When they caught sight of the infidel (ie. me) they all turned and stared and one guy came walking over with menace written all over his face. Luckily Osama, a tubby guy, turned up and asked, "Taxi?" Marginally less dangerous, I jumped in and we scooted over the causeway in the world's biggest heap of shit vehicle known to man or woman or taliban, the doors rattling in their frames, the bonnet bouncing, struggling to fly open, and the upholstery covered in any manner of crap. Surprisingly we made it there in one piece.
No wonder this patch of earth is permanently at war.
Meanwhile, out in town, the Shia were stoning the cops and burning tyres in a battle that willl have no end.
Forget whisky a go-go, whisky in the jar and whisky galore, there was whisky on the freaking bus man, discovered by a border guard and belonging to a young Saudi who was clueless in the business of smuggling, and no doubt in pretty much everything else he did in life too. He immediately told the cop that it belonged to the Canadian in the seat in front, but the cops weren't having it and hauled him off for a good bollocking and a 500 riyal (£90) fine.
That was that, we thought, but after holding us all up for 2 hours while the entire vehicle was stripped and searched, the guilty party got back on, apparently shameless in his sin, grinning slyly. A foreigner would have been in the slammer before you could say allah akhbar, and if I'd been the one he'd tried to shift the blame onto, I'd have given him a righteous kicking when he sauntered off in al-Khobar.