Primar, a Buddhist from Sri Lanka, covered the small pane of glass in each door with a special paper that contained three sets of peepholes. He was the janitor, custodian of the two holy buckets, at the English Language Training school on King Fahd Air Force base. Desert Storm was over. Things were going back to normal. Whatever that was for the Kingdom.

We were informed that the peepholes were installed so that the Saudi Air Force students could be observed, but we knew that we were the ones being scrutinized. Several times a day, without warning the door opened, and one of the Saudi officers walked in to examine the class. Occasionally, it was a major or a colonel from the training wing who strolled in. It was eerie and unnerving. Some of the Saudi Air Force students felt the same way as the expatriate instructors when they saw the officers promenade through the class.

My class that cycle was all military men with two and three stripes. No raw recruits plucked off the desert this time. Thank God and his twin brother, Allah. A few were from Jeddah and didn't like Taif because the people were close-minded according to them. Too many Bedoes was the complaint.

I was surprised at how critical this group was of the Kingdom. It was the friendliest class I ever had, and they constantly invited me to go smoke hubbly bubbly and have dinner. I had given up smoking, but finally I agreed to meet with some of them at Saleh's apartment in Taif even though it was an unwritten rule for the defense contractor I worked for not to socialize with any Saudis. Period.

Mohammed, a two striper, promised to pick me up at five p.m outside Al Sail compound where I lived. I waited beyond the security post until five-thirty before he finally showed. I knew it was him because he took the last turn too fast and careened off the road.

"I am sorry, my friend," Mohammed said. "I went to the wrong compound. That is why I am late."

Bell Helicopter of Saudi Arabia, a company with an American name but incorporated in the Kingdom, operated a compound several miles away. It was a trailer park filled with two to three Brits, Scots, Irish, and a few Americans interspersed per trailer. It was nowhere near as lavish as Al Sail compound although it was in a good neighborhood: Prince Abdullah's palace was just across the highway and the Intercontinental Hotel where many of the well-heeled Kuwaitis had fled after the Iraqi invasion was just down the highway. Of course, the hotel was off limits to all westerners once the Kuwaitis invaded.

Mohammed was not dressed in his Royal Saudi Air Force uniform or his thobe and ghutra when he picked me up that evening. He wore a sweat suit comprised of a white shirt with green stripes and bright green pants that gave the impression he had just jogged off a college campus somewhere. The bright green pants gave credence to the nationwide dress code of a white thobe that most Saudi men wore.

Within twenty minutes we arrived at Saleh's apartment in one of the older neighborhoods of Taif. The streets were narrow and crowded with parked cars next to the dingy, two-story dwellings. The road rose and fell with the contour of the area. Close to his apartment a group of young boys played soccer in the street. When we got out of the car, my presence became the focus of the boys’ attention. Their eyes widened like the peepholes Primar had put on the door windows. Although I have dark features, I was obviously not a Saudi.

"Ah, my teacher," Saleh, a three striper, said standing on the front steps that led to his apartment.

The front door was left ajar after we entered the small foyer that contained a sink. The living room was located to the left of the foyer. Maroon cushions lined the yellowed wall in the living room. A faded, blue carpet covered the cement floor.

"Have a seat, sir," Saleh said. "You want tea?"

"Okay," I answered.

A friend of Saleh's from the National Guard, dressed in a full-length garment made of heavy, coarse material like it had just been shorn from a sheep left the room momentarily and returned with a tall thermos full of tea and a tray of glass cups.

Mohammed sat next to me. In a few minutes he was talking on the telephone in a hushed tone. He smiled and laughed occasionally.

"Who are you talking to?" I asked, interrupting his conversation.

"My girlfriend," Mohammed said proudly and smiled with alabaster white teeth. "I am going to fuck her someday."

"Your girlfriend? I didn't think you could have girlfriends in Saudi Arabia… until you got married.”

Mohammed covered the bottom part of the phone with his hand.

"Everyone here have a girlfriend," Mohammed said, his eyes flashing with devilish delight. "Everyone have girlfriend. Must be careful though. Too many Bedouins in Taif."

"Sir, you want to listen some music?" Saleh asked from the doorway leading into the living room.

"Sure."

"I have Madonna. She very good," Saleh said.

"That's fine," I replied.

He rumbled around in a case until he found a Madonna cassette then he put it into the player located next to a large, lighted aquarium with several tropical fish swishing through the water.

"You can dance, sir," Saleh said.

"You need women to dance with," I replied.

"My woman on the telephone. I dance with her," Mohammed said.

He stood up and danced with the phone cradled in his arms to the sounds of the material girl. Saleh laughed and lit a cigarette. Mohammed danced out of the room and took the phone attached to a long cord with him.

 

*

 

We sat on the cushions and sipped tea. Saleh got up every few minutes to stick his head out the front door as he heard a car go by or a sound.

"You want to see the rest of my house?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure."

He led me through the foyer. Mohammed leaned against the thick wall and whispered to his girlfriend.

"Are you fucking her yet?" I asked.

He nodded eagerly.

The remainder of the house was dark. There were no windows. The bedroom had a large double bed with a console headboard for his clock radio. The room was like a cave. Across from the bedroom was a small kitchen. It was yellowed and confined like a broom closet. A large sack of rice leaned against the wall. Next to the sack of rice was a container of bottled gas. A connecting line ran from the tank to a two-burner range above it. Next to the gas range, which rested on a make-shift shelf, was the kitchen sink.

When we returned to the living room, Mohammed had finished his conversation.

"So will you marry her?" I asked.

"No," he said emphatically. "She is just for fucking."

"I see."

*

 

The Saudis eat late. Ten or eleven at night was fine for them. Considering the kitchen setup, I thought we would be going to a restaurant, but that idea was discarded.

"I will make the dinner," Saleh said. "I not like restaurants. You can't know if the food fresh or the man in the restaurant clean, so I make the dinner."

With his hole-in-the-wall kitchen, I was skeptical.

"Are you sure?"

"No problem, sir," Saleh assured me.

"Okay," I replied, although I had a back up plan: the greasy snack bar run by Sri Lankans on my compound stayed open until midnight.

“Let's go for a ride in my car," Saleh suggested.

It didn't look like there'd be any food anytime soon so Saleh, Mohammed, and I drove west toward Al Hada, a hilly area where Saudi families went for evening picnics. Saleh owned a new Volvo that he drove extremely fast, especially when he was harassing Bedouins which was partially the point of this trip. It didn't take long before they found a candidate.

"That is Bedouin truck," Mohammed said.

We approached a white Nissan pickup truck with an extension pen on the back bed. Saleh slowed down and drove behind the truck for a short distance. Then he pulled into the passing lane and drove alongside the truck.

"See, they are Bedouins," Mohammed said.

He laughed as he pointed at the ancient-looking occupants of the truck.

"Many Bedouins here in Taif. They are very stupid. Like Yemenis."

They taunted the Bedouins for being Bedouins for a few moments, then Saleh sped away when they tired of this Saudi version of cow-tipping, sneaking up on unsuspecting cows in moonlit pastures and tipping them over while they slept on their feet.

"Yes, very stupid," Saleh agreed when we had distanced ourselves from the hapless Bedouins.

The sun finally began to set. The sky was full of light blue and pink above the outline of the nearby mountains. We drove around Al Hada briefly and headed toward Al Shafa. Saleh put on another Madonna cassette and turned up the volume as we sped toward Al Shafa, a sparse but pristine area.

"Madonna, good this," he said.

"I know," I replied, happy at the reminder of home and life in the States.

"Tell me, are there many thief in United States?" Saleh asked.

It struck me as an odd question at an awkward moment surrounded by the natural beauty of al Shafa, especially at that time of the early evening.

"There are. You have to be careful in some places," I answered.

"Here in Saudi Arabia that not a problem. You not have to worry. Islam is very good."

"I didn't hear what you said," I replied even though I did hear what he said.

He repeated himself, and I realized with some concern: Saleh was promoting Islam. I felt like a fool, like I was back home, yeah, and had opened the door to a mob of Jehovah Witnesses. Had they tricked me with this invitation for hubbly bubbly and dinner? Was it a flimsy excuse for hustling me? Did I have to convert to get some dinner?

“There are a lot of good areas in the U.S. too. It's not all bad."

Saleh remained silent after that, sensing perhaps that I wouldn't be a good addition to Islam, especially on an empty stomach, so we turned back toward Taif. We drove for a time, then stopped at a garden shop on the outskirts of town. Maybe they had food there, I thought.

"I want show you something, Mr. Jim," Saleh said.

In the front of the shop were small shrubs and bushes in plastic containers. Off to the side were birdcages and fish tanks.

"This way, Mr. Jim Tierney," Saleh said.

I had no idea what Saleh was up to, but it appeared that he was off the Islam kick so I acquiesced and followed. Mohammed was behind us. We walked toward an open doorway in the back of the shop. A few Filipinos worked nearby making more cages. In the center was a large gazebo enclosed with wire mesh.

"This is what I want to show you," Saleh said.

The first thing I saw was a dead canary with its turquoise and yellow feathers lying in the dirt. Saleh banged on the outside of the cage.

"There it is," he said excitedly.

The outdoor light was bright, but it only reached the middle of the cage. In the shadow I saw the large, brown snake entwined and folded upon itself. Saleh laughed and banged on the cage trying to get the snake to move. The snake stared back at us once you figured out where its eyes were located in all the thick, brown loops. Saleh looked around for a water hose to spray the snake into action - as if it did tricks: sit, rollover, fetch, or anything more than just lay there and make more loops of itself.

One of the Filipinos reacted angrily when he saw what Saleh was up to.

"No," he said. "Make snake sick. Die."

Saleh put the hose down and went inside the shop. In a few minutes he returned. Another man followed him.

"I told him you want to buy snake!" Saleh said gleefully.

"I don't want to buy the snake. I hate snakes."

"You know how much is that snake?" Saleh asked.

"No," I said. "And I don't care either."

"Fifty thousand riyals," Saleh answered.

"Fifty thousand riyals? I wouldn't spend five for it."

The man approached me, but I waved him away. Saleh and Mohammed laughed at the prank he had played. I felt like the old Bedoe they harassed earlier and got the feeling I wasn't the first victim of his ruse, that it was an initiation of sorts, though not religious, and I had passed. Maybe now, we could get some dinner.

"Let's go. I'm getting hungry," I said.

"Hungry, sir?" he asked with diffidence.

"Yes. Remember you invited me to dinner? I'm tired. I haven't eaten," I said, looking at the knock-off watch I had bought in the Taif souk.

It was nine o'clock my Chinese Rolex said.

"Okay, Mr. Jim. We go."

 

*

 

We walked back to the Volvo, but instead of driving to his apartment, Saleh drove to his cousin's house. It wasn't that I was getting pissed off, but it was a good thing because I had to use the restroom. He maneuvered down a steep embankment and made a few turns and we were there.

"He's very rich," Saleh said.

He pushed on the door bell panel. In a few minutes a small boy opened a patio gate. Saleh and he exchanged greetings, and then we climbed three flights of stairs to the top floor of the building. His cousin answered the door.

"This my cousin, Abdulwahab," Saleh said.

He introduced us to a slight but handsome man dressed in a gray thobe and white ghutra. He didn't speak English so Saleh translated and told Abdulwahab I needed to use the restroom.

"This way, sir," Saleh motioned.

He led us into the living room of the spacious apartment with high ceilings, a complete contrast to his dingy apartment. The room was vacant except for a large television inside an oval shaped structure made of shiny brass. The shelves were Plexiglas. There were bluish-gray carpets throughout the expansive apartment with newly painted white walls. The next room was even bigger and was also empty except for attractive, light-blue cushions that lined all four walls.

It occurred to me that Saleh might have something else up his sleeve, a surprise: dinner at his rich cousin's house instead of his rundown apartment with only two burners hooked to a small tank of propane. How could Saleh cook for all of us on that anyway? It was like a hot plate that I had used in college. Considering what I had seen so far of Abdulwahab's apartment, there had to be a modern kitchen located somewhere in the apartment, near the off-limits women's quarters and manned by a Third Country National cook. So that was what he was up to. I caught on to Saleh's game plan.

"So are we having dinner here?" I asked, confident I had discerned his surprise.

"Here? No sir. Abdulwahab will come to my apartment and have dinner with us and watch football," Saleh replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. No problem," he replied.

I looked at my watch. There was still plenty of time to drive the thirty kilometers to my compound, especially with Mohammed Andretti at the wheel, and snag a greasy Sri Lankan club sandwich made of turkey products disguised as bacon and ham with a fried egg slid between the layers.

"This way, Mr. Jim," Saleh said.

We walked down a hallway. Saleh motioned to a closed door.

"The bathroom is there."

What happened next I can only blame on feeling disoriented from hunger and fatigue. When I got into the bathroom and closed the door, the choices to relieve myself were as confusing as the time, place, and menu of dinner at Saleh's. There was a hole in the floor with a small hose attached on the adjacent wall. The floor sloped down toward the hole. The floor's surface was shiny all around the hole. I would have to stand in front of the hole and somehow position myself over it and hope the trajectory of pee hit within the circumference. If I missed or splashed I presumed that was what the hose was for. It would entail bending down to grab the hose and turn on the faucet controlling it. That was too much work and effort, unappetizing as well, so I looked to the next choice: a commode made by American Universal. Why I didn't just step up and show my patriotism remains a mystery to me to this day. I think it was hunger that clouded my judgement.

Next to the American Universal was another commode-like structure that had a fountain in the center. I wasn't sure what it was, or how it worked, but it was intriguing. There was plenty of room around the sides and I didn't have to bend over to use it. I assumed it was something rich Saudis used, and you only live once, so I stood in front of it, dressed in my blue jeans, sports shirt and a white pullover with a pouch in front that carried all my identification papers. After I finished peeing I reached across to flush. The handle was more like a faucet than a lever so I turned it as hard as I could to get a good flush.

Well, it didn't flush. A tall jet of water erupted from the center of the fountain which turned out to be a bidet. I leaned forward with my hand on the faucet and got doused. The water soaked the front of my white pullover and sprayed in my face. It looked like I peed on myself. There were no towels in the bathroom so I wiped myself off as best as I could with my own handkerchief.

 

*

 

Saleh, his cousin, and Mohammed were in a room at the end of the hall. I followed them there. My arms were crossed so they couldn't detect the wet spots.

Abdulwahab brought in a tray of tea in small glass cups with handles. We drank the tea and before I had to pee again, we left and drove back to Saleh's apartment. It was after ten o'clock, and at that point, I was skeptical about dinner, except a Sri Lankan club sandwich if I got back before midnight.

At Saleh's apartment, three other Saudis were there, in addition to Saleh’s friend from the National Guard.

"My cousin, Abdulwahab, will eat with us too," Saleh said.

"Eat what? There's no food," I said.

"Don't worry, sir," Saleh said with the same sly smirk I had seen at the outdoor shop.

The three Saudis sat on the floor in the living room and watched a soccer match between teams from Riyadh and Jeddah. Mohammed disappeared into the foyer with the telephone to talk with his girlfriend that he was going to fuck. Saleh's friend from the National Guard went out to get food. Part way through the match, he returned with a package of chicken. I stood up and followed him back to the cramped kitchen.

A large, cylindrical-shaped pot rested on the gas burner. Saleh poured oil in the bottom, then cut up peppers, onions and a few other vegetables before putting them in. After that he dropped in pieces of chicken. This cooked for several minutes. As the kitchen heated up Saleh took off his sweat suit and had on short pants, a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On his head he had rolled his ghutra into a turban.

The ingredients sizzled for a short time. He removed the pot from the burner, and filled it with water from the tap. Then, turning around, he gathered several big scoops of rice from the large sack on the floor and dumped them into the pot. One of the other Saudis joined us.

"Get me piece of plastic," Saleh ordered him. "This is the most important part, sir," he said.

They rummaged around the kitchen for a piece of plastic and found one in the small refrigerator next to the sack of rice. After taking the bananas and apples out of the plastic bag, he split it apart and fashioned a cover for the lid on the pot. He replaced the lid now lined with plastic back on the pot.

"This is what makes it cook good," he said.

He stooped down under the sink and picked up a large rock. He placed the rock on top of the lid.

"This make it cook very good. Trust me, sir," he said seeing the disbelief on my face.

"Okay, as long as we're not having the rock for dinner."

"No, sir."

I returned to the living room. Mohammed was no longer on the phone with his girlfriend, but one of the other Saudis conversed with his girlfriend. Saleh came in while the dinner cooked.

"You want talk to his girlfriend?" Saleh asked.

"Is it okay with him?"

"Sure, no problem, sir."

Saleh grabbed the phone from his older friend and gave it to me. There was a speaker attachment to the telephone. Saleh turned it on so they could all listen. I had the feeling this was something they did when they weren't watching football, harassing Bedouins or large, brown snakes.

"Hello," I said.

There was a long pause then laughter from a woman on the other end.

"Hello, what's your name?"

When she answered all the Saudis in the living room rolled on the floor with delight.

"Sir, ask her if she wants kiss or fuck you," Saleh goaded me.

"Do you want a kiss?"

Again there was a long pause and girlish laughter that echoed over the speaker much to their amusement. When she didn't answer, I puckered my lips and sent her a loud kiss over the phone. The Saudis howled.

"Here, you give her another kiss. I'm too hungry to fuck her," I said giving the phone back to Saleh's friend.

 

*

 

Saleh's cousin arrived shortly, and they prepared the area where we were to eat. Saleh brought out a large piece of clear plastic and placed it on the cement floor of the living room. At each place he meticulously placed a banana, and an apple or an orange.

"Sir, do you want a spoon to eat with?" Saleh asked.

"I'll try it without a spoon."

"Sir, are you sure?"

"Well, maybe, I should use a spoon."

Saleh disappeared again to the kitchen to search for a spoon - to no avail. One of the other Saudis was dispatched to find one in the neighborhood. While he was gone the others lined up at the sink in the foyer and washed their hands.

"Sir, do you want to wash your hands?"

"Yeah," I said considering the mishap that occurred at Abdulwahab’s apartment.

After washing I returned to the living room and sat behind the apple and banana at my place until the spoon arrived. I didn't know where it came from, or where it had been, but it was indeed a spoon. Soon a large platter of rice, chicken and vegetables was brought out. I couldn't believe the mound of rice piled that high with chicken came out of one pot.

"Okay," Saleh said.

He gave the word for everyone to begin. They sat cross-legged around the food. I crouched on my knees. After a few attempts at eating with only my right hand I gave up and reached for the spoon. Mohammed methodically grabbed a handful of rice and formed it into compact balls with his right hand. The excess pieces fell onto the plastic. Each of them ate in this fashion with the remains falling on the plastic. The large pile of rice quickly diminished until only the section in front of me had any food left. The food was tasty, and I continued eating until I could eat no more. The others devoured the fruit at their places. When we finished it was after eleven o'clock.

"Sir, we go to shisha and smoke hubbly bubbly in a little while?" Saleh asked.

"Next time," I suggested.

"Whatever you want, sir," Saleh replied.

"I need to get back to the compound. I have to get up early to get to the airbase."

I didn't say it, but I thought it. I needed a good night's sleep so when the Saudi officers looked through the peepholes Primar had put up, it would look like I was doing something.

We exchanged good-byes. Mohammed and I prepared to leave.

"Thanks for dinner, Saleh. I'll see you tomorrow in class."

"Sir, I will take an excuse tomorrow. I want visit some friends in Mecca."

"You can take a day off like that?"

"No problem. I get permission from my uncle. He's a major. I call him tomorrow."

I pictured Saleh speeding in his Volvo toward Mecca, dressed in his colorful sweatsuit underneath his white thobe and ghutra, with Madonna, the pinup girl of everything Western, blaring on the car stereo. Like a genie, I imagined how she materialized in the streets of Mecca, singing and dancing. Above her, high in the sky, the female pilot in the U2 who lived on my compound, filmed her. Madonna danced and tweaked through the streets of Mecca. A wave of devout Muslims followed her as if she was a pied piper. She led them towards the Christian Bypass, the road around Mecca, that expatriates called Infidel Highway, in the direction of Jeddah and the Red Sea. Just as they were about to leave Mecca the lonely call to prayer echoed throughout the city drowning out Madonna, and she disappeared. The Meccans filed into the mosques.

 

*

 

Mohammed drove me back to the compound.

"Sir, I would like to visit you on your compound. At your house. You have TV? How many channels?" Mohammed asked.

It was difficult for me to answer. I had already broken company policy. It was against policy to discuss these things with Saudis, much less have any of them visit. I did it anyway.

"We have ten channels."

"American?"

"Yes."

"That very good."

"I have a TV in my bedroom," I said.

"That good. What kind of movies?"

"All kinds."

"You have Heineken?"

I wasn't sure what he was driving at, but the questioning made me uncomfortable even though I trusted him. Ultimately, you couldn't be sure if someone was religious or secret police looking through the peepholes at our compound.

"I'd like to visit you some day whenever you want and play basketball. You have basketball on your compound?"

"Yeah, we have a nice court."

He kept pushing the subject even though I felt awkward.

"We have strict visitation rules. I'll have to get permission for you to come on the compound," I replied even though I knew what the answer would be.

"Whenever you want, it's up to you," Mohammed said.

We soon rounded the turn that led to the compound entrance and approached the security gate.

"I'll take you to your house so you not have to walk," he said.

The guard normally raised the metal gate promptly when a car approached, but this time the gate stayed down.

"I'm going to drive my friend to his house," Mohammed said to the guard, a Pakistani.

The guard looked at Mohammed, and he looked at me whom he recognized. The gate stayed down.

"Hey, my friend, can you open the gate?" Mohammed asked.

"No Saudis allowed," the guard pronounced as if he had waited years to say it.

"I want to drive my friend to his house," Mohammed repeated.

"No Saudis allowed," the guard repeated.

"I better get out here. I'm sorry about this," I said.

Mohammed inched his vehicle close to the metal gate. The guard station was on a cement island. Directly in back of it was an opening where a vehicle could turn around and head off the compound again.

"My friend, can you open the gate so I can turn around my car?"

The guard shook his head. The gate stayed down.

"I'm sorry," I said, getting out of the front seat.

"Don't worry. It's not your fault," Mohammed said.

He backed up into the dirt. I looked back as he sped away. I remembered something from the conversation earlier. There weren't many thieves in Saudi Arabia, but something was missing.