Behind Palace Walls. Cay Garcia
is so dark that I can barely see out.
We leave the airport building and join the nightmarishly congested traffic. I’d read that 19 people die as a result of car accidents here every day. The reason Saudi has one of the highest accident rates in the world is immediately apparent – cars weave in and out of lanes at breakneck speed, passing with only a thumb’s-width between side mirrors. Most drivers keep one hand on the hooter, the noise is grinding.
Reckless driving is part of the national identity. Wealthier men drag race high-end cars and the lower-classes “drift” their cars through traffic. These youngsters weave in and out between other cars while they intentionally over-steer, sometimes missing other drivers by a very small margin.
Saudi women are not allowed to drive – even though thousands own motor vehicles. The thinking is that they’d increase car accidents, they’d overcrowd the streets, they’d leave the house more often, their faces would be uncovered, and they’d interact with males, which would contribute to the erosion of traditional values. A leading Saudi cleric has even argued that women run the risk of damaging their ovaries and pelvises if they drive.
But not all Saudi women accept the ban on driving. A couple of years ago, a handful drove through Riyadh in protest. They were arrested and released only after their male guardians signed statements that they would not drive again.
The women were suspended from their jobs, their passports were confiscated and they were forbidden from speaking to the press. About a year after the protest, they were permitted to return to work and their passports were returned. But they were kept under surveillance and passed over for promotions.
More recently, a few women used social media to publicise their cause. They got behind the wheel, filmed themselves, and uploaded the videos to YouTube.
Despite the alarming drive and dark windows, I manage to take in some of the surroundings.
The buildings thin and we seem to be heading straight into the desert. Doubt flares, my thoughts run wild. I’d expected the secretary to be a woman, accompanied by a male driver. Am I hanging with the right crowd? They speak in hushed tones, the older man in the passenger seat turning often to stare at me. I feel as if I’m being assessed for something.
We reach what appears to be the edge of the city. I have my face plastered to the opaque window – I’m straining to see out, but it’s also an attempt to avoid the old man’s scrutiny. I am surprised at the ultra-modern buildings. The traffic does not let up.
At each green light, drivers further back honk at the cars up front to hurry – each turning lane has only 40 seconds to make it through. Above each set of lights, a large digital screen counts down the seconds till the lights change. Red is allotted 160 seconds. I would often see one of our drivers nod off during the wait. They work long hours.
Home from home
FORTY MINUTES later, to my relief, we pull up outside a three-storey flat complex with very high walls. I am to share an apartment with Mona. She works for the same family – and was my interrogator during the telephonic interview. The driver helps me to the gate with my luggage, and shares one snippet of information with me as he wipes his face with a drenched hanky: ‘Madam, is 45 degrees.”
Three of Saudi Arabia’s largest and most barren deserts border Riyadh. Summers are intensely hot, especially in the city where daytime temperatures sometimes reach over 49°C. The heat is constant. The only thing that makes it half bearable is that it is a dry heat.
He hands me a white box. The abaya.
I ring for Mona on the panel of numbers on the side of the gate. The heat beats down – and I’m still overdressed in my boots and winter gear. As we wait, I look round my new suburb. Cats lie under cars with their tongues swollen and protruding. They are listless and in terrible condition. I love cats, so I foresee a serious problem.
A full thirty five minutes later Mona opens the gate. I am melting in the heat. I ask her if she was sleeping. She wasn’t. Thirty five minutes? Even the driver is clucking as he has had to wait with me.
Through the majestic wrought iron gate, there’s a cluster of sand-coloured buildings. Most suburban buildings are painted shades of yellow to minimise cleaning – sand clings to everything. There is a sparkling pool with tables and chairs round it, and an undercover coffee station.
I later discover that at night this area is alive with music, animated chatter and laughter as residents drink coffee and smoke shisha pipes. In most compounds, there is a corner where people socialise until the early hours. At midday during the week, though, it is forlorn.
Lebanese bankers, interior designers, architects, American medics and English teachers make up this expat compound. Downtown housing tends to be taken by lower-salaried employees, both Saudi and expat. The compounds, depending on the owners and the cultural make-up of their residents, are much more liberal.
The bigger ones have restaurants, supermarkets, gyms, hairdressers and, of course, very active social clubs. Here, life is Western; you can walk around in shorts and a tank top if you wish. Some compounds are for Westerners only, with no Arabs allowed.
The flat is basic, nicely furnished and spacious. Cool air blasts off the walls. A couple of pictures and a pot plant or two will make it more homely. The fridge is stocked for my arrival and my flat mate is welcoming. I would soon find that sharing accommodation with a stranger for the first time since boarding school will stretch my creativity in keeping the peace. I excuse myself to take a quick shower.
Afterwards, I hang up my damp towels. Mona comes into the bathroom after me and straightens them so that they all meet point to point. Though I feel slightly disgruntled, I decide to let it go for now.
Mona is waiting with coffee as I join her at the kitchen table. She briefs me on protocol and hands me a four-page list of instructions to remember. I’m not taking in much – I’m exhausted and hot. Even though the interior is cool, it takes a while to shake the heat from outside. With a proud, smug smile, Mona confesses to being obsessive-compulsive. So that explains her need to straighten my towels.
The princess wants to meet me at six this evening. I need sleep to string a sentence together. I eventually crash for two hours.
My eyes are bloodshot. I shower again. Even in the coolness of my bedroom, the abaya feels stifling and far too long. Only the tips of my fingers stick out and so much fabric is gathered round my feet, it is sure to invite a fall.
The driver who collected me at the airport meets us at the compound gate. Mona has been instructed to accompany me. It is dusk, and Riyadh looks almost magical. Most of the buildings are lit with coloured lights. I feel as if I am looking in on someone else’s life, like I’ve shaken a kaleidoscope to find new sounds, sights and smells.
The landscape is completely flat. At home, mountains or hills help with one’s bearings. Here, the drivers take different routes to and from work each day, so it takes weeks before some areas become familiar. Mona tells me it is done deliberately for security reasons. I still can’t fathom why they feel this is necessary.
On the way to the palace, Mona gives me last-minute instructions on how to stand when addressing royalty. I am not to sit before the princess does and when I walk out, I am not to turn my back on her. I make a mental note to lift my abaya off the floor and wish I’d had time to practice walking backwards.
I scan the protocol list again in the hope of remembering at least half of it before meeting the Princess.
Protocol
IN THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY
Whenever any Member of the Royal Family approaches, even children, you must rise if sitting down or move out of the way if you are standing up.
When you are busy and a Member of the Royal family approaches, stop and stand still and wait for permission to continue.
Address the Royals as following, Male – Your Highness or Prince or Amir. Female – Your Highness or Princess or Amira.
Do