Brainscrubber

It’s raining outside.

Low ripples of thunder rumble through the clouds, the sound much like the unseen bowling alley of the gods parents invoke to explain thunder to children.  Occasional flashes of lightning cut through the darkness much as the beam from a lonely lighthouse slices through the thick ocean night.  A pleasant evening in the middle of a parched desert.

The rain began as I sat in a Fuddrucker’s restaurant eating dinner.  I usually go out to eat on Saturday evenings, and Fuddrucker’s is a favorite – not only because they have pretty good burgers, but because they have floor-to-ceiling glass fronts through which I can watch people and cars and feral cats.  Today, I watched the rain begin to fall.

After dinner, I strolled through the rain to my car.  There was a time when I would have run, but living in Oregon has taught me that I am neither sugar nor poop; so, it is safe for me to walk through the falling rain.  The droplets retain their warmth as they fall from the sky, and this makes the experience even more pleasant.

Unlike in San Diego, where good sense washes away with the rain each time a rainstorm comes to town, the Saudis actually slow down.  There are accidents, no doubt; but, on the whole, the drivers in Riyadh seem to grasp something is happening with which they have limited experience.

I stopped at the Starbucks, which is in the next strip mall down from Fuddrucker’s, and I got a Tall Skim Latte.  I took it outside and sat at a table beneath the awning, watching the rain fall from the sky.  An older Saudi man walked from a car driven by (I would guess) his grandson or nephew.  He had his hands cupped, and they rose in time with a quiet prayer that he uttered beneath his breath as he walked.  He would pause to see if the younger man was coming.  Then, he would lift his eyes heavenward, raise and lower his cupped hands, and utter his prayer of apparent thankfulness.  Someone recognized that something besides oil is precious, too.

The barista who had served me came out soon after and began wiping down the tables.  He engaged me in some small talk, and I found he was from Nepal.  He said he was from the eastern side of the tiny nation, which resides well above the rest of the world.  He described his home area as green and hilly.  After two years here, he is planning to return home in about six months to a land that is no longer a Kingdom, as it was when he left.  He told me it didn’t matter.

I can understand that.  We both watched the rain for a few minutes, without words.  Then, he went back inside, and I came back to the apartment – both wistful and elsewhere in our minds.

As I have related before, growing up on the plains of Texas, I had more than one occasion to look off toward the western horizon and see a wall of dust rising hundreds of feet into the air.  Unless you’ve seen it, it’s hard to imagine and difficult to believe.  Once you see it, you never forget it.

Now, I’ve seen a dust storm for which it is next to impossible to communicate the immensity and completely usurps the pinnacle of such storms in my mind.

The Texas dust storms of my youth moved across the Panhandle like a great, dark curtain – simply enfolding everything in their path as they shrouded the sun and light disappeared.  We’d run inside, close the windows, and hope not too much of the dirt would make its way inside the house.  Quiet, somewhat peaceful, all-consuming.

On Tuesday, 10 March, as I walked through the computer lab in which I work, I overheard one of the guys talking on his cell phone.  He said, “So, it’s already hit Romaizan Compound?  It’s heading our way?  Oh.  It’s already hit Kingdom Tower?”

This only could be one of two things:  rain or dust.  Being March, either possibility wouldn’t have been too surprising; however, if it was phone call worthy, I thought it might be worth a trip outside to see what was heading in our direction.  So, I went outside and looked back toward the East, and I was shocked by what I saw.

The photo cannot do justice to the roiling, twisting aliveness of the dust storm as it crawled across the ground toward us.  The only comparison I can draw is to the dust storm (minus the eerie faces) showcased in the movie The Mummy.  This storm was alive.

The storm crept across the horizon.  Imagine the evil darkness overtaking the land in a fantasy novel, such as The Lord of the Rings, and you would not be too far off in what this was like.

Before long, most of the guys in the building were outside watching this thing roll in upon us.  While a few folks said they’d seen such a storm before, most everyone – including the majority of the Saudis present – said they had never before witnessed a sandstorm like this.

The wind picked up and whipped around our bodies as the dust swallowed the most eastern half of our work compound.  More and more of the guys went back inside of the protective walls of the building.  But, there were several of us, like wonder-struck little boys witnessing the awesomeness of an oncoming tornado, who stayed put and rode the edge until the storm reached us.

And the world changed.

What cannot be realized by this last photo (due to the limitations of my phone-cam) is just how red the color of the world became.  Deep, deep, deep red.  Think Sedona.  Think the red caliche clay of Texas and Georgia.  Inside the building, a couple of doors don’t have weather stripping on the bottom of them, and a bright red line of color shown through like the last edge of a sunset on the ocean’s horizon.

Our world remained crimson for another 8 hours or so.  The news agencies in the area referred to the storm as generational and said it was the biggest sandstorm to hit Riyadh in over 40 years.  The airport shutdown completely.  Over in Kuwait and Bahrain and Dammam (KSA), the seaports all shutdown, along with their airports.

An amazing experience communicated, oh so weakly, here.

You can see the complete set of photos on my Flickr page.

All photos and text, Copyright 2009, Greg Hubbard.

I’ve been working in KSA for 31 months.  As you might expect, there are a large number of things I’ve come to take in stride – a constant barrage of Arabic, the rhythm of prayer times, the inconvenience of everything closing for prayer time.  But, there are a three things I simply cannot get used to, no matter how hard I try.

1. Children riding in cars without safety seats – Oh…my…god/dess!!!  I remember way back in the 1960s, when I was a snotnosed brat that kids roamed the interiors of cars without seatbelts, let alone carseats.  Carseats simply didn’t exist and wouldn’t for quite awhile to come.  Our parents literally didn’t know any better.  But, with the advent of my generation as parents, the logic and intelligence of placing children safely into carseats saved countless lives among our kids.  While driving the streets of Riyadh is pulse pounding in any case, my heart races everytime I encounter a car with children inside.  With the exception of Westerners, and a few Arabs who have lived in the US, there simply are no carseats.  Kids bounce around the inside of these cars with no tether of any kind.  When I asked an Egyptian friend about this, he said (paraphrase), “I want my son to know I love him.  How can I show him I love him if he is strapped into a carseat?”  How can you not?
2. No recycling – I am in recycling withdrawal, even after 2 1/2 years!  I lived almost my entire adult life in, or coming in and out of, California.  Not recycling there is pretty close to a cardinal sin.  Then, we move to Oregon, and let me tell you, they’ve made recycling in my home county so easy that even the cantankerous “I ain’t doing that!” souls do it.  Recycling is second nature to me.  And, I am glad it is.  However, recycling simply does not exist here.  Period.  Bottles go in the trash.  Cans go in the trash.  Plastic goes in the trash.  My stomach is in my throat everytime I drop something into the trashbag.  I try to minimize it.  I try to reuse things  But, there is a limit.  Eventually, I have to drop it into that rubbage bin and take it out to the container on the street.  I guess they figure that, with all this empty land and blowing sand, they can afford to bury an eternity of garbage atop the vast pools of crude oil.
3. How South Asian expats are treated – Seriously, you cannot imagine.  Despite being the lowliest on the lowest tiers, they keep working – hard – really, really hard.  Most of them work their regular job, then wash cars after (or before) work.  Then, they walk long distances to tenement slums where they room with several others.  Scarcely a week goes by without a story about a maid being abused.  That is not to say that all maids are treated badly; most people are good people.  But, it happens often enough that it’s easy to understand why so many of them run away.  Some of these maids end up stuck at the airport for weeks when they first arrive because no sponsor comes and picks them up.  And, yet, most of these folks manage to send something home each month to wives, kids, mothers, or fathers.  I have asked it before, but I’ll ask it again – Just how bad do things have to be at home that you would live in servitude in another country just to make a living?

I hope I don’t get used to any this…especially the last one.

A couple of entries back I referred you to an article written by Mary Fitzgerald of the Irish Times regarding the changes in abayas.  I sent her an email commenting on the article and relaying, in particular, the story about the Harley-Davidson abaya.  She was kind enough to respond, and she sent me a link to a 5-part series she did for the periodical based on her time in KSA.  So, I am passing on the link to that series, entitled, Inside The Desert Kingdom.  She amplifies quite a bit of what I have said in much greater depth.

As I posted earlier, I had to have a skin biopsy, which was clear. 

I also pointed out that I had five pre-cancerous spots the doctor wants to remove via liquid nitrogen.  Then, I alluded to the fact I had to go do battle with the insurance company.

In honor of Paul Harvey’s passing, here’s…the rest of the story.

When you leave the doctor’s office at my clinic, you have to stop at the cashier and be cleared.  Can’t let you leave if you owe money.  So, as the guy is reviewing my checkout sheet, he goes, “This is not covered.  You’ll have to pay SR375.”  That’s exactly $100.

“What?”

“Your insurance company will not cover this procedure to remove those spots.  You will pay to pay for it.”

“My insurance company won’t pay for the use of liquid nitrogen to remove pre-cancerous spots on my skin?”

“No, sir.”

“You need to submit it for approval first.”

“No, sir.  I know your policy well.  I don’t have to submit it.  It is not covered.”

“How much?”

“SR375. SR75 per spot.  You want to pay it, now?”

“No.”

“It’s not covered, sir.”

“I want to talk to my insurance company first.”

“Yes, sir.”

About ten minutes ago, the clinic business office called and said, “The insurance company has approved your procedure to remove the five spots from your skin.  You may make your appointment, now.”

So much for knowing my insurance policy well.

I left work today to go order some new eyeglasses.  My route took me through a checkpoint staffed by soldiers.  For Westerners, these are mostly perfunctory…slow the car down…get waved on through.  In 33 months in Saudi Arabia, I have NEVER been stopped at a checkpoint – until today – well, except for my speeding ticket, and that doesn’t count.

As I approached the checkpoint, I noticed the soldier staring at me oddly.  I had not done anything wrong, that I knew.  But, I could tell by his manner, he was about to stop me.  Sure enough, he held his hand out and down, the palm toward me.

I slowed to a halt and lowered the window.  He stepped up an smiled slightly.

Soldier:  “kayfahal.”  How are you?

Me:  “kwaize.”  Good.

Soldier:  “humdallah?”  Thank God?

Me:  “nam.”  Yes. The soldier’s response is the normal response from any Muslim, and he was prompting me.  It’s a response I will remember from now on and use in situations like this…or with the muttawa.

Soldier:  “some other words in Arabic that I don’t understand…passport.”

Me:  “Ah.”  I reach over into my bag, and pull out my wallet – from which I extract my alien resident’s card.

Me:  “iqama.”

Soldier:  “Ahhhhh.”  He takes the Iqama and reads it, then looks back to me.  “jeems?”

Me:  “nam.“

Soldiers:  “Christian?”

This stopped me a bit, where the rudimentary Arabic did not.  jeems is the way Arabic speakers pronounce James, which is my first name.  I am used to that.  But, the Christian bit…it took me a moment to realize whether he was asking if my middle name was Christian, or if I was a Christian.  It very quickly dawned on me that he meant the latter.

In that situation, there are only two allowable answers.  Yes or Muslim.  Since everyone’s religion is written on their Iqama, there was really only one allowable answer (regardless the true answer).

Me:  “nam.“

Soldier:  Hands the Iqama back to me.  “Okay.  Good luck.”

And, then he passed me on down the road.

Since then, I am thinking my goatee may have caught his eye.  Not that men don’t wear goatees here.  But, I’ve allowed mine to become quite long, which is quite odd for Westerners.  So, I am thinking he didn’t really know what to make of it.

One more new experience.  At least I had the right stinkin’ papers.

The good news is, there is nothing wrong.

Like most guys who were avid outdoorsmen in their youth, I have developed quite a few age/liver spots on my face and scalp.  One spot, in particular, started to change rather quickly.  A previous physician advised me to seek an examination if the shape of one of these spots became irregular.  This one did, so I followed his advice.

The dermatologist agreed that this spot needed further inspection; so, she ordered a biopsy.  The circus of getting insurance approval for the biopsy was irritating, but I won’t waste a lot of time on that.  I got the results of the biopsy yesterday, and it came back totally clear.

The doctor wants to remove that spot, and four others, which she considers pre-cancerous.  In a land of extreme sunshine, that’s probably a wise choice.

Now, to deal with the damned insurance company again.  Ah, the joys of life in a profit-driven medical world.

It’s hard to believe it, but I’ve been posting about KSA for nearly 2 1/2 years.

While there are always things to write about, I’d love to entertain any reader questions that might be out there.

Please feel free to post any questions, or comments (positive or negative), and I’ll do my best to respond with an answer as soon as possible.