Authors: Sadie Mills
'I don't think you're allowed girlfriends in Saudi...'
So she considered herself that? Despite Monique's badgering, he'd never actually asked her. She was right. He should have done it. Maybe it was his fault, for not being clear. She might have thought he was just fooling around, maybe he had no right to be angry. He hadn't made her any promises, why should he expect them from her? He should have spelt it out. Maybe it was already too late.
Ben didn't like takeoffs. He didn't like landings. Banking was the pits. This morning, he didn't care. He just wanted that buckle safety-belt light extinguished and the drinks trolley coming down. He was going to get hammered, then he was going to sleep.
When he opened his eyes, he could feel the sun on his face. He blearily looked around, not quite sure where he was, wiping the dribble from his chin, fixing his hair. The drone of the engines had lulled him to sleep. His laptray had been folded away. The row of miniature Soco bottles had disappeared.
That's the great thing about Club Class. So long as you're quiet, so long as you behave, you get what you want without a sideways glance. It was more enough to knock him out. Nevertheless, Ben felt like shit.
He peered out of the window, rubbing his eyes, picking the crusts from the corners. They were flying over the desert, through a cobalt sky, the tangerine dunes rolling off to the horizon. It was indescribably beautiful. He turned to the empty seat beside him. He felt a pang in his chest.
It was all a bit silly, wasn't it?
They say everything will be alright in the morning. It was afternoon already. Ben did feel a little better, emotionally. Eight Socos and a good long sleep had gone a long way to taking the edge off of it. He'd call her, they'd sort it out. It was going to be OK. She liked him, he knew she did - those eyes couldn't have been lying all this time. Dan was just some prick from the past. There was no way she'd be going back to him.
He wasn't sure what he was going to say to her though.
Oh God...
He'd broken her phone. Maybe he shouldn't mention the phonecall at all, just carry on like nothing had happened?
'Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will shortly be making our descent into Jeddah, where the time is 15.08hrs and the ground temperature is approximately twenty-eight degrees Celsius.'
Ben had expected it to be warmer.
'On behalf of British Airways and the cabin crew, I hope that you've had a pleasant flight, and we wish you a safe onward journey. We look forward to flying with you again.'
Ben could already feel the drop in altitude. A different male voice came over the tannoy, speaking in Arabic. It sounded harsh; guttural. There were a lot of throat noises. It sounded a bit like a Glaswegian on the lash.
Jeddah airport was unlike any Ben had ever seen before. Not to say the building itself looked any different - it was pretty bulk standard, all false ceilings and lit panels, queuing for your luggage around a squeaky carousel. But the people, their clothes. It was like landing on mars. Ben stuck out like a sore thumb. There were a few fellow westerners, a couple of Saudi businessmen suited up, but the rest wore traditional attire. There was a lot of white flowing cotton, prayer hats, red and white checked headscarves. There were a few women (well, that's what he guessed they were), dressed in black from head to toe. There were kids running around - boys and girls. They wore western clothes: hair loose, jeans and t-shirts. It was all a little bit odd.
As Ben came out onto the concourse, he began to feel anxious. What if his fixer hadn't turned up? He peered amongst the taxi drivers, the families, the officials. There were no tour reps in this neck of the woods.
Ben's eyes focussed on a short, swarthy guy in a long white cotton smock, thong sandals and a red and white headscarf. He had dark skin and black designer stubble - he looked about forty though he was probably younger.
He held up a sign, perfectly inscribed on bright white cardboard:
Mr Benjamin Macy.
'You must be Aziz.' Ben held out his hand. The guy looked confused.
Oh shit...
'...Mr Macy?' Ben nodded. The guy smiled. '...Ah, of course! Pleased to meet you!'
Ben sighed with relief - he spoke English. He had a deep voice, with a strong Arabic twang. Aziz grabbed his hand, pumping his arm, nodding to the porter to take Ben's case.
'The car is waiting outside. Please follow me.'
Aziz's eyes were virtually black. Ben looked around him. They were everywhere he looked. From the security guys to the luggage porter, all black, all like hers, all of them staring at him.
A slight girl in a black abeya and niqab sauntered past. Those eyes were all that was on show. Ben caught her gaze, his head turning, watching her walk away. It could have been her. It looked just like her.
'Mr Macy, do you have shades?' Aziz asked him.
'...Pardon?'
'Sunglasses,' said Aziz.
'Well, yes—' Ben nodded.
'Good,' said Aziz. 'Put them on.'
They were inside. It wasn't that bright. Ben couldn't see what the fuss was about. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, did as he was told anyway.
'You mustn't look at the ladies,' Aziz told him discreetly as Ben slipped his Raybans over his nose.
'...I... I didn't! I wasn't!'
'Yes-yes-yes!' Aziz said quickly.
He gave Ben a knowing look and a smirk.
'This isn't England, Mr Macy,' he said quietly. 'We have our own customs here. You need to be very careful.'
Ben wondered what he'd roped himself into. He'd only touched down twenty minutes ago - he was already in trouble. Ben kept his eyes on his shiny black shoes click-clacking across the white marble. He felt Aziz nudge him.
'Welcome to Saudi Arabia, Mr Macy,' Aziz said playfully.
'Call me Ben,' Ben grumbled back.
'The driver will take us to get some food now,' Aziz told Ben over his shoulder from the front of the Merc, 'then he will take you back to your room and you can get some rest.'
Ben stared at the back of Aziz's chequered headscarf. It was the middle of the afternoon - he didn't need rest. He wasn't even hungry.
Ben sat forward in his seat.
'No, Aziz. That isn't the plan,' he said wearily. 'I'm supposed to be meeting The Prince.'
Aziz turned to face him, poking his head between the driver and passenger seats. He fixed Ben with his shiny dark eyes.
'My friend, I hope you will not find me rude when I say this... but I cannot present you to His Highness like this.'
Ben's eyes widened. He found it rude alright. He was wearing Gucci, he had a tie on. Ben straightened it up. He'd showered before he left. He discreetly sniffed himself - he smelt OK. No one had talked about a dress code. He was going to look a plonker in one of those smocks.
'...Some of the royal family here are very liberal,' Aziz continued. 'However, The Prince is not. He is a religious man. Benjamin, my friend... you smell of alcohol. If I take you to him like this, it would be an insult. Please understand, I only do this because I do not want to get you into trouble.'
Ben sank back into the leather seat, nodding up at him. He popped a nicotine gum from the blister pack and slipped it into his mouth. It tasted strong, not of mint - more like licking an ashtray. He wanted to spit it out but didn't have anywhere for it to go.
Ben was embarrassed. Aziz was right - he was a mess. It was completely unprofessional. He'd never turned up to a gig like this, let alone one for a sultan paying him 10k a day. He stared out of the window, the blurred white buildings and shadowy figures. He still felt a little bit squiffy. In Reykjavik, he'd torn shreds off a model for not sitting still, and here he was turning up pissed. Aziz was right. He needed to get it together.
The driver wove through the streets of the inner city. It wasn't what Ben had imagined. He'd expected to find gleaming marble and streets paved with gold in an oil-rich country like this. There was a bit of that: King Fahd's Fountain jetting water 300 meters into the air, an enormous mirrored glass skyscraper, split down the middle, surrounding what looked like a giant disco ball. There was quite a lot of green, huge date palms and sprinkled stretches of grass, not quite what you'd expect to find in the desert. The streets were arranged in neat blocks in the financial districts, but as they made their way downtown, they began to ramble. Buildings looked older, some beautiful, with Islamic geometrical features, some just ugly concrete blocks. The car dipped into potholes, children played in the street. They came to a standstill. Ben looked up at the red and yellow sign.
Al Baik.
'You like chicken?' asked Aziz.
Ben sniffed the air. He nodded back quickly. Aziz smiled and got out.
He was back five minutes later, opening up Ben's door and presenting him with a package in a flimsy plastic bag.
'Please excuse us Benjamin, but we are late for prayers.'
Ben tore the lid off the aluminium container, stuffing the cartoon chicken in a top hat back into the plastic bag. There must have been half a chicken there, a mountain of fries, a bun - he tossed that away too.
It was straight out of the fryer. It burnt his fingers, his mouth, his tongue. Ben licked the salty grease from his lips. It was the best chicken he'd ever tasted.
Aziz studied him as he got back into the car. He smiled.
'Much better,' he said. 'Very good.' He held out a polystyrene cup. 'Drink this.'
Ben sipped it through the plastic lid. Sweet black coffee, so strong it almost blew his head off.
'I think we will go in the side way. I hope you going to be OK for tonight.'
Aziz went through the do's and don'ts of Muslim etiquette, Saudi etiquette, etiquette with His Highness. Ben started to get anxious again.
The suit was fine (for a foreigner to wear local clothing was actually considered offensive) but he could forget about going jogging around the streets in his shorts. Things had changed since Michael Palin's visit. Dress codes had become more conservative. No bare shoulders, stomach, calves or thighs. He should keep his jacket and tie on during all public engagements. Whenever a host removes their shoes, so should you.
You can shake hands with a man, but never offer your hand to a woman. Men may kiss as a greeting, but
never
with one of the opposite sex. Do not touch someone or make gestures with your left hand, it is considered unclean (Aziz gave a crude explanation as to why). Men holding hands here is normal - it's a sign of friendship.
'But if he stroke your leg, then it is going too far.'
Ben just stared at him. Aziz laughed.
'I'm joking! I'm joking! Relax!'
Don't give a thumbs up gesture, it isn't polite. Don't cross your legs. Never, ever, show the soles of your feet or the bottoms of your shoes to anyone. Never slap anyone on the back of the neck.
Ben's head was already reeling - how was he going to remember all this? He was bound to put his foot in it with someone.
'...If you are offered coffee and dates, you must accept this, even if you don't really like them.'
Ben looked at Aziz, taking a slug of the bitter syrup.
Aziz laughed.
'You are doing well already. You are a natural, my friend!'
'Yes' doesn't have the same meaning in Saudi Arabia. Here, it is more a 'maybe'. You might as well take your watch off and throw it away - time means nothing here... Except prayer times. Nothing is allowed to interrupt those. In Islam, hospitality is very important, but God comes before everything.'
'Don't talk about Israel. At all. Don't talk about this Arab Spring business. Democracy, gays, the rights of the people - don't talk about any of that. Try to stay off religion - it's too easy to offend. Sport is always safe. His Highness likes football. You can talk about that.'
Ben didn't really follow sport that much. He doubted The Prince would even have heard of Leyton Orient.
'...And now back to the women,' Aziz said with a broad grin, a mischievous glint in his eye.
'The Arab woman is the most beautiful creature on the earth...'
Ben smiled to himself.
'We have to protect them. From themselves, from us... from you.'
'...It wasn't like that,' Ben said firmly.
Aziz waved his hand dismissively.
'Yes-yes-yes. I know. But it's like I say to you, we have our own customs here. Look for one second, but not one second more.... Better you do not look at all. Never approach Saudi woman.
'Now Benjamin, we have business ladies, and this is where it becomes complicated. I am not saying you should ignore them if they speak to you. But you have to be s
o
careful. Cut the conversation off as soon as you can. The Arab man is very,
very
jealous.