Riyadh Redux

My planned fortnight’s vacation spirals, for myriad reasons not worth outlining, into three months. A nine bar of ruthless Psychosis and £4000 later, I board the red eye very much red-eyed. It seems inconceivable that a holiday could leave you feeling so completely used. I’d pitched up in the UK tanned and bulging; I quit the shores pasty and in urgent need of the gym. After the standard tedious Emirates flight and a numbing layover in the utterly underwhelming Dubai International I find myself once more in King Khalid airport, Riyadh.

You would imagine, really, that a kingdom bleeding petro-riyals would toss more effort and funding into this international hub. Its sprawling but tame set of buildings lack character, meaningful shops or any entertainment. Still, I’m not hanging around so I couldn’t give a midnight fuck.

I’d scoured my luggage ad nauseam pre-departure since, during a particularly hazy period of this debauched jolly, I convinced myself I had stashed an ounce of weed in one of my bags. Perhaps, I aimlessly ponder, the name of this hydro lives up to its dubious claim… DEATH PENALTY FOR DRUG SMUGGLER - seemingly even more personalised in the jarring singular – are not welcoming words to read capitalised in boldface on the entry forms. To be jailed in Saudi for a truly minor trafficking offence would surely rank among the world’s most egregious experiences. To suffer such a fate through a genuinely innocent oversight would trump this. I don’t feel the words, “No, honestly, I just misplaced this stuff when I was back at home. Hiding it from my parents, see…” would pack much weight at customs or in court. (It must be added that a suitcase of conspicuous work attire married with a consultancy visa reminding the bearer that he is NOT PERMITTED TO WORK doesn’t do much to loosen things up either.)

Set against my previous reverse journey through KK, though, stoned immaculate courtesy of an obese joint of Afghan black gifted to me by the HR guy at my former Saudi outfit, I was (relatively) relaxed. Before I received my car back then, this affable dread of indeterminate origin had acted as my de facto chauffeur. As we tooled around the city in his artlessly battered Benz with NWA punishing the able speakers, it was abundantly clear to me that we shared a love of herb. On the last day he gave me an affectionate bear hug and presented me with the one thing I had pined for over the previous six months more than anything bar friends and family. I furiously and greedily nailed it to the roach while exchanging confused, bemused glances with the man riding shotgun in his Mercedes. I had to assume it was his friend but the full military uniform he sported was, to understate, rather disconcerting. Was it an elaborate sting, I asked myself… I was in plain view on the street outside my villa. It seemed churlish, almost offensive, to suggest that by backtracking two metres and shutting the imposing electronic security gate I could enjoy a smoke in slightly less strenuous circumstances. I left the pair with limp handshakes and profuse thanks.

Anyway, as ever I digress. A seamless series of stamps and checks later, I’m spewed out into the eerily empty Arrivals hall, upend an entire Styrofoam cup of coffee which I narrowly avoid slipping on, stroll away regardless and await my new driver. By Saudi standards he’s timely, a mere forty minutes late. We pour into an ancient SUV and proceed at outrageous pace. I am immediately and unmistakably back in the KSA. It is not so much the flowing thobes and abayas, the dust or the crippling heat that confirm this impression, more the seventh circle of highway hell. These folk could teach Dante a trick or two. Carnage exists on many road networks globally but the raw chaos here is like nothing else I’ve witnessed. The horn is used indiscriminately as if compulsory to sound it every ten seconds, hundred thousand dollar vehicles barrel past on all sides and you are permanently braced to be rear-ended, side shunted or drifted into at any given moment.

My directional sense is that of a small child so I am rapidly and wildly disorientated. The architecture is not imaginative and I have no idea at all where I am or where I am heading. Within the hour I’m marched into a block-ish building – unlike most fixers, this beaming Bangladeshi takes the sensible option of my slight carry-on burdening me with the overstuffed case – up the stairs and into my apartment. It’s certainly not of the promised standard but given that I won’t be paying for it I have few complaints. My room is colossal and contains all that I need. “Think plus”, the simple but effective credo of a great Lao friend, caroms through my mind. Given the parlous state of the UK economy and the turgid climate things could certainly be worse in the land of sand, tax-free salaries and desultory living costs.

Aware that I will be violently dragged from my slumber at 4.30am by the loud hailer of the imposing mosque smack opposite I tumble into bed without unpacking.

I will be working tomorrow but that tale can wait for another day…