Hospitality is a big part of Saudi culture. A really big part. You’ve heard of “Southern hospitality?” Not even close. Compared to a Saudi welcome, Southern hospitality is the equivalent of a kick in the nuts.
Case in point: On November 4th, just three days after arriving, we (I and my fellow expat friends Lucien and Dave) were exploring the city, trying to get the lay of the land. We came across what would probably be described as a nightclub at home, except that since there’s no drinking or mixing of genders here, there really isn’t any point in having nightclubs. Whatever it was, the entrance looked like it had been made from a gigantic dinosaur vertebra. Lucien was curious and darted inside to look around. (At this point I should explain that Lucien – tall, handsome, charming, and French – has absolutely no inhibitions about striking up conversations with total strangers or wandering into anyplace that piques his curiosity. It’s a trait that I, as an introverted New England WASP, admire and envy.) The interior of the place turned out to be as interesting as the exterior. It looked like a tastefully decorated cave made of giant bones, all indirectly illuminated in an eerie electric blue. Sort of Pottery Barn meets the Flintstones, but with mood lighting. Very chic.
The guy at the front counter didn’t speak English, so he motioned for us to wait and disappeared up the stairs. A few minutes later a large man in long white thobe and red-checked ghutra appeared. When we explained that we were new to the country and had simply been curious about the place, he broke into a huge grin, motioned us to follow him, and boomed, “Come in, come in, you are my guests,” in excellent English.
It turned out that this was a private club, something like a combination old-fashioned gentleman’s club and restaurant. Our host was named Mohammed, but he insisted that we call him Mo. He took us back into the private VIP area, which was decorated with plush, low-set furniture and an eclectic mixture of stuffed animals and bric-a-brac, much of it with an American western theme. He introduced us to his friend, a tall, very dark man, also in thobe and ghutra, and also named Mohammed. (By now you may be thinking that everyone in Saudi Arabia is named Mohammed. You would be right. Or at least very close to it. Mohammed is an extremely common name, and, in fact, if you don’t know a man’s name it is common to simply call him “Mohammed.” Sort of like the way an American might call a stranger “buddy.”)
For the next two hours Mo and Mohammed plied us with rich Saudi treats and told us about Saudi Arabia. Well, Mo did. Mohammed rarely spoke, but laughed and reinforced Mo’s stories in a manner that made me think of Ed McMahon sidekicking for Johnny Carson. Heeeeeere’s Mo!
This encounter with Mo was our first evidence that maybe things weren’t as strict in the Kingdom as we’d been led to believe. He certainly didn’t talk the way I imagined a Saudi talking. His speech was frank and funny and laced with English expletives. He told us that the Mutawwa (religious police) had no legal right to harass Westerners and that if they attempted to do so we should just tell them to “go fuck themselves.” He talked about partying in Bahrain (the neighboring country, just across a causeway, where alcohol is not only legal but apparently encouraged) and his desire to live in a two-room hut on the beach in Ibiza (“In one room I eat, in the other I sleep and fuck”). He told us about smuggling a bottle of Johnny Walker past Saudi airport security, and about the many wealthy women he knew who drove cars in spite of the restriction. From time to time he would aim a friendly little barb at Mohammed for being a Bedouin (a native tribesman), at which Mohammed would invariably laugh self-effacingly. What’s a little casual racism between friends? Just like chillin’ with my niggaz back home.
Before parting, Mo gave us his telephone number and told us to call him if we needed anything. It wouldn’t be the last time. Remember the TV show Cheers? There was a line in the opening theme, “Where everybody knows your name, and they’re always glad you came.” That’s Saudi Arabia. Except they don’t always know your name. In fact in many cases they have difficulty pronouncing it.
But they are always glad you came.
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