Margrave vs The Traffic Police

If you drive on Riyadh's ring road at night you see a large number of cars stopped by unmarked traffic police cars. You don't see a Mercedes or a Porsche stopped. The majority of the cars are pick-up trucks or less expensive cars. Sadly I'm driving the latter kind of car rather than the former.

So it had to happen eventually, didn't it?

Late at night I'm driving home after a very long day at work. I'm doing 115 km/h on the highway where the speed limit is 120 km/h when I notice the car ahead being forced to brake by a weaver. I change lanes to avoid the danger and suddenly a silver car pulls right up behind me, tailgating me with barely a yard's gap. I decide to move back into my original lane to avoid him but he follows me. Suddenly police lights start flashing and I realise he's an unmarked police car. I move into the slow lane to allow him to pass but he follows me! I finally realise that I'm being stopped by the police! Outrage and indignation arrive but are quickly beaten into submission by fear and resignation.
"What on Earth can he be pulling me over for?" I wonder to myself.
I pull the car onto the verge by the side of the highway and he pulls in behind me.
I should explain at this point that in the countries where I've lived if you are stopped by the traffic police you never get out of your car (unless you want to be shouted at). You wait in your car for them to come to you.
It slips my mind that Saudi is different.
I sit in my car.
The policeman sits in his car.
Time passes.
I frown at him through my rear view mirror.
I notice he's fidgeting a bit and I wonder when the hell he's going to come and see me.
He stares at me.
He's probably wondering when the hell I am going to go and see him.
Time passes.
He blasts his police siren.
Realisation dawns and I get out of my car and walk over to him. He winds down his window and I shake his hand.
Me: Salaam!
PO: Salaam!
Me: Err, is there a mushkilla officer? (I apologise to all Arabic speakers for my casual butchering of their language)
PO: Istemarah!
Me: Oh… right… umm…
I walk back to my car, retrieve what I assume is my Istemarah and my driver's license and walk back to the police car. The lights are still flashing. They're almost blinding.
Me: Here you are.
PO: (pointing at my car) Car!
Me: Yes, err, it’s a car. I assume he wants my help to check his English vocabulary.
PO: Car! Car!
Me: Yes, it's my car. Well, it’s a rental actually.
PO: CAR! CAR!!
We look at each other.
Me: Ohhhh! You want me to go back to my car! Right… well… goodbye then.
I walk back to my car with hunched shoulders and sit down. I call my wife to let her know I might be a bit (or perhaps a day) late and squirm impatiently. I make sure the policeman can see I'm using my mobile. A tiny bit of hope suggests he might get worried about who I'm calling.
Perhaps he's sitting in his car wondering if I have powerful wastah.
I sit in my car looking at my phone, wondering if I have powerful wastah.
Damn.
I wonder what the arrest sheet will say.
"Margrave. Pompous git. Arrested for driving a cheap car under the speed limit. Given extra time for bad hair."
Time passes.
More time passes. Note to self: keep a book in the car for just such emergencies.
I look in my rear view mirror. The policeman is chatting on his mobile phone! I wonder who he's talking to. Is he calling his mum to find out when dinner's going to be ready or is he arranging to have a whitey-hating psychopathic prisoner moved to my jail cell?
Time passes. The moon orbits the Earth. Or maybe it's the other way around. Normal laws no longer seem to apply.
Next to me on the highway tailgaters, weavers, swervers, sliders and crazies speed on their merry way.
More time passes. I slowly realise that my chances of waiting this long only to be told that I can go free are very slim indeed. I wonder whether I should have behaved differently. Perhaps deference was a bad decision. Belligerence might have worked. Or it might have put me straight into the back of his car in a pair of shiny new handcuffs.
I look back at him again. My mouth hangs open. He's lighting a cigarette! This is unbelievable! He's sitting there without a care in the world! Is this a post-coital cigarette after royally screwing me? Was it good for him? It wasn't good for me! I wonder whether he'd notice if I just drove home.
I get out of my car and walked back to him.
Me: So... is there a mushkilla, mate?
PO: Car, car! …one minute.
Me: Ohh… only one more minute? Ok...
I walk back to my car once again and drift away. I imagine I'm a Muslim chap in England with a long beard. I've been stopped by the traffic police and I'm sure it’s because I'm a Muslim chap in England with a long beard. The real me commiserates the imaginary me. The imaginary me grins and tells me to get lost.
I fret about what the conditions in the traffic police jail will be like. I realise to my horror that I need the toilet. I need a number two! My imagination starts to conjure up images of the worst police toilets in the world. The sights! The sounds! Oh god, the smells! I think of my "Family Section" photo and beg forgiveness. I cross my legs.
Suddenly behind me he blasts his siren.
I look in my rear view mirror and he looks at me. His lights are blinding. I'm not sure whether he's trying to make contact or just having a laugh.
I get back to worrying about the toilet.
He blasts his siren again.
I try to look at him through the rear view mirror but by now his lights have killed my vision. I open my door and lean out to see if I can see him. I can't.
I wonder if the toilet will have a lock on the door. Will there be toilet paper? Why didn't I learn how to use that hose?
He blasts his siren again.
Finally I get out of my car to see if he is trying to get my attention. He is. He’s now gesticulating angrily. I'm obviously the most stupid person he's ever stopped. At least now he'll have a story to tell at dinner parties.
I walk back to his car and he hands me a small piece of paper. I look at it dubiously.
PO: Ok!
My driver's license is nowhere to be seen.
The red mist begins its inevitable descent.
Angrily I open the piece of paper. It's my Istemarah. The policeman has carefully and neatly folded it around my driver's license. It strikes me as the most considerate and sweet thing anyone has ever done and engenders immediate feelings of warmth towards him.
The feelings don't last long.
He has a yellow piece of paper in his hand. It's a traffic violation!
He looks up at me, yanks his seat belt and says "Seat belt!"
I wouldn't even sit in my car in Riyadh without my seat belt on! I value my life too much! I can't believe he is going to fine me for something I blatantly didn't do and something he blatantly could not have seen from behind me anyway!
Me (outraged): Of course I was wearing my seat belt!
PO (sarcastically): Ohh… "of course"!
Me: Yes, of course!
PO: Ok. Bye bye!
He puts the yellow traffic violation back on his seat and waves me off.
In a daze I walk back to my car, put my seat belt on in the most theatrical manner possible, turn on the engine, indicate and slowly crawl away.
I think it's time to get a nicer car.

Being English

Is there anything more English than...

• Sitting on Swedish furniture.
• Eating Indian food.
• Drinking Belgian beer and French wine.
• Watching American programs on a Japanese TV.
• Driving a German car.
• Deep distrust of foreigners.

Brainwashed Saudis

I caught this clip from a Lebanese TV debate regarding women on Saudi television from Alien Memoirs.
The wonderfully articulate woman and the increasingly uncomfortable looking man make gratifying viewing. What was interesting was her claim that Saudis are brainwashed. Of course they are. The vast majority of Saudis are practically zombies. Automatons. Drones.
But so are the rest of us.
The English are brainwashed into believing that Britain is "great", the British Empire was a good thing, God will save the Queen, Christianity is the way, and that innocents are dying for "democracy" rather than to make the rich even richer.
We have a noble and heroic spirit. Never was so much owed by so many to so few.
Americans are brainwashed into believing that America is "beautiful", the American Empire is a good thing, God will bless America, Christianity is the way, and that innocents are dying for "democracy" rather than to make the rich even richer.
They have a noble and heroic spirit. Remember the Alamo.
This is all nonsense.
Our schools don't teach us how to think, they teach us one version of events as fact. They want us to be patriotic, cause no trouble and pay our taxes. Free thinkers don't make good citizens nor good employees.
If you want to learn how to think for yourself you're on your own.
Brainwashed Saudis, brainwashed English, brainwashed everyone, I wish you luck.

A Saudi's Home Is His Castle

In England there is a saying that an Englishman's home is his castle, meaning that his house is his little kingdom to rule. It's ironic when you consider that the majority of us live in houses like this:

But in Saudi Arabia, a country where privacy is everything, a Saudi's home often really is a castle. They have the high walls, the fortifications, the jaw-dropping impact of "Wow! Look how huge it is!"

The huge numbers of vast palatial houses in Riyadh continues to amaze me. If the country was not so dry I am convinced that many would be surrounded by a moat, with a drawbridge to let the select few in and out.

I'm sure that my father would have loved a Saudi house when my sister was a teenager. She wouldn't have been able to step out of (or into) the house without him knowing about it.
It reminds me of the debate about the Great Wall of China. Was the wall to keep the enemy out or to keep the Chinese in?

T For Two

Thanks to Alwan for sending me this fantastic photograph which was apparently taken at the Riyadh Chamber of Commerce and Industry here in Saudi Arabia.

The sign on the wall may or may not have been added by me…

But seriously, who built this?? In a country where married couples can't walk hand in hand, who believed that two Saudi men would enjoy sitting next to each other whilst answering the call of nature? In my experience most Arab men don't even like to use urinals (even when they aren't in a thobe).
So what did they imagine would happen?

Two men squatting side by side on the toilets.
Man one: …and I'd advise waiting until the stock hits around 2 riyals before you sell it.
Man two: Well the market indicates, oh hang on… uhhhhhh uh huuuuuuuunnnnhh uh uh huuuuuuh huh huh. Phew… As I was saying, the market indicates that…
Man one subtly wraps his ghutra over his nose.

I think not.

Cultural Sensitivity and More Man On Man Action

The Middle Eastern chaps at work are forever putting their arms around each other and distributing shoulder massages, hugs, kisses and handshakes. When they come into work they often greet each other like long lost friends. Liberal numbers of kisses are deployed on large numbers of cheeks, often accompanied by subtle slurping noises.
Despite having lived here for almost one year, this behaviour continues to amuse and surprise me. I cannot help my innate Englishness. In the West you're lucky if you get a mumbled "Good Morning" when you arrive at work. I am not used to all this male physical affection. In Riyadh I am Margrave, the untouchable.
Last week one of the guys was departing for a holiday. He was going to be away for ten days. I anticipated some frenzied man on man action before he left. I was not to be disappointed.
I watched cautiously as he gradually kissed and hugged his way through the entire team.
He was getting nearer and nearer to me.
I grinned nervously.
I looked him over. He's a big man. If he gave me a bear hug I could be lost for weeks. He might board the plane for his holiday without realising I was still stuck under his arm, my muffled screams drowned out by the hum of the engines. I hoped he was going somewhere nice.
I mentally prepared myself.
He walked towards me… this was it. Stiff upper lip, old chap.
…he thrust out his hand to shake mine.
?
No hug. No kisses for Margrave. Not even the briefest of shoulder massages. Just a handshake.
He wasn't touching me, but his cultural sensitivity was.
To me it's still odd that holding your wife's hand in public is frowned upon, but being touchy feely with your male colleagues is business as usual.
I wonder what my colleagues think of me. Margrave the emotional retard? Hell, maybe they're right.

Perhaps, just once in the future, I'll copy their behaviour in a Western work setting somewhere. Can you imagine the responses from the Western men as I slowly kiss my way through them all?
Margrave the untouchable, indeed!

Fat Brits, Fat Saudis

Dear Saudis, be ashamed. Be very ashamed. You're almost as fat as the British and we're one of the fattest groups of fat fatties you've ever seen.
This is one of the downsides of thobes and abayas, with no discomfort coming from your ever tighter trousers you can hide beneath your flowing clothes in blissful ignorance. Its only when you can't see your feet that you realise you may be over eating a bit...

Margrave the Happy Philistine

Whilst in Singapore we went to a Jazz show at Singapore's "Durian", the Esplanade theatre.


The concert included the living legend Jimmy Cobb and I was really looking forward to it. I consider myself a Jazz fan, or at least I thought I did.
The show started well enough but after the opening instrumental tracks I started to wonder when they were going to stop warming up and actually play something. There were many old folks (including some Important People) in the audience and as I people watched I noticed some of them were already falling asleep.
The music was starting to make me feel like I was trapped inside a giant elevator.
I realised I was spending more time looking at my watch than watching the concert. The guys on stage were clearly superb musicians but I was bored. I was also becoming convinced that everyone else was bored too, but was too pretentious or polite to admit it.
My legs were crossed and my foot started to vibrate rapidly. I started to wish I was in a bank in Saudi, with prayer time rapidly approaching. At least no one would glare at me if I stood up and left.
Finally, I saw redemption approach as the singer walked on stage. Roberta Gambarini has a fantastic voice so things were sure to get more interesting.
Audience: *polite applause*
Roberta: Thank you. Thank you.
Audience: *more polite applause*
Roberta: *small talk*
I looked at the audience. Half of the old men were still snoring, but half of them had been sufficiently stirred and were now sleepily leering at her. Possibly. I tried not to wonder what they were thinking.
Roberta: We're now going to perform a new arrangement of (famous song) by (famous person). We've added vocals and I personally wrote these lyrics. I'd like to sing them for you now.
I perked up a bit. This should be nice. I wondered what she'd sing about.
The music started.
Roberta: Daboob daboob boob dooby doo, shabaa shabaa shabaa shabaa.
Me: What the hells??
Roberta: Shabaddy shab, shabaddy shab, shabaab baab babby bab.
My mouth hung open.
Roberta: Squeee oon, squee oon squee oon squeen oon, uh huh uh uh uh uh.
I looked around to see if anyone was laughing. No one was. I covered my mouth with my hand.
Roberta: Scuddudda bang, scudduda bang, bang bang bang bang bang!
I wondered how long these lyrics took to write and whether they'd been translated into any other languages. I tried to guess what the Arabic version would sound like. With growing impatience I realised that even I could translate these lyrics into Arabic.
I’ve now discovered that this type of singing is called "scat". Now I may have had a bad upbringing but to me "scat" has always been the mixing of porn with poo, including eating faeces. No, really. Perhaps this explains my shit eating grin at the end of the concert.
Not having to pretend to enjoy free form Jazz. Another positive aspect of living in Saudi Arabia.

Saudi's Best Named Drink?

Can you believe that "Bliss House" resturant in Riyadh serves a drink called a Hitler? I couldn't handle a large one, so I ordered myself a "Little Hitler".
Only in the Middle East.

The Boys Are Back In Town

Well, this boy is anyway. Our trip to Asia included a stay in possibly my favourite country, Singapore. Beneath all the clichés like "it's a 'fine' city" or "it's too clean" (hey idiot, do you really want the place to be dirtier?) is an exceptionally well managed country full of hard working, law abiding people. The women can even wear shorts and singlets with no subsequent breakdown in law and order, public lewdness or mass orgies. Watch this space.
Of course clichés are often based on fact. For instance, where else would you be told what to do when driving towards a dead end?



On the flight back to Riyadh we were seated behind three Saudi gentlemen whose behaviour astonished me. It's an example of one of the cultural differences between me and some of the Saudi men that I'm still struggling to get used to. I'm tentatively calling it the "Prince Complex".
When they arrived they rammed their hand luggage into the overhead locker, carelessly throwing around the bags that were already there. Why care about those next to you?
As soon as they sat down they immediately reclined their seats all the way back. Or at least they tried to. The seat in front of me was mysteriously broken and wouldn't recline (I have strong knees.) Why care about those behind you?
Their ghutras came off and were draped carelessly over the seat in front of them. Why care about those in front of you?
Every few minutes they called for the flight attendants because this wasn't right and that wasn't right. I could see the attendant's eyes roll every time they walked away. No one else is as important as me.
When they tried to purchase some perfume and the attendant explained that the airline didn't accept Riyals (Saudi currency) they believed that complaining about it constantly would suddenly change the airline's policy. Don't you know who I am?
Their behaviour cast a cloud over me and the mixed feelings I had regarding my return to Riyadh. I was looking forward to being back home, looking forward to serene Thursday morning shopping, dreading driving on the roads, wondering when I'd next have a nice glass of wine, and finally of course dreading immigration and customs.
I don't really know why I dread them so much. They've never once treated me badly. In fact my experiences with Australian customs and immigration have been far, far worse than my experiences in KSA. Oh and did I mention Indonesia? It’s the only place in the world where the immigration official has asked me for a bribe.
By the time we reached immigration in Riyadh we had been travelling for a very long time. After recently reading KR Khan’s post about customs I was wondering what they'd do with the DVDs we had with us. They were all mainstream movies and TV series and I assumed they contained nothing that would offend. Of course, having not watched them and knowing a little about what can be deemed offensive here I couldn't be absolutely sure.
After the traditional jockeying, elbowing and wrestling at the luggage carousel we picked up our bags and joined the queue for the X-Ray machines.
My mouth went dry.
We were so tired and we just wanted to go home. The last thing we wanted was to have to sit with the customs guys whilst they watched all of our DVDs. I made a mental note to pack some popcorn on our next trip back to Riyadh, just in case.
I hoisted our two suitcases onto the belt and watched them nervously as they made their tiny but crucial journey.
Customs: You! Open that suitcase!
Ahh hells.
Customs: And that suitcase too!
Ahh bollocks!
My mouth went even drier. My tongue seemed to be sticking to the roof of my mouth. I started mentally counting how many DVDs we brought with us. We had four huge TV series that alone would take ages to scan through. Then there were all the movies.
Customs: Show me the bottle!
Me: *mouth stuck shut* Gnunf?
Customs: The bottle! The bottle! Show me the bottle!
Me: Umm?..
My wife calmly searched for the bottles of cooking sauce she'd packed in the suite case.
Mrs Margrave: It's just cooking sauce.
Customs: *hears* It's just squiggle squiggle.
My wife showed him the bottle.
Customs: *reads* squiggle squiggle.
Mrs Margrave: *pointing at the "Cooking Sauce" label* C-o-o-k-i-n-g s-a-u-c-e…
Customs: *hears* s-q-u-i-g-g-l-e s-q-u-i-g-g-l-e...
Customs: Ok.

He wasn't in the least bit interested in our DVDs. They were on top inside the suitcase but the only thing that concerned him was the slightly beer-shaped bottles of cooking sauce. I was very surprised and now assume that they aren't as concerned with married couples' tastes in movies as they are with those of single guys.
Despite the fact that customs was very busy he was actually polite and he even cracked some jokes. Mr Saudi Customs Man, whose name I do not know, I salute you.
It's good to be home.
...
Bloody hell! It's a bit hot, isn't it?!

Missed Universe

Well done Miss Japan for winning Miss Universe. I missed the show, but I'm sure your suggestion to bring about world peace was a sound one. I wish that just once a contestant would answer the token question with honesty:

Interviewer: If you're crowned Miss Universe, how will you forward the cause for women worldwide during your tenure?
Contestant: Do I look like Hillary Clinton? I didn't just strut around in a bikini to forward the cause for women worldwide. I did it to make lots of money and become very famous. Why don't you forward the cause for men worldwide by talking to my face instead of to my cleavage?

It's natural for men to cast admiring glances at women. I catch men looking at my wife all the time. If it's a glance it doesn't bother me, but if they leer then I give them the patented "Margrave stare". Women should not have to tolerate leering and neither, frankly, should their husbands.
In Saudi, in spite of all attempts to subvert it human nature is still human nature and Saudi (and expat) men are still men. But because there are so few outlets, there seem to be fewer admiring glances and many more leers.
Recently I was at Debenhams when I observed a man opposite me go through a typical leering manoeuvre. As the lady walked towards him he stared at her head, and then let his glance travel down her body with a pause to ogle idly at her chest. As she walked past his leer followed her, with his ogle this time being slightly lower down.
Like all leers this was rude, but it was amusing because the lady was completely covered from head to toe by her abaya. In this country men have fantastic imaginations.

In Saudi we don't have Miss Universe, but we do have Miss Automobile. Last week we went to the car souk in Riyadh. When we got there we noticed an unusually large number of Saudi guys all standing by the road waving frantically. We wondered why all these men were trying to hail taxis. Had prayer time just ended? Had there been an accident? I slowed down. The men started to swarm towards the car shaking their fists at us! What the hell?! Lock the doors! Get the hell out of here!
As we sped around the corner it became apparent that the men weren't angry honkey haters, they just wanted to buy our car. This is a part of town where men drive their cars up and down in the hopes that someone will buy it. All men are welcome to come and watch the show. You can glance at the ones you can afford and you can leer at the ones out of your reach. No angry husband will hit you. Just don't restrict your inspection to its cleavage and don't expect it to have a plan for ending world poverty.

Honest Advertising?

It's nice to see a leading Middle Eastern airline being honest with its customers.



This has confirmed my suspicion that unless you ask for something special, they'll serve you a bland meal when you fly.

Lost In Translation #6

To prove what "expat in al-Khobar" said is true, here is a typical barber's sign (this one is from Dubai). Instead of a "salon" it's a "saloon".


It makes me want to put on a cowboy hat, swagger in and growl "dying ain't much of a living, boy..."

Lost In Translation #5

Just to show that English can be "lost in translation" even in England:



The roast duck rice sounds nice, but I have hygiene concerns about their fried rice. Why is it so expensive?...

Corruption

Our recent trip to Europe included a stay in part of the world I've grown to love, rural Spain. It's a beautiful place with friendly, laid back people.
Unless I actually need some work doing, I like their priorities:
Pablo: We really should finish building that wall.
Manuel: Its 11am already, shall we have a quick beer first?
Pablo: Good idea!
Manuel: That’s why I’m the boss.
Ten beers later…
Pablo: We really should finish building that wall.
Manuel: Well its 1pm, it’s too hot now.
Pablo: Mañana?
Manuel: Mañana.

I used to think the Spanish are bad drivers, but Saudi gentlemen have opened my eyes and changed my traffic manners. So whilst I was driving on a dangerous mountain road in Spain and two men strolled out into the winding road ahead of me I didn't slow down. Instead I beeped my horn and sped up. One man leapt to the other side of the road whilst the other slipped into a ditch.
Had I known at the time that they were the local deputy mayor and the chief of police I may have slowed down. We will never know. Given that they've both been involved in some shady dealings I probably would have taken great delight in going even faster. They clearly expected me to stop and the local people who knew them most probably would do so. Corruption in local government in Spain is allegedly a real problem so who'd want to upset the deputy mayor? Their prince-like behaviour reminded me of those Saudis (not ALL Saudis!) that believe queues and rules only apply to other people.

A while ago a friend of mine was driving back from Bahrain to Riyadh. He drives a nice car. A very nice car. As his family was with him he was driving back carefully, below the 120 km/h speed limit and way below the apparently expected speed of around 180 km/h. This perhaps was his gravest mistake.
A police car pulled up along side them. The two cops inside stared at their nice car. They stared at their white skin. They gaped at their fair hair. They then pulled them over and tried to find an excuse to give them a ticket. They failed, so they wrote them a speeding ticket. They gave them a speeding ticket whilst they weren't even moving.
In Thailand the traffic police corruption could be humourous to us because they'd usually accept about 60 baht (less than USD 2) if they caught us breaking minor traffic laws. In Malaysia it suddenly seemed more sinister because the greedy gits wanted 300 ringgit (USD 88) if you were speeding. Taking a bribe instead of handing out a fine is certainly corrupt and it gets worse the more they want, but to me it is not as bad as punishing someone who is not breaking the law.
My first response upon hearing his story was indignation. How dare they behave like this! Corrupt scoundrels! This never happens in England! …or does it? I'm English and I'm white. Most of the English police are also white. I believe the Saudi police stopped my friend because he was in a nice car, in their country, and the colour of his skin did not match their own.
Perhaps now I better empathise with those minorities in England who complain about police corruption. Just because we don't see it, doesn't mean it is not there.