He spoke in English, “Is that your bicycle?”
I replied in the affirmative.
He said, “You cannot ride a bicycle on the corniche!”
“Now listen here, my good man, I’ve been riding a bicycle on this corniche almost every day for five years, other than when I’m on holiday away from these Godforsaken sands, so don’t start getting uppity just as I’m about to leave.”
“What?”
“Forget about it.”
“It’s forbidden!”
“Forbidden?”
“Yes, it’s forbidden and there’s a penalty of 7,500 Riyals ($2000).”
“7,500 Riyals! Shouldn’t there be an option to be flogged instead? For riding a bicycle and getting some exercise? How do you justify that?”
“You can ride after 9pm. Until then it’s dangerous.”
“How is it dangerous?”
“Accidents!” he was getting uppity.
“I’ve spent years cycling here and the only danger of accidents is from those jerks in cars.”
Saudi youth spun out of control no further than 50 metres away. Some of them not even old enough to drive. A few years ago two young sisters, my neighbours, were on their way home from school and crossing a wide street on the green man signal when two 14 year olds in a car ploughed straight into them, mowed them down and killed them. The deranged clerical judge decided that both the boys AND the girls were responsible and therefore let them off all charges.
“You can cause an accident,” Jabba al-Jobsworth told me in all seriousness.
“God gave you two eyes. You should try using them.”
“What?”
“As well as those guys driving over there, I think you’re more likely to cause an accident in that golf buggy, buddy. Look at the size of it. You’re taking up half the corniche. You could run over children or short adults, like Asian housemaids”
“What?”
“I said that as well as those guys over there I think you’re more likely to cause an accident in that golf buggy, buddy. And get your ears cleaned out when you go for the eye test.”
“It is forbidden!”
“What, the buggy, eye test or clean ears?”
“No, the bicycle! Let me see your Iqaama (all important residence permit, the size and shape of a credit card).”
“I haven’t got it with me.” It was true. I never left home with one.
“It is forbidden! There is a penalty of 7,500 Riyals if you don’t have your Iqaama. Where do you work?”
“Royal Commission.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. I’d given him a piece of information that gave me some traction in the argument. We worked in the same government ministry. We had a connection, known as wasta, the vital ingredient to a sandy recipe. It’s not who you are, it’s who you know. He would let me off the extortionate fine, but more than likely with a bit more bullshit for good jobsworth measure.
A small boy on a small bike whizzed by and Jabber al-Jobsworth didn’t even see him. I extravagantly pointed at the boy furiously pedaling off towards his picnicking family. On the street, cars flared horns as if in battle.
“He’s a child.”
“Children can cause accidents too.”
In a dejected huff he climbed back into his wide buggy and jerked off at a climbing speed that would at least maim someone if run over.
When I very first got to Jubail I sized up that corniche (it can run to about 18km) and thought ‘buy a bike’, which I did. It was one of few activities that kept me sane or at least kept the blood pumping. In fact I got through three bikes. The first got stolen, the second collapsed from heavy-duty use and the third I gave away to some Indian navvies during my last week.
As I cycled off, I thought of the other kids on bikes who would spot me, follow, then pull the hilarious stunt of skidding to a halt in front of my bike and forcing me to brake and swerve. Then it dawned on me that my bike was way bigger than theirs and so I just smashed into them when ever they tried the same trick, to howls of anger. One time when a kid in a white thobe (ankle length dress) did the skid trick, I smashed into his bike and caught the brat by the collar of his thobe, held him up by the neck and shook him around for a while. He screamed and blubbed and a couple of passing ladies openly laughed at the scene. Unfortunately for the kid my hands were oily from some earlier gear trouble and when I let him go his collar was streaked black with the stuff.
So my advice for anyone going to the sand is don’t get mad, take your time and teach them a lesson.
There's more. There's much more.