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EDITOR'S NOTE
The
Saudi-American Forum is very pleased to present "Honey and
Onions" by Frances Meade. This delightful memoir of
the early days of Americans working and living in the Kingdom -
in ten chapters - will be
presented one chapter per week.
Today's Chapter Ten
concludes the Saudi-American Forum's serialization of
"Honey and Onions." We hope you have enjoyed
reading Frances Meade's recount of life in 1960s Saudi
Arabia.
Please join
in a discussion of the book.
Previous
Chapters:
Chapter Ten
The sky is beginning to redden in the west, silhouetting the racetrack
grandstand; to the east, a full moon is rising and Adnan's hoofs
punch holes in the pre-sunset silence.
We are alone on the track, far removed from the city and
the commotion of homeward traffic, two rather elderly companions
enjoying the peaceful evening and an easy ride. The sun is down now, and the call to prayer floats over the
darkening trees. We
walk quietly back to the stable as we have done for as many
years as I can remember. Does
he remember too?
The
horses. Adnan, Wahaj, Antar, Hajoum, Al-Wa'i; all those
wonderfully tough, headstrong and tempestuous horses who
gave us so much pleasure. Just recalling their names is to
remember them not only as individuals but also as
hallmarks of the Riyadh we came back to.
For us, this became the decade of the horse.
*****ADD PICTURES OF HORSES
Of
all the possibilities of outdoor life, it seemed natural to turn
to one of the ancient traditions of Arabia and enjoy it at its
best when the desert was still open and accessible.
Riding
was not only our pleasure, but also our preoccupation.
There were only a few stables where we could keep our
horses, and they were rudimentary compared to those we were used
to in the States. Whatever
work was to be done, we did ourselves; whatever medicating was
needed, we had to provide.
But what a labor of love it was and how well we came to
know those wonderful animals -- and how well they came to know
us.
We
had been a riding family in the States, but we were used to
hunters, thoroughbreds. The
only Arabian horses we had ever seen were plump, over-bred show
horses that commanded very fancy prices and were owned by very
fancy people -- not our kind of thing at all -- and we regarded
them as somewhat in the same category as toy poodles or angora
cats.
But
here in the birthplace of the Arabian, we saw that the desert
horse was a very different breed.
Like the people of the desert who bred them, they were
rugged and enduring and blessed with the independence of spirit
that makes it possible to survive in an uncompromising
environment.
Susie,
our fearless -- and sometimes feckless -- rider who had once
bolted across the better part of the Beirut golf course on a
runaway horse and could never understand the consternation of
the golfers ("Really, Mom, he's a very nice horse most of
the time") found our first horse.
Adnan was Beirut bred and brought here as a racehorse,
but after a brief racing career, he was bought by a young German
who promised Susie that if he ever left the country, she would
have first refusal on the horse.
Shortly thereafter, he and Susie both left the kingdom,
she to school and he back to Germany, and lo, Dick and I had a
horse. Adnan was a
bay stallion the color of dark mahogany with the soul and
manners of a true gentleman. Adnan lived to the age of
thirty-one, growing old along with us and becoming a legend in
his lifetime.
Soon
he was joined by Wahaj, a black mischief, who invented numerous
games to pass the time in his stall, the most startling of which
involved picking up the stable cat by the head and swinging her
around. Although to the casual passerby, he appeared to be swallowing
her whole, the cat apparently enjoyed it as she spent most of
her time with him.
Wahaj
had as many moods as there were hours in the day, and it was
always an adventure to ride him and sometimes a potential
disaster. Pounding across the desert, one could only pray that he
wouldn't step in a hole, try to stay with him and ignore the
possibilities of imminent death.
There
were two major riding groups, ours at the Riyadh Air Base, the
other, almost an hour's ride away at a stable on the Al Kharj
road not far from the racetrack, which is still a center of
riding activity. A
small group stabled somewhere in between. Fortunately, it was all open desert, and apart from a
harrowing crossing of the Dhahran road leaving the Air Base, it
was largely cross country and rather fun to ride off for the day
to a competition at one place or the other.
However, danger lurked
where the Naseem road crosses Al-Nahda Street today.
There in the wadi lived a pack of wild dogs who truly
lived up to their name. Desert
beige themselves, they could crouch unseen in our path and
suddenly spring up almost under the horses' hoofs. The resulting commotion would bring the rest of the pack
dashing down the hill barking and snarling ferociously, splitting up to rush both the front and the rear of our small
caravan. It took a
great deal of swatting with riding whips to get through to the
edge of their territory, which they never left, and resume our
leisurely ride. Even though we knew where they would be and expected them
every time we went through, they never failed to take us by
surprise and, I suspect, enjoyed the whole procedure.
The
social life of the equestrian community brought together a
splendid mix of Saudis and foreigners of all ages united by the
love and enjoyment of the horses.
Horse shows and picnics and overnight rides became major
activities for participants and spectators alike.
As the sport grew, it was not unusual to have a horse
show every month with almost a hundred entries.
For the school children it was another outlet for their
energies and a popular pastime with both boys and girls.
*****ADD PICTURE
The
Pony Club was an active organization for all
nationalities, including Saudis, and provided our western
children with a rare opportunity to know the young people
of their host country.
We entertained the Pony Club from the Eastern
Province at competitions in Riyadh, housing them with our
local members, and they returned the hospitality.
It was fertile ground for the kind of natural
relationships that are so much more meaningful when they
are based on a common interest.
We
had previously arranged some informal soccer and basketball
competitions for both boys and girls between RICS and two Saudi
schools, and while everyone enjoyed them, they were isolated
events and the will to win took precedence over making new
friends. Pony Club
meant meeting several times a week in a non-competitive
atmosphere with everyone on the same team.
It also meant working together to learn how to care for
the horses as well as themselves.
Horses
are great teachers of self-discipline and responsibility; they
are utterly dependent on humans, and they are very large.
They cannot be bullied but have to be treated with
patience and consistency. They
have remarkably inefficient digestive systems, and the simple
act of feeding requires care and regularity.
My own children had been lucky enough to have been taught
by a particularly clever mare, and I was delighted that some of
my students now had similar tutors.
The
most original of all the equestrian projects had to have been
the horse operas. These
were colossal outdoor productions that took place annually in
the desert. Horses and riders were mustered to play, depending on that
year's script, cavalry, Indians or even knights in armor. Dialogue and background music were taped and synchronized
with the action. And
what action. One
day, Dick's secretary came to work looking like the victim of a
particularly violent car crash.
Not so. During
a rehearsal, she, playing a fair young maiden pursued by a band
of Indians, had come to grief when the wagon she was riding in
turned over, and she was flung out.
It was a little anti-climactic at the actual performance
when the Indians merely took her prisoner and tied her to a
stake. The force
behind the flowering of all this equestrian activity was a
remarkable American woman.
She was one of those rare personalities of whom legends
are made -- a feisty, self-reliant person of great charm and wit
with a gift for the local dialect that brought her in touch with
Bedouin life in a way that few other foreigners could achieve.
She was welcome at gatherings where she might be the only
woman but a bona fide member of the group nevertheless.
Horse
trading among the Bedouin was serious business, and she was just
as serious about it as they were since she was on the way to
acquiring as many horses as possible in order to fill the
growing demand of the foreigners who relied on her connections.
To accompany her on these forays was a great treat with
hours spent drinking tea and listening to the point and
counterpoint of the bargain being struck.
The good humor of the participants in the game shone
through the many cries of despair and shakings of the head
accompanied by a disdainful lift of the chin.
At the pitch of the battle when it seemed that a
disorderly retreat might be necessary, a laugh and a handshake
restored the social balance, and the deal was sealed with yet
another cup of tea before departure.
This kind of encounter encouraged my belief in the
enduring quality of Saudi ways, as did another incident that
indirectly involved horses.
Some
people from Dhahran had come to Riyadh looking for horses to buy,
and Dick and I had volunteered to show them all the likely
sources. That afternoon we packed our German Shepherd into the car and
set out with the Dhahran contingent following.
I had pulled an ankle tendon a week before and was
swathed in bandages and on crutches, but I didn't want to miss
the outing.
Driving
through a back street in Malaz, we were pulled over by the
urgent horn honking of an old Bedouin in a pickup truck.
We stopped, as did our followers, and the pickup pulled
up in front of us. We
could see three hooded falcons perched on a pole across the bed
of the truck. The
old gentleman got out accompanied by a small boy. Dick got out of the car to meet him and shake hands.
"How
much for the dog?" he asked.
Dick
explained that the dog was not for sale.
This was interpreted as a pricing ploy by the would-be
buyer who positively smacked his lips at the prospect of good
bargaining session. He
told us how much the boy wanted the dog, and although it wasn't
much of a dog, he would take it off our hands.
By this time, our Dhahran friends were out of their car
and chiming in, and it was turning into a world class haggle.
Awakened from their naps, some Egyptians in pajamas came
out of their house to see what was going on.
Another vehicle stopped, and a younger Saudi elbowed his
way to the center of the action and entered into the fray.
At
this point Dick offered to trade the dog for the falcons, an
offer that produced cries of disbelief from the crowd.
Three falcons for a dog; the foreigner was clearly
demented. The
newest participant seemed to be the most indignant and we
wondered what his relationship was to the old man and the boy.
Finally,
Dick announced, "I will sell my wife, but I will not sell
my dog."
Silence.
For the first time the crowd turned toward the car where
I sat alone. The
young Saudi threw up his hands and shouted, "Wallahi!
He would sell his wife but not his dog!"
The old man peered in, took one look at me and my
crutches, and caught on to the game.
With a twinkle in his eye, he turned down the offer.
I certainly didn't blame him; I was no bargain.
Everyone
laughed uproariously, and the gathering turned into a social
exchange. The old
man and the boy showed off the falcons, and Dick showed off the
dog. The Egyptians
went back to bed and the latecomer, who turned out to be a total
stranger, departed in his ramshackle taxi. Handshaking all around, and we drove off, filing away one
more vignette to add to our memories of Riyadh.
One
way or another, the horses brought us as close to Saudi life and
people as most foreigners ever get.
As a group, we float like an oil slick on the deep waters
of Saudi society, carried along by its currents but largely
unaware of the life going on in its depths.
Oil and water simply do not mix.
As foreigners and non-Muslims, we have no basis for
understanding a way of life that derives from deeply held
beliefs in a religion we know little about.
To
fail to understand Saudi life is not a failure to appreciate it.
To ignore and miss opportunities, to experience this
ancient culture is the real failure. We are part of it whether we choose to be or not, and we miss
the whole point of being here if we haven't the wit to take
advantage of what the kingdom has to offer.
The years we have spent
here have disappeared at a breathtaking rate.
It is hard to realize how many there have been and how
much of our lives has gone by.
It is a continuum of happenings rather than time, rich
with friendship and experiences, with no immediate end in sight.
What
I see about me now is another world from the Riyadh of the
sixties. Tall
buildings, multilane highways, shopping malls, the monumental
pedestrian complex that has replaced the Dira Souk, the Asian
shop-keepers and Filipino drivers -- all of these have brought a
new landscape and a new life to the city.
But, all it takes for me is a glass of hot, fragrant tea,
and I'm back in the Riyadh of thirty years ago --
unsophisticated and lacking in the amenities we all take for
granted these days but friendly, hospitable and welcoming.
That's my Riyadh: I still live there.
CODA
Do I still live there?
Physically, no. Perhaps, like muscle memory, Riyadh still lives
in me. After our departure in 1998, I felt a sense of loss, not
for the city of today, but for that community of spirit that was
so much a part of our life almost forty years ago.
The events of the
post-millennium have brought our Saudi years into a new
perspective. As we read our newspapers and listen to the
television commentators, we find it difficult to reconcile the
conventional view of Riyadh as hostile and dangerous with our
own experience among its people.
In the fall of 2003, we
returned on a visit. Old friends and familiar places made us
feel as though we had never left. Conversations picked up where
they left off six years ago; visiting the souk was a trip back
in time. The new skyline created by the Faisaliya and Kingdom
towers is dramatic, but Riyadh has absorbed far more in the way
of physical change over the decades.
What was new? Police
checkpoints throughout the city were only an overt indication of
the concern for the possibility of new terrorist attacks; a
major bombing occurred the week after we left. The sad reality
of the way we all live now was very evident in this country that
seemed for so many years to be remote from the rest of the
world, insulated by its traditions and culture as well as its
geography. Our friends spoke of the need for reform, the growing
gap between our two countries, and the difficulties of
maintaining the American relationship, which is so much a part
of the history of Saudi Arabia's development.
And yet, the city
throbbed with the activity of life going on as it always has.
The children went to school as their fathers, and an increasing
number of mothers, went to work. Supermarkets, shopping malls
and restaurants were as popular as ever -- the way it is
everywhere with people living their lives in the midst of world
tensions and crises. So, my Riyadh was still there after all,
not only in the hospitality and kindness that welcomed us back,
but also in the ease with which we became part of it again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Frances
Meade is an American who has lived in Saudi Arabia
since 1965.
Born in New York, she and her family moved to
Arizona in the '50s and still call it home.
She has a degree from Mount Holyoke College and
has written and edited educational texts as well as a
monthly magazine column.
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