work whenever time permitted. Kathy’s friends soon became my friends and we shared many evenings of music, good food and laughter.
Ras Tanura welcomed me with open arms. Soon, wherever I walked, people waved or honked their horns as they passed me on the street. And true to his word, Dean was ready to help with transport and helped me choose and bring home a bicycle from Rahima.
This little down-at-heels village sprawled just across the highway from Ras Tanura and owed its existence to the oil company. A hodge-podge of old and new buildings crowded the narrow streets and if you knew where to look you could find anything you needed there. Some of the expatriates on camp didn’t venture past it. Actually, some of the expatriates didn’t venture anywhere, except to the airport.
Inside the wide doors of the Singer Store, fabrics from Europe and the United States jostled alongside craft supplies, Indian knick-knacks, stationery and greeting cards. Ali, the owner, had been an Aramco employee for many years and although he now needed neither the store nor the income he enjoyed long discussions with those of us who wandered into his domain.
He could usually be found sitting at the counter of his shop, picking his teeth with a ‘toothbrush’ stick and lamenting, in excellent English, the state of society and the economy.
Around the corner from the Singer store, the East West store opened battered swinging doors into a small room full of spices and other interesting foods. The heady aromas could excite even the most reluctant cook. I would hang over the half door in the back of the store and ask the attendant for scoops of various legumes, flours and spices to use in new recipes. Indian food, I discovered, was the most economical to cook and most delectable food on the planet.
You could buy any spice imaginable at the East-West store—except nutmeg. Someone had discovered that if you ate a kilogram of nutmeg you might experience a high and thus it was haraam, a forbidden substance. The same taboo also applied to pure vanilla essence. But even these things were available in certain places for a price.
Across the road from the East West store was a stall offering Indian dal and flatbread, a treat to brighten the darkest day. On the other side of town a small store constantly churned out falafels and pita sandwiches. It cost the grand sum of ten riyals, about three dollars, for an ample meal for two.
A little further on was a shop selling vegetable samosas, crisp triangles of flaky pastry filled with potato, peas and other vegetables in a spicy sauce. Samosas with haloumi cheese or meat were also available as a special treat during the holy month of Ramadan. Among other treats to be had were zaatar spices, foul (beans), hommous (chickpea dip) and the accompanying kubs, (flat bread).
Wheat was heavily subsidized in the Kingdom, hence one could enjoy a prepared meal in these small villages for only a few riyals.
Rahima had its share of tailors. There were many good male tailors but the Star Tailor at the end of town was different. You were only allowed behind the locked doors if you were female. The dressmaker was a Filipina who could measure and design anything, and produce a perfect fit every time.
It was rumored that some of the male tailors in town had been arrested for measuring women. Male tailors had to be content with making copies of garments, or getting lists of measurements from their customers, for it was forbidden to touch a woman no matter how innocently it was done.
One of our favorite tailors disappeared and we heard that he had been jailed for selling little white pills. He was being beaten daily as punishment for his sins.
The main street was Forty-ninth street. Here one could find electronics, grocery stores, vegetable suqs and carpet stores. Men did the shopping in Forty-ninth street, although expatriate women who ventured into shops here were always treated with respect.
Parallel to Forty-ninth street was Forty-seventh street, the women’s street. It was lined by fabric stores on one side and gold suqs on the other. The walls of the suqs dripped with gold and there was more for sale under the counters. A large variety of westernized jewelry glittered on the shelves, as well as Saudi Arabian wedding sets—heavy earrings, bracelets, rings and huge breastplates.
“How much is that?” asked a friend once, pointing to a particularly elaborate wedding set.
“Too much for you!” replied the Indian attendant jauntily.
Gold jewelry was sold by weight rather than by the piece, cheaper here than outside the country. Although I could never figure out where most of the other forty-odd streets in Rahima were, there was enough to keep me busy every time I went to town.
The sidewalks here were all of different heights, requiring concentration to traverse without stumbling. At first I was afraid to cross the lanes of jostling traffic but soon learned that if I stepped out cautiously the traffic would stop for me.
There must have been at least fifteen mosques in Rahima. At prayer times every one of them honed their loudspeakers and competed in a cacophony of sound that was calculated to wake the conscience of even an infidel. If the wind was coming from the right direction, the prayer call could be heard across the highway in the camp.
One late afternoon I walked the borders of RT camp. The sun hung low in the sky, its last rays sparkling on Japanese grass wet from the sprinklers. As I passed the tiny mosque on the edge of the compound a solitary mellow voice broke the silence. Spellbound, I stopped to listen. The intonation was precise, the melody haunting in the traditional way of the East and I wanted to hold onto the moment forever. That, I said to myself, is a call to prayer.
The day the new Physical Therapy Unit in Ras Tanura opened, I waited nervously for my first patient at starting time. He arrived with a friend in tow, grinning arrogantly. His body rippled with muscles we would have killed for in the anatomy lab—a perfect specimen—but my assessment revealed that he had no more reason for treatment than I did. I thought carefully about my next move. I could not cause him to lose face but I also would not stoop to unprofessional treatment, which could set a precedent and result in an avalanche of similar cases.
“I am going to give you some exercises to do at home,” I said.
“No! I want a massage.” He looked cockily at his companion.
I was not to be swayed and he was the first and last patient who tried to get away with manipulating the therapist.
There was no problem filling my schedule from the start and it soon became evident that I would need help. I began to split the appointment slots on my schedule, booking two patients in at a time, and was soon literally running from patient to patient. In my previous job I had handled these numbers but, with added time for translation and the tedious paper work, there were now too many.
On top of this, there was the computer work to do each evening after the last patient had left and it was not unusual to finish work after six in the evening. It was often later than that when I wearily pedaled home on my bike.
Every employee in Aramco was expected to have a basic level of English, but in reality some had little practical ability with the language. Aramco also provided medical care for dependents of employees, and many of these spoke no English at all. Although I had all the cheat sheets Malouf had made up for me, and knew how to ask all the right questions, I often had trouble understanding the answers. I needed an assistant who could translate!
“We’ll lend you a Physical Therapy assistant from Dhahran for mornings,” James said, “until we find a full-time assistant for you.”
Daniel was a Filipino, short in stature and quiet by nature, but I quickly learned that he was an expert in everything to do with rehabilitation in Aramco, and a rock to lean on.
It was a great day, though, when I got my own full-time helper. James called me with the good news.
“He is a Physical Therapy assistant, and can double as a receptionist,” he said.
“Great!” I exclaimed. “When can he start?”
“He’s ready now,” said James. “He’s going to be good for this job I think. He is an Arab, but he and his parents lived in the USA for ten years from the time he was four years old so his English is excellent.”
Suheim was short, a little plump, and very cheerful. He wrung my hand in a firm handshake and won my heart immediately with a grin that lit up the room.
Chapter 4 - OUT AND ABOUT IN AL KHOBAR
SAUDI ARAMCO OPERATES four family camps in the Eastern Province. Dhahran is the administrative center and the largest complex; Ras Tanura is an hour away and north of Dhahran, while Abqaiq is an hour to the south and Udhailiyah is another hour further south. These four camps are known as the ‘quad area’.
Buses ran between Ras Tanura and Dhahran every hour during the week, and less frequently on a weekend which, in Saudi Arabia, is Thursday and Friday. Buses also took shoppers to the towns of Al-Khobar, Rahima and Dammam. From Ras Tanura, a shopping trip to either Dammam or Khobar could be an all-day experience.
If you were caught in town at prayer time, you had two choices. You could wait outside somewhere, trying to look inconspicuous if you were a female, or you could rush into a restaurant and order lunch. If you chose the latter option you were virtually a prisoner, though a well-fed one, until prayer time was over and the doors were unlocked.
At certain restaurants an attendant would let you in or out through a passage into a side alley, after checking that the coast was clear of mutawas, religious police, on the prowl. However, generally you had to plan your shopping trip and lunch around prayer time.
Customer service is taken very seriously in the Middle East. Many storekeepers give cups of tea to customers to sip on as they browse. If you are on foot, a shopkeeper will hold your purchases for you until you finish for the day and return to collect them. One day a shopkeeper spotted me coming and ran down the street, bringing me my purchases from his store.
I had been in Kingdom just a short time when I walked past an oriental carpet store. A beautiful carpet on a wall in the shop caught my attention, and I stopped. The Indian attendant called out to me.
“Come in! Just have a look!”
“No, no,” I answered. “I am not buying carpets today, thank you.”
“That’s OK. Just come and look. No problem.”
I succumbed, walked in and examined the carpet more carefully. It certainly was a fine piece of work, but I’d been doing an excellent job of resisting temptation until my debts were paid off and I had no intention of breaking down now.
“I’ll take it down and you can look at it on the floor,” the Indian offered.
“No, really! I told you I am not interested today,” I said. “Although it is a lovely carpet.”
But the carpet was already down and I was powerless to stop myself circling it, admiring the subtle color changes as the light fell on the grain at different angles.
“Take it home,” the storekeeper said. “No need to pay for it now. Just take it home and look at it. If you like it, you can bring the money back, and if you don’t like it, just bring it back here again.”
“You can’t just let someone take a carpet home!” I was aghast.
“Why not? Take it! You will see if it suits your house. No need to buy it if you don’t want.”
“Don’t you want my ID number? My name?”
“No need!” The Indian’s head wobbled like Jello.
I wrote my contact details down anyway, then staggered out with the carpet I loved but couldn’t afford rolled up under my arm. The Indians knew what they were doing. It was impossible to part with the carpet. A week later I was back in the store with the money.
On a corner of King Khalid Street, in the centre of Al Khobar, stood an antique store. The ground floor offered treasures from Asia—wooden elephants, hand carved screens, Russian samovars, gold embroidered Damascus tablecloths, alabaster and jade vases, and furniture. At the back of the room a rickety, narrow staircase led up to the floor above.
One day I ventured up it, to a room stuffed with antiques. The scent of time pervaded the place. Silver swords and daggers in filigree sheaths covered the walls and a walkway squeezed between piles of copper pots that rose like giant stalagmites, not quite touching the ceiling.
Jewelry, new and old coffee pots, camel stools, brightly colored saddlebags, and baskets from the western, mountainous area of Najran were all jammed in wherever space permitted. There were many things I had never seen before and I could have spent hours up there browsing, breathing in as I wormed my way between the dusty stacks.
I was alone, lost in another world. Except for the Arab shop owner, a tubby, middle-aged man in a dirty-white thowb, who had padded softly up the stairway behind me. At first I thought nothing of it but suddenly he was beside me, pressing his body against me, wrapping his arms around my waist.
Dismayed, I pulled away, trying to distance myself without being rude, but he was stronger than me. This was a most awkward predicament, unacceptable in any culture let alone in Saudi Arabia. Stay cool, I told myself.
“I want you to have a gift,” he purred. “Choose something. Anything! It will be yours.”
I tried to refuse.
“I will choose something but I want to pay for it. And I have to go now and catch my bus.”
“It’s all right, take something. It will be a gift for you. And when you come back next time I will give you something else.”
His breath stank of garlic and his eyes were red-veined marbles. His leering mouth revealed stained teeth, with brown deposits where they met the gums.
My mind raced. I had to choose something to save face for him, but something of such low value that it would leave me without obligation. My eyes lit on a small ring with a broken stone in it. He picked it up and tucked it into my hand and I used the distraction to pull away from him and head down the stairs.
“Thank you very much!” I said. “That is very kind of you but I really have to go now because my bus is leaving.”
“Where do you live?” he asked, red eyes glittering.
“Ras Tanura,” I said, speeding up a little. And I will certainly not come back here again!
I did return, but the only other time I dared go upstairs to the floor of enchanting antiques was with a male friend. Even then, the old shopkeeper winked and pursed his lips at me in a kissing action, when my friend’s back was turned. I was revolted. It was a pity, because I had loved that store.
Desert Designs was an up-market store near the Shula Mall. It also sold antiques and classy items from all over Asia which appealed to the expat population. It was a much-frequented store, with its offerings well presented. Furniture, Bedouin jewelry mounted in shadow boxes, swords, carpets, linen goods, prayer beads—there was something for everyone. Large silver coins, which had once been currency in Saudi Arabia, were also on sale. The Arabs trusted the quality of Austrian silver more than any other, and so their original coins had been Austrian.
But of all the fascinating shops in Al-Khobar, none could compare with the gold suqs, which glowed together along an alley off King Khalid Street. Gold jewelry was sold here by weight and came in several grades. Twenty-four carat gold was as close to pure as possible, although one could be fooled into thinking it was cheap costume jewelry—it was too ‘yellow’ compared with the low karat stuff most of us were used to.
Even gold crosses were available for a price if you knew where to go and asked discreetly. Bracelets and necklaces were so affordable that some women, like my friend Kathy, collected a new piece every time they went to town. Her jewelry glistened and tinkled with every move.