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 :)?