Close Encounters of the Arab Kind - a Young American in Saudi Arabia

June 10, 1984. 4:45 A.M.
Riyadh,

(Cough, cough. Throat clearing sounds. Loud.). Allah Akbar ALLAAAAAAAHHHHH AKBAR!!! Babble babble babble babble.

WHAT is THAT? Where is that coming from??? I sat bolt upright in the bed and looked at my watch. 4:45, A.M. I think. Where am I? Am I dreaming? Huh??? Okay. What is that language? That's Arabic he's speaking. Oh yes…

It all started flooding back:

The flight to

to see my friend in Germany on the way to this new chapter in my life. The flight to
Riyadh
the next day. Gallons of whiskey on the plane. Reeking of spent alcohol going through customs in a dry, Islamic country. Getting strip-searched and thanking God that I didn't try to smuggle in any of those little airplane whiskey bottles before they took me in the little room. As the hairy, smelly little man led me to the little room to get his jollies by stripping me, I strained to remember if I had inadvertently left any other "contraband" such as alcohol or pictures of women that were not completely covered in my bag. No, nothing; I'm pretty careful about that. The last thing I need is to be waking up in a jail cell for a long, long time with a lot of smelly, hairy men.

Now, here I lie, in my bed in the Lockheed compound, jerked out of a semi-comatose daze by this timely reminder to pray for the first time today. Still reeling from jet lag, I began to feel a post Jack Daniels dull hangover headache making its way into the scene. I had better appreciate this hangover, I thought; it will be the last one I get for a long time.

I opened my bleary eyes and took in the dull sunrise light coming through the window. I stared up in astonishment at the massive marble minaret, shooting hundreds of feet into the dusty sunrise, a mere stone's throw from my window. The minaret boasted two mammoth high tech super-amplified speakers, which would hold their own at any heavy metal venue. Obviously designed to annoy the infidel westerners in the compound next door, this high-tech audio accomplishment was functioning at full capacity this morning. Those massive woofers and tweeters were proudly broadcasting that Allah is great, as well as something along the lines of "wake up everyone, time to pray!" Something told me this scene was going to repeat itself every morning at sunrise, and four other times during the day. I was right.

I managed to slide/stumble got out of bed and found coffee. Ahhh…Allah IS great. I hadn't met my British Geordie roommate with whom I was to share this new adventure yet; he was out of town when I got in last night. But I was sure he wouldn't mind my pilfering a pot of his coffee. I showered forever, and started to come around. My, my, what have I gotten myself into here? Will the money be worth it? The word surreal may not be completely correct, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

(Fast forward six months)

"So Cheen, what did you do last night for, you know, this?" Rafia made a simulated fornication motion with his lower body, an invisible set of hips in his hand. One eye winked, then both eyes rose up and down in a come-hither facial gesture. "Your wife is not here Cheen, you must want this very bad! And you are a very pretty boy." He grinned a lecherous, wide-toothed, sloppy moustache grin. His uniform was pressed and cleaned, no doubt by his houseboy.

Lieutenant Rafia was a short, round man who was a member of the Saudi Royal Family. He got a commission in the Saudi Air Force after doing a two-year degree stint at a community college in
California
. His English was pretty good, but he didn't know much about computers. He had two wives, but he really, really liked men. Especially young white men like me (at the ripe age of 25 at the time). And, little did I know, I should've grown some facial hair before landing in this place. I'm not sure how Rafia fathered his children; perhaps he went both ways, but he certainly had strong male desires.

My job was to test, and then demonstrate for payment, the aircraft logistics and maintenance computer system developed on contract by our American software engineering company for the Saudi Air Force. This system kept track of the flights and maintenance of the sleek F15's, F16's, AWACS and other nice toys the Americans "sold" to the Saudis. I had to get the software accepted and "signed off" by Lieutenant Rafia, so he could subsequently approve it for payments to our company. Needless to say, this was a pretty important process to complete in my management's eyes. One could say I was on the hot seat, in more ways than one.

What could I do about this come-on from a sexually repressed, bisexual (I think) Saudi Air Force officer who had to approve of my work to get our company paid? These disgusting come-ons seemed to be happening at least daily lately.

I tried to think of a way out of this. I decided to try humor again: "Ah come on Rafia, we've talked about this before. I do okay, thanks. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands!" Rafia grinned and nodded; I won't elaborate on the mimicking motion that resulted. Like it or not, I got a healthy dose of what most women have to go through in the workplace, even in western countries. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

I attempted to get back to the task at hand. I brought up the next screen in the demonstration sequence and tried to steer Rafia away from his wandering, homoerotic thought sequence. "Can we move on to the next function now? This is the Liquid Oxygen/Liquid Nitrogen (LOX/NOX) replacement tracking module. We really need to get moving Rafia, we're still way behind, okay?. Now, if you click here, it brings up the status screen…"

Rafia moved his chair closer to mine. Like most Arab men in this country, he didn't bathe often and wore women's perfume to cover it. I will spare us the brand name, but suffice to say that any time I meet a woman wearing this particular perfume, I am reminded of Rafia. Life can be cruel sometimes….

His smell was starting to overwhelm me, and I felt my bile rise. Even after six months, I still couldn't get used to all these new smells. Especially that third-world bathroom smell, where they all wash five times a day before prayers. Rafia put his hand on my leg, tapped, and grinned. "Cheen, Cheen, Cheen. We will have time for this testing! I am sure it will work fine. Please, now, tell me what did you do for this last night?" Simulated fornication motion again, lecherous grin. Ugh.

I rolled my chair away a few inches, but his hand followed. It moved up, closer to my coveted manhood. I pushed his hand off me, hard. "Listen Rafia, that is a very personal thing okay? And besides, I only like women. How many times do I have to tell you this?"

Rafia shrugged and replied, "My friend, my friend. ALL men have some liking men in them! It is okay! You can still love women as I do! Come now. No one is here." The hand went back. "So, you have come here to make money right? How much to f*** you Cheen? One thousand Riyals." (Note, about $300 at the time).

Disgusted, I replied, "Come on Rafia, stop. I don't do this!"

"5000 Riyals? 10,000? How much? I have money my friend!" Well, well, well, now we are talking some major bucks here! I started to think about it. You know, just put some Novocain in my backside and close my eyes, think of my wife, and when it's over, a year's salary! But alas, that would not be the deal. I would become his little white boy toy until I left this place. And who knows? He may want to share me with his buddies. Nope. There are some things money just will not buy. My booty is one of them.

"Listen Rafia. You do not have enough money to f*** me. Your family does not have enough money for you to f*** me. The whole

kingdom
of
Saudi Arabia

does not have enough money for you to f*** ME Rafia. So stop!" Now I was getting annoyed. Contract or no contract, tax-free money or no tax-free money, behind schedule or not, this was not going to happen.

Rafia stood up and grinned, showing those wide teeth through the spindly overgrown moustache on his upper lip. "Ah, I see, okay my friend. I must go now."

Me: "Wait, we were supposed to get through the LOX/NOX module today! Les will be really, really upset if we don't. The schedule has already slipped two weeks. Geez Rafia. Come on now."

Rafia: "Inshallah (God willing), bukara (tomorrow) my friend. Or perhaps another day." And then he turned and headed out of the demo room. He was certainly in no hurry, and a slipped schedule wouldn't bother him one bit. Inshallah.

As Rafia left, Les (my manager and signer of my paychecks and bonuses) walked in. He and Rafia greeted each other and shook hands as Rafia exited the room, but they didn't talk about the schedule.

Les, stressed and nervous, almost ran over to the area where I was still sitting in front of the LOX/NOX module screen, dumbfounded, trying to process what had just happened. He had a look of complete consternation on his face. "So Gene, what is going on? What's the status? Did you finish the LOX/NOX module? Did he approve? Why is he leaving so soon, it's only 1:30! Did something break? This bloody release is supposed to be tight! If something broke I'll have that developer's job!"

Me: "Um, no. Nothing broke Les. We didn't finish it."

Les" "Well why the hell NOT? We have a $250,000 interim payment waiting on this module! Jesus Christ Gene WHAT THE HELL IS THE !@#$%^& PROBLEM?"

Me: "We have to talk Les. Let's go to your office."