I have met people from all over since coming here. My driver at the hotel was from Bangladesh, I work with people from Korea, and South America. The guy across the aisle from me is from Poland. My boss grew up in California. The people working the lower end jobs (maintenance/groundskeeping) are almost all Filipino. And many of the people I work with come from a very foreign place called Texas.
And, of course, there are the Arabs.
It’s funny to me to scan through the television channels. They have a variety of channels that cater to the different nationalities that are present. So, as you scan through, you will find all the same stuff that you would find in the States. There are movie channels – the English ones have Arabic subtitles. There are sports channels with the announcers talking in obnoxious manly tones – in another language. There are talking heads channels where Arabs in thobes and keffiyehs are going back and forth. (A thobe is the long white robe thingy they wear and the headgear is referred to as a keffiyeh.)
There are newscasters, weathermen, commentators, discussion panels – you name it – all being carried on in serious, but unintelligible to me, tones. It’s just so funny seeing all these roles that I think are American creations, being carried out in a completely unintelligible manner. (The talking heads in traditional dress are the best – they just look so serious.)
I’ve learned something about myself since my arrival here. I had seen movies and pictures and all that sort of thing, but I had never before personally encountered traditional Arabic life. To me, the images I had previously seen were little more than symbols. And I never really imagined the reality of such a thing. And now here I am, seeing Arabs every day. I’ve been here nearly three months and I still marvel at where I am. It doesn’t seem real somehow.
I have coworkers who have been here much longer than I. I have heard them relate stories describing their frustrations with how things get done around here. In short, they don’t… at least, not very quickly. You can make a request and nothing will happen. You can follow up two or three times and nothing still happens. You can get upset because nothing is happening, and that might spur some action, but even then it is not certain that you will get what you want. For example, I was here nearly two months before I a working phone at my desk.
I’ve also heard stories of people’s struggles to cross the language barrier. It’s a matter of explaining the same thing about 6 or 7 times, back and forth for several minutes. Then finally they come to a resolution, and the thing gets delivered, and it is not at all what was ordered. It’s stuff like this that prompts a coworker to refer to this place as the “logic free zone.”
For instance, at the commissary they have a little brick oven and you can order little pizzas or Zatar (Arabic bread with a spice blend) or Labna (Arabic bread in a turnover shape - filled with a cream cheese mixture. Yummy!) Well, one day I ordered some Labna. I wanted 2. Cream cheese is cool, it can complement both sweet and savory. So I decided to order one with olives and the other with honey. The little order form didn't have a spot for the olive Labna, so I wrote it in on a blank line. But I forgot to put a "1" into the quantity slot - but I had written the "1" next to the honey one. Well, what I ended up with was only one Labna containing both honey and green olives! Ummm...
(The funny thing is that they made one correctly, but checked it against my order form and decided they had it wrong and they went back and custom made my honey and green olive one. Ahem.)
I work with people who consider stories such as these and conclude that the entire culture must be lazy. Well, I think that’s a harsh way to think of anybody. So I will forever withhold judgment on that matter. I don’t know what it is, aside from a cultural practice that dates back several millennia.
One thing seems clear, though. The locals are a proud people. Or, at least, the men are. The women are something different altogether! They move about in their abayas, many revealing only their eyes. To a foreigner, they are very mysterious. Almost ghost-like. Almost non-human – this may be the most disturbing thing about the abaya to the westerner’s point of view. It’s remarkable when one of these mysterious beings will actually speak a couple of words to me, a man. It’s like a sudden reminder that there’s actually a person under there. It’s very strange. It’s also strange to see women in abayas falling prey to the trappings of fashion, glitz, and glamour – the same as anywhere – but publically mostly covered by a black veil.
But the men! Ahhh… I just have to smile. Walking along the sidewalk I’ll sometimes look into their eyes as we cross paths. More often than not, the impression that will come back to me is a sense of pride, perhaps even superiority. Don’t get me wrong… there are many, whose nationality is uncertain to me, who make eye contact and greet me as I pass by, placing their open palm to their heart in salutation. It is a very sincere looking gesture.
But those donning the thobe and keffiyeh (and they are many) fall into a couple categories for me. They may make eye contact, softening their expression to provide a warm greeting, or they will avoid eye contact altogether, but rather will look straight forward in a refusal to acknowledge my presence. In both cases, there seems to be an air of pride surrounding them. I’m not saying it is this way for everybody. But it certainly is a very common experience for me. And I’m not the only one who feels it.
A coworker from Texas told me a story of trying to pay for his meal at a restaurant. He walked up to the counter, and a moment later a young Arabic male child, maybe 10 years old, wearing a thobe, pressed forward and jostled elbows with my coworker – as if to say “I’m the superior one here! You are subservient to me! I get to be first because of who I am!” I am left to conclude that if a child displays behavior such as that, they were clearly taught it by their father, who was taught it by their grandfather, and so on…
There is no doubt that westerners such as me are the guests in this country. The Arabic hospitality is legendary. They are a very, very warm people. But even in the midst of that hospitality, it seems to me that there exists an underlying feeling that they would prefer it if we weren’t here at all; that the only thing holding this arrangement together is the oil.
It’s the oil that brought this desert people into the “modern world.” That effort was led by money grubbing westerners. The locals know this to be the case, and they recognize that the wealth they currently enjoy is due to that relationship. However, it is generally understood among the westerners here, that as soon as the oil is gone, we will have overstayed our welcome. Consequently, we all understand that, no matter how secure we feel, there are inherent risks associated with our presence in the region.
It’s an extremely fascinating, and somewhat unsettling, dynamic.
.JPG)
Ok, so… (Or as Shannon would say – Oh Queso... ) The camp I live in is named Dhahran. It’s only a few miles from an actual city, named Khobar. Khobar has around 165,000 residents, which is about 50K more than all of Provo. When people want to get out of the camp, they usually go to Khobar. In fact, Aramco has a free bus system that I can just hop on and go straight to many frequented sites. They have at least two large shopping malls as well as the area known as the Alyssa Souqs – which was my destination last Saturday..JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
.JPG)
