American Chick in Saudi Arabia (2 page)

As I wait, I carefully examine the flat tables of the customs officials, tables that creak beneath the weight of enormous suitcases stuffed with innumerable goods from every part of the world. People ahead of me appear increasingly nervous. Their apprehension seems to heighten as they approach the dreaded Saudi officials who eagerly search for contraband in luggage. The Saudi officials appear to grow more and more enthusiastic, suspiciously examining each item of clothing or personal article in the full-to-bursting cases.

I'm not looking forward to the scrutiny of the customs officials. When I see an official hold up a magazine and shout angrily at a young European man, my anxiety grows.

I mutter louder than I intend. "Good Lord! What a mess!"

A man from England is standing a few inches to my right. He turns to face me. "Your first time to the kingdom?" he inquires with a genial expression.

With a grimace, I nod. "Yes." I add, "This is my first time in the Middle East, actually."

He grins broadly. "There are very few Western women living in Riyadh. And single females are as rare as flawless diamonds, and are treated as such. You will have an easy go of it, believe me."

I nod in understanding. I had been warned by the recruiters at HCA. In 1978, there are few foreign women living in the kingdom, although there are many foreign men. I'm betting that most single females receive more attention than they want. Although I am single and will most likely meet and date someone while living in the kingdom, meeting men was not my purpose for traveling to Saudi Arabia. I'm in it for the adventure and travel and getting to personally observe a part of the world I know so little about.

My gaze returns to the women covered in black cloaks. What dreams do these women have? Do they dream of tossing those veils in the trash? Do they dream of telling their bossy husband to take a hike? Do they dream of education, or a career? Do they dream at all, or do they calmly accept that they live in a world in which men not only make all the rules, but also enforce them.

Soon I am standing in front of a man who is handling my personal items. For a moment he is stern, but soon he is chatting cordially, asking questions about my background. He surprises me when he asks, "Do you look like your mother? Do you look like your father?" He listens intently as though I am giving him American state secrets when I tell him, "Neither really, although I have my mother's blonde hair and light eyes."

"That's good," he says with a big smile. "Your father is lucky to have a blonde wife." His eyes sparkle in friendliness. "He is the father of a beautiful blonde daughter, too."

His conversation takes his attention away from his job and he fails to properly search my bags. In fact, four of my eight bags remain closed for inspection. I am taken aback when he questions me on personal matters, such as where I will work and if I have a boyfriend.

The moment grows awkward for me, but the official is happily chatting and doesn't seem to notice that I do not respond to many questions.

Finally, with a friendly wave he wishes me off, "Have a good time in my country." His smile grows wider. "Perhaps I will see you when you travel again?"

I don't respond. I hear my name called and look to see that my travel companions are gathering at the departure area. I point them out to the Yemeni baggage worker as I rush to join my group. We have been met by a cheerful Egyptian named Mousa. Mousa is a giant of a man with a broad smile. He proudly relates that he is the head of the King Faisal Travel Department. Mousa guides us to a bus that has been provided by the hospital.

It's late in the evening and I'm relieved that the drive across the busy city takes less than thirty minutes. I shift my thoughts to consider where I am going to spend most of my life over the next two years. The King Faisal Medical City is in reality a small but self-sufficient city inside the bustling municipality of Riyadh. The hospital is said to be one of the world's most up-to date centers of medical science and technology. The Medical City complex consists of the hospital, residential and recreational areas for the hospital staff, and an engineering services complex consisting of electrical, water, sewer and air-conditioning plants.

We soon arrive, but I am so tired that I notice very little.

When housing units are assigned I learn that I'll live in a three-bedroom apartment in Medical City Village (MCV) with two other unmarried women who have been hired to work at the medical institution. Joy is an attractive blonde American woman who is a skilled medical technician in radiology. Jenny is a nurse, a dark-skinned, beautiful woman originally from Sri Lanka who holds a British passport.

The accommodations are plain but adequate. The unit has a basic kitchen, combined living and dining room, three bedrooms, and one full bath and a half bath. This will do, I tell myself, as I make a grateful mental note that both roommates appear cordial. Despite the necessity to co-exist in small quarters, I believe that we will get along easily. I'm even more optimistic when I learn that both Joy and Jenny are also non-smokers.

We all rush to disappear behind closed doors into our individual bedrooms. My mind is still racing but I force myself to close my eyes and summon sleep.

I am abruptly awakened by the sound of a loud but sonorous male voice.
"Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!"
I rub my eyes. Why is a man wailing?

Then I know that I am hearing a
muezzin
, the Muslim cleric assigned the job of calling the faithful to pray. Evidently there is a mosque very near our apartment building. It is sunrise and time for the first prayer of the day. We have been told that the Saudi government builds mosques in every neighborhood in the kingdom so that the faithful can walk to prayer. With five prayers each day, I can understand the need.

Enormously enchanted by the
muezzin's
haunting cry, I instinctively know then that I have made the right decision to accept a job in a foreign land. Any previous doubts are pushed aside at leaving my small-town life to travel around the world and live in a land ruled by kings.

I continue to listen to the call to pray, a prayer that is repeated in hundreds of thousands of mosques all over the world:

Allah Akbar! (God is most great!) Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!

I bear witness that there is no God but Allah. I bear witness that

there is no God but Allah. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah.

I bear witness that Muhammed is the Apostle of Allah! I bear witness that

Muhammed is the Apostle of Allah! I bear witness that Muhammed is the Apostle of Allah!

Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Come to prayer!

Come to success! Come to success! Come to success!

Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!

There is no God but Allah!

It feels magical to me to know that five times each day, nearly a billion believing Muslims are reciting the same prayer and are synchronized in the same postures, all across the slow-turning earth.

I return to bed and fall asleep. A few hours later, my excitement overcomes my fatigue when I rush from the apartment to join the other new hires that traveled with me from Nashville and London. We are to be taken via bus on a short tour of the desert city.

First we take a quick drive past the hospital, the place I will spend six out of seven days a week. The hospital is built of unusual tawny-shaded stones that have been perfectly fitted to form the exterior wall, giving it a golden hue. A circular driveway takes us past a decorative water fountain. The hospital is surrounded by carefully tended grounds carpeted with immense beds of green bushes and vividly colored flowers, something I did not expect in the middle of a desert.

The King Faisal Hospital and Research Center, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

The King Faisal Hospital and Research Center at dusk

We leave the vast hospital complex and travel Riyadh's main streets, which are modern boulevards. Enormous construction projects are ongoing and fill the skyline with hundreds of gigantic building cranes. The sight of endless building cranes causes a lot of talk in the bus. The shiny exteriors of modern skyscrapers mirror neighboring mud dwellings. Riyadh is nothing like I had expected.

The name Riyadh is the plural of
rowdhah
, an Arabic word which means an area where grass can be found for grazing camels or sheep. To simplify matters, the city became commonly known as "the gardens." Riyadh was part of a series of villages along the Wadi Hanifa. Although surrounded by sand on three sides, it grew into a walled city and a trading post on the historic route to Mecca.

During the drive to the downtown area, our guide provides us with additional facts and figures about the country, the citizens, and about proper Muslim etiquettes.

The monotone of our guide's voice is difficult to follow from my seat near the back of the bus. Her words fade and my attention drifts, my curiosity occasionally piqued by intriguing scenes along the city streets.

White-
thobed
men are sauntering up and down the sidewalks. Many of the men are paired and walk hand-in-hand. I know from my reading that such intimacy between men is not uncommon in this part of the world and signifies only friendship without any sexual component.

There is only a smattering of veiled women present. I search, but I cannot find a single uncovered Arab female face.

Some women are sitting on the sidewalks, staring at a passing world through the black gauze of their veils. For a Westerner unaccustomed to Saudi customs, the image of veiled Saudi women proves addictive. I really cannot stop staring at female forms covered in black gauze and long cloaks sweeping the streets.

We soon arrive at Dira Square, where the famous clock tower comes into view. This square has been nicknamed "Chop-Chop Square" by foreigners. I'm told that I'm looking at a macabre place where the kingdom's criminals lose hands, feet, and heads. I find it ironic that the Palace of Justice sits on the square. Saudi Arabia is a country that places the welfare of the society above the welfare of the individual. Crime rates are low and government officials attribute their country's enviable crime statistics to the swift punishment doled out to criminals.

Dira Square, famous in Riyadh as the square where criminals are punished by amputation.

When our guide points out the Musmak Fortress, a dried mud citadel in the center of old Riyadh, my imagination soars, taking me back to the dramatic saga that imbued the dynasty of the al Saud family. I know from my reading that during the raid, a spear was heaved so forcefully that nearly one hundred years later that ancient weapon is still lodged in the doorway. I feel the enthusiasm of a child, wanting to see that spear for myself.

Although the kingdom has benefited by its unification, in many ways the citizens of the kingdom have paid dearly for the victory of the al-Saud, the family that pulled the country together and which still rules it. To succeed with his plans to conquer all of Arabia, founder Abdul Aziz enlisted the religious zealots to his cause, creating a special unit of religious police.

That first-formed unit of fanatics grew into what is now known as the religious police, the
Mutawain
, austere men with an abominable record of human misery trailing their
thobes
.

The king and his Wahhabi followers condemned everything they did not understand. Under Abdul Aziz, the harshest interpretations of the Koran became law. Applying the most severe tenets of Islam, these ignorant men even dismantled a highly developed legal system in the Hejaz and shut down the civil courts.

There were many bloody episodes when this band of cruel Wahhabi defended the faith with the sword, plunging it into the unbeliever's belly as far as possible.

Envisioning the violence of sharp swords meeting human flesh, I jump in surprise when someone touches my shoulder and says, "Jean. Let's go."

We disembark the bus to stroll through the old shopping bazaar.

Perhaps I'll see one of the religious police, the
Mutawain
. I've been told that the merciless men can be recognized by their henna-dyed beards and their ankle-length
thobes
. I'm also warned that many of the men carry a camel whip or a thick stick to beat people. These are the men who have been appointed responsible for the morals of all people residing in the kingdom, including foreign workers.

I will be on the lookout.

But all thoughts of mean-tempered religious police quickly diminish in the face of the colorful human drama that unfolds before my eyes. A welter of cries in many tongues encharges this new environment.

Unsmiling money changers lounge behind small wooden desks, quietly tidying mounds of international currencies scattered in jumbled piles.

The aroma of the spice souk drifts out of an alleyway, overwhelming my nostrils with unfamiliar pungent odors. A woman in our party generates enthusiasm after purchasing a tiny bag of frankincense.

Multicolored Damascus silks swing from the ceiling, swaying in a light breeze side by side with the black cloaks and veils worn by Saudi women.

Bedouin daggers, tarnished spears, and antique firearms hang along walls. Brightly colored and authentic camel bags conceal silver-decorated wooden chests. Wooden camel milk bowls lie in disorderly piles.

The carpet souk brings to mind ancient tales from
The Arabian Nights
. In one open stall, a mountain of rolled carpets lies stacked in dusty neglect while the raffish owner sits cross-legged in a corner, his darting eyes filled with cunning, scrutinizing the crowd for sign of a potential client.

We have been forewarned by our guide that we are expected to enter into a lively bargaining process with shopkeepers for any item in the souks.

Our fascinating but brief introduction to the merchant sector of the city ends quickly when our guide says it is time to return to the bus.

I depart without complaint, knowing that I will have at least two years to explore this land, the customs, and the inhabitants.