Lowlife in the UAE

I felt sorry for Walid Abdullah. There he works day after day after day in the presence of petty criminals and the low life of the Arab Emirates. He even raises a smile now and then, bless him. I know. I was one of his ‘customers’.

My crime was nothing short of parking across the corner of one of the disabled parking bays in the private car park of the apartment block where I live. They are keen on disabled bays there. On the ground floor of the car park there must be well over a dozen such bays, though I have yet to see even one disabled visitor to this monstrosity of an accommodation block.

The people who planned the tower block (I presume someone must have planned it, though I’ll bet they are trying to remain incognito right now) saw fit not to build the main underground car park under the tower block. Instead you have to drive down a slope, park, walk up the slope, down another slope, walk down some stairs and then take the lift up to your apartment. Anyone with shopping / luggage / tiny tots is well and truly stuffed.

Not surprising therefore that many people park their cars in the disabled bays rather than face such a marathon every time. And, perhaps like me, they too were highly surprised when the local police came and gave out parking tickets – not just ordinary parking tickets, but ones with a AED1000 fine – that’s around $300 for heaven’s sake, PLUS four black points on your licence.

Now for ordinary common or garden misdemeanours such as speeding, tailgating and the like, you can pay your fines from the comfort of your arm chairs. But for us hardened low life, we are obliged to go to the traffic department, present our licence together with the required pile of dirham notes and show the right level of contrition.

So I duly turned up to find a queuing machine that gave out tickets to ensure an orderly stampede of miscreants eager to part with their hard earned cash. One of the options was for a queue for those who wanted to contest their fines. Oh, silly me. Why did I even think it was worth asking what business it was of the local police to guard disabled bays in a private car park? Maybe it was the phase of the moon; maybe I had not been sleeping well recently.….

My number was called and I was directed to a Bruenhilde look-alike whom you certainly would not wish to meet in a dark alleyway around midnight. She was yakking away into a mobile phone and thrust out her hand at me waiting for the details of the crime I had committed. I smiled; she glowered; I handed over my summons; she grabbed it; I asked if one was allowed to contest the right of the police to operate in a private car park; over there, she said, continuing almost uninterrupted into the mobile as if I simply didn’t exist. It left me wondering if she had at one stage been trained in the Dubai Airport school for immigration officers.

I went ‘over there’ and that’s where I met Mr Walid.

Yes, dear. What I can do for you?

I was thrown off guard but only for a second. I played my smile-at-Mr-Policeman card and explained that I was somewhat surprised to have been given a ticket for parking in a private car park.

He smiled – perhaps he had heard it all before a thousand times. Had I been a little rash? But no. He asked me to wait a short while and he would be as quick as he possibly could. True to his word, he bounced back from the rear office just 17 minutes later waving at me to come over to his desk again.

Hello, dear. I have rung Jebel Ali Police station but they have gone early to lunch I think. You will give me your mobile phone number and I will keep on trying them. I will ring you back, but don’t worry dear. I will call you before midday tomorrow.

What had I let myself into? Cursing my stupidity, I gave him my number and left wondering why I just hadn’t paid the fine. But it was too late now. Things were escalating beyond my control.

Fast forward a number of hours and as I lay in bed the following morning, considering whether I would make myself some poached eggs on toast, or have porridge and apricots for breakfast, my phone – which is normally silent as the grave until after 9.30 - blasted out, shattering my fantasies in the blink of an eye.

Hello dear. This is Walid from Dubai police.

Oh, thank you for calling back, I proffered, coming quickly to my senses.

Yes dear. I have spoken to Jebel Ali police station and they say you should go see them in office no 9. They are expecting you. Goodbye dear. Goodbye.

The phone went silent; I remained silent; thoughts of poached eggs were rapidly fading into obscurity.

My first reaction was to go back to the office I had gone to yesterday, simply pay the fine and have done with it. But Jebel Ali police were now expecting me. So it was time to face the music. I keyed the police station into my GPS as I had no idea where it was, and after downing a quick cup of coffee, I drove to my appointed rendez-vous.

I would never have found it without the GPS. It was situated close to the Jebel Ali free zone, but the signpost led one into a no-through road. Retracing my steps (tyre tacks?) I followed a forlorn-looking taxi driver who looked as if he was about to meet his maker. A good decision as it turned out. I parked in the last available space in the car park and looked around for office 9. There was Office 10 – a portacabin dedicated to Criminal Investigation. There was Office 8 – another portacabin to do with permits. And snuggled in between was the portacabin I had been looking for – Office no 9 – Traffic Offences.

I walked in where three bored looking officers were passing the time of day doing whatever it is that bored police officers do to pass the time of day. They perked up when they saw me. One of them was intent on practising his English; the others didn’t speak English and soon went back to reading their papers.

I explained to the eager cop my predicament. Did I really have to pay a 1000 dirham fine for badly parking in a private car park?

He reached into a dirty shopping bag, extracting a sheaf of parking ticket stubs. Eventually he found the right one, checked a number and turned to the computer, punching in the necessary digits and up sprung a database full of pictures of cars parked badly across white lines, and there in the middle was my car… and yes, there was no doubt about it. The crime of the century had indeed been committed.

But, I protested feebly, it is a private car park. Why were the police there in the first place? Ah, that we cannot answer. But you will no doubt be more careful in the future, no?

I would indeed, of that there could be no doubt. I left the portacabin and headed back to the Traffic Department. This time Bruenhilde was dealing with some other unlucky miscreant. Instead I got a very bored looking Emirati who was thumping the keyboard of his terminal, muttering to himself about – as it later transpired – the inadequacies of the traffic department computer system which had crashed for some incomprehensible reason.

I provided what I thought would be some much needed distraction for him, though in truth he hardly even threw me a second glance. Simply thumped my numbers into the keyboard and waited…and waited….and waited.

Eventually he gave up waiting and threw my driving licence back at me with a printed receipt for the money he had already neatly folded into his drawer and told me to go away. Yes… You are finished. Go!

I picked up my licence wondering how the crime had been recorded on an apparently non-working computer, and hence where the money went…but being a firm believer that discretion is the better part of valour, I kept quiet…

I left the traffic department older and wiser and decidedly poorer. I always make a point now of driving past the dozen or so disabled bays which are always standing empty and unloved; and down the slope into the lower ground park, from whence I wend my weary way back up the slope, down the next slope, down the staircase and up to my apartment in one of the remaining working lifts.

So too do the other miscreants who had received parking tickets. How must Walid Abdullah shudder when he hears the name of this accursed apartment block. Or maybe he is quietly smiling to himself. It is, after all, an excellent way for the impoverished emirate of Dubai to refill its coffers, second only to asking Abu Dhabi for a handout – but that, as they say, is a story for another day.

The Joys of Saudi Television

Saudi Arabia has changed a lot in recent years. I remember it was only in 2005 that there was an article in the papers about a man from Qassim who came home to find his wife watching TV. He filed for divorce on the basis that she had been able to see men on TV! Yes, really. The court had to explain to him that under Shariah law seeing a man on TV does not amount to infidelity! (Mind you, having coffee in Starbucks with someone you're not married to, does according to the laws of khulwa.)

I also remember watching a cookery programme on Saudi TV – a series in which the female chef was totally veiled and also wore black gloves (so she probably came from Qassim). It was so weird seeing a black blob hopping around the kitchen! The stove was absolutely filthy - probably afraid of getting her gloves dirty! Just the look of her cookery made you think you'd go down with chronic food poisoning!

Never did I think in those heady days that I would end up as one of KSA2's main English language news anchors. I was driving on the way back from Dubai to Riyadh – a 1000km journey - right in the middle of the Empty Quarter when my mobile phone went (the Saudis believe in being able to use their mobiles anywhere in the Kingdom, even if it is over 200kms to the next settlement). "Bonjour. C'est Monsieur Breeaaaaan Sawlteeer n'est-ce pas?" Well, luckily my schoolboy French came in dead useful and I was able to strike up a happy conversation with this guy who, it turned out, was responsible for making up the rotas on the English language TV station, even though he had learned French rather than English when at school.

It turned out that there were plans for KSA2 to go global, using satellites to beam their must-watch programmes into homes in Europe, America and Australia and someone had woken up to the fact that KSA2's news readers weren't up to much, certainly not on a par with other international broadcasters.

I was the Breeaaaaan Sawlteeer who used to broadcast on the BBC World Service yes? Yes I was. And you have trained announcers yes? Yes said I, forgetting to explain that they had been radio announcers, not TV. Good. Please come to our studios tomorrow morning.

So the next day at the allotted hour I blagged my way through the security apparatus and ended up in an office overlooking the TV Tower which dominated the old town.

Show me what your announcers are given to read, I requested and on doing so was in no way surprised that they made such a dog's dinner of the evening news. I spent the next three months training the newsroom on the rudiments of writing a news bulletin, and then started off training the announcers. It wasn't long after that that the inevitable request came for me to put in an appearance in front of the cameras.

Most of the equipment looked like stuff that had been discarded from the BBC over 20 years previously. (Not far out in my assumptions I later learned.)

Worst was the autocue pedal which regularly broke down while on air such that the words rushed up off the screen, or even started rolling backwards. Some of the newsroom staff insisted On TYPING EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS which meant that many of the stories about American forces were a constant battle when trying to work out whether US meant 'us' or 'U.S.' and even to this day, if you want a good lesson in how NOT to read the news then tune in to KSA2.

I well remember one bulletin when the guy on the control desk was being let loose for the very first time. The 11pm news went OK and I think that’s when he started to get cocky. For the 1am bulletin – a 20 minuter – he missed the out cue of one of the VT inserts and let it play on…and on…and on until unceremoniously chopping it in mid flow. By then all the “timings” were well out. I then introduced a VT from Turkey. Nothing. Just my pretty face on screen.

“Go on” the editor said in my earphone. So I went on to the next story. Wrong! I was chopped mid sentence and the VT is played in. OK. I pick up at the start of the next story again and carry on. 15 mins later as all the timings are well out I get the message over the earphone “Cut all remaining stories.” So I drop the last three and lead in to the headlines.

“That’s all we have time for now, ladies and gentlemen. So to end the news let’s take another look at our top stories …..” and I sit…and wait … and look pretty… and continue to look pretty … and continue to continue to look pretty … and it dawns on me that the guy outside in the control room has no idea what is happening. The editor is obviously not up to much either (I found out later that he had given instructions to the rookie and then walked out of the studio leaving him to fend for himself.) And believe me it’s very lonely sitting on camera smiling at an unseen audience with nothing to say, having no idea what is going on and knowing the world is wondering also what is going on!

Eventually after 17 seconds – a lifetime – the headlines are faded in and I can continue to the end of the bulletin. The rookie is mortified and turns to face away from me when I exit the studio. The sound man has a good snigger and the VT guy has already disappeared. I smile and wave a hearty shukran as I walk out and go back upstairs to the newsroom which is deserted except for one of the editors who hasn’t even watched the bulletin as he is busy on MSN Messenger to a girlfriend on the other side of the world.

The next morning I went over to the TV station where, I was told, there was money waiting for me! This is the big moment I had been waiting for for over seven months. To actually get paid! Wow! Saudis, I should explain, hate parting with money, whether it is their own or somebody else's.

Now they have this system whereby you have to search for your name on hundreds of sheets of paper and find a number scribbled next to it. You then go to the cash office in the next corridor, quote the number and ask for your pay. So easy … you’d think.

Mustafa has given me a scruffy piece of paper (given its size, I think he was saving trees) with seven numbers scribbled on it. 867, 395, 410, 310, 775, 543, 109. And I was given instructions to go to the cash office where there would be a pile of money waiting for me. So I went along to the cash office where a scruffy bedou gabbled away in Arabic and shooed me away. What to do?

I went upstairs to the newsroom where the female (morning shift) editors were packing up. One of them offered to accompany me and translate. We went to the cash office. Wrong cash office! They had decided during Ramadhan that TV staff should get paid from a special TV cash office whilst radio and Information Ministry personnel could still get paid from the old cash office. We eventually find the new office back in the TV building.

The cashier bursts out laughing. “You’re not a woman!” he says pointing at me. You’re quite right, I reply. (What else would I have said?) “But now you go to the women’s cash office?” Turns out that someone “upstairs” has decided that keeping me waiting for seven months for my pay is a bit OTT and I should be fast tracked … and the only way to fast track someone is to enter them as a woman as they get paid quicker than men (don’t ask me why!). So I have been made a temporary woman!

I go with Tabasum to the female cash office. Ooops – there is a muttawah [religious police] raid on right at this minute so obviously I can’t go into the cash office. Tabasum goes in instead and comes out five minutes later to tell me that all of these numbers have already been paid out. Obviously the westerner is trying his luck trying to cheat the system but as the cash has been signed for (very sorry, we can’t read the signature!) I must leave empty handed.

Hoards of muttawah (oh, OK, three, but it still feels a lot) shout to Tabasum to cover her face and she turns away pretending not to understand what they are screaming. She takes me to see Mustapha, the newsroom fixer. He takes me to see Khalid, the cash office fixer. He bashes away at his computer and I am returned to male status once more. I am given a new number. Will this get me some money? Oh no. Maybe next week inshallah.

He bashes away on the computer again. Another number is produced. You take this to information ministry cash office and they give you money. Ahh. That’s better. I walk over to the Ministry building. “La la. Mafi hinah!” Back to Khalid. “Did I say Ministry? La la. I meant TV cash”. Back to TV cash office. “You’re not a woman then?” He opens a huge drawer stuffed full of wads of notes and lifts one out. This for you, he says. (A good feeling). And I am now led to believe that the other number that Khalid has given me will reward me with great riches next week (inshallah) – in fact possibly seven months’ worth of riches.

A few days later it was the visit of King Abdullah to the UK. I was on shift when he had his state banquet with Liz & Phil-the-Greek and because it was all happening right up until transmission, my long bulletin at 1am didn’t get the autocue script until seconds before going on air – in fact I was convinced I would have to read the whole thing off paper – but in the end up it came and I ploughed straight on in…with such gems as “the relationship between the Kingdom and the Queendom is..” (I was able to sidestep that little one!) and another: since the historic meeting between HM King Abdulaziz ibn Saud and Sirchil in 1945”. Sirchil? 1945? Ah. Easy (but they don’t ‘alf make it difficult when you’re least expecting it!)

Another time I had arrived back in Riyadh again, at a time the OPEC heads of state summit was disrupting traffic and the lives of the populace. The next day, I got home, made myself a lovely plate of mince and onions with macaroni and was just about to sink my gnashers in when the phone went. Saudi TV. “Hello Mr Brain. Keif Halik?” (oh oh they want something!) “Are you in Riyadh?” (they definitely want something) “Would you be available this evening at short notice?” OK. It’s a fair cop. Do they want me to read the 9pm or the 11pm news? It appears that one of their announcers who was due in at 9.30 is now not able to make it. Could I cover for him? (Ah. So it’s the 11pm.) Sure. No problems, say I feeling expansive. Is it both the 11pm and 1am or just the 11pm?

“La, La, you don’t understand, He was going to cover the OPEC summit. Now you can do it yes?” Er, what exactly do you mean “do it”? Do what?

“Oh you just have to introduce the programme, interview the guests, give some background about OPEC. That kind of thing. Mafi mushkillah. We know you can do it”.

Now just a moment there. You want me to present this evening’s analysis programme on OPEC? Yes that’s right. And when does it go out? 9.30pm (it’s now 6.30 pm). But I don’t know anything about this OPEC summit. I have been too busy to see the news today or yesterday. Mafi mushkillah we have a researcher for you. How long is the programme? Only 1 ½ hours! What !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Well against my better judgement I finally agreed and got changed into my glad rags. Pink shirt with a pink spotted blue tie. And though I say it myself I felt quite dapper. (In fact it was even commented on in the studio. “Not everyone could wear that and get away with it!” I was told.)

I managed to drive like a maniac and got to the studios by 7.30. Can I see what your researcher has got together for me? Answer: one page of the Saudi news bulletin. And this has got to fill 1 ½ hours????????? Are you mad? Ah we know you can do it Mr Brain.

I need to do my own research. I’m off to the news room. Oh sorry Mr Brain. The internet is down. But inshallah it will be back up again soon. What????????

So who am I interviewing? We have three guests for you. Yes, but who? They will be good guests. Yes, but who? Inshallah we will find out shortly (it’s now 9.10 and no sign of any guests.)

So I have the prospect of going on air in 20 minutes with no background to the summit and no idea whom I’m interviewing. Mafi mushkillah. We will tell you of course when we know. Don’t you know? Don’t worry Mr Brain. All will happen. Please to go in the studio.

I’m shepherded into the studio. 9.25. No guests. 9.28 no guests. We are told they have left the hotel. Inshallah they will be here soon. Just introduce the programme and we will bring them in when they arrive. Hey! No way! (I know what inshallah means in this place!)

9.30 comes and goes. At 9.40 an American Egyptian walks in. Do you know what is going on? he asks me? Nope. Nor do I. At 9.47 a Lebanese woman walks in. Do you know what is going on she asks us both? Nope. At 9.50 we are on the air. (Hey, what happened to interviewee no 3? He’s sitting in Cairo, I’m told with 10 seconds to go. No idea what his subject of expertise is. Come to that, I haven’t much idea what the other two can talk about either. But now we’re live!

Asalaam aleikum and welcome to a special programme yadda yadda yadda … say I and we’re off. Turns out we also have an ex Oil Minister of Kuwait on the line (kept waiting for 45 minutes as no one tells me he is there) plus there are three inserts from the Saudi Foreign minister and some vox pops etc.

And amazingly it all seemed to go OK. I dug right down into the depths of my memory and regurgitated Sheikh Yamani and the 1973 oil crisis (it helped that I had made a programme on this very subject some 30 years previously!); and remembered the book I’d read on the fall of the Shah in 1979 and was able to B_S my way through the programme. And before I knew it, 70 minutes had passed and I was wrapping up.

The interviewees said how impressed they were, and how well they thought it had gone. The producer who had avoided me at the start (wonder why!) came in to bask in reflected glory. And the biggest compliment came from the female interviewee. Not only was she managing editor of a business magazine in Beirut, but also of an events company in Bahrain. Would I be interested in chairing an international conference for them in the near future? She would eMail me with the details. (She never did.)

Ahhh. Saudi Television. Eat your hearts out BBC/CNN/Fox etc

Driving in the Gulf

Driving in the Middle East has always been an adventure for me. I had my first taste of it when working in Jeddah in 1999 for the processed food manufacturer Savola (I was employed to install an intranet for them and to get their internal communications sorted out.)

They gave me a beat-up old Honda Accord. It had blood stains all over the ceiling and, I subsequently learned, had been stretched out after being crumpled in a fatal accident. "You learn to cope with Jeddah traffic in this, and then we will see about getting you another car," they said. I soon discovered why. In a city where it is considered sissy to move down from 5th gear when approaching a roundabout there are plenty of accidents occurring on a daily basis. Riyadh's driving is only slightly better, but it appears the further east across the Gulf that you go, the better the driving. The UAE is a beacon of good driving compared to that of Saudi – though it apparently takes the prize for having the most driving related deaths per head of population.

There are of course, many pluses – such as the price of petrol. In Saudi Arabia a litre costs you around 9 pence – reduced from a heady 12 pence by King Abdullah when he first ascended the throne. Over in the Emirates it is much more expensive. They sell their petrol in gallons still, but the price works out around 22 pence per litre. Servicing, too isn't astronomical, given they employ third world workers who are paid a pittance for putting in long hours. And although they eschew organisations such as the Automobile Association, that doesn't cause much of a problem, given the fact that if you break down by the side of the road, there is invariably someone who will stop to offer their help in a very short time.

One day I had an urgent appointment in Riyadh right the other end of town. I jumped into the car, turned the key and .....; I said, I jumped into the car, turned the key and .....; I SAID I JUMPED INTO THE CAR, TURNED THE KEY AND .... absolutely nothing.

Oh bother, thought I (a loose translation, obviously!) The beastly battery had died on me. What rotten luck.... or words to that effect. So I took my computer back into the apartment, returned to the car, dug out the jump lead and waited for a friendly car to drive along the road.

Now, dear reader, you should understand that in order to give the car maximum shade I (and all the other residents) parked at the back of the building rather than on the 'main' road (ie the side that used to have loads of dead palm trees since they had planted them before someone else had had time to install the watering system. Only when two of them had fallen over were they then dug out leaving no trees at all.)

This occurred during Ramadhan and what this meant in practice was that very few cars drove along this street in the morning since the vast majority of the neighbourhood were fundamental muslims and – like most Saudis – this meant that they slept during the Ramadhan days and only came out of their homes when the sun went down - a bit like Dracula, if you think about it. (Dracula with a thobe and ghutra?)

So there I sat and waited ... and waited ... and finally an old Nissan Cedric (a Middle Eastern classic) vroom-vroomed its way along the road and I jumped out and flagged him down much to his surprise. (What is this strange man doing up and about out of bed, he must have asked himself.) Unfortunately he didn't speak a word of English, but mafi mushkillah, on my waving the jump leads and pointing to the open bonnet of my car and muttering mushkillah, mushkillah kabir at him, he quickly understood, revved his Cedric round to my disgraced Kia and within half a minute two vroom-vrooms signalled all was now well. Off he drove after I had firmly shaken his paw and muttered my undying thanks, and I left the engine running while I quickly dashed back inside to grab my computer ... and off I drove to my appointment. Of course, by the time I arrived, all the people I had wanted to see had disappeared off. So I pelted off to a tyre workshop in order to get a new battery.(Well, where else would you buy one?)

The extremely friendly mechanic, who had been dozing in an old arm chair that had found its way into the garage (I obviously woke him up) didn't speak a word of English, and had obviously also been brought up in the think-of-a-number-and-double-it school of sales. Kam? asked I. He reached for his calculator (as they always do - for show I think) and punched in 360. La la, my good man, quoth I. Surely a mistake. Didn't you mean 200? Ah. Perhaps his digit had slipped a notch. Perhaps I would be happy to pay 300? How about 250? How about 260? Done. Shakes paw and said mechanic wields a bunch of spanners, extricates the old battery and throws in a new one with a seasoned alacrity that would have taken me ten times as long to achieve. Goldie growled once more into life and off I drove on a totally deserted road back to the apartment.

In stark contrast I had to visit a tyre workshop as one of my tyres was deflating every few days. It turns out there was a small nail embedded which they found when they removed the tyre, patched the inside, refitted the tyre, balanced the wheel and put it all back together again - 25 minutes which they sheepishly charged me SR30 for (about £4). You were ripped off, a Saudi friend told me over the phone later on!

The following week I had to drive to Qatar. I left Riyadh at 5am and got to the border quite easily by 10. And then it was time to run the gauntlet of the Qatari immigration. Perfectly charming as always - but oooooooh so frustrating. Last time I paid the visa fee of QR105 and all went well. Now they had a new procedure. You have to purchase a Qatari government e-card which you charge up with Qatari riyals and then it is used to debit the visa fee. All well and good - except you pay QR20 (£3) for the privilege of getting a card and then find you can only charge up in QR100 or QR50 amounts. Well, you've guessed it - as I had to pay QR105 I therefore had to charge it with QR150. So I had to pay out QR170 for a QR105 fee. Of course I could use the card next time I went to Qatar… in theory - but as there was only QR45 left on it, I would have to put QR100 on it and then there is only QR40 left after that visit. So nine visits more and it will have been paid off! You cannot use it to pay for some of the charge and pay for the rest with a credit card or actual cash. So I have never used it since then and it still sits forlorn and forgotten in my credit card wallet.

Leaving Doha the next day was very difficult with traffic chaos brought on by the closure of one of the principle roundabouts in the city, and I chuntered my way to the border through wind-swirled white sand throwing itself at the car. The poor girl in the Qatari immigration desk was obviously a newbie. You from where? she asked me as she thumbed through my passport. From England I replied. Why your passport it say 'Untied Kingdom' not 'Ingerland'? (What do you reply to that?)

Eventually she got herself sorted out, stamped the passport and I made my way over to the Saudi side, only to find a herd of goats had invaded the border crossing. I was stopped. Turned back in my tracks. It appears I had left Qatar the day before I had entered the country. At least, the stamp in the passport professed to that. They suggested I go back to the Qatari side and negotiate a new exit.

The Qataris found this wildly amusing. Passed my passport back and forth to one another enjoying the joke immensely. But eventually as the joke started to wear a bit thin they stamped it once more with the correct date and I returned to the Saudi side where the immigration officer waved me through with a big smile on his face. Such charmers those Saudi border guards!

Actually, Saudi border guards were always friendly. Not like some of the other countries in the Gulf. Maybe for them it was a chance to try out their English on the very few Europeans who drove through. Comments such as You know David Beckham no? were routine. As were Where your drink? (They really think people are stupid enough to tell them?) Now, to even think of importing alcohol into the magic kingdom is not something to be recommended to the faint hearted. Severe penalties are meted out to those who try and fail. But many do try their luck, given that the black market price for a bottle of bad whisky would set you back around SR700 (£110). In the UAE you can get a bottle of good rum for Dhs10 (£1.60) so the temptations are ever present.

Most Saudi border guards know all about whisky. Most haven't a clue about gin. So a story that might be of interest for the foolhardy…. BS drives up to the Saudi border post and amongst the usual pleasantries is asked Where's your drink? He points to the bottle of water on the centre console. No Sir. Where is your drink. He opens his cool box and points to the bottles of water therein. No no sir. Where your whisky? Mafi whisky. Oh. Alright. Off you go. And BS goes off, calculating his potential profits as he drives through the Empty Quarter on the way back to Riyadh.

Mind you, the Saudis do get their own back in their own kind of way. I was driving along minding my own business one day and a cop car pulls me over for ... I'm not sure what. He spoke not a word of English, demanded my licence and my istimara (car registration documents) and the next thing I know he hands me a yellow piece of paper and drives off. Well I know enough to understand that it's an on-the-spot fine but what for I haven't a clue. I don't know how much for either. And I was worried that I would need to go to the traffic police (no one there on my previous occasions when I tried to get a licence transfer speaks any English either).

Well, the next evening I went over for iftar to a friend's place - she had made some samosas with spinach & meatballs dripping in lemon juice. Luckily her Saudi friend Sallem was there too and he was able to make out what my traffic violation was all about - apparently I drove down a street the wrong way! Well, as I drive that same route almost every day I find this hard to believe, but it's just another example here of having to grin and bear it. So the next thing I have to do is to find out how much the fine is for. Easy. You ring a number, punch in your iqama number and you are told by an electronic voice how much you owe. So I did and found I owed nothing.

Luckily, before getting too cocky, I remembered that the iqama number on my driving licence is different from the one on my iqama as I had got the licence when I was with a previous company, whilst my present Iqama is registered to my present one. So I rang quoting the old iqama number and sure enough I owed SR300 – about £45.

Now the problem here is that if you owe a fine, you are barred from leaving the country. And as I had to go to Abu Dhabi the following night this could have been a problem. So how to pay the fine? Easy. you go to an ATM machine. Err, nope. SABB ATMs (part of HSBC) don't have the facility. Nor do Saudi-Fransi ATMs. You have to bank with Riyad Bank or Al Rajhi for that privilege apparently. So I spent the afternoon ringing round to see if any of the people I knew had those accounts. Nope. Mushkillah kabir! So finally in desperation I texted my sponsor – and he was delighted! I think it made him feel less of a prat for crunching his Mercedes in heavy Ramadhan traffic the day before even though I protested my innocence! Anyway, he did have a Rajhi account and promised faithfully to pay the fine for me if I paid him back within 24 hours. Which is what happened!

The following morning I off at the crack of dawn once more for the Emirates. As I approached Al Kharj the sun was about to come up over the horizon behind the water tower – a spectacular sight – and as I got into the desert, a large red ball appeared. Even more spectacular. An hour later a cargo train chuffed chuffed its way along the track sending up clouds of sand in its wake,

and then a whole load of camels followed it as if to say ‘what about us’!

Once again at the border the Saudi guards were very polite (and again I was asked if I knew David Beckham!) but on the Emirati side manners were visible by their absence and general lack of helpfulness and friendliness (quite normal as I found on all my encounters with Al Gubaibah border crossing and at Dubai Airport). And then, the lllllllloooooooooooonnnnnnnggggggggggg drive along the one boring road for 450 kms to Dubai. Every kilometre looked just like the previous kilometre. Excellent road; awful journey

I stopped at loads of lay-byes and drank loads of pepsi (which I’m assured keeps you hyper and stops you falling asleep. Actually Red Bull is even better if you don't worry about what it does to your insides.) I used to go to and fro over to Dubai and Abu Dhabi on an almost weekly basis, and with my imminent move to the UAE, had been shepherding the contents of my apartment across the border to put it in storage until such time as I officially started my new job.

Sometimes it was plain sailing down to Al Kharj (100km south of Riyadh), and then the winds would start up in earnest and a massive sandstorm would start blowing which at times meant you simply couldn't see the road which merged with the sand dunes. On one occasion I drove past the last petrol station without being able to see it and didn't realise for another 15kms until the tank was getting dangerously low. Luckily my GPS helped me out and I returned rather than risk running out in such awful weather. When I opened the window to say hi to the poor petrol pump attendant the car got a load of sand dumped inside!

When I started work in the Emirates. I had to get a UAE driving licence pretty quickly. My Saudi licence wasn't good enough. Mohammed (company driver) took me to the driving centre near the Mall of the Emirates where first I had to have an eye test. First I had to pass over my passport and UK driving licence (they didn't want to know about my KSA one) so that it could be translated into arabic - kerching. Dhs30. Then the eye test itself. Kerching Dhs 55. Sit here please blurble blurble blurble - {covers one eye} Sorry, I didn't hear what you said quoth I. That's fine {covers other eye} I now realise he had wanted me to read out some letters on the other side of the room. Which line do you want me to read? quoth I again. That's fine. I have now been rated with excellent eye sight (6/6 for both eyes) and in addition apparently have passed the Ishihara colour blindness test with flying colours (ho ho - my joke!) as well as being an exceedingly fit specimen.

So I am whisked into a HUGE room, given a number and told to wait ... and wait ... and wait ... for 3 hours! I finally get called and hand over my paperwork - a BIG NOTICE proclaims I need four photographs, a company letter to say I need a licence, and a few other things besides. Oops. But Mafi mushkillah. Only two pix required, no company letter asked for, eye test and translated documents barely looked at and the operator copied all the important info into her computer from my passport. Kerching Dhs110. Go other room, I am told. Sit down. Look at camera. Thank you. Wait. Mr Brain. Here is. One driving licence. Al hamdullilah - I am finally legal and am now allowed to buy a car.

A few weeks later I had to laugh. I went out to meet an Indonesian friend of another Indonesian friend who had returned to Jakarta a few weeks previously. This one is from Bali and very sweet. Finding her in Abu Dhabi proved to be a problem. I'm near the junction of Al Falah Street and 10th Street she said. Easy! thought I. Al Falah is also known as 9th Street which crosses Al Salaam (8th Street) whilst 10 Street is the main road that runs past Abu Dhabi Mall. Hah! Wrong. She was nowhere to be seen. After a lot of phone calls she said she could see the Etisalat building from her place. Clang! It means she had to be near Airport Road, alias 2nd Street alias Sheikh Rashid Street. The problem is that (according to my GPS) there are 98 10th Streets in this city and of course, being new here she had no idea about this and certainly had no idea which one. I passed eight 10th streets before I finally found the right one and we had to agree to meet at a McDonalds which we both could locate. It turned out she was nearer New Airport Road, alias 4th Street alias Muroor Street rather than Airport Road alias 2nd Street alias Sheikh Rashid Street. I wondered which was better – a town with many street names duplicated or a town like Riyadh where many streets had no names whatsoever. I'm still working out the answer to that.

A Survivor’s Guide to Driving in Saudi Arabia

I was driving through downtown Riyadh recently when in my rear view mirror I saw the fragments of a BMW and a Mercedes slowly descending to earth after yet another head-on collision. I say ‘yet another’ as hardly a day goes by without the Saudi capital being strewn with vehicular debris. And it got me thinking. Why is it that the general standard of driving in KSA is so very much worse than, say, in Dubai or Jordan or Syria?

Part of the reason has to be the fact that the majority of Saudis have never attended a driving school in their life. Instead, the would-be macho-man (women, of course, are not allowed to drive) either goes out into the desert for a dune-bashing weekend with a friend, or signs up at the nearest police station for a driving course where he is shown the basics - such as which pedal makes you go faster and which makes you stop; he is given an eye sight test – unless he wears glasses in which case he is deemed to have had one already; and he is then required to drive about 100 metres in order to get a licence to drive, irrespective of whether he has actually mastered the finer points of the highway code. That’s assuming there is actually a code to master in the first place.

Let me explain. Imagine you’re on a three lane highway and you wish to turn left at the next lights. So you move across into the left lane, right? Wrong! The left lane is for making U-turns (Saudi main roads have a series of service roads that mean you are obliged to drive in the opposite direction when you get to most junctions and then to make a U-turn at a later point.) So if you want to turn left you should move into the centre or right hand lane.

What if you want to turn right? That’s easy. You do so from the centre lane or the right lane. But if you’re in the left lane by mistake, don’t worry. You just have to edge your car slightly more forward than the next guy and rev up fast when the lights turn green.

If you want to drive slowly, then you drive in the centre lane. All lanes can be used for overtaking, so you might as well give the other chap a choice as to which side to use.

Speed limits are the next thing to master. If you pass a round sign with 120 written in it (in Arabic or Latin text) it means that others are advised to limit their speed to 120 kph. Saudi princes (of which there are an awful lot), important businessmen, freewheeling individuals and, of course, yourself are not affected by this ruling. This especially applies to the inside hard shoulder known locally as the lane of death where anything slower than around 160kph (100 mph) will be in the way of other Saudi princes, important businessmen, freewheeling individuals and so on.

Saudi drivers care about warning signs too: a pedestrian crossing is a warning to them that stupid pedestrians might leave a mark on their car if they don’t move out of their way fast enough.

Hazard lights are used when there is fog or a sandstorm, since Saudi cars do not have rear fog lamps. So as the forward fog lamps are not now needed for their original purpose they in turn are used to warn other drivers to make way for a Saudi prince, important businessman, etc etc.

The horn is used to let other drivers in front of you know that the lights changed to green half a second ago. If you don’t use your horn you are in danger of being thought of as a wimp - never a good reputation to have in the Middle East.

OK; let’s be serious for a moment. The authorities have recently brought in new rules and regulations aimed at improving driving standards generally. There is a new points system modelled on the points systems of many western countries. Get too many points and you’re banned from driving – unless you are a Saudi with plenty of wasta of course. Driving whilst under the influence of alcohol is an immediate 16 points deduction – enough to lose your licence in one hit. Drive without having suitable brakes on your car and it’s four points away. Drive your family goat whilst not having suitable brakes on your car and it’s two points away (presumably the goat can act as a buffer in the event of an accident?).

But the question on everyone’s mind right now is what will happen when women are allowed to drive. For the signs are there right now for all to see. A new driving school has recently been built in Riyadh. Half the building is up and running; but the other half is totally empty. Everyone assumes this is in readiness for when women are given the green light, so to speak.

The problem is a serious one. Embedded in Saudi law is the fact that unrelated men and women must not socialise or even be seen talking to one another. So what will happen when a car driven by a woman is involved in an accident? Do the two drivers not talk to one another? And who is to say that male Saudi drivers with their racing hormones won’t deliberately bump into the car of a female driver – especially an expatriate female driver - in order to chat her up? No-one is yet ready to offer an answer, which may be why no date has yet been fixed for female driving to be introduced, despite having been mooted for years.

There again, you should never forget the counter argument, made by many a religious zealot, that it shouldn’t be necessary for women to drive as it is both unnatural and unnecessary anyway, as a woman’s place is in the home. Which may be why it is very common to see what at first sight appears to be cars driven by themselves … until you look a bit closer and see a small boy, no more than 10 or 11 years old, peering over the steering wheel as he manoeuvres his mother and sisters to a pressing appointment. But that, as they say, could be the start of yet another blog on life in the Middle East.

Selfish Parking

I was driving down Olaya Street the other day in the early afternoon when I noticed the road was completed blocked. Well, perhaps 'noticed' is an understatement. OK, I was stupid enough to be trapped in this no-go area for all of 15 minutes at school chucking-out time.

I should have known better. Yet it never ceases to amaze me how many of our host citizens think nothing of parking five abreast in the middle of a major road simply because they cannot imagine having their dear little offspring walking the 20 yards down the road where they could have parked with zero problem right next to the curb. And they are worried about child obesity?

Which brings me neatly on to selfish parking. You'd think with the amount of car parks that finding a space wouldn't be so difficult would it? I mean half the shopping malls have underground parks, and I get the impression that when they design a new shopping mall, they start with the car spaces and see what type of building they can fit into the rest of the available space.

So why is it that parking has become such a big problem? It couldn't possibly be because some drivers are just the slightest bit selfish in their parking habits could it? How often do you see cars parked at an angle across two spaces like the drivers owned the car park (well, maybe they do)? Maybe it's to avoid having their precious vehicles scratched when someone opens the door of the vehicle beside them.

Or worse still, the drivers who park right behind you, blocking your exit while they go in and peruse the goods in one of the shops along the street. You honk your horn and eventually someone ambles out, climbs in to their motor and drives off without a word of apology.

Now, I'm not for one moment advocating violence, or breaking the law, but the other evening I arrived home to find the garage entrance blocked by another car. Up and down the street in all directions there was lots of available space for parking, but instead this selfish BMW owner had decided to block my drive. I should perhaps add that it was well after midnight, so it didn't feel right to lean on the horn.

So instead I tried something different. Having parked my own car further down the road, I got some large rocks and placed them behind and in front of each tyre of the BMW such that it would be impossible to drive off without first removing them. Then I 'borrowed' two of the large yellow dustbins you see all over Riyadh exhorting everyone to keep the city tidy (keep?). I placed one immediately to the front and one immediately behind the BMW. And then I went inside and waited.

And it wasn't that long before the BMW owner came strutting his way out of a neighbour's house only to have to heave the dustbins out of the way before he could even think of driving off. Except, of course, that he couldn't since the boulders were stopping him going anywhere. So he had to get out of his car again and in the pitch black find the rocks and move them out of his way. After which he roared off into the night.

Somehow I don't think he will think of parking in front of my drive again in a hurry.

They say that education is a wonderful thing. That, of course, and revenge.

Bukhra Dunes

I think it was the snort of derision that sighed gently down the phone that made me wonder what I was letting myself in for. It was to be my first 4-wheeler trip on the dunes and I had naively asked whether my pride and joy, the new love of my life - my Hyundai Santa Fe would be up to the job.

A Santa Fe, I was told, brings out the feminine side in you. For dune driving you need a man’s car. And so it was that I sweet-talked Ken into bringing his (highly masculine) Galloper out onto the Bukhra dunes a week before the start of Ramadan.

We were told to arrive at the check point at 8.50 and to park on the left hand side of the car park. Ken and I pulled in at 8.45 to find that a swarm of the local police had ideas of their own and had met up to socialise, pass the time of day and do whatever it is that cops on a weekend shift tend to get up to in Riyadh. So we pulled in to the right hand side and were soon joined by a legion of other 4-wheelers.

Reg gave out a brightly coloured satellite ‘map’ together with 12 way points and as my wife had kindly forked out for a GPS for my last birthday present I thought this would be the ideal opportunity to put it to good use. So I spent the next half hour carefully plotting in the coordinates and telling Ken that it was only 3 kms to the turn off. (Fifteen kms later I discovered that when you’re suffering from early signs of senile dementia it’s easy to get confused between a ‘3’ and a ‘2’ when punching in the way points.)

I need not have bothered. Within minutes of having arrived on the very edge of the Red Sands it was announced that the ground was far too soft to even contemplate attempting the planned route and we could forget about those way points. (Have you ever experienced that feeling that perhaps a part of life has passed you by?)

As there were ten cars it was decided to split us up into two groups – Andy would lead one whilst the others would follow Reg. And so as the air was let out of 40 tyres, a beauty parade was held by the side of the road. ‘You can join my group’ said Andy; ‘I’ll have you’ said Reg…until all takers were suitably teamed up.

And then we all poured onto the sands, over the barbed wire lying forlornly on the ground and drove all of 100 yards before coming to a grinding halt. I was beginning to understand why they are known as the Bukhra Dunes*, since you’ll be lucky to reach anywhere on the day you actually set off. But eventually we did set off – Ken and I nosing our way along after Andy’s macho Nissan which careered up the sides of dunes and down into the depths with a flash of its nether regions that would put any exhibitionist to shame.

I was glad that Ken and I weren’t the first to get ourselves well and truly grounded (we were the third in our little group) and someone made dismissive comments about the unreliability of Discos when Reg’s Discovery seemed to be burying itself into the sand at every available opportunity.

(Later it turned out that a tyre pressure gauge was giving false readings and the Disco’s tyres were far too firm.) A tow rope, I discovered, was the order of the day. That, and a hefty four-litre engine to give some welly at the other end was what got most people out of a sticky hole.

The rest of the morning was memorable inasmuch as going ‘over the top’ on Blackpool Pleasure Beach could probably be described as memorable. I was convinced we were driving almost vertically down the sides of some dunes to land with a thump and a sharp jolt at the bottom. Ken’s inclinometer was showing a ‘mere’ 40 degrees but I’m still convinced the blessed thing was suffering from inertia.

The afternoon’s drive was a lot easier once it had been decided to follow a route that hugged the side of the sands and (apart from one of those touch-and-go moments when you wonder what lunatic would ever take his car over such a course) we chuntered merrily away over some spectacular scenery which took in a couple of well heads – sealed shut to stop anyone from even thinking about helping themselves to the precious liquid – and drove rapidly (too rapidly, moaned some would be photographers) around some bleached camel bones that stood out in stark contrast against the ruddy background.

Finally we drove over the crest of a hill and wound our way down past a remote farm where the goat and camel herder must have wondered what had caused the rush hour. (‘Did you have a nice day at work?’ his wife would ask him later, picking the fleas from off his ghutra, and he would reply that it had been one of the most memorable in a long time.)

And so we made our way back to the Makkah-Riyadh highway, singing the naughty version of ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’, and stopping briefly for a group photograph.

I learned that the last person to bring his Santa Fe to the Red Sands had burned out its clutch in the attempt. And so in retrospect I think I was probably doing my little red beauty a favour by abandoning her for the day in favour of her more macho cousin. But a 4WD for the ‘limp-wristed’? I don’t think so duckie!

[* Bukhra is Arabic for tomorrow]