How to Fit In (Saudi Arabia)

Being a spy would have suited me as a life calling, as I fit in almost perfectly everywhere I visit. I adapt to different cultures with ease. Only my lack of language skills holds me back.

Being adopted by the Saudis is a very simple feat to accomplish. Given to the fact that they are extremely and genuinely friendly. Always ready to share their food with strangers, give a ride in their car to any in need, and just be helpful in any possible way. A simple showing of understanding the culture, genuine interest in their beliefs, and most importantly, joining them in cafes smoking, eating, and talking, is all that is required.

When I arrived here the first question always asked was what religion did I follow, and I had to provide to worst possible answer, as I abhor lying, except when it suits or helps me. Agnostic is not an answer Muslims like to hear. It puts a more painful, contorted expression on their face than saying Christian, Mormon, or any other religion could, except perhaps Jewish. So they would pepper me with the usual information and books about the religion and long talks about the Prophet Mohammed and the good that Muslims do. I took no offence to this conversion effort and listened with open ears, as I have done with everyone that tries to save my soul. When they finish I thank them for the information, tell them my beliefs and why I don't follow organized religion, and then state that I would not like to discuss it anymore. So far everyone has honored my request.

The discussions following religion always follow the same line. What do you know about our country and customs and what do you think of them? I would tell what little I know about the customs, always completely wrong as I had gathered the information from the news and other reliable sources, and then listen to their explanations and try to see it from their point of view instead of a Western or foreigners point of view. They are protecting their women, not repressing them. They used to be Bedouins and would leave all their trash in the desert and so continue to do it. They hire foreign workers because they can. They drive the Arab way, and not the Westerners way. All these things seem perfectly normal to me.

Saudi David enjoying an evening out at Sham Coffee.
Photograph taken by M. Davis Clarke

I told my friend and co-worker, Saud, that I like their clothes. He wasted no time in taking me to a shop and purchasing everything. I do not wear it out when I am by myself for my Arabic consists of but a few words and playing a mute is only enjoyable twice at most. I do dress as an Arab when going out with my Saudi friends. An Arab becomes me. Even the people I live and work with mistake me for a local when I wear the Thob.

Out we go to a cafe at night, all dressed as locals but conversing in English. Smoking the wonderful hooka, eating savory food and ice cream, drinking sugary tea and coffee, and talking. I must say something here regarding Arabic coffee. It is the greatest insult to the coffee bean that has ever been devised by man. Burnt orange in color, it smells strongly of spices and tastes absolutely awful. There is no hint of coffee taste in it. Granted that the West has also decided to cover the taste of the coffee bean with caramel, chocolate, and other such flavors, but they have not done the injustice to it that the Arabs have done. 

The secret of fitting in is not truly a secret at all. It is merely being able to drop your preconceptions and accept the local beliefs and customs. Arabs drive where ever they feel like on a road. On the shoulder, across two lanes, sometimes not even being bothered to look at the road because they are fully involved with their phone. They consistently go through red lights and make left turns across traffic from right lanes. A visitor should expect this and drive following a similar style. Honking a horn and yelling whenever they straddle a line, as an American did here a few months ago, is not recommended. His car was shot three times for his troubles. He did not fit in.

The Beginning

My first trip was when I was one year old. My family moved to Jeddah, Saudi Arabia from Colorado for my Fathers work. I don't remember anything of those days so let us leave it.

We moved and traveled quite often but the first time I traveled solo was flying from San Francisco, California to Miami, Florida. I believe I was fourteen years old. Perhaps older, perhaps younger, but fourteen is close enough. My Father was a pilot for United Airlines, and therefore I could fly for free. So I decided to take a day trip to Miami. I cannot tell you why I chose Miami but there I was, a boy dressed in Khakis and a nice shirt flying across the country. No hotel reservation, no car, no friends or family waiting, a few dollars in my pocket and a small backpack. I was ready for the world.

I wish I could tell you that the famous city is imprinted in my mind. That the bright lights, beaches, and people are all shining memories in my head. But it would be a lie. My memories consist of riding a city bus with vague impressions of colorful buildings, and of walking into a hotel lobby that was on the beach. Why I walked into that hotel or what I did in there is as unknown to me as it is to a perfect stranger. I have no desire to ever go back so let us leave it as well.

Around this same time my family took a trip to Hong Kong. My father, mother, two brothers and myself flew across the beautiful Pacific ocean to a strange land. Of the flight I remember nothing, but that landing will be imprinted on my mind until I am dust. Kai Tak airport was famous for it's approaches, and rightfully so. I remember looking out the window, as I always had to have the window seat, and seeing buildings on both sides of the plane rising higher than we were. A tunnel of buildings big enough to swallow the largest commercial airliner is not something a young boy will forget.

Our hotel had a doorman, and the lobby was extravagant, but details I cannot give. I believe all five of us stayed in the same room, but I must have had a cot, because early the next morning I could not sleep and got up before the sun. What boy could be expected to sleep while a utterly new and strange land was begging to be explored just outside the door? I quietly escaped without waking anybody to see what this city had to offer. I bowed to the doorman and set off on my adventure with no directions or idea where I was going. I had no money, mobile phones were still unheard of, and had not told anyone where I was going. I was an American child walking alone in a strange new world. 

Nobody was out at this hour, save a garbage truck and two men cleaning under a bridge. My feet lead the way as my mind admired the sheer number of gigantic buildings that seemed to go into eternity. Soon enough the shops began to open and people walked about. When my feet got tired I sat down on a bench. I picked up a newspaper next to me and pretended to read it, as that would somehow fool the people into thinking that I was one of them.

I walked on, passing electronic shop after electronic shop until I stopped dead in my tracks. Next to me was a shop full of grotesque items hanging in the window. They looked to be animals, but my mind could not accept it.

This was a boy that had once been served a chicken leg for dinner by his mother. He started crying and naively asked, "Where is the rest of the chicken?" as if the rest of it could be found, it could somehow be put back together and walk and live again.

They looked like ducks, chickens, geese, dogs, and all sorts of other animals. Strung up by their necks or hanging from hooks with their bodies dangling. It was a scene of red and white butchery this boy wishes he could forget.

After staring for some time I put my head down and walked on in a trance.

Somehow I crossed a bay that separates two parts of the city. If I sneaked on a ferry or somehow paid I do not know. What I do know is that I got to the other side where there was a steep hill. There was a tram going along the road up the hill but I decided to walk, probably to show these people how strong an American man is.

At the top of this hill was a shopping area, and an ancient old man pulling a rickshaw came up to me, talking some crazy made up language and pointing to his transportation device. I tried to wave him off but he was having none of it. He took my hand and put me in the passenger seat. Off we went around the market. One simple loop and then I was to get out. His palm opened up hoping for money which I was willing to fill, if I had had anything to fill it with. As it was I just turned and walked away.

Back to my hotel I went, having seen all of Hong Kong I needed to see. A towering city where foreigners of all ages can sightsee unmolested.

Lake Tekapo- New Zealand 2007

A person can be seen in the left center. Photograph taken by David Batiz

The year 2007 found me living among our brothers at the bottom of the world for the second time. I started in Auckland but quickly and quietly made my way down to Christchurch on the South Island. While enjoying the streets of this wonderful city cleverly disguised as a common bum, for I wasn't really a bum as the ten dollars in my clearly pocket showed, I came across a job offer in the paper for a chef position in Mt. Cook. I had no idea where Mt. Cook was and had never worked as a cook before so it was obviously perfect for me. I called the contact number from a kind citizens phone that I met while walking around. Of course I had my own brand new and expensive mobile phone, but I somehow couldn't get it to work. Maybe there was a broken connection between two of the pieces of candy inside. Somehow I got the job, but this is for a different story. 

Perhaps a chronological timeline of my travels will be more suitable to the reader. Let it be so for the future, but we shall finish this story for the present.

Lake Tekapo is on the drive from Christchurch to Mt. Cook. I stopped here briefly as the colors of the lake entranced me, and not because the bus stopped for an hour break. Never had I seen such a teal color before. But the euphoria was short lived since all lakes in the region are of the same color. It is truly a shame that we are only amazed by new and different experiences, and once the initial amazement is gone, we take it for granted. It does give a meaning to life though. To go out always searching for new and incredible experiences to stimulate to mind. But again I digress.

I stopped at the lake for less than an hour. While the lake itself captured my attention, there was nothing else there save a small town of around three hundred people. I sat for a while lost in the color and reflection of the lake, and then carried on. I have not been back since.

Trip to Mada'in Saleh- Part III

Davis and I twice failed to make it to the historical site of Mada'in Saleh. Not through any fault of ours but the fault of a country that finds it good business to build dirt mountains on its roads and not give any warning or notice to the travelers using said road. Perhaps the only reason for that road is to laugh at foreigners who try to use it. It seems like a lot of trouble for a prank but Muslims are dedicated, so I believe it to be true.

If we were going to survive in this country we would have to enlist the help of an Arab, and so we did. We asked Abdullah at our work where we were going wrong. The kind gentleman laughed at us when we told him how we were trying to get to Mada'in Saleh. He then looked sternly in our faces and asked where we had gotten such absurd directions. I almost panicked under this interrogation, but luckily I collected myself and answered bravely that Google maps had directed us. He proceeded to draw us a map of the correct way, but it was not needed. A few words would have sufficed. Drive on one road past a checkpoint, turn right, and drive two hours until the road dead ends. That was as complex as it was.

I had my doubts about getting there in two hours, considering we had planned for over five, but I hadn't been lied to by an Arab yet so I took his word for it.

The next day Davis and I again left early in the morning for our illusive ruins. We proceeded along the first road without incident, admiring how they manage to irrigate the desert and grow such green crops. On the North side of this road about thirty kilometers outside Tabuk is the camel racing club. A large complex of different pens for the animals and trainers and one very large racetrack with a grandstand. I visited once and never has such a collection of these tall, ugly animals been known. Hundreds and perhaps thousands of these hardy desert dwellers walking back and forth to the track by their black as coal Sudanese trainers. Some of these animals have their legs bound so they have to shuffle. No doubt the troublemakers of the group. I am reminded of AT-AT from Star Wars fame when I observe them, but perhaps that is just me.

We continue past the collection of the prized Arab animals and soon come upon the checkpoint. Every major road leading out of, or coming into the cities has one of these checkpoints. They are always manned and require you to slow to a crawl as you pass through them. This is accomplished by gigantic speed bumps, about five of them in a row. I do not know what they look for as I have never been stopped, and this was no exception.

We pass the checkpoint unmolested and come to a crossroad about five kilometers beyond it. In normal Saudi fashion there is no sign to identify the road at all. It is just a road leading straight into the desert. It seems to laugh at us and tease us. "Do you think I'm what you are looking for? Good luck, because I'm never going to tell you."

We decide to drive passed it for a few minutes to see if any other roads present themselves, but none do. So we turn back and heedlessly head down this new road full of doubt.

The road is a perfectly common Arab road. Good condition with one lane each direction. But with this one comes a strange engineering decision. Tight twists and turns present themselves. There is a perfectly level section with no hills to avoid and yet here is a turn that makes me brake hard and go off the road into the dirt. It upsets me yet makes me smirk as well knowing that I am not the only person to be fooled, if the strips of burnt rubber are any judge.

We continue on, exactly the same as our other road trips. Passing rocks, dirt, mountains, hills, and a few cars. After an hour we happen upon another tiny depressing village. Exactly the same as all the other tiny villages. A fuel station with an Indian and many half finished houses. Cinder blocks scattering the ground.

We continue an hour more and see agriculture. Green fields and rows upon rows of date trees. Off to our right are some incredible hills. Perfectly smooth cliff faces rising hundreds of feet. A few minutes longer and we come to the end of the road, exactly as we were told. I check the time. Exactly two hours. I trust Arabs completely now.

Yet the same dilemma presents itself. Two ways to go and not a road sign to be seen. We had to choose a direction so let it be to the right. Now if we had been good scouts and paid attention we would have found Mada'in Saleh right then and there at the intersection, but we weren't and didn't. We continued on driving around, passing quaint little farming villages with strange foreign sounding names. Yes, the villages have signs naming them in English. We drove and drove until we can into quite a large, somehow pretty town. It turned out to be the largest town in the area and we spent quite a bit of time here. We did not make it to Mada'in Saleh, which wasn't a complete loss as it was closed on this day, Friday, as we later found out. The town we did enjoy that fine Friday was Al-Ula, and that leads me to the next chapter.