Christmas in Doo

I’m going to start this blog a week shy of Christmas since the seasonal events have begun, even here. I attended a Carols by Candlelight last night at the NZ embassy. It gave me a really odd mix of feelings – homesickness, sadness, delight and a deep hunger for the people here to understand the real meaning of it all. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so ‘free’ as it was, but I easily forget that the embassies lie on diplomatic soil. The NZ ambassador read from the book, most of the songs we sang were strongly rongopai related with the token “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” and “Jingle Bells” thrown in there for the kids. We had mulled vino and mince tarts to follow, which I was VERY happy about ☺

Apart from this event, there has been absolutely nothing to remind me of the upcoming event. There are no decorations, lights, songs on the radio (actually I haven’t even heard the radio here) nobody is talking about going on holiday or what they’re doing for the day. The only reminders I’m getting are from people writing things about it on their ‘stalkbook’ statuses!

2 weeks later: Christmas ended up being a lovely day. I was quite homesick in the week leading up to it, and really struggling with the idea that I’m living in a country that not only doesn’t celebrate it, but doesn’t allow freedom to those who wish to. I had a wonderful (intermittent skype) conversation with Jen & Brad and my godsons late on Christmas Eve here, which deepened my homesickness, but also cheered me. I spent most of the day cooking, and met with 6 other Australasian girls for dinner at 9pm that night (after some had finished day shift and others had woken up after night shift!). We ate roast chicken, roast lamb, lots of different veges including Emma’s spectacular scalloped potatoes with beef-bacon (or fake-on colloquially), Christmas pudding that I’d slaved over for 8h, pavlova etc. A true feast. It was fun, lovely and memorable, but very strange for me to celebrate with a group of people who view Christmas very differently to me. I’ve been away from my family for 5 of the last 6 Christmases, which seems awful when I write it, but I’ve never spent one without anybody of the same faith. It felt quite odd to be the minority within a minority population.

A Doo Wedding Party

I was very privileged to be invited this week to witness a Doo wedding party. Well, I wasn’t exactly invited to the party, but a Doo colleague is aware of most westerners’ fascination with Doo traditions and invited me to attend the fabulously elaborate wedding party of her cousins. Both the bride and groom were her first cousins….I didn’t have enough Arabic to ask if they were from different sides of her family.

I took notes on a tissue, so forgive me if the story is incomplete! It’s certainly not going to be short. Sara (my colleague) said I could bring friends with me if I liked. I invited Kellie, a Melbournite and we had an instant panic about what to wear. We knew that the we would be segregated from the men and that the Doo women would be very dressed up, so we went shopping at 11am on the day of the wedding (an excellent amount of notice) and found that the shops were all closed except for a tailor. He agreed that he could make us two dresses before 8pm in the evening. Plenty of time before the 10:30pm we had been requested to arrive at. We picked our fabric, drew a rough design on a piece of paper, got measured in the corridor of the mall during prayer time(!) and parted with 160 Riyals, approx NZ$80.

Feeling a little uncertain of the finished product, Kellie and I returned to the mall at 6pm to do a spot of shopping. We both found lovely black dresses with sparkly bits, so bought those also, being aware that there are many functions to attend and so few dresses in our wardrobes ☺. We returned to the tailor with a fairly pessimistic attitude. The dresses were absolutely wonderful. I was so pleased with mine that I vowed to wear it that evening to the wedding. After collecting a few other accessories to increase our bling factor, we called our taxi driver to collect us. He was quite late. By the time we got in the car, we had 45mins to get home before we’d be collected by another taxi for the wedding! So I pinned Kellie’s hair in the back of the taxi, while the driver played a fun game of refusing to acknowledge English. He’s gorgeous, and great for my Arabic, but not so fun when we were somewhat busy in the backseat! We made it home with 5mins to spare before we were being picked up. Kellie had no make-up on, half a hairstyle and tags hanging from the black dress she planned to wear. I had my hair and makeup complete, but filthy feet and I stepped into my beautiful purple sari-dress, bent down to put my shoes on and split the zip. It was so split that it took me about 6mins to get out of the dress. I tried once more to do it up and it split instantly. A hasty decision to wear my alternative black dress, a change of shoes and we rushed out the door.

We arrived at 10:35pm and I phoned Sara to come and meet us. She reported that she’d just finished at the salon and wouldn’t arrive for another 20-30mins! So much for our rushing. I felt just a tad conspicuous at the venue. We were the only women with pale skin, the only women wearing black, the only women wearing less than 1000 sparkles, and possibly the only women who hadn’t spent half the day in a beauty salon. We were more underdressed than the waitresses who had beautiful long transparent headscarves. We tried to convince ourselves that the scarves were for hygiene purposes, but knowing Doo as I do after only 7 weeks, I somehow doubt it. We sat and people-watched while waiting for Sara. The dresses, hairstyles, make-up (perhaps cake-up is a better term) were like I’ve never seen. Some dresses weren’t what I would call pretty, but all were attractive to the eye, if only because of their bright, bright colour or large number of sequins. There was an interesting trend on dresses that were more revealing, of filling in the gap with the tan stocking fabric that professional ice-skaters wear. I’m really not sure what purpose it serves as in my opinion, it looks awful and it certainly doesn’t hide what lies beneath. Quite a number of the women had obvious hair pieces attached to their own hair, including some Victorian-style wigs of a generous proportion. I was aware that while we westerners generally like to cook ourselves on the beach and consider a tan a healthy look, that Doo women consider the paler the skin, the more beautiful. However, I still didn’t expect that some women would paint their faces white, to the point that they looked almost gothic with red lips. The prize for cuteness went to a 3yo boy who was wearing a charcoal gray thobe (Doo man’s shirt-dress) and an adult-sized red checkered gutra (male headscarf) that stretched to his ankles.

Sara eventually arrived and we entered the grand room via a line of family members of the bride. We’d been watching the greeting technique to try and get it right, but there was no consistency. Sometimes the women would kiss twice on the left side and once on the right. Other times it was 4 times on the left, and sometimes 5 on the left. I hoped that I’d be pulled in the appropriate direction but my new acquaintance, and I was. In the grand room, all women and children were seated at round tables decorated like our wedding receptions at home. Each table had a coffee pot, teapot, hot water and trays of delicious sweet treats. Those not sitting were on the stage dancing to traditional Doo music. Both the music and the dance reminded me a lot of a traditional Indian style. The women had a wonderful gift for flicking their hips very gently and moving their feet to the rhythm. Women from age 10 to 70 were on the elevated dance floor, seemingly unselfconscious and looking absolutely beautiful. Occasionally one of the songs would have a group dance routine and the women would glide around the floor doing their individual moves in a structured way so as to avoid bumping into anyone else. Sometimes, only one woman danced and I couldn’t drag my eyes away. Kellie, rather daftly, decided that it would be necessary for us to try the dance. I refused time and time again, mostly due to the thought of being a white woman in a black dress on a stage in front of 300 women and girls. Eventually I was dragged on stage, but instead of hiding in the middle of 20 other women like I’d hoped, the floor included Kellie, me and our instructor. It was horribly embarrassing, and I’m sure every set of eyes in the room must have been on us, and every stomach painful from trying not to laugh. I have never spent any time learning to belly dance so I have absolutely no control over my buttocks or hips or stomach when it comes to moving them gracefully. I’m sure it was a vulgar, if not hilarious, site.


It seemed that the wedding guests were almost as interested in our desire to be there as we were to watch the traditions. We had a number of women speak to us, but most didn’t speak English and my limited Arabic and Kellie’s very limited Arabic left us mostly talking to each other. I asked questions of Sara whenever I could, and she explained the wedding process to me since it was nearly 3 hours since we’d arrived and the bride was nowhere to be seen. Once a couple become engaged (either via a family match, meeting one another etc), there’s a delay while the couple ready themselves for marriage. Usually this is the time that the man must ensure he’s financially ready for marriage. This may take 2 months or 2 years. Once they’re both ready, they get married which involves the signing of some documents. The couple are then officially husband and wife, but often they will not live together as such until after their wedding party. This may occur at the same time as the signing of the papers, but usually occurs months or up to a year after. The couple at this wedding were married 6 months ago and have interacted socially as a married couple since then, but have remained at their parents’ homes until now.

The wedding party is completely segregated, so the building we were in consisted of two large grand rooms. I was told that the men sit for the entire wedding party, talking and drinking coffee. They don’t have any entertainment, eat quite simply in comparison to the women, and will rarely dance (with only men of course). Naturally, some find it quite boring and look forward to the end of the women’s party so they can go home! The wedding party is about celebrating the marriage but the couple have very little involvement in the party that we attended. The bride arrived at about 1:30am after spending hours getting ready in the salon and dressed into her white, sparkly and very princess-like gown. It was so large that it took her nearly 25 seconds to walk down one step of the grand staircase during her entry. The walk from the top of the staircase to the stage where she sat on a lovely lounge took 15 minutes. During this time, we noticed that there was a woman wandering near the bride waving a long black stick that looked like liquorice. Kellie and discussed what it was about and determined it must have some spiritual connection – perhaps warding away evil spirits or something similar. During a quieter moment I asked one of the Doo woman about it. She told me the woman’s job was to keep the kids out of the way! Boy did we laugh. She said that it is very unusual to have children at a wedding party in Coo, but this bride was from Jeddah so it was deemed unseemly for the children to not be invited.

After the bride was seated on the stage, the room of bright colour and sparkles turned instantly into a sea of black. The women all cloaked, scarved and veiled up for the arrival of the groom. He made a similar entrance to the bride but walked a bit faster ☺. He wore a white gutra with egal (black ring) and a standard white thobe with a black and gold cloak over the top. They sat on the stage for about 5 minutes while immediate family members congratulated them, and then they left. That was all we saw of them the whole night.

All the black coverings came off for about 10 minutes and then the bride and groom party repeated itself with a second couple. Apparently the second couple were distant relatives of the first groom and had sort-of gate-crashed the wedding party, so they didn’t get quite as much reception, and the entrance was a little more rushed.

After the couples had both left, the waitresses appeared with burning incense canisters. One of the waitresses put it directly in front of Kellie’s face and we both look rather confused. She moved on, and one of the other women informed us that we were supposed to waft the incense into our hair and under our clothes. Interesting. Perhaps it was expected that we’d stink after 5 hours of sitting.

The final event of the evening was dinner. Even dinner was interesting. It was served at 3am and there was almost a stampede to the dining room. Kellie and I blinked and half the grand-room had vanished. We made our way to the room and rather than semi-orderly lines that we might expect at a buffet, women and girls were walking in every direction, piling their plates high with delicious food of all kinds. I stood with my plate somewhat disorientated and unsure where to begin, and a delightful elderly lady walked up to me and started chatting away to me in Arabic. I explained that I only spoke very little and she carried on telling me (I think) all about her connection to the bride and groom and other guests at the wedding. She pointed at various people and in random directions, and finished her story before moving onto her seat. I nodded occasionally, said I didn’t understand at others and probably looked quite blank. Very funny at 3am. Actually, very funny any time.

We left the dining room and went to return to the grand room, but found that nearly everyone had left. People just ate and left. We were secretly pleased as we were getting very tired, so Sara’s driver kindly drove us home after we took the only photo of the evening. I’m really sad that I can’t share photos of the whole evening with you, but I was obliged to leave my mobile and camera at the door as photos, except the formal ones of the bride and groom, were not permitted. So at 3:30am after a very long and interesting night, we looked like:

The Professional Fly Swatter

Yes, that title reflects a job description at my workplace. There are two men, formally trained in environmental management who are employed as professional fly swatters. They are dressed in a green army-style uniform. They carry a backpack and an electric fly swatter (1500V) that looks like a small tennis racket makes a zizzing sound and zaps the flies dead. They also carry a container for the dead bodies.




There is a hospital extension number to call if someone spots a fly on the ward, and the man comes immediately (unless he’s already engaged in another war elsewhere). The man I spoke to was happy to explain his extensive training, and he takes his job very seriously, after all, a fly in a hospital is a serious business.

Without wanting to appear sarcastic, I must admit that I feel happier at work knowing that there is someone I can call when I hear an annoying buzz.

The difficulty of eating out as a woman

We ventured out of our hotel to find a restaurant to eat dinner last night. We had conveniently neglected to notice that we hadn’t seen a ‘family section’ in any nearby restaurant, so we wandered and wandered and wandered until we were grumpy, hungry and tired. Every restaurant we found only served men. Just when we were ready to give up and get McDonald’s from the taxi, we found a few shawarma stalls and feeling brave in my veil, I asked if we could order some and take them away. Mafi Mushkala (no problem). The food was great and still warm after our three-times-as-long-as-necessary taxi trip back to the hotel. It’s really hard to get used to the disadvantages or perhaps, difficulties of being a woman here. We should have as much right to eat eh? Maybe it’s the combination of being female, single, and without a car that makes it so difficult as it means that we’re usually looking for food in central areas rather than the ‘burbs where they may be more family restaurants.

Staring, staring and more staring

I’ve mentioned the staring before in my posts, but I feel it deserves its own blog, and possibly not only once. I’m really, really tired of it. We’ve discussed it many times among the westerners and it’s difficult to know why we’re of such interest. Obviously, there are few women that have their faces on display, and there’s only a handful of us who do not cover our hair all the time, so I ‘get it’ in that sense. But it seems more than that. I think my frustration is compounded by my cultural experience that staring is rude, whereas it’s probably not considered so here. However, we’re all in agreement that I seemed to get stared at the most. It’s not only men. It’s children, women in veils, women without veils, drivers of cars and possibly the hundreds of feral cats that I see everyday (but they get the benefit of the doubt since I’m friendlier towards them).

I usually just ignore the stares, or keep my eyes on the ground, but occasionally when it gets a bit much I mutter comments under my breath about wanting binoculars so he/she can get a better look, or more dangerously, I stare right back. I often cover my hair just to minimize the staring but it doesn’t help much.

I’d joked about getting a veil niqab, and yesterday we found a stall at the souq that sold them. So I bought one. I caused two lovely women to nearly dissolve in giggles as I tried to get it on correctly with my scarf and they kindly assisted me. Well, to cut a long story short, it didn’t help. Our taxi driver suggested it was going to increase my marriage proposals and hassles from men, despite my ‘wedding ring’ on my left hand. I didn’t really believe him but it appears to be true. We’ve nearly caused a number of MVAs walking down the street. Yesterday I even heard a Doo guy yell out ‘Oh my ***” as he and his mate turned to get a better look before barely missing a parked car. So I guess the problem isn’t that my face is on display. What is it? Glenda suggested that it might be my pale skin (Sarah is Australian but looks Filipino so she blends in much more than we do, and Glenda is very tanned). We’ve heard that most western women are thought to be ‘easy’ or worse, so I suggested that perhaps they assume Glenda is like that since she’s much fairer than I, and therefore that I’m marriage potential which increases the staring. Lol, she accepted my theory as possible in this place.

THE 'FLY'



Staring aside, I feel incredibly comfortable in the veil (apart from the increased heat). No one can see my expression, I can pretend that people don’t know I’m western unless they look closely at my eyes and I have increased confidence as a result. People do assume I speak Arabic which can be problematic!

I wonder whether women here are not as expressive with the faces than we are. If they're never witnessed outside of their home to be smiling, frowning, looking surprised, annoyed etc., do they make the same expressions? I am getting used to not covering my mouth when coughing since my face is already covered!

Hubbly Bubbly

I’m not sure how many of you will be aware of the Sheesha pipe (also known as a Hookah or Hubbly Bubbly!). It’s a Middle Eastern item that is predominantly utilized by men here in Doo as the social activity that replaces the relaxed evenings around a nice bottle of red that I’m used to. It has water in the bottom, some flavoured tobacco in the top bulb, and the tobacco is gently smoked by a burning piece of charcoal on top of pierced aluminium foil. Smoke is created in the pipe by sucking through a long tube, which creates a vacuum of sorts and encourages the charcoal to toast the tobacco. It doesn’t taste like tobacco or a cigarette – rather it’s a gentle smoky fruity flavour depending on what kind of tobacco is used. I get a little light-headed from it (more than likely my poor technique that leads to low-grade hyperventilation!) but mostly it’s just fun.

I first tried it in Melbourne with a friend who has spent some time over in this part of the world, and it can be seen in a few cafes on Sydney Rd or Lygon St. I discovered, to my delight, that Glenda is an experienced user as it’s also a popular social event in Vancouver. We happened to discuss our keenness to buy one in our taxi on the way to the well-known Shweiq souq in Al Hofuf and our taxi driver overheard and asked if we wanted to go to a shop. Yes! He took us to a store, did some serious negotiation over the price and we left with a gorgeous blue and white glass pipe, some cinnamon, apple and strawberry tobacco, charcoal briquettes and fancy aluminium covers for approximately NZ $100. Very cheap for the hours of relaxed enjoyment we will have on my rooftop terrace. We tried it in our hotel room last night for the first time. Unfortunately, the charcoal we bought is exceptionally difficult to light, so after about 15 matches and a lot of laughing and near-burnt fingers, we invented a long cardboard light and Sarah held the coal with tongs, while Glenda and I torched the very unfriendly coal. We eventually got it lit and it took us about half an hour to get everything right, but it was worth it and the cinnamon flavour was just yummy. A fun and relaxing activity that I’m looking forward to enjoying in many evenings to come.

Lost Wallet and a Fruit Basket

The first afternoon in Al Khobar wasn’t a fun one. I realised as we exited our taxi at the hotel, that my wallet was missing. I quickly remembered that I’d purchased a coffee on the train and heard a ‘clunk’ not long after, so I knew that I’d dropped it under the seat. I borrowed money from Glenda and Sarah to return to the train station, hoping that the train hadn’t left on its return journey to Coo. Aside from the 1000 Riyals (approx NZ $500) in my wallet and my Australian credit card and Doo ATM card, my iqama (the Doo ID I have instead of my passport which the hospital ‘looks after’) was in my wallet. Yes I know 1000 Riyals is a ridiculous sum to have on me, but we tend to use cash much more than anything here, and I was coming away for 4 days holiday and planning to purchase some abayyas…..yes I should have put some elsewhere, and I’ve learnt a painful lesson. I borrowed money from the girls and headed straight back to the station with the kind driver who waited while I fussed and stressed.

Of course, I arrived at the station 30 seconds before prayer time began, so I had a 30 minute wait before I could ask anyone anything. The security guards and desk staff seemed to have some sort of severance of relationship so no one spoke to each other and I had to explain the story about 15 times in broken, poor Arabic and English. Even after that, and a thorough explanation in Arabic by my ever-kinder taxi driver, they agreed to search the train. No bag was found. I explained once again that it was not a bag, but a small wallet. I begged to be let onto the train to assist in the search, as there was considerable confusion over what class I’d been sitting in. I discovered that it seemed unlikely to them that I (as a Western woman) had been in 1st class rather than Al-Rehab. Yes Rehab. So, not only was I getting close to tears over losing my wallet, I was being accused of thinking I was above my status and feeling very self-conscious with a group of Doo men. Rehab, was in fact, the VIP class I soon discovered, but alas, my wallet was not there either. I eventually connected with a gentleman in management who spoke English reasonably well and explained the case again. He took all my details and phone number and told me to go home, and they’d call me if they found it. I returned to the hotel in tears, but recovered quickly and we spent a wonderful evening at the local Copper Channa restaurant (recommended by the good ol’ Lonely Planet guide as offering the best local Indian cuisine, and it was certainly delicious). I cancelled my international cards quickly, but had more difficulty contacting the hospital about my Iqama. I knew that I needed to contact the police to make a statement, but was worried that I’d be in trouble for not having my Iqama. I phoned the hospital to discuss my situation and had a GREAT deal of difficulty getting onto someone who could assist, partly due to the language barrier, and partly the Eid holiday that has left the hospital staff sparse.

Eventually, I was transferred to a man who spoke enough English to ask me what I wanted. I told him my story in slow, clear English, repeating the necessary details when asked. I asked him about my Iqama and whether I should contact the police here or wait until I return to Coo. He um’ed and ah’ed for a while and then said he didn’t really know. He asked me again who I was and I explained that I work for the National Guard in Coo and that I was concerned about the loss of my Iqama. I’d asked him who he was a few times, and finally he said that he was from Food Services and he’d just picked up the phone because it had been ringing for ages. FOOD SERVICES. For goodness sake! We’ve had many giggles during the day since wondering how he was planning to help. Perhaps he could have sent me a fruit basket to Al Khobar :)?

Holidays and a Train Trip

I’m typing this from 1st class on the train from Coo to Dammam care of Doo Railways. It’s the beginning of the second Eid holiday, a week-long break from work that is a celebration of all things about the Prophet Ibrahim’s experience of sacrificing his son Ishmael at Allah’s command (Allah prevented Ishmael from being killed by the knife due to the Prophet Ibrahim’s submission and faith). The first Eid holiday is during the week after Ramadan to celebrate the ending of the fasting period.

We’re particularly busy at work at the moment due to the JCI (Joint Commission International) review of the hospital in mid-December, so I’m going to go into work for 2 days next week to finish some overdue work. However, I decided to take the opportunity to escape from Coo for a few days rest and fun. I’m travelling with Glenda (my Canadian colleague), and Sarah (one of my two Australian housemates). We decided to splurge on 1st class tickets. It ended up being more of a splurge than we expected after our taxi driver who we’d employed to purchase our tickets dutifully dropped us at the train station in time for the 10am trip, and we discovered he’d been given tickets for the long-departed 7am trip. I tried to explain, discuss and demand replacement tickets for the 10am trip since the 7am train had in fact been full so the tickets would have been useless even then. I was even aided by our Arabic-speaking driver who explained and then promptly tried to pay the man, contrary to my case. Alas, it was to no avail and I paid for the second lot of tickets with a less than generous attitude.

So far, the journey has been fun. No view out the window other than sand and the odd pipe-line or electricity tower, but the lovely rhythmic sound of the train ride has been perpetually interrupted by screaming, crying or yelling children. Glenda turned around during one particularly loud moment to glare, and witnessed a young boy hanging from the overhead luggage rack like a monkey, one foot on each chair behind my head. Discipline of children here is either an unusual art in comparison to that which I’ve experienced or witnessed in Australasia, or at worst, non-existent. The only time I’ve seen a friend attempt to discipline her 5yo son was when he got tired of trying to get his mother’s attention during our language class by standing at her side say “Mama” over and over and over, so he climbed onto the lovely mantelpiece, walked along over the food and crystal displays and then jumped onto the dining table where we studying, standing over us with a completely innocent look. Even then, it was a barely perceptible frown. On a positive note, Doo mothers have a delightful way of calming their crying infants. They place them on their laps, head on one leg, rear-end on the other and rock them by gently swaying their hips. I’m yet to witness a child continue to scream after this nurturing act.