Part 23

The academic year is slowly coming to an end and the students don’t feel like studying. Their thoughts and minds are already on vacation. Since we have made pretty good progress and have almost reached the last chapters in the books, I could try out something new. Other activities that are more interesting for the young men. This is, if our project manager approves. But of course he is against it and wants, actually demands that we continue with the books and try to finish them. That’s why we don’t listen to him and rebel.

Most students are absent during the first lesson and the ones who come are not quite fit. The room begins to fill with students after 9am and the boys start to feel fitter. That’s why we have an easy conversation class during the first lesson. From the second lesson onwards it gets more serious and demanding. Today however, I have no real desire to have a normal class due to a) I couldn’t sleep last night and feel as sleepy as my students and b) our project manager was screaming, shouting and complaining on the bus throughout the journey to work earlier on today. A theatrical and dramatic staccato of laments for the entire duration of the trip. Lately he often has such crises and screams and screams and screams and insults everybody and even some teachers, preferably the Bengalis and one of the three Pakistanis. The Pakistani doesn’t seem to mind or even care. I have the impression that he couldn’t care less. Once he said: ‘One ear in, one ear out’. That’s the right attitude. The Bengalis on the other hand feel hurt and we feel with them. But they would never contradict or raise their voice against our project manager as it is against their nature and culture. In their culture they respect the aged and/or the superiors and therefore obey and never raise their voice. Some of the staff, myself included, put up head- or earphones and listen to music very loudly so we don’t have to listen to our project manager’s marathon of complaints. In addition to the moaning in the morning and in the afternoon on the way back, he writes about 20 emails a day and sends them out to everybody involved in this project. I guess he needs his daily doses of terrorising people to feel well. Otherwise he’ll get seriously sick. And he’s afraid of the therapy costs and that the NHS might not cover. His emails however wander unread in the trash. Some colleagues have created extra folders, either with his name or ‘nonsense’. Our students gave him the nickname ‘crazy’ and make the appropriate gesture when they talk about him.

Well, I had promised my students to take them to the labs, but then one of our colleagues left and I had to take over his group in addition to mine, got sick and spent a week in bed and never took them there. I guess today is the day. They will have to spend a lot of time there in their second year of their programme. The lab is a large room full of simulators or as my British colleague says: ‘stimulators’. At the simulators they learn how to use, drive and handle the vehicles in a mine, both underground and surface. When they have learnt it on the ‘stimulators’, they are allowed to drive a real one in the mine in the third year.

We are awaited by my African colleagues from the University of Missouri. They are PhD students and this here is part of their degree. There is an introduction in terms of mines and working in a mine followed by a lengthy presentation. The students seem to get bored very soon and want to finally put their hands on the simulators. At the end of the long monologue, the boys have the possibility to ask questions. Since no one has a question, I use the opportunity to ask something. Immediately all their heads turn towards me and they throw me looks that could kill. I actually wanted to ask some more questions, but don’t dare to do so and keep them for later. Now they are finally allowed to use the machines.

They clearly seem to have fun and everyone can have a go. The African colleagues spread and assist and show the students what to do. One of the students gets nervous as he feels me standing behind him, stands up from the driver’s seat and offers me to drive the excavator. Then several students come to watch their teacher driving the mean machine. I drive a few rounds and crash the excavator into a ditch. As it catches fire, the boys cheer and clap their hands. Thus the hours pass until lunch break. In the afternoon I show them a film about mines and working in mines around the world.

On the way back on the bus I put on my earphones and listen to 30 Seconds to Mars on full blast to not to listen to the screams and shouts of our project manager.

Later in the afternoon I go with one of the three Bengali colleagues for a long walk around the area we live in. We pass through a beautiful neighbourhood with nice buildings, empty and wide roads, few shops, some schools. We hardly talk to each other and enjoy the silence and the beauty of the surroundings.

When we get back home, the Bengalis invite me to dinner. They eat together every night and invite me sometimes. They can cook really well. They cook their traditional dishes and there’s always plenty of food. You eat seated on the floor and without any cutlery, as it is custom in this part of the world.

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                                          Mining video 1

Mining video 2 (opens in a new window)

Mining video 3 (opens in a new window)

Some photos from the afternoon walk

                                              Stormy weather

Part 22

It’s Saturday morning and although I’ve been looking forward to all week finally sleeping longer and not get up before noon, I now can’t sleep. Damn! What do you do on a Saturday morning when all others are either still sleeping or busy doing something? I decide to go on an extensive bicycle tour. I’m sure I will regret it later on, because the bike is scrappy and it’s painful to ride it, but hey, you only live once!

I walk out of the residence, go to the shed and take the bike out, place myself with it in front of our building, close my eyes, take a deep breath and enjoy the warm rays of sun. The silence is broken by the voice of the security guard. He wants to know if everything is OK with me and the bike. Yes, don’t worry mate, all is fine.

So I swing myself on the bicycle and ride down the broad and wide road, past the petrol station with the convenience store, the well where the city gets its water from, and a ‘guest house’. At the well I look if the yellow truck is somewhere to be seen and at the ‘guest house’ with the beautiful entrance is one of the side entrances open and I glimpse inside but cannot see anybody. A few metres further is a pretty dusty Merc SE parked and reminds me of my Merc SE in my parent’s garden, waiting to be driven. I wish I had it here with me.

These ‘guest houses’ have little to do with our guest houses. Here they have a different function. Since every Muslim man can marry up to four women (depending on his wealth) and may have many, many children with them, it is sheer impossible to visit somebody with such a family. That’s why there are these ‘guest houses’, to accommodate many people. They can be rented by the hour or for a whole day. Depending on their size, they may have swimming pools, football pitches, tennis courts, etc. What they all have is various rooms, like kitchen, dinning hall, prayer room, TV room, and various other rooms. And of course, times two. Once for men, once for women.

Then I turn into a busy street and ride a few hundred yards up to a decorated roundabout. Next to it is an open air fruit and vegetable market. The market is small, nothing spectacular, but interesting enough for a westerner to take a few photos of it. Once I wanted to buy some fruit here, but was told, either the whole box or nothing. That’s why I buy my fruit and veggies at the supermarket. There you can have them in small quantities.

A few hundred yards down the road is a canteen owned by a Filipino. There I always buy me a cup of tea. Like today. I chat with him for a while until some customers arrive. I then take my cup and sit on a bench nearby. On one side there is a road with plants and bushes in fanny shapes and on the other is an empty riverbed. Behind it is the city centre.

Suddenly I hear a crackling on a PA and shortly after follows the voice of a muezzin calling all believers to prayer. Seconds later, muezzins from all directions are to be heard. The Filipino shuts his canteen, swings himself on his bicycle and rides off towards the nearest mosque. More or less 15 minutes later you can hear the Imams from all directions. I close my eyes, listen to the sermon and enjoy the warm sunshine. I continue my journey as soon as the prayer time is over.

I drive along the main road in which men are waiting for their ride home in the afternoon. If you don’t know what they are doing there, you might mistake them for male prostitutes. Then I remember that I have little cash and that I have to withdraw some money. So I turn into a street in which is a drive-through-ATM. A few cars are standing there already, so I line up behind them. The drivers give me some funny looks when they notice me, but greet friendly and the driver before me waves me through and gives me his position in the queue. I’ve never been to a drive-through-ATM and had never seen one, before I came to this country. I was told that there are drive-through-ATMs in other countries too, but not in the ones I have been or lived in.

Then I drive to the centre and drive aimlessly through the streets. When I’m somewhere in the small side streets I see an Arab holding a falcon. I stop and look at both from a distance. When the Arab notices me, he makes a gesture and asks me to come closer. We chat for a while and he tells me that he uses the falcon for hunting. He also tells me that this is one of the favourite hobbies of the Arabs. Then I ask if I can take a photo. I can, and he takes down the blindfold of the falcon. Then I cycle on to the big mosque on the edge of the centre. On the way there, I get past several roundabouts that a differently decorated. Some look really nice, some rather cheesy. The country is full of them. You can use them as a meeting point: We’ll meet by the clock tower at 11. You don’t need to know the address. Everybody knows the roundabout with the clock tower. I also get past a park. We pass it quite often by car, but we never stopped. Now I have the opportunity to have a closer look. It’s not finished yet and it’s still under construction. What catches my attention is the lush juicy green. When I stand next to it and touch it, I realise that it is not real grass, an artificial carpet. It also has coloured patterns. Then I cross the street and go to the big mosque. I park my bike outside, go to the entrance, take off my shoes and go inside. There’s no one there and it’s very quiet. I sit down on the carpet, close my eyes, take a deep breath and let my thoughts run free. At some point my legs ache from sitting cross-legged – respect to my Muslim brothers who can sit like this for hours, I lie down on the carpet and drift away. It is so heavenly quiet in the mosque and I feel like floating. A gentle tap on my shoulder brings me back to reality. I open my eyes and catch sight of a smiling Arab over me. His eyes sparkle and he says:

“Salam Doctor!”

“Salam!” I reply and straighten up. A look at my watch tells me that I slept for about an hour.

“It’s prayer time soon” he says, “and people will come”, he adds.

I stand up slowly and walk slowly towards the entrance. I go through the entrance, put on my shoes and go next door to the washing room. When I get out again, I see my bike parked where I left it.

When I started to ride a few weeks ago, I was worried that it might be stolen without a lock. So I went to a bike shop to buy one. Since the shop assistant didn’t speak any English, it took him a while to understand what I wanted. As soon as he understood, he started laughing. I looked stupid and didn’t understand what was going on. He left the shop briefly and returned a moment later with somebody who spoke English. This person told me that I don’t need a lock, because it’ll never get stolen. He also said that no one has a lock on his bike. Strange world.

I jump onto my bike and ride towards the city centre. My stomach is growling. I stop at the first restaurant I see. There I’m being greeted effusively and after my meal I notice that I don’t have to pay for the drinks and the dessert. When I go out of the restaurant, it is about to get dark. The sun is setting and the sky is full of lovely and soft colours like an aquarelle. On my way home I get past an S-Class Merc from the 1990’s, which is decorated with flowers and hearts. I have a closer look at the car and take a photograph. The Arabs standing next to it and me smile and laugh. Today someone is getting married, they tell me. Nice and cheesy, I think to myself, but also romantic.

I stop again at the canteen of the Filipino and buy me a cup of tea. When I reach home, I park the bike in the shed, get past the security guards and greet them, drag myself up the stairs to the first floor, take my clothes off and throw myself onto the bed.

Good night world. Nice to be able to experience all that. Thank you Lord, thank you!

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    Guest house

     Open air fruit and veggie market

   Roundabout art

    Stylish plants

                            Arab with falcon

    Someone's getting married

    Small Ben

                             At the next stroke the time is:

    The King

    Park

    Evening

    Drive through ATM

                            Stylish lampposts

              Teacher Theo cycling around town

Part 21

After successful negotiations, I am very happy to have saved myself a small fortune on the purchase of both, iPhone and screen protection. My colleagues enjoyed it too and are happy for me. After all those hard negotiations and back and forth with the car and trying to find an ATM, etc. we all got hungry. Where should we go for dinner? To the ‘Safa’ restaurant again or to one of the others we usually go? The alarm of the Egyptian’s mobile phone goes off and a few minutes later you can hear the muezzins on their minarets calling the believers to gather in the mosques to pray. So, food has to wait for a while. Since the two colleagues, an Egyptian and a Bengali, do not particularly like the mosques in the centre, we take the car and drive a bit out to the one they prefer. The one we’re driving to is bigger and more beautiful than the ones in the centre. We have been there several times and there is a nice restaurant two blocks away.

We park at the car park, get out and go to the washroom. First the colleagues and then me. When we come in, I see that this washroom is bigger and nicer than the ones of the mosques in the centre. We have been here quite often, but I have never visited the washroom. The room is quite busy, since there are still a few minutes to prayer time. When the men see me enter, some stand still and stare at me and some continue business as usual. The ones who look at me, stare as if I were from another world. What I actually am. And suddenly I feel like Sting next to Cheb Mami in the video of ‘Desert Rose’. A tall white next to a small Arab. The men smile and I smile back. I greet and they greet back. I have got used to be stared at. It felt a bit uncomfortable the first couple of weeks, but I got used to it. The people stare because they are not used to seeing white people. Word has spread around that very few of us live in the city and some Germans come on business and stay for a day or two, but still, it is, we are an unusual sight and it’s natural to be stared at. There’s no racism behind it, it’s sheer curiosity. That makes me sometimes feel like an attraction of this city in the middle of the desert.

After washing and cleaning, my colleagues go to the mosque to pray and I go back to the car. You could say that I’m like a dog outside a supermarket that waits for its master to finish shopping. While waiting at the car park, I enjoy the blue sky and the fresh air. Some cars arrive, stop, people jump out and run to different directions. Men to the men’s section, women to their section. Children go either with their fathers or their mums.

Each mosque is divided into two parts. In one part are the men, in the other the women. The women don’t see the Imam, but they can hear him. Unfortunately as a man I am not allowed to go to the women’s sections. Even outside prayer time. But I have been told that their section looks exactly the same. Same carpet, same decoration, same everything. However, while I once was in one of the larger mosques, and just as the cleaners were in action, the connecting door stood open and I could glimpse inside. In fact, everything is the same.

When the prayer time comes to an end, all the faithful come out with a big smile on their faces. Everyone goes to their pair of shoes and then to their cars. I wonder how they can find their pair of shoes among many other pairs. Especially on a Friday when the mosques are full with hundreds of people. Some mosques have shoe racks, but most people live their shoes outside the door. Do they remember where they leave them? I can easily find mine, because I don’t think anybody else has the same ADIDAS as me and they are probably unique in Ar’ar.

Within minutes the parking lot is empty and we also drive away.

Nearby is a fruit market where also all kind of other stuff is sold, such as sugar, corn, coffee, flowers, flour, herbs, spices, fruit and veggies. There are several stalls lined up and tons of parking spaces in front of the entrances. We go into a store and look at the fruit. We discover blood oranges and want to have some. The shopkeeper comes and start a chat with us. He even offers us to try one before buying. So we each try one. Since prices are nowhere to be seen, I ask for the price per kilo. The response is 30 Riyal for the box (roughly 5 pounds). Nothing is sold in kilos, only in boxes and in bulk. How many kilos are in there, I want to know. The shopkeeper shrugs with his shoulders and says that he doesn’t know. Six kilos perhaps? Crap! What should we do with so many blood oranges? Who’s going to eat them? Under no circumstances wants the shopkeeper to sell us a kilo only. It’s box or nothing. The Bengali colleague doesn’t want any. And while I’m having a conversation with my Egyptian colleague about the oranges, the Bengali is having a conversation with the shopkeeper. At some point the Bengali turns to us and says:

“If you want to buy that box, now it’s cheaper.”

“What?”

“I haggled him down to 25 Riyals.”

“Fantastic! Then we’ll take one!”

While I’m paying for the oranges, the shopkeeper asks one of his boys to carry the box to our car. Then we drive to a Turkish restaurant that it’s supposed to be one of the more expensive in the city. It is located next to the most expensive hotel in the city. As soon as we go in, the owner sees us and greets us warmly. He looks at me intensively and starts a conversation with me. We look around and decide to sit outside on the terrace. The staff are from Bangladesh. Since we order quite a lot of food, they come and go several times. When they have a minute they sit down and talk to us, but mainly to our Bengali colleague. Also the owner joins us at some point and we ask each other various questions. When the bill comes, we are astonished to see how little we have to pay. It must be mentioned that a few things, like juice, drinks and dessert are on the house. Mainly because of the Bengali colleague and of me. The best combination is to be four of us: The Egyptian because he speaks Arabic and can translate everything, a Bengali and a Pakistani because waiters, chefs, shop assistants, etc are from either country and me, simply because I’m European.

Since we pay so little, I give a good tip for Saudi standards.

It’s already dark when we reach home. I go into my bedroom, look out of the window and am rewarded with this view:

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Part 20

If you have ever been to Turkey, or to a north African country or have travelled across the Middle East and visited a market or Souq as it is called in Arabic, and shopped a little, you might have come across the art of haggling and might have done it yourself, too. In Saudi it is no different. Except in the supermarket where you have to pay the advertised price and cannot haggle, you can haggle and negotiate the price in any other shop, market, and even in the fruit and vegetable market.

Haggling is not for everyone and not everybody can do it. You have to learn and master it. If you’ve never done it, you should definitively give it a go. But before you do it for the first time, watch someone doing it so you can learn how to do it. It takes a little time and a lot of effort. You need to be cool, tough as nails and put a poker face on. The dealers should not realise that you want something desperately. Be rock hard and say no if you don’t like the price. Don’t worry if you don’t buy the item today, you can always buy it another time. It helps if you do a bit of market research beforehand and compare prices. It will help you to obtain a better price. If you are a beginner when it comes to haggling, it helps to know a bit of the language or have someone with you who speaks it.

I master the art of haggling quite well. My father was a very good teacher and I learnt all the tricks from him. As I child, I always went with him when we were in Greece on holidays and he needed to buy furniture for the house. He saved him- and ourselves a great amount of money. I looked closely when he haggled and negotiated over a washing machine or something else. I have perfected the art of haggling when I was living in Italy and shopped at the various flea markets and shops. Now I can use all this here in Saudi.

For a long time I have wanted to buy an iPhone 5S. Everytime I’m in town, I pass by the mobile phone shops and jot down the prices. It doesn’t really matter that I don’t speak Arabic, we understand each other and communicate with hands and feet. For weeks the prices were stable. But prices started to fall, since the press released the news of the newer model coming out later on this year. I’m pretty certain that today I will buy one.

I take with me my Egyptian colleague and one of the three Bengali. We drive to the mobile phone street and go from shop to shop. We find out that there are price differences. Some dealers offer even two different prices. A higher with warranty, a lower without. I don’t care about the warranty, because if something happens to the device, I will go to an Apple Store with it and have it fixed. You need a warranty for places like this where there is no Apple Store around and will have to seek the dealer you bought it from.

Negotiations start as soon as we find the shops with the lowest prices. At first it doesn’t really work well. Although the dealer goes down with the price, it’s not what I had imagined. So we continue. After the obligatory small-talk (at least 10 minutes), the negotiations start. This dealer goes down, more than the first one does, but then, I throw my joker on the table:

“The one directly opposite has made me a better deal!”

“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How much?
“……”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”

Then he goes further down with his offer. Superb! Unfortunately I can’t pay by card. That’s why we have to pay the banks in the area a visit. Unfortunately the withdrawal limit is lower outside Europe and I have already reached my weekly limit, so I’m not able to withdraw any money. We go back to the shop and explain the situation to the shop owner. He takes his mobile phone, calls somebody, talks in Arabic, puts the phone down and signalises that I have to follow him. We step outside the shop, he locks the door, goes to an SUV, asks me to have a seat, drives across town, parks outside a shop, as we enter he points at one assistant and tells me to go to him, he goes to somebody who is probably the shop owner and has a chat while I’m paying. The assistant speaks little English. He swipes my card, I sign, we go back to the SUV and back to the shop. Inside he gives me my iPhone 5S Gold for less than 390 Pounds Sterling, we shake hands and as I’m about to leave, he asks if I needed a protection for my display. How much? Oh, that much? I’ll think about it. The dealer across the street has an offer for less than 2 quid, not 8 quid. So I go and get it across the street.

My colleagues are thrilled and so is my father when I tell him the story.

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                                                       Where's the best offer again? hmm...

                                 Small-talk, haggling and negotiations.