Tales of the Unexpected In the Magic Kingdom: Or the Very Rough Guide to Saudi Arabia

By Farqhurat Phlegmtom

'Tales of the Unexpected in Saudi Arabia' is an outrageous read covering all aspects of life in this bizarre nation including latest bombing/shooting campaigns and ex-pat adventures. A hotch-potch of factual information and humorous events, including stories of the illicet alcohol trade, bizarre scapes with the law, medical frighteners and all the anomolies the alien culture throws up. The book they tried to ban, a true underground perspective; very funny and more than slightly worrying! Not to be confused with the Diplomatic Handbook.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257355471

Book preview

Epilogue

The Magic Kingdom

Do read the foreword, it’s better than the usual nonsense if you pardon my opinion. If you have already, I’m impressed, please read on… incidentally, did you buy the book?

In these days of domain sitting and copyright, I’m not even sure if I can call the book what I have without incurring a law suit from Disney, but I’ll chance it anyway.

The Magic Kingdom is the accepted expatriate nickname for the land that is the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

If it conjures up images of sweet erotic aromas, magic carpets, lavish palaces, hedonistic harems bursting with belly dancing maidens or Omar Sherif’s on horseback prancing around the desert looking moody with clutches of camels, then you have never been to the place.

Alas, as in many cases the stereotype of a culture is just that…a stereotype, when you visit it invariable you have to wake up and smell the coffee, cocoa, tea, poor tasting local morning brew etc.

The only sweet, erotic, aromas are worn by men, as they waft past in their white dresses, called thobes, which can be confusing. You can buy some attractive rugs, but all have responded to my earnest, Fly magic carpet fly,with complete indifference, so far.

Apparently there are various harems run by various Princes in their various lavish Palaces. We’ve all heard stories of loaded Arab fellows meeting unsuspecting or even suspecting Western girls on certain flights that intersect the region and trying to lure them back to their lands for some long term rumpy-pumpy with the promise of trinkets and treasure chests.

The average man in the street won’t get within ten feet of a Saudi girl; you have to admire from afar and then only their eyes. For this is the land of the abaya; a few yards of shapeless black material that all women are obliged to wear, which completely covers the poor creature from head to toe. It has a natty post box type rectangular slit arrangement, similar to the thing luckless Corporals in the Tank Regiment are required to peer through, to see where they’re going and to refrain from bumping into stationary objects such as telegraph poles…sometimes.

There maybe a few Omar Sherifs floating around but they’re likely to be men of such advanced sexism, ladies, this from a man who has been so accused, that they would think nothing of kissing you goodbye, going off to work with your freshly prepared ham substitute sandwiches in their briefcases and incarcerating you in the homestead for fear of you making a rash decision-like leaving. Or a rash decision like nipping down Safeway’s to pick-up a carton of milk, where God forbid some man might see your eyes…wooooh! Such is their highly developed sense of possession over all their chattels.

There are many camels and a lot of beach, but no sea.

You’ve probably realized that I’m trying to set the scene for you…and you’d be right, I am. It’s a bit like getting a new board game for Christmas; you have to know the rules before you can play the game. Once you get a handle on all the idiosyncrasies of this place then the goings on take on a new meaning…it’s all a question of contrasts you see.

What is considered perfectly normal behaviour in the West and a lot of the East, hell most of the civilised world for that matter, takes on a deeper and darker form over here. And therein lies the rub.

The Lay of the Land

Riyadh - Crap

I suppose one should start with the topography of the place, as of course that is the first thing that strikes one as one bumps over the air pockets en route to King Khalid International Airport at Riyadh, the Capital city, slap bang in the middle of…the desert.

Around this area it’s sand, sand and more sand, coupled with occasional wadis and rocks; not that interesting. It’s not even nice sand, sweeping sand dunes with seductive wind made patterns would be nice. No, the surrounding beach more resembles the surface of Mars and it’s got as much atmosphere but more rocks.

Riyadh is a sprawling conurbation…I’ve always wanted to use that phrase somewhere, and what with all this desert the one thing they have got is space. So the city has been constructed on a grid pattern and is a hotchpotch of awful flat roofed blockish dwellings that spread ever outwards.

There is an area to the North where forlorn concrete cubes a cubic foot in volume can be seen higgledy-piggledy, marking the desired plot where Abdullah Al Saud hopes to build his dream home, one day. Of course they never do, it requires too much action and the average Saudi can’t be bothered to get of his duff and do something constructive like that, but they love to talk about it and they all seem to have at least one block...out there, somewhere.

If you ever get a postcard from a beloved lamenting in this wilderness, apart from pictures of camels, cars with overloaded roof-racks (?) and tarts in abayas you will most probably get one of… a water tower.

Now call me old fashioned but that’s not really my idea of architectural excellence or buildings of interest to the general global public, feats of engineering know-how, though they may well be. But does that give you a little hint as to the general awfulness of the city when utilitarian edifices are seemingly held in such high esteem? I think you get the idea, it’s a bit like painting the local gas works strange colours…say blue and gold and then ranting and raving about how nice it looks and even taking photographs.

The most popular water tower to be seen on postcards from the edge is one the shape of a golfers tee in the souk or market area of Bahtar, a super seedy place with none of the benefits of super seedy places ie; super seedy bars and super seedy occupants. Unless you find gaudy pink and silver plastic alarm clocks simply irresistible, it really deserves no more than a mention. Well, this water tower has been painted blue and gold and the locals keep ranting and raving about how nice it looks and have even taken photographs. It’s terrible. In fact it’s only second in ghastliness to one occupying an area near the Islamic University which looks as though it was designed by space aliens with its concrete finish, foreboding angles and strange windowed area.

You can just imagine that behind those windows lies a Star Ship Enterprise bridge where hoards of Mattwatta in natty uniforms double over computer monitors feverishly blocking any naughty or morally corrupting material trying to be accessed on the internet by hoards of frustrated residents.

She canna’ take it Capt’n! She’s gonna blow!

Cap’n Khalid yells,

Photon torpedo block, that’ll stop the bastards having any fun!

Sits down on the commander’s chair and strokes beard knowingly…

Actually these drones are more Klingon than Humanoid when you think about it. Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? They control access to the Internet too. Any time you try to access anything slightly saucy like the latest pics of Tawny Hornae or the latest rubber-ware sites a huge page pops up telling you that you are not allowed to see it and if you don’t like it, give them your contact details so that they can come round and beat you up thus.

e9781257355471_i0002.jpg

Access to the requested URL is not allowed!

Please, fill out the form below if you believe the requested page should not be blocked:

As if you would!

The Control Tower could double as a watchtower in some dark Orwellian Big Brother oligarchy, which then again I suppose it is and does.

Speaking of space aliens there is no building to top the Ministry of the Interior, which must be somebody’s idea of a joke. In fact it is truly magnificent in its bizarreness. Fifties movies, flying saucers…big silver robot type thing walking out of the craft…know what I mean? All portholes and upward slanting angles, that’s the Ministry of the Interior for you and big…crazy.

Another building which deserves a special mention is the Al Faisalia building, and the first real landmark. It is very tall and quite attractive if huge pointed phallic constructions with massive golden balls on top are your cup of tea…are they trying to say something?

In a fit of keeping up with the Jamil’s or ‘mine’s bigger than yours one up manship’, a second phallic construction has been built by a rival royal; labouring under the label Kingdom City, it consists of two huge fingers thrusting upwards into the firmament. No golden balls though, and unaffectionately nicknamed the bottle opener.

Deliciously ironic, don’t you think, in a dry country to have a gigantic bottle opener, as its biggest landmark. Are they taking the proverbial? The rumour is that it has been so designed so that the Saudi Green Arrows can fly through it…but don’t be anywhere in the vicinity when they do…See, ‘In the Navy’.

To be fair it has dragged the shopping experience kicking and screaming into the twenty first century and you can find a reasonable music shop where species of the same sex are allowed to mingle and peruse, each other, as much as the assorted disk-ware. There’s even an upper floor where men are barred and women roam free abayaless…so I’m told by a desperate male associate who regularly accesses the area in drag to catch a glimpse.

Regardless, they serve as useful markers when you get lost and are trying to navigate the route back home under an alcoholic cloud while contending with an illiterate taxi driver who doesn’t speak English, doesn’t know where the hell he is, only arrived in Riyadh yesterday and still hasn’t found the headlight switch. See, ‘Driving in Las Arabias’.

There are some impressive sports stadiums; King Fahad Stadium is one…with its roof of strange shell like shrouds standing like upturned beached bleached beetle husks, but they seem to be under-utilised…you almost get the feeling that they are trying to prove something to the rest of the world like…hey we’re sporty too…of course they’re not. Although there are two rival football teams in Riyadh and at least they have a reasonable following.

The airport’s quite grand too, but you cannot overlook the use of brown as the inspired choice of colour scheme, while you wait in the immigration queue for hours, wondering how so many awful creations could be allowed to wonder God’s brown earth. Or listen to the naïve chatter of hoards of be-scarved Indonesian nurses and maids, destined for a fate worse than death. Marvel at their cheerful optimism and contrast that with their up and coming fate; to be derided and shouted at by incompetent Saudi doctors or buggered senseless by their employer. Catch a whiff of Bangladeshi BO; grown in far off lands cultivated on five hour cattle class flights and reaching its final destination, alighting tenderly on your delicate nostrils. Stand in abject confusion as immigration Johnnies shuffle and ferry the human cargo from queue to queue for no apparent reason because the signs on the stampers’ booths bear no significance to types of landee assembled.

Listen, I hate the post landing scramble as much as the next man…you know you’ve just touched down and some bugger has reached for his seatbelt already, next thing you know overhead lockers are flung open and briefcases, rucksacks, toys and strangely wrapped shapes are be tossed around the cabin with gay abandon…he gets everywhere.

After suffering minor contusions from various collisions with your head, you clamour for position in the aisle and then some retard gets his elbow wedged in your eighth vertebrae.

Forget all manner of polite interaction your nanny taught you; as soon as that door opens, run, run like your very life depended on it. King Khalid airport wasn’t voted by the IFA as the top airport for the worst immigration processing, for nothing. It’s all exceedingly dull.

Driving out of the airport, (assuming you finally get out), along the airport road you will note it looks tidy and well manicured, carefully primped palm trees grow out of verdant grass bordering the road and the central reservation.

As you go under a huge arch straddling the road, pretty Arabic patterns can be seen either side which apparently are allowed here but in other areas are considered contrary to Islamic doctrine…it’s a long story. Traveling along the road the illusion begins to fade like a desert mirage and once past the various signs from various companies welcoming their customers to the City…not you, it all goes South and the true nature of the place is revealed, dusty dirty desert and featureless concrete roads.

A brief footnote …one of the signs obsequiously welcoming you to Riyadh is from the special economic region of Yanbu and Jubail. Which I always considered a bit odd…I mean it’s like having a sign in England saying ‘Liverpool and Swansea welcome you to Cambridge’-or in the States-’ San Francisco and L.A. welcome you to Chicago’…eh??

The first major structures you will note are the twin towers of the Islamic University on your right, pass them and shudder for within those hallowed halls budding bigots are instructed in the noble art of Mattawa-ship.

Do you recall the terrible child catcher in Chittychittybangbang? Say no more, you shall learn more about the evil Mattawas, but for now it’s enough to know that you have just passed what is commonly referred to as the Mattawa Factory.

Catch your breath and you will see the Arc De Triumph SABIC building, one of the country’s biggest employers and a chemical concern. Next and to your left you will see the coloured peaks of Saudi-Disney, a great family day out; meaning mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, but never together like…er, a real family… they just can’t seem to get the hang of that family thing, it’s the same at the zoo.

Frighteningly there is a roller coaster ride, whether you like them or not, NOT recommended unless you relish the additional thrill of watching nuts and bolts pinging off as your car negotiates the track…. Saudi roller coaster? It’s bad enough on their airline!

Further along the road is a twin-towered mosque near junction ten, (they like their towers like their women, in twos), and just before junction thirteen there is another…water tower…that’s awful too.

So that’s about it really, apart from the odd Mosque which can be attractive if it weren’t for the florescent green disco lights which instantly lose its appeal once crowds of Saudis descend like entranced body snatchers shuffling forwards to the mullah rap.

There is the carefully maintained turf of the Diplomatic Quarter and pristine air, or the other nice street in the vicinity of the truly despicable T.V tower, plus a few notable tit shaped Palaces, but all in all, unless you’re a council street planner, it’s mainly pretty horrible.

Nearby

Al Kharj

Imagine the worst back alley greasy car repair shop, litter it with accumulated debris of various automobiles, people it with scruffy urchin grease monkeys and then build a whole city on those precepts…that’s Al Kharj. Its only other claim to fame was a spot of surface to air missile activity on incursion aircraft by a disgruntled local…well would have been except that he got the missile launcher the wrong way round and only succeeded in burning his sandals and making a fairly tidy crater. Military personnel get posted there, don’t go of your own free will.

Zilfi + Buraidah

Wild East Towns that only get a mention due to their proximity. Terrorist home towns.

The East

Jubail - Boring

I spent two months in this ex-fishing village come oil refinery from hell…it really is like going through the gates of Hades or waking up on a Blade Runner set. I arrived at night to a tangle of giant plumbing and a score of huge flares fifty feet high venting noxious fumes and flames, lighting up the night sky. Everything looks the same there…go into one street and its just like the last, you get the feeling that you have only traveled in time not space, like an Alice in Wonderland nightmare. I got lost fifty feet from my villa and it took four days to find my house again.

The desert is nice though…real Lawrence of Arabia stuff and there’s a good Hash…but that really isn’t a good enough excuse to visit now…is it?

Dhamman - Poor

Smelly old fishing village with no fishing village quaintness. Just the smell and plenty concrete. Nobody even knows where the Sheraton is.

Al Khobar - Forget it.

A shopping centre burnt down there once. What can you say about a city whose most exciting feature is an eight foot replica of the space shuttle erected at a main junction because some Saudi Prince had enough cash to hitch a ride on the real one…not a lot.

Now of course, it is the most famous city in Saudi thanks to the terrorists see ‘Compound Attacks.’

Dharan - Ha ha

The airport used to be a joke like the rest of the place.

The new Airport, further inland is the only highlight, but only because there is the real possibility of seeing a planeload of Saudis come down in flames.

The West

Jeddah - Almost nice

I have a soft spot for Jeddah, it has some unlikely roundabouts with sculptures of camels and other creatures on them. Old boats get dumped there too. The diving is very good and it’s great to see mad Saudis jumping over your boat’s wake on their souped-up jet ski’s.

I suppose the diving just about makes it worth visiting. If you really must see what it’s like and like to see vast water-spouts shooting hundreds of feet into the air then this is the place to go. But never forget where you are, and only intrepid world explorers, masochists or psychotic lesbians need apply.

Taif - Terrible

Tabuk- Wonderful, you can escape to nearby Jordan.

Abha - Lonely, Simian shagging

Monkeys and mountains and not enough meat in the air…hermit city…only a few ex-pat crazies left.

Yanbu - See Abha

Like Abha, without the bumps or hairy ladies.

Makkah - A Mecca for Muslims (Pun intended)

This place is an absolute activity playground for young followers of Islam.

After checking out the lovely castle with its big towers the hedonists enter a huge playground area where there is lots to see and do. You can join the girls and boys lining up for stoning practice and throw stones at the devil (rocks), just like dodge ball but easier, if you’re not the most accurate shot. Then there is a big black box thing that chappies in Motherwear towels play ring-a-ring a rosies, around. During all this fun and festivities a nice man is singing nursery rhymes from a big book of fairy tales. After all that smashing fun, you can finish off by playing doctors and nurses: the pilgrim influx brings a mix of contagious disease and five percent of them keel over and die. Ironically more Moslems die in Makkah than anywhere else…alas and unfortunately it’s off limits to the non-Moslem population.

Medinah - Like Makkah but on a smaller scale, great roller coaster ride though.

Jizan - Seamen

The Rest - Not worth it.

Mosque and State

I can resist everything except temptation

Oscar Wilde

The Prevention of Vice

This place is so desperate to keep their unfortunate citizens on their toes that there is even a Ministry devoted to going around and stopping people being naughty. It is called the Commission for the Promotion of Vice and Prevention of Virtue…or is that the other way round?

Its emblem is an open book under a gazebo with leaves and an abstract flame. They enlist the help of near-do-wells to enforce the non-naughtiness philosophy and these reprobates are called Matawas…read on.

They called him Ma-twatta

The Islamic University has already been mentioned in these annals and you will recall that within those hallowed halls budding Mattawas or Matwattas as they are fondly known are instructed in the noble art of Mattawaship. It is also famous for turning out terrorists and even had several tutors who went on to become some of the top terrorists in the country!

Not surprisingly the majority of students are the sort of bottom of the barrel material that shouldn’t be allowed to be put into any a more responsible position than head toothbrush inspector in a jam jar factory, and that’s questionable.

If a Saudi can’t get a government job he’ll try the medical industry, if he can’t get that he’ll go to the military, if he can’t get that he’ll grudgingly get a private vacancy. If that doesn’t work…and at this point they are often illiterate as well as desperate…he’ll join the police. Traffic accident tailbacks are usually made longer while dimwit police officers labour over accident drawings due to their incapacity to record the events in writing. If that fails our job seeker ends up disgruntled, petulantly sitting in a Mattawa class carving phallic symbols in a desk and daydreaming. Mattawas are relatively easy to spot, they sport a particularly dreadful bird-nesty beard, a white shmall and the usual white thobe except that it’s hitched up at a daring height to reveal a good six inches of hairy ankle. Now I always thought that was ironic, considering they’re always telling others to cover up, but who am I to judge?

That completes the uniform apart from unusual shiftiness in the eye department due to job loss anxiety and a penchant for drawing phallic symbols. When he’s unleashed on the public it’s usually to catch unmarried ex-pats adining or chasing after blonde-haired women and screaming, Cover your hair…cover your hair!

When they hit the local malls they usually empty them in five minutes flat by harassing video store owners and trying to catch non-married males and females enjoying each others company.

Occasionally, they take it upon themselves to indulge in a little bit of Islamic PR which requires the use of a large off-road G.M.C, a chum to ride shotgun and a thousand watt PA system duly mounted on said vehicle. They then proceed to curb-crawl and shout at any naughty persons not on their way to salah.

Salah’s great incidentally, four times a day and once before dawn all commercial activity ceases, the mosques wind up the rock and roll on loud PA systems and all good Moslems wander zombie-like to the siren sound,