CAL'S IN SAUDI ARABIA

Chickens Selling Chickens

Sat, 05 May 2012 00:44:38 +0300

My first impression of Riyadh was that it smelled a lot like fried chicken. The gate where my plane arrived was located across from the food court’s exhaust fan, and they had apparently just thrown a fresh batch in the deep fryer. Since fried chicken is one of my favorite things in the world, I thought this was an auspicious sign.

Indeed, Saudis love chicken more than almost anyone: USDA figures for 2012 put Saudi’s per capita chicken consumption at 54 kilograms per year—the fourth highest in the world behind UAE, Bahrain, and Hong Kong. This love is expressed in many forms, from the national dish of roasted chicken over rice (kabsa) to the ubiquitous American-style fried chicken joint.

The chicken served in these places ranges in quality from good to excellent. It is, in fact, very much like what one would expect to find in a similar institution in the American Midwest or the South (and much better than anything I ever had above 145th Street or below 110th Street in Manhattan). But after seeing a couple dozen of these places, I started to notice two interesting tendencies in their signage.

The first is the wholehearted adoption of the practice and even the term “broasting.”¹ The majority of chicken shacks in Riyadh advertise proudly (in Arabic and English) that their food is cooked in this way.

The second is the universal presence of a cartoon chicken somewhere on the sign. Some are simple sketches that merely underscore the central message of the sign’s lettering (“chicken is served here”). But some are careful works of art that create subjects of such depth and feeling that they refuse to be constrained by their rectangular plastic medium.

There is not much going on with the Cajun chicken. A customer doesn’t have any real sense of who this chicken is, where he comes from, or what his motivation in life is. He is just there to let you know what kind of food is sold in the restaurant.

The Baith al-Farouj (“House of Chicken”) chicken is a little more interesting. He is well dressed, with a vest and top hat. He also seems to have a belt on, which is surprising since he isn’t wearing any pants. But clearly, this is a trustworthy chicken capable of recommending good food. (Note that the Arabic at the top of the seal states the name of the restaurant and also that the chicken is broasted.)

Someone put a lot of time into the Broasted Express chicken. His eyes look determined, his left hand indicates that everything is proceeding according to plan,² and his broad chest shows that he is strong enough to deliver however much fried chicken you might need. And he is so devoted to timely delivery that he even installed a clock in his hat.

There is, however, no doubt as to who is at the top of the pecking order of Riyadhi chicken shack mascots. The fez and title basha (a Turkish rank equivalent to the English “general”) indicate that, despite the obvious obstacles to such a career, this rooster somehow managed to rise to a top position in the Ottoman army. Is the restaurant merely named in his honor, or did he himself found it upon ending his term of service to the Sultan? I couldn’t get a straight answer out of the guy behind the counter, but I can attest that Basha Zaman is superior to Colonel Sanders in both rank and flavor.

1 A culinary term invented by L. A. M. Phelan in 1954 to describe the process of cooking chicken in a pressurized deep fryer.

2 Given that the “a-OK” gesture is considered offensive in some parts of the world, including Turkey, I think it is an interesting choice for a restaurant mascot to make. After using this gesture several times in class (then remembering the potentially insulting nature of it, then moving on quickly to something else), I finally asked my students about its meaning in Saudi Arabia. All of them agreed that both it and the thumbs-up gesture are universally understood as affirmation and are not at all vulgar.

Chinese Pickup Trucks

Tue, 24 Apr 2012 11:48:24 +0300

I’m not sure why, but the population of cars in Riyadh is not very diverse. You will only see a dozen or so distinct models when you drive, but you will see a lot of each of them: 2005–11 Toyota Yarises, 1990s Ford Crown Victorias, and, for some reason, late-1980s Chevrolet Caprices together must make up ten to fifteen percent of all cars on the road.

But all these models are vastly outnumbered by the tiny white pickup truck. There are many different makes and models of tiny white pickup trucks, but they all look pretty much the same, and they are all driven in the same way—at twice the speed limit, weaving through traffic like a soldier running an obstacle course. The rule for these trucks is that the driver must always have either the gas or the brake pedal pushed to the floor at all times. Constant velocity and the use of a single lane are frowned upon.

The most popular type of tiny white pickup is a Toyota Hilux with a jagged red racing stripe along the side. But to me, the most interesting ones by far are the Chinese models. Chinese trucks are not widely sold in the United States, so I don’t think I ever saw one before I came to Saudi. But the naming conventions alone make them, as far as I am concerned, some of the greatest trucks in the world.

The first Chinese pickup truck I ever saw was the Deer, manufactured by the Great Wall Motors. As a model name, I suppose it isn’t fundamentally different from the Impala. But seeing the word “DEER” in all-caps painted across the back of a truck made me smile.

Another good model is the Gonow, made by Zhejiang Gonow Auto Co., Ltd. Basically the same truck as the Deer, of course, but the name has a little more confidence. I know that deer can run very fast, but sometimes they just stand around chewing leaves and bark. When you climb into a Gonow, however, you know that you will be going somewhere, and that you are going to go there now.

Great Wall also makes the Sailor model of tiny white pickup trucks. They are not as popular as the Deer, but in a place as dry as Riyadh, I appreciate the nautical theme.

And finally, my favorite pickup truck, also manufactured by Great Wall: the So Cool. Do you have any doubt about the coolness of the guy who is driving that truck? No, you don’t. Someone comes up to him at a party and says, “Hey, is that your Hilux out front with its lights on?” and he says simply, “No, I don’t drive a Toyota Hilux, I drive a Great Wall So Cool.” And the conversation is over.

For Sale in Saudi, Part 3

Wed, 29 Feb 2012 01:13:00 +0300

Every modern culture feels torn between progress and tradition, but I think it would be difficult to find a place where they are in stronger conflict than Saudi Arabia. On the one hand, Saudi is for many people the archetype of a traditional society. Americans are horrified and Saudis are proud when they imagine that people live their lives here in the same way that they did fourteen hundred years ago when the Prophet was still alive.

On the other hand, the discovery of oil in the 1930s changed the Kingdom from one of the poorest countries in the world to one of the richest in the space of a generation. This massive influx of wealth spurred the birth of a consumer culture that Westerners would find very familiar. Stores in Riyadh sell all major American or European brands, 94% of Saudi households have satellite TV, and most teenagers spend their time with BlackBerrys and Playstations.

But while Saudis are individually very happy about Western consumer goods, they are far more uneasy about the cultural impact that these products might have on the nation as a whole. So quite naturally there is a lot of effort put into separating Western values from Western products. The Internet is allowed, but the government blocks certain types of content. American fast-food chains operate across the country, but they close four times a day for prayer and remove any pork-containing items from their menus. And millions of boxes of mass-produced consumer goods flood the malls, but before they can be shown to the public they are altered in a uniquely Saudi way:

The problem is that although Saudis want to buy cheap, convenient products such as inflatable couches, the vast majority of people who sit on inflatable couches do not wear abayas, hijabs, and niqabs. For the men, this is fine. But when women sit on these couches in such scanty attire and then allow themselves to be photographed by shameless corporate photographers, we are left with a problem.

Fortunately, in Saudi Arabia this problem can be easily solved by sitting a poorly paid Filipino/Pakistani/Bangladeshi laborer down in a room full of boxes and telling him to add the missing clothing items with a Sharpie. It is cheap and takes less time than mailing out proper attire to modeling agencies across the world.

Just because you’re camping in Yosemite National Park doesn’t mean that you have to dress like a whore. Some caring individual has managed to save this model from scandal by adding a camping abaya with black marker. She is still wearing pants, but the male model is obviously her husband or brother, so it is probably OK.

It is possible that these children are having a relaxing day splashing around in a new pool with their favorite inky black void. Perhaps their parents are existentialists, and they felt that a pet well of nonbeing would better prepare their children for the inevitability of their own deaths than a hamster or rabbit. I think, however, that this blackness was probably added after the printing to cover the mother who most likely forgot to bring her swimming burqa to the photo shoot.

Products featuring images of women, though, are not the only problem. It is also considered unseemly for men to display more flesh in public than is absolutely necessary. Locker rooms in Riyadhi gyms are built with telephone-booth-style changing rooms, and nakedness outside of these cubicles is illegal. It is also impossible to find urinals in male restrooms, because using them would require one to unsheathe one’s penis in the presence of other men. And this would be illegal.

However, Saudi men still need to buy underwear, this underwear is sold in public places, and underwear packages generally show a male model wearing only the piece of clothing in question. So to reconcile all of these conflicting forces, a compromise is reached whereby the underwear is sold, but the offending bodies are covered with a black sticker which is then occasionally peeled away a tad by a curious customer to show a bit of pec. And everyone is happy.

Happy New Year

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 17:59:00 +0300

New Year’s Eve is a concept without much currency in Riyadh. Saudi Arabia mostly follows the Islamic calendar, so their new year came about a month and a half ago. Everyone knows that the Gregorian calendar exists, and I’m sure that most people read in the newspaper that its 2011th year came to an end a few days ago. But if anyone was excited about it, they did a good job of keeping it to themselves.

Saturday and Sunday are also not considered particularly special here. The weekend is Thursday and Friday, so Saturday means only a sad return to the daily grind. Sunday is as meaningless as Tuesday is in the West. There are TGI Friday’s restaurants scattered around the city, and I sometimes wonder what Saudis think about the name. Friday is the Islamic sabbath, though, so I suppose that thanking God for it here is even more appropriate than it is in America.

This is all to say that my New Year’s Eve this past Saturday was not especially exciting. This was finals week at the University, so I had to spend the 31st and the 1st proctoring writing exams (proctoring being known here by its British name, “invigilation”). Some of my housemates went to a New Year’s party at the Marine House on the US Embassy grounds, but I wasn’t able to get a ticket. And to be honest, I wasn’t that sad about it. The thought of being able to drink actual Scotch and eat actual pork ribs was very appealing. But drinking until two in the morning, getting three hours of sleep, and then driving to work to stand and glower at undergraduates all day sounded just terrible.

My day was brightened considerably, though, by this drawing of Mickey Mouse that I found in my afternoon classroom. When I saw it, I was astounded that any of the students here would be able to make something like that. Creativity is for the most part frowned upon in Saudi Arabia. Some of latest generation are starting to break out and express their individuality through choices in clothing and music. For example, it is not uncommon to see a kid walking around in a thaub and sandals, but with a Pelle Pelle leather jacket on over it and a flat 59/50 baseball cap cocked to the left. But artistry is basically considered to be evil, so the counterculture comix Mickey was surprising.

Driving home, though, I learned that it was actually drawn by a teacher. One of my housemates worked with him that day and saw him draw it, in about three minutes. Apparently he used to be a serious artist/graphic designer, but got sick of being poor and decided to make some money teaching English in the Gulf. Artists pensions being what they are (nonexistent), that was probably a good idea.

For Sale in Saudi, Part 2

Mon, 26 Dec 2011 23:19:24 +0300

This box of rat poison is fascinating on many levels. First of all, it is a good example of a cartoon of an animal being used to sell the death of that animal. In this sense, it is in the same category as the barbecue joints in America that have signs featuring cartoon pigs wearing aprons, busily cooking other pigs for supper. In a weird twist, though, the mouse is laughing. At what, I don’t know. Not the inevitability of its own death, surely. That would be a little too Nietzschean. Other mice who have died as a result of this poison? Still too dark for a mainstream product like this.

On another level, this is a great example of the blatant copyright violations that occur in the third world. This mouse is obviously Jerry from the MGM cartoon, Tom and Jerry. If this product were sold in the West, the company would be sued by MGM for copyright infringement and forced to pay a lot of money. But Saudi is more like Africa, where companies can do pretty much whatever they want.

For me, though, the Arabic on the package is the most interesting thing. The name of the product (at the top, in gold) is Dusturaat. Normally, I would read this as the plural of the feminine word dustura. (In Arabic, feminine words ending in -a are made plural by adding an -aat, in the same way that the plural of the Hebrew yeshiva is yeshivot.) But my dictionary doesn’t have an entry for dustura. What it does have an entry for is the very common masculine noun dustur, which means “constitution” (and possibly “rule” or “permission”).* But first of all, the plural of dustur is dusaatir (masculine Arabic plurals are formed irregularly, like foot/feet), and second of all, what does any of that have to do with rat poison?

I asked my students, and they had no ideas (though that is par for the course). But I do know two things that might explain it. First of all, there is a tendency in popular Arabic to do away with the complicated masculine plurals. Adding -aat to the end of a masculine word is much easier than memorizing separate plurals for thousands of different nouns. This is like how Middle English speakers mostly did away with strong inflections of the foot/feet, ox/oxen type and decided to just add an -s or -es to the end of everything they wanted to make plural. So maybe this is a popular plural inflection of the masculine dustur.

But I am also left with the fact that this is rat poison and the Arabic word ends in “-rat.” This could be a coincidence, but it makes me think that this is meant as a winking bilingual pun. They created a portmanteau linking a word for what is done to the word that it is done to, like the American eyeglasses chain “Optimeyes.” This poison gives someone power over rats, the ability to rule rats, right? Maybe I’m stretching things. Maybe the poison’s manufacturer would not reasonably expect that level of bilingualism in their target audience. But it makes as much sense to me as any other explanation.

* Dustur itself is a strange word because of the number of consonants that it has. Arabic words, like Hebrew, Amharic, and other Semitic words, are mostly based on a sequence of three consonants. These root consonants give a basic sense of meaning, and then other letters are added here and there to produce different variations on the basic meaning. So the Arabic root K-T-B indicates a sense of writing, and from it are formed the words kitaab, “book,” kaatib, “writer,” maktab, “office” or “desk,” and so on. But dustur seems to have the root d-s-t-r, which is one too many letters.

After looking around a bit, I found that the Arabic dustur actually comes from the Persian dastwar, meaning “instruction,” “direction,” “grammar,” and so on. Dast is the Persian word for “hand” and is used in a number of different compounds. So the original word means, roughly, “that which is given by the hand” or somesuch. (Like the Latin mandamus.)

For Sale in Saudi, Part 1

Tue, 13 Dec 2011 08:03:00 +0300

I should admit at this point that it has been a month since my last post. My excuse is that I have been applying to graduate school and have therefore been devoting my free time to summarizing my life in 500 words or less. But I am determined that this will not be one of those blogs that people set up, make four posts on, and then abandon. So without further ado, I bring you For Sale in Saudi, Part 1:

During my second week here, I went to a Sears-style department store to buy a pair of shoes for work. While walking through the housewares section I came across this box. Having spent at that point almost two weeks without consuming a single alcoholic beverage, the display of this cocktail set struck me as cruel mockery. I have since come to understand that the Saudi people have a serious love of fruit juice and fruit juice mixtures (smoothies, shakes, etc.). In that context, this box makes more sense. But to me there remains palpable irony.

These next three items are clearly Chinese-made and therefore probably more appropriate to Chinglish-focused blogs. But they are so perfect that I just had to share them with someone. I imagine that “Imperiatorial Type” is a literal, software translation of a Chinese idiom meaning something like “fit for a king.” And I would like to point out that the three main characters are—in order—an airplane, a rabbit, and an octopus picture-fish.

This t-shirt was on sale at the Carrefour in my neighborhood. I have no idea where it is made, or what it is supposed to mean. I guess the general message is along the lines of “Save the Earth.” Straining further I imagine that “careeds” is meant to be a third-person singular verb linking the subject, “Earth,” with the object, “protection.” In retrospect, wish I had bought it.

I came across this package of cobra repellent in a dollar store in my neighborhood a couple of days after moving here. I will not lie to you: I was still a little freaked out about the fact that I was living in the middle of the desert in Saudi Arabia, and when I saw this I thought to myself, “Shit, do I have cobras in my apartment?” Because I have suffered through infestations of mice, ants, and cockroaches with what I considered to be aplomb, but cobras are another matter entirely.

In the months since this picture was taken, however, I have never heard of anyone ever seeing a snake within the city limits. I think that this repellent is probably something that a person buys before going on a camping excursion in the desert. You put one in each boot before going to sleep, or something like that. It probably wouldn’t hurt to pick up a box the next time I’m over there, though.

Hyperpandas

Sat, 12 Nov 2011 22:50:16 +0300

The term hypermarket is, I think, not used very much in the States. The type of store that it describes—a single big-box retailer combining the services of a supermarket and a department store—is of course very popular, and the term seems to be used by American academics and industry specialists. But for the most part the Wal-Marts, SuperTargets, and so on that fit this description use other terminology in their advertisements.

In Europe and the Middle East, however, hypermarket and the lone prefix hyper- are terms with great currency. In Saudi, a “market” (Arabic: suq) is a tiny grocer with a couple of aisles. As in New York, a “supermarket” is a tiny grocer with five or more aisles. (The Arabic word used for these places is usually aswaq, the plural of suq.) But when a place has a dozen or so aisles, high ceilings, bright halogen lighting, and a wide variety of foods and consumer goods, you have a “hypermarket.”

The most amusing consequence of all of this is that larger versions of the Saudi-based grocery chain “Panda” are called “HyperPanda.” The first time I heard this name, I was transported to a science-fiction world in which biological life has merged with technology to the point where species would be unrecognizable if compared with their present-day equivalents. All mammals have their own civilizations and live transdimensionally, moving between one universe and the next as easily as the Atreides traveled between their home world and the desert planet Dune. The transdimensional hyperpandas, though, have given in to sloth and spend the bulk of their resources constructing elaborate virtual worlds (“autoverses”) which consist of nothing but mile-high shafts of bamboo growing from a tiger-free earth. In their insatiable quest to find matter to grow these otherworldly Xanadus, they begin to consume planets and stars at such a rate that an alliance of other hyperspecies are compelled to intervene. The hyperpandas are forcibly devolved to the point where they can no longer move between dimensions, locking them forever in their thick, infinite jungles.

When I finally visited a HyperPanda, I was disappointed to find that it is actually just a big supermarket that sells lawn chairs and Lenovo laptops. Which I suppose is for the best.

Gum

Sun, 06 Nov 2011 15:27:35 +0300

I went downtown yesterday to run a couple of errands and two things happened. The most romantic and least interesting one was that while crossing Olaya Street to get to Jarir Bookstore, I stepped across a median that had been covered in sod. Since Riyadh is in the middle of one of the largest deserts on earth, it doesn’t have much natural vegetation. The Saudi government, though, puts a lot of effort into beautifying the city by planting palm trees, scrub bushes, and even grass on government-controlled land—including the many medians dividing the city’s streets and highways.

When I was walking to the median, the only thing going through my mind was the importance of avoiding the hundreds of drivers that were passing through the four lanes on either side. By now I have learned that Saudis (a) don’t care whether or not they hit you and (b) are such terrible drivers that they couldn’t avoid hitting you if they wanted to. So when I cross even a one-lane road I dart my head rapidly from side to side like a rabbit avoiding a predator.

But the grass that covered the median was the first grass I had walked on since I left America two months ago. Each step I took gave slightly as first the blades of grass bent, and then the black soil beneath compressed under my weight. I was struck by how strange it felt, and then by how strange it was that it felt so strange. I paused briefly before plunging across the other half of the street.

The more interesting thing that happened is that when I arrived later at a supermarket checkout lane, my bill came to 175.50 riyals. The riyal is the primary unit of currency in Saudi Arabia, and although it is technically divisible into 100 halala, in practice the lowest denomination that one ever really sees is a one-riyal note.* I have made hundreds of transactions since I arrived here in August, and only twice have I actually been given a 25 or 50 halala coin in change. Since a riyal is worth about twenty-five American cents, the vast majority of businesses do not even bother to put coins in the register. Instead, they simply price their goods to end in a whole number.

Grocers and supermarkets, though, don’t really have full control over their pricing. Agreements with individual brands and distributors, along with basic market economics, mean that some items are still priced at fractions of a riyal. They don’t want to put time and effort into distributing heavy coins to all of their cash registers, but they are also uncomfortable about what to do when a customer’s purchase comes exactly between one riyal and the next. If they always round up, the customer will get mad and complain. If they always round down, they will lose a lot of money over the course of the year. So they needed to find a way to make everyone happy and still avoid transporting thousands of pounds of coins across the Kingdom.

Enter chewing gum. In Saudi Arabia, small packets containing five strips of chewing gum universally cost 50 halala and are present in every checkout line. So if your grocery bill comes to exactly x riyals and 50 halala, the checkout guy gives you a stack of x paper riyals and a packet of chewing gum. Maybe you like to chew gum, and maybe you don’t. He doesn’t ask you. This is just how it works.

Note: The photo above shows the packet of chewing gum I was given in this transaction, along with the two 25 halala coins and one 50 halala coin I received in my previous fractional grocery transactions. All of these groupings are considered functionally equivalent by grocers, but only the gum tastes like cardamom.

* The Arabic word riyal is a cognate of the English word royal, and ultimately derives from a set of Spanish, French, Catalan, and Occitan names for currencies struck under the authority of a king (roy, roi, rex, etc.) in medieval Europe. The Arabic halala is a feminine form of the word halal, meaning either a crescent moon or any other crescent-shaped object.

Prayer Time

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 23:57:00 +0300

After one month in Riyadh, all of the non-Muslim teachers I worked with knew the timing of each of the five daily prayers, and many even knew the names. Most of these guys hadn’t set foot in an Arab country before coming here, hadn’t studied Islam in school, and weren’t particularly interested in religious issues. But in Saudi, businesses have to shut their doors during all prayer times, so Muslims and non-Muslims alike must take them into account as they plan their day.

The first prayer of the day is Fajr, which I had previously known only as “the prayer that woke me up in the middle of the night every night when I was in Turkey.” The Fajr call is made when the first light can be seen on the horizon—not dawn, just the moment when the sky begins to lighten the tiniest little bit. The actual prayer can legally be put off until just before sunrise, but the Muslims I know usually do it when it is called.

The next prayer, Dhuhr, doesn’t come until true, solar noon—when the sun is at its highest point in the sky. This is a long one, about thirty minutes, so it greatly complicates a non-Muslim’s lunch hour. Adding to the complexity is the fact that every business decides for itself when to close and open for the prayers. So in practice, Dhuhr closings are staggered enough that the entire period of 12 to 1 pm is an unreliable time to try and get anything done.

In Riyadh, the third prayer, `Asr, is called when an object’s shadow is as long as the object is tall—that is, when the sun is exactly halfway between noon and sunset. Currently, this is about 2:50. `Asr is theoretically a shorter prayer than Dhuhr, but the aforementioned staggering means that it is still difficult to go somewhere for a cup of tea until about 3:30.

After a week or two, I learned that some businesses are more flexible than others about the closing rules. A sizeable minority will lower their shades and lock the doors but allow those already inside to remain. Department stores, for example, all do this. And some places—like the Texas Chicken* just off the KSU campus—will lock the doors for Saudis but ignore the whole thing altogether if someone cool and obviously non-Muslim (like me) comes to the door.

The fourth prayer is Maghrib, and it is called at sunset. The fifth prayer, `Isha’a, is the inverse of Fajr, being called when the last light of the sun disappears from the sky. These two are close enough (especially considering the staggering rule) that if one is considering an evening excursion such as dinner or errands, it is usually better to just wait until 7:30 pm or so. At the Pakistani curry joint in my first neighborhood, if you tried to get takeout between the two evening prayers there was a good chance you would walk home with odds and ends of whatever the cook had too much of.

Since the prayers are all determined by the position of the sun, they change slightly every day. Before modern timekeeping technology became widespread, most people knew that it was time to pray because they heard someone singing from a minaret. Now there are free iPhone apps and specially designed satellite clocks that combine atomic clock data with preprogrammed astronomical tables. (The singing, however, goes on. And given that there is a mosque about every three blocks in Riyadh, there is literally nowhere one can be and not hear the call.)

I’ve downloaded a prayer time app, but for the most part I still generally only discover that that it is time to pray when I go to a store or restaurant and find it closed. And given that prayer time in Riyadh takes up at least three of the eight hours between noon and 8 pm, this happens with alarming frequency. It used to annoy me, but a couple of weeks ago I simply gave up and accepted that my life here would involve a certain amount of sitting around and waiting. So now I bring a book.

* Church’s Chicken has franchises all over the world. Outside of America, however, they are called “Texas Chicken.” I have never seen an explanation for this, but I assume that they realized early on that if they kept the original name, they would lose the business of people who would associate the name with the house of Christian worship rather than with George W. Church, who founded the company.

First Post

Mon, 17 Oct 2011 19:47:00 +0300

First of all, I would like to say hello and thanks to anyone reading this blog! I’m very much looking forward to writing a bit about Riyadh and Saudi Arabia in general. This being the first post, I thought I should give some context for my being here and maybe talk about my first impressions of the city.

I moved to Riyadh in late August to teach English at King Saud University. When I arrived it was still Ramadan, so during daylight hours almost every public place was closed and there were no cars or pedestrians on the street. Since jet lag had me going to sleep around sunset every day, for the first week or so I felt like the movie protagonist who wakes to find himself the last remaining man on earth. Eventually, though, life in the city went back to normal and I was able to travel around a bit.

Riyadh is a very large and in many ways very new city. The government likes to stress its long history as a hub for the Saud dynasty, but until the twentieth century it was home to just a few thousand traders and date farmers. In the last forty years, however, the population of Riyadh expanded from 500,000 to about 5.5 million people, roughly half of whom are “guest workers” from Bangaladesh, Pakistan, the Philipines, and so on. This dramatic expansion can be clearly seen in the city landscape, half of which seems to be constantly under construction.

Riyadh’s other salient feature is of course its weather. My first week here, daily highs hovered around 115 and the relative humidity sat at 10%. By now the highs are only in the 90s, but the humidity hasn’t changed and shows no signs of doing so. Riyadh is not a city that offers much excitement for meteorologists.

In some ways the perpetually low humidity is actually sort of nice. When it’s hot in St. Louis or New Orleans, if you so much as walk 10 feet outside you find yourself drenched in sweat. Here, though, one’s clothes stay perpetually dry. In fact, everything in Riyadh gravitates very quickly towards a state of dryness. Just spilled water on something? No need to worry about patting it dry or mopping it up. Just wait a few minutes and it’s like it never happened.

The final characteristic of Riyadh that cannot be missed by a new visitor is the impact of Islamic law on public behavior. Women are almost entirely absent from streets and shops. All public places are required by law to close during the five obligatory daily prayers. Alcohol, pork, and movie theaters are forbidden. Western music and discussions of non-Islamic theology are highly discouraged. But as I said, this is all a description of what goes on in public. Private behavior in Saudi Arabia is for the most part not considered to be anyone else’s business.

And that about covers it. Riyadh is big, hot, and extremely Islamic. I’m enjoying the city in my free time, my job isn’t too tough, and I’ve finally learned to drive stick. Things are good and I expect them to get better.