Chapter 21

Desert

Every day I saw the prince’s young son, Turki. He was around five or six years old at that time. Like every other young prince, he was sometimes a spoiled brat; screaming and playing up to get his own way. One time in Marbella he spat in my face and asked why he was eating with the servants as he sat at our table eating lunch. At other times, he could be an absolute angel—a real pleasure to be around.

The day after I spoke with the prince and princess in the family house, Turki wanted to show me one of his cars. Walking by the servant’s quarters, I saw a beautiful Chevrolet Day van. It was finished in metallic blue and silver paintwork and had chrome bright work all-round it. Inside, it had a television and video recorder, deep dark-blue velvet buttoned captain’s chairs, a fridge and ice-cold air-conditioning. What a lucky little boy he was, I thought.

Later that evening, Prince Mishari joined us in the lounge. “Mark,” he said, “how would you like to spend some time in the desert?”

I replied, “I would love it, sir.”

“Good, tomorrow we will leave for the desert and stay for two days or so.” Two days in the desert! No worries, I thought, as I styled myself the new Lawrence of Arabia.

The next morning I waited excitedly for departure. What’s the first job you will do when you get into the desert, Lawrence? I asked myself. Set up camp and start a fire, I answered myself.

Within hours, we were pulling up in the Chevrolet 4x4 at the chosen site. The campsite was set up and dozens of National Guard soldiers and Bedouin Arabs milled around. Right, Lawrence, you won’t set up camp then, I thought. Mohammed wandered over and said that he would look after me. No worries, I thought.

I stared out at the desert. You could see for miles. It was as flat as a billiards table. There were no bushes, no sand dunes and no undulations. Not what I had imagined, but I could deal with it. Looking at the various tents, I turned and asked Mohammed which one housed the toilet. “What do you want, Mark?”

“Where is the toilet? Fayn al-hammam?” I repeated in Arabic.

With a large sweep of his arm from East to West, covering the whole horizon he said, “Here, Mark, here is the toilet.”

Fuck that, I thought, Lawrence could keep his desert if a man can’t even have a crap in private!

Two days, could I hold on for two days? I wondered. As it happened, I didn’t need anything more than a wee.

I wandered over to the radio communications tent and started chatting with the operators. Their English wasn’t up to much, but then again, neither was my Arabic. Between the two, and coupled with some hand gestures, we managed to communicate. Their names were Talal and Munir, and they were gay. They enjoyed teasing me with sexual innuendos but it did not bother me. I wasn’t surprised that I had stumbled across some homosexuals, as Saudi Arabia was such a segregated society it was obvious to me that homosexuality would abound. In Riyadh, it was rumoured there were three gay clubs. I knew that one of Prince Mishari’s brothers had died of AIDS. Also, the King’s youngest brother, Prince Humoud Bin Abdul Aziz was gay: he’d tried to bed me at his house in Stanmore, North London, but had been unsuccessful. I was and have always been strictly a ladies man, but now and again, someone would try it on. Many princes showed feminine traits, too.

Noticing a fire burning brightly, I left the radio operators and joined the Bedouin by the fireside. I wondered if the National Guard employed them, not that it mattered. All the ‘ordinary’ Saudis I came across, including the Bedouin, I found full of kindness and hospitality. The problems I faced throughout my career stemmed from either members of the royal family or the sycophants that they surrounded themselves with.

Sitting by the fireside, I gestured and tried out my pidgin Arabic on the Bedouin, who laughed and laughed. Whether they were laughing at what I said or my gesticulations, I will never know. I was just another crazy Englishman who was a distraction in the desert for them. From my side, I found the Bedouin kind, warm, generous and hospitable.

I watched the flames flickering with gusto, their reds, blues and oranges glowing like the sunset. The embers at the base and sides of the fire glowed fiercely as they were caught by gusts of wind. I watched the Bedouin throw some rat type creatures into the embers. They passed me one and holding it in my hand, I asked what I was supposed to do with it. A Bedouin caught on to what I was saying and laughed as he took another rat thing from the fire. He began chewing the flesh off the charred remains. Oh shit, I thought, they want me to eat a bloody rat!

No way could I refuse their hospitality or cause offence, so I began to nibble on the small rodent, praying I would not throw up. I wasn’t excessively keen on the meat and washed it down with several cups of gawha (Arabic coffee). As soon as I was able to make my escape, I set off to find Mohammed. I needed to know what rodent it was that I had eaten.

“Mohammed, Mohammed, they made me eat a small rat thing. Will I die?”

Mohammed burst out laughing; he loved it when I played the fool. “Mark, if they ate it as well then surely it is all right to eat, no?”

“Then tell me Mohammed, why do they eat rats?”

“Mark, they are not rats, they are Jerboa. We hunt them, and then after they have been killed in the Halal fashion we cook and eat them.”

“Oh, that’s all right then,” I said as I remembered what a Jerboa was in English––a desert rat!

Shit, I’ve eaten a rat! I just knew I had.

After two days passed, I sat in the Chevrolet 4x4 with Prince Mishari as we made our way back to Dammam.

“Mark, did you enjoy your visit to the desert? Did you enjoy your experiences? Were the Bedouin good to you?” asked the prince.

Now we were on our way back and feeling safe, I said, “Your Royal Highness, it was a wonderful experience, one I will treasure forever, apart from the toilet facilities, that is. I would have liked to stay longer.”

“Good, very good, we are going back in a few days, for another two weeks.” Thud, my heart hit the floor; it sounded loud enough for me to hear, so I was sure he must have heard it, too! Was he joking with me, I wondered? Looking through the darkened windows of the 4x4, I saw the desert stretching out for mile after mile, flat and barren. Every so often, we saw camels with their herder and I marvelled at how they were able to tolerate the harsh conditions. I thought about the contradictions of the desert. Inhospitable conditions, hospitable people.

* * *

Some hours after arriving back in Dammam, Prince Mishari came to speak with me. “Mark,” he said, “tomorrow we’ll be going to Riyadh where we’ll stay for a day and a night. Then we’ll fly to Jeddah where we’ll stay for another day and night before returning to Dhahran. Make sure you get anything you need ready.”

“I look forward to it, Your Highness,” I replied. He left and returned to the main house.

Looking over to a patio area, I saw the guy’s playing cards. I went and sat with them. Squeezing between Majid and Sultan, I acknowledged Mohammed, Ghassim and Joha. Dressed in my thobe and headdress, I felt comfortable and no doubt looked like one of them, I thought, laughing to myself.

It was like a beautiful summer’s day in the United Kingdom. We sat in a shaded area, it was a little cooler yet there was no obvious breeze. The sunlight for me at that time of year was a joy to behold. Normally, I would be suffering the cold, mainly wet, damp and darker nights in the UK and so the weather was pure bliss.

“Mark,” Mohammed said, “We are going into Al Khobar later and we wondered if you would like to come with us?”

“Do you think it will be all right with the prince?” I asked.

“We’ll ask him and if he says yes, will you come with us?”

“Yes, I’d like to have a look around.” As they continued playing, I took my leave and went for a short sleep.

Bang, bang, bang came the rapping on the door. Drowsily, I got up and went to open it. It felt like only a moment or two ago that I had laid my head down on the pillow. Sultan and Mohammed stood there excitedly ‘geeing’ me up. “Come on Mark, get ready, Prince Mishari said you can come with us. Hurry up, we want to get moving.”

“Give me a minute,” I said. With that, I went to the bathroom and splashed some cold water over my face. That did the trick and the drowsiness I had felt all but melted away.

Al Khobar was exciting, bustling, and I loved looking in the jewellers there. Gold shops abounded in Gold Alley in the old section of Al Khobar. Everywhere I looked, I saw a gold shop. I didn’t think there was that much gold in the world: the street was swamped with the stuff. The evening was cool and the hustle and bustle of the traders and their customers livened the place up.

“Mohammed,” I called, “Why is this gold and jewellery not properly secured? It seems crazy to me, what happens if someone steals something?”

With a shrug of his shoulders he replied, “No problem; the jeweller loses a necklace, the thief loses their hand.”

“Sultan, why do you think Prince Mishari wanted me to visit the Kingdom?” I asked.

“Mark, I don’t know, maybe he wanted you to get a better understanding of where we come from and what ordinary Saudi’s are like. Just remember you are privileged to be his guest, which is an honour in itself, so just enjoy it.”

“Mohammed, Mohammed,” I called, “Come and see the necklace I’ve found.” As he arrived, I exclaimed, “There is someone special I want to buy that for. How much is it?”

Mohammed spoke with the shopkeeper and told me the price, which frankly didn’t mean a thing to me. “Mohammed, I have enough money. Will you buy it for me?”

Mohammed spoke animatedly with the shopkeeper. I watched and waited for Mohammed to finish his diatribe, by which time I felt sorry for the shopkeeper! The outcome of this banter was a sizeable discount for me; a victory for Mohammed and a beautiful necklace for that someone special back home in the UK.

I beamed a smile at Mohammed and slapped him on the back as I thanked him for the discount he had secured for me. This had been the first time I had seen bartering in action since my arrival and I would have loved to be privy to all that was said.

After a couple of hours looking around the shops, Sultan decided that we should be getting back as we had an early start in the morning. I felt content and got on well with the prince, his family and their staff. Only a few months later, I would see a different side to the princess and it would only be a matter of time before the grim reaper would come to call for me.

* * *

“Mark, Mark, are you up yet?” came the voice from outside the door. Opening it, I found Sultan standing there with a big grin on his face.

“Let me just get my holdall and I’ll be right with you,” I said. Briskly, we made our way out to the prince’s Mercedes and found Majid already waiting for us.

“Ahlan, ahlan yaa Majid (Hello, Majid) khayf il Haal? (How are you?)” I said.

“Il Hamdu lillaah (Praise be to God) Bi kayr (Good)” he replied. I had found that nearly every sentence uttered in Saudi Arabia made some reference or other to Allah (God). I found this ironic given how rarely the royal family practised their religion. Where the royals would flout their religion and get away with it, the punishments meted out to ‘ordinary’ citizens in Saudi if they did so were severe, sometimes resulting in the death penalty. Often the punishments they received were for doing nothing more than the royal family got up to every day of their lives. If the royal family were penalised in the same manner as their citizens then they would have a significantly smaller royal family.

I noted the engine was running so the air-conditioning would have cooled the car before the prince arrived. My holdall and the other cases had been put in the boot of the Mercedes and another Chevrolet 4x4 behind it.

As Prince Mishari walked over to us, the guys greeted him with all servility. I greeted the prince in a more reserved manner. Majid relieved the prince of his briefcase and waited for him to get into his car. He signalled for me to sit next to him. Sultan sat next to Majid, in the front passenger seat. At Dhahran airport, we were ushered straight through to the waiting aircraft. Sitting in the lavish first class cabin, we awaited take off. I could detect some uneasiness in the prince and remembered he wasn’t comfortable with flying.

The flight was uneventful, and within an hour or so, we stood in the airport at Riyadh. I walked behind the prince and Sultan. I carried the prince’s briefcase and marvelled at the architecture of the airport. It was a beautiful building; modern and clean. As I took in the sights, I lost ground, which would prove to be an unhealthy move. Looking ahead, I noticed the prince and Sultan clearing a checkpoint manned by armed guards. I quickened my pace to catch up and as I passed through the checkpoint, I set the alarms off. I looked at the guards; the guards looked at me. I wondered what the problem was and so did they. As they were deciding what to do, I noticed their hands move on to their firearms. I froze and held my breath, hoping I would not be subjected to a barrage of 9mm rounds whizzing about my head. By this time, Prince Mishari had turned round to see what was causing the commotion. On realising I was the offender he fired off a command to the guards who then waved me through. As I walked past them, I could see the suspicions they held towards me glinting in their eyes. Catching up to the prince, I asked, “Your Highness, what was that all about?”

“Nothing, Mark,” he replied, “It was just the detectors picked up on my gun in the briefcase you are carrying that was all.”

That’s all? I thought. Fuck that, he could have told me I was carrying his gun. I would have made sure I had stayed glued to him right from the start. I didn’t expect him to carry his gun in Saudi.

I savoured all that I could. Sights, sounds and smells I took in; I soaked them up like a sponge. As we neared the exit, another official-looking person approached us and greeted the prince. He led us out to the compulsory Mercedes. The driver loaded our gear into the car.

“Mark, we are going to my villa in Al Nasiriyah, where my father’s palace was situated. He had a villa built for each of his children within the palace grounds.” I wondered if that were true, as I knew King Saud had fathered over one hundred children.

“Once we settle in we will go to Prince Mohammed’s [Bin Saud] for lunch. Prince Mohammed is one of my older brothers, he was the former Defence Minister of Saudi Arabia when our father was King,” continued Prince Mishari. This Prince Mohammed was not the one I worked for in London, and I’d not yet met him.

As we approached a massive gateway Prince Mishari said, “This gateway is all that’s left of the pinkish block walls that surrounded the palace compound.” The gateway stood about thirty-five feet high and about one hundred and twenty feet across its base. On either side of the gateway were two large openings. One was the entrance, the other was the exit. Both openings had pointed tops, and set within the centre upright column separating the two was the Saudi Arabian symbol depicting the palm tree and swords. Above that, it looked as though an engraving of the Saudi Arabian flag had been carved into the stonework. The whole gateway was ornately designed. The size of the grounds beyond it was phenomenal, stretching about a mile square. I could only imagine what this compound must have looked like when the outer block wall had been in place. It took my breath away.

The driver stopped at the kerbside and opened the car door for the prince. As he walked up to the doorway of his villa, a servant opened it. Sultan and I followed him, with me carrying his all-important briefcase. The driver busied himself as he brought our luggage into the hallway. The villa was built in a Mediterranean style and occupied a single floor. It was large but nothing special in terms of its decor.

I noted lush vegetation as we entered the compound, which surprised me given the climate in Riyadh. Obviously, a great deal of time and effort had gone into planting and propagating the area.

Sultan showed me the bedroom I’d be using and I picked up my holdall and took it into the room. I took a quick shower and went back out into the lounge area to await the others. Sitting on a sofa, I took a minute to reflect on how lucky I was to be experiencing this trip to the Kingdom. Given the state of my finances back home, I knew I had, at most, five weeks to enjoy it. As Prince Mishari’s guest, I did not expect to be paid for the visit.

As I daydreamed, the prince entered the room. As soon as I noticed him, I stood. Sultan was noticeable by his absence. “Are you ready, Mark? If you are ready, we will leave now.”

“Yes sir, I’m ready,” I replied. The prince led the way. He got in the driving seat of the Mercedes and signalled me to get in the front passenger seat. We set off for Prince Mohammed’s villa. On the way, he spoke a little about his father’s history and told me a little more about Al Nasiriyah.