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. 

Novelty

As I bade a cheery farewell to my former Superbrand colleagues last December, many were kind enough to inquire what I was intending to ‘do’ during my Sabbatical. ‘Live in France, drink a lot of wine, burn my Blackberry and lie in every morning’ didn’t cut the corporate mustard. I invented a tale about ‘writing a novel’ as I sailed from the shores of the shareholder to my creative retreat. The former colleagues, technologists to a man, looked impressed! Unfortunately they have now started to inquire about progress.

I purchased a couple of smock-like garments, started to wear my hair down with a fresh, Bohemian rake, waited for inspiration and for words to miraculously appear on the page. Nothing happened. I challenged Amazon to find me in the depths of rural France, ordering a couple of ‘How to write a novel’ publications. They found me. I studied and to my surprise, sitting around pouting like Virginia Woolf or tripping the light fantastic a la Aldous H wasn’t going to do it. To write a novel, the tomes espoused, I needed objectives, a plan, an outline design, milestones and targets. It felt like time was moving backwards.

Two weeks ago, someone (kindly) offered to read the first draft. The pressure is on. I have managed to sling 25,000 words into my laptop (25% of a first draft will keep her busy for a while). Early mornings, late nights, daily milestones, technical challenges, have crept back into my life uninvited. I haven’t even had time to don my smocks, let alone pout!

Today I drove to the nearest town with shops sufficiently substantial to have heard of printer cartridges. After much internet activity, a young man handed over the cartridges bearing the exact number of my printer. In went the cartridges, swiftly followed by an error message. A time warp had sucked me into its vortex! Several hours later and with hair resembling Tina Turner rather than the fragrant JKR, I find that my printer, purchased in Abu Dhabi, needs special Middle Eastern cartridges! Presumably with Islamic, alcohol free ink! I won’t find any of them in France!

 

On the bright side, I have a bona fide excuse for my nascent editor. If I can get some cartridges shipped over, I will deliver on my milestone sometime next week …… Insha’Allah!!*

See ‘Smallprint in the Sunshine’ – October 2013

How to influence a nation!

Global rulers draw upon a range of approaches to encourage citizens to comply with their chosen direction. For example, in Saudi Arabia dissuading women drivers relies upon the meting out of a few lashes, in Pakistan, mountainous paperwork attesting to ‘medical need’ dissuades the would-be merry-maker from ordering a beer on room service. In the UK, the powerful encourage the unclean proletariat to ‘be more green’ by taxing them for every molecule of CO2 emitted.

In France, where WH and I are enjoying a few months repose, the authorities are promoting recycling among the populace. Specifically, recycling garden and kitchen waste to fertilise home grown vegetables and similar goodies. Would failure to compost mean a trip to the guillotine or a hefty cheque to the ‘tresor publique’? We duly contacted our ‘bons amis’, the local dustmen who agreed to sort us out.

 

Within days we were telephoned; someone would come that afternoon. I looked out the window for a gentleman of Worzel Gummage appearance bearing one of those two pronged forks which hang on the walls of rustic barns. At three on the dot, Madame Composte, with swingy chestnut hair and a smart navy suit, arrived in a nippy silver Citroen. With elegance and grace she extracted her fare from the boot and laid it on view. Two large composting bins, a reuseable bag of ‘starter’, numerous colourful books, brochures and leaflets.

With standards of professionalism and client focus of which the Apple Store would be proud, she launched into her pitch. She was a lady who knew her compost and spent a full 30 minutes explaining optimum temperature, oxygen levels, PH and microbes. We were converted, a pair of veritable composting advocates. Whatever was all this quality going to cost, we wondered?   ‘Everything is guaranteed.’ she said ‘We will return your 15Euro* deposit if you return the bins or we’ll replace them in seven years.’ She bade a charming farewell, handing over her business card bearing a 24 hour free helpline. We will rest easy knowing she is at hand should we face urgent composting queries in the middle of the night.

Now that’s a good way to get the citizens to do what you want!

*Less than $10

Wings of drifted snow, eyes of flame and a skeleton in the closet.

Having had our children early, wonder-husband (WH) and I have been prematurely excluded from that most emotional and enjoyable of events, the school nativity play. To overcome our withdrawal symptoms this year, we interrogated the offspring of relatives and friends to fill the void and garner some vicarious tear jerking to the (imagined) first, quivering lines of ‘Away in a manger’.

Having analysed the transcripts from several interrogations, WH and I can report that for those like our own offspring who never clutched at the stardom of virgin or her consort (who are the kids that get to be Mary and Joseph and what have their parents done to bag the roles?),  the angels are most coveted openings available and that among them, Gabriel of the drifted snowy wings, flaming eyes and a full four Basque nineteenth century verses of his own, the most coveted of all.

 

Wonderful flying buttresses!

We carried out parallel interrogations among the mothers; seasonal seamstresses who expressed a preference for, and some of whom exhaled with visible relief at having bagged for their progeny, a shepherd or a king …. a few rustic or regally coloured offcuts, something to carry (lamb or bling), a tea towel or paper crown; not too difficult to craft while quaffing the Bristol Cream and mince pies. Now when it came to Gabriel’s costumiers, we were in another league. Wings of drifted snow require engineering of equivalent visionary genius to Notre Dame’s flying buttresses with commensurate levels of stress. 

Hubert van Eyck - alter detail

To round off our investigations I did further research on the Angel Gabriel. Apparently ‘he’ is not a ‘he’ at all but is represented in numerous transcripts, icons and art as a woman …. ‘her wings of drifted snow, her eyes of flame etc etc’ …. Furthermore, she is not only a Christian messenger of the Annunciation and similar but also an important herald in the Islamic tradition, she who heralded in fact, to the prophet Mohammed the three defining aspects of Islam, Iman and Ihsan. … I need to now go and ponder how to break the news to my erstwhile friends in Saudi Arabia (see To buy and Abaya and In the twang of a G-string - Oct 2013) that Gabriel is a woman. With their patchy approach to gender inclusion, I am not sure they are going to be too pleased to hear from me again!!

The Rudolph rebellion (or adversity in advent)

 For the last three years, I have spent the majority of the Advent season in Saudi Arabia. Despite the respect for other faiths encouraged within the Qur’an, the Saudi religious leaders believe they know better and maintain an uncompromising ban on all things which might precipitate Christmassy thoughts. As a result, the western shops which normally utilize standard global livery must take special care to expunge all items red, green or gold!

 

Two years ago, in their infinite wisdom, the Mutawah (Saudi religious police) decided to harass those emerging from Starbucks with red, snowflake emblazoned cups. Thereafter, plain white cups were standard issue for the entire months of December and January and Saudi minds remained uncorrupted by thoughts of Bethlehem (God forbid), mangers and Virgin births. Following worrying press articles that year describing the exact nature of sanctions meted out to subversively festive souls, I hid my advent calendar in the safe and undertook twenty four days of sinful activity under cover. 

 One evening, suffering from a paucity of Christmas merriment, my colleague and I donned our (obligatory) abayas and journeyed to the Red Sea Mall (see To buy an abaya – October 2013) in a quest for things Yuletide which had ‘slipped beneath the religious radar’. Imagine our joy when in a ‘home decorating’ store we found for sale a large bowl, rim bedecked with the portraits of our friends Donner, Blitzen, Prancer, Dancer, Vixen, Cupid, Comet and rosy nosed Rudolph. Indeed racy little Blitzen appeared to be imbibing from something resembling the stirrup cup!

 We bought the bowl which was cripplingly expensive, having been shipped a very long way indeed to Saudi! We installed it in our office for all callers to admire and we lived to tell the tale! Moreover, a point was made: those who would censor others’ beliefs must be very thorough in their research if they are to achieve their dubious aims! 

 

 Best wishes to all who intend to celebrate Christ’s birth this year whether in your opinion he is the son of God, a prophet or neither!