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:

• Author's Foreword & Chapter One

• Chapter Two

• Chapter Three

• Chapter Four

• Chapter Five

• Chapter Six

• Chapter Seven

• Chapter Eight

• Chapter Nine

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.