Twenty four hour shopping and a sea of behinds

When I was a child, the world was unblemished by twenty four hour supermarkets. My mother procured our material needs at the small parade of establishments near our house. Every Sunday and on Public Holidays, shops were firmly shut. If we ran out of bread or eggs, begging from neighbours was our only option.  The reason for all this inconvenience? To give everyone time to go to church (we were told). Our local newsagent was allowed special dispensation on Sunday mornings as purveyor of essential reading matter*. Times have changed! Should we choose to do so, these days we can feed our consumer habit morning, noon and night, unfettered by religion. 

The five daily prayers

 

On arrival in the Middle East, I wondered how shop opening times would be impacted by the demands of Islamic observance. After all, one of the five big rules for Muslims is to pray five times every day.

I was reassured by my bank manager (the first Middle Eastern person I met) that in the UAE, shops stayed open late every day, even on a Friday. Uninitiated at that point, I responded ‘Great, we can all worship the god of commerce whenever we want.’ The bank manager shot me a withering glance and uttered a cutting, ‘That’s not what I mean’. Only later did I realise that rule number one of the five big rules is ‘There is only one God’. My careless reference to the possibility of multiple deities had been a faux pas of the highest order!

When I traversed from the UAE to work in Saudi Arabia, it was a different story. Time stood still for every one of the five prayers. In shopping malls, banks and restaurants, metal shutters descended, incarcerating incumbents for up to forty five minutes at a time. Shop assistants and waiters dashed (ostensibly) to the exclusively male prayer rooms and (interestingly) the smoking areas were full to overflowing.

 

The Islamic stance for prayer

Jolly Rubenesque indeed!

I never could fathom whether segregation of the sexes during prayer was to avoid distraction by the Rubenesque form or to save my blushes as gentlemen assumed a prayerful stance; nose and forehead touching the floor (and behind inevitably raised to compensate).  If it was the latter, they need not have worried. Within my first week in Saudi Arabia, I became immune to the sea of behinds as I endeavoured to creep, respectfully silent and without tripping, between the piles of carelessly discarded shoes strewn across the landing of the office during prayertime.

https://www.facebook.com/clara.challoner.walker

* Other more dubious reasons for his dispensation emerged in later years but that’s another story!

The mysterious tale of nikhab and the HMS Birkenhead

Until a few years ago, I had fondly believed that talking about the weather was an exclusively British pastime. It came as something of a surprise when I arrived in Saudi Arabia, to find that the Saudis enjoy a spot of weather-talk too. When I say a ‘spot’, I mean a large, precipitous blob.

Sandstorm outside the office

During my first few months, the sunshine was constant, heat unbearable and skies persistently blue. Conditions, it has to be said, which fostered little creativity in the weather-talk department. One morning however, while England would have been enjoying mellow fruitfulness, a sandstorm brewed outside the office window. I had a meeting that day in another office, about a 500 metre walk away. I set out. We British after all must sally forth without let or hindrance, particularly when to hop behind the wheel in Saudi would have attracted 50 lashes. My Saudi colleagues bid me farewell in the mode of Shackleton's relatives. For 24 hours after my foray, I experienced an odd crunchiness around the teeth, my eyes itched and I had to send every layer of clothing, from Abaya* fleshwards, to the (extortionate) hotel laundry from whence they never emerged.

Jeddah during flood

 

By February that year, talk in Saudi had turned to rain. For two years prior to my arrival, there had been floods around the building. Rain is a recent phenomenon in the Middle East, and the infrastructure has ignored its arrival. As we entered the danger period, iPhone pictures were circulated showing floating cars in the car park and swirling water where the steps should be. At the first sight of a puffy, white cloud, my colleagues would head for home.

Three men in a boat

While alone in the building after one such exodus, I had a poke around to see what I could find. In the basement, I found a boat. When I enquired, I was told that the boat was to evacuate the ladies. On further investigation, I discovered that the year before, the (few) ladies were stranded in the office overnight; so anxious were the men to save themselves that they nicked the boat.

Three ladies not in a boat

In that moment, it became clear why Middle Eastern men enshroud their women in impractical clothing, preventing both clear sight and free movement. It is to enable the men to run faster and secure 'first dibs' in emergency rescue situations! 

Luckily, no such nonsense in Europe where this year, we are all shocked by the devastation wrecked by unusual weather. We pray to Allah (or any other power, whom we find preferable) for the safety of all in its wake. 

*See To buy and Abaya - 2013

Paganism and Patisserie (or how to cure your gout)

This week, matters here in rural France turned towards the occult!

‘Do you know the fountain in the village?’ inquired the lady with whom I practice French conversation. I confirmed that I was familiar with the oddly Swiss looking, recently restored ‘lavoir’, bedecked with scarlet geraniums, which abuts the village car park. ‘It is one of the local examples of the cohabitation of paganism and Christianity in the area.’ she went on.

A wise and perceptive woman, she smelt curiosity and retrieved a learned tome, published 1954, on the very subject. A map therein marked literally hundreds of ‘pagan  healing springs’, all within a fifteen mile radius of our house. For each, the book helpfully named the gifted sage(s) in the relevant village empowered with the pagan credentials to effect cures. Paganism is a well organised business, no scattergun approach to curing the sick here! Each fountain covers a specific set of ills and cites dates and names of beneficiaries to quash the cries of the unbeliever.

Our local spring in Massignac is effective in ‘ridding children of fear’. Among a multitude of ills listed, several in the region specialise in incontinence, one in leprosy, a couple in casting out devils. Predictably, there is much call here, proximal to the Burgundy and Cognac regions as we are for amelioration of gout, no fewer than twenty springs claiming success.

 

As I made to leave, my hostess proffered generous portions of patisserie and pinot (a local sherry-like offering). I must make special note of those gout curing fountains in case of future need methinks.