Buttery Biscuit Baish

After the almost culturally sterile feel of Riyadh, I was excited to head to the south west of the country. The plan was to start in Jizan, a city only one hour away from Yemen and then continue heading north whenever I felt like it. Due to the success I had using Couchsurfing in Riyadh with Miteb, I decided to try and find another host in the Jizan area. A guy called Fouad messaged me back quickly, so I had somewhere to stay. Therefore, sat in the Riyadh airport, I felt relaxed in the knowledge that everything was going swimmingly. 

After listening to the predeparture recitation of Muhammad’s pre-travel prayer over the tannoy system of the airplane, the flight to Jizan was pretty normal and we arrived in time for lunch. As per the standard James operating system, I arrived in the humidity of Jizan with an all-consuming hunger, I knew that my host Fouad would be able to pick me up in a few hours so that would give me enough time to shovel food down my gullet and explore a little of the city. 

A short Uber ride later, I was at the entrance to a small road which at first glance was devoid of all points of interest, however, there were a lot of people carrying bags full of food. A good omen if I’ve ever seen one. I followed the trail of food-laden men who nurtured a rabid intensity in their eyes. The spectacle of our ancestor’s hunts has long gone but the primal protective feeling we have over food remains. Come rain or shine, if you touch my food expect to be shivved in your sleep. The scene of this modern day hunt was Al-Janoub, a large restaurant where the din of hungry people acted as a beacon and a challenge. An auditory signal that I was on the cusp of replenishment, but also a car crash of intermingling and discordant Arabic sounds that told me my language skills would have to be sharpened and readied for this less than leisurely encounter. The entrance was a large room that looked like a takeaway restaurant but with lots of different counters. Once inside, I asked the doorman where I to go if I wanted to eat inside and he pointed. Not having had enough time to decipher more than a few of the dishes on offer I went for ye old faithful ‘Half Chicken Mandi’, the ordering process went smoothly and I was directed upstairs to the “seating area”.

The large room on the first floor was divided into small square carpeted semi-rooms. I say semi-rooms because the dividing walls were only around waist height. Unlike the posh and serene Najd Village restaurant I had visited with Miteb in Riyadh, this place was a fast paced local restaurant with no time for stupid questions. Unfortunately, I had one such question at the ready, where do I sit? Every little room had people in and I didn’t want to assume that shuffling into someone’s space would be ok with them. Apparently anywhere with space was ok, so I took off my shoes and sat myself down in the nearest semi-room which I was sharing with two young Yemeni guys. After some polite chitchat their food arrived and they offered for me to share it with them but I declined knowing that mine would be on the way soon. Nevertheless, they were not happy with the idea of me waiting so they kept hounding the waiters to get my food quicker, eventually taking my receipt and waving it around until someone got my food. They left as my food arrived, I thanked them and then gazed in wonderment at the platter of food in front of me. I had observed the guys eating the rice and meat with their right hand and I thought I had picked up a few techniques so I dived in. The meat was tender and the rice was lightly spiced, but most importantly it was enormous, filling and only around £4. After polishing off the whole platter like a champion, I decided that eating with my hand is great strategy for food consumption (not only from a cultural immersion standpoint, but also a hand-sized shovel is more suited to the sheer quantities of food that I want entering my inescapable maw). I washed my ricey hand and headed out to discern what there was to see in Jizan. 

The verdict? Not a lot. Jizan is a port city reminiscent of Southampton and Portsmouth (think large warehouse-style shopping bordering wide empty streets, rundown carparks and joyless patches of green which are passed off as parks). All of this soulless charm in a humid and ugly city, but somehow I was still enjoying my little walk. On this wander, I was headed to a bookshop to while away some time before getting picked up. Once I got there, they required me to leave my rucksack at the security office at the entrance, therefore my plan to read my book in the blasting air-con was thwarted. That was until I thought that within the enormous bookshop they must have books (God, that £9000 a year in university tuition really paid off with that deduction). And it wouldn’t be too farfetched to hope that one of such books would be The Count of Monte Cristo. Luckily, I was right. So, I found my page and cracked on in the dedicated reading area. An hour or so later I was picked up by Fouad. Straight away he told me that he didn’t actually live in Jizan. This was a little concerning because usually going to a strange backwater town with a stranger is a bad move. However, since walking around Jizan, the mysterious town of Baish couldn’t be much worse. 

Baishi Adventures 

Baish was a small and pretty ordinary town and I was staying on the outskirts in Fouad’s new hostel “Siesta” (which was the only real hostel in the country). I was the first or second guest to stay there and it was a super chilled place to base myself. Fouad was very accommodating and found ways for me to try all of the most authentic local food (more on that later) but with no way into town without a car, I decided not to just sit on my arse at the hostel reading my book (though admittedly two days were spent doing exactly that), I got out and explored the local area using three different modes of transport.

Wadi Lajab – The Hitchhike

Fouad had been restless during my first day at Siesta. I wanted to relax, read and do nothing all day (a lazy combination that I was loving) but he was concerned I was only doing so out of a lack of options of things to do. So, after suffering through my blissful day of lethargy, he strongly encouraged me head up to Wadi Lajab on the next day. The only problem with this plan was the lack of public transport, but I was assured that hitchhiking should be easy enough. Fouad dropped me in the early hours of the morning at the necessary road and wished me luck, I was on my own. A taxi driver tried telling me it was 30-40 pounds to the wadi, but I ignored him and began flagging down cars. Quite a few people stopped, but when they heard where I was going they told me it was too far or they were only going to the next town. Eventually, (after 5 minutes or so, I’m not that patient), I decided to just hop in if they were going in my direction. The next guy that pulled in was a middle aged man (whose name I’m not sure of), who told me he was going to the market in the next town and he could drop me there. I jumped into the automotive symbol of Saudi Arabia, the Toyota Landcruiser, and started to chat. His eyes lit up as soon as I told him I was a tourist from Britain and he was so happy to hear me speak to him in Arabic because he didn’t know any English (except the word “cow”), he was such a warm and kind man and we got on instantly. When I asked him more about the market that he was going to he explained it was a sheep market and I told him I would like to have a look around. I think that sealed the deal, we were friends. We pulled in on the dusty edge of the main road and out to our right the sun was rising, it’s smooth halo and deep red hue obscured by the haze and rising dust. In the foreground was the market, an informal jumble of pickup trucks and animals but utterly fascinating to my eyes. I brought my camera out of my bag due to my new Saudi uncle encouraging me to take photos despite my reservations. The camera was spotted instantly and I was proclaimed to be a musawir (photographer), a promotion I was not going to deny. Everyone was cautiously eyeing me, obviously not used to seeing a camera at their local auction. But contrary to my expectations, many people wanted photos of themselves, their sheep, and were happy for me to be there. So, I settled into the scene. The people buying and selling were from the local villages and tribes, some men from the mountains had elaborate crowns made from different handpicked flowers, while others wearing the suave traditional white thobe drifted through the red dust. While I tried to absorb as much as I could from the frenetic scene my Saudi uncle was getting ready to leave, turns out he was only window shopping today and I soon had to leave the diverse group of shemagh wrapped faces and bleating goats behind. Nevertheless, he told me that he would take me all the way to Wadi Lajab if I directed him because he had never been there before. I showed him that it would take over an hour to get there, in the opposite direction to his house and he replied “Are you happy?” I replied, “Of course, very happy”, then with a wave of his hand and a wide smile he said “You are happy, I am happy” and we set off.

We chatted all the way, while I gave him the complicated directions of “straight on” every time he asked. I taught him some English, his favourite was “be careful” which he consistently said with joy and incredible inaccuracy showing his lack of contact with English in the past. He taught me some more Arabic and I was so glad to be able to speak enough to have this basic conversation with him, enough for us to learn from and about each other. Meanwhile the mountains had seemed to appear from nowhere. 

The early morning light split the air with shards of brilliance from behind ridges and illuminated trees on distant slopes. As we wound our way deeper into the mountains, more dark prisms of dark rock towered into the haze of morning, the more distant they were the more they seemed to find comfort in their indefinable obscurity. As we drove on, only the eagles above them seemed to understand this ethereal landscape, gliding effortlessly through the scene. As we traversed ridges, each valley unfolding in front of us seemed emptier than the last. Baboons appeared on the narrow rises of rock between the road and the wadis below. It was common to either see a lone animal staring out into the vastness of its home or to see a tribe of them racing to new slopes. 

We eventually reached the beginning of the wadi and drove off-road, down a narrow mountain gorge to the place where other cars were gathered. I got out of the car and said thank you to my Saudi uncle saying I would call him if I went to his city, and then he said “No no, I’ll wait for you to come back”. Completely astounded by his kindness, I followed him as he showed me what the locals do for lunch around there (stick a whole sheep in a fiery barrel and wait a few hours), then he found a place to relax while I explored the wadi. 

Now, I’ve been to some wadis (see this post for some such wadis) but Wadi Lajab was different. Unlike the wadis of Jordan this place was the scene of natural grandeur on an unimaginable scale. Sheer mountains rise on each side as you enter the valley, their golden tops so high as to be emboldened by the sun’s touch and circled by the ever present eagles. On the terraces and rocky slopes baboons screeched as they clamber away from prying eyes, their forms hidden by the sheer scale of the scene. The valley floor was strewn with immense boulders which impeded the river’s progress and therefore allowed for waterfalls to rumble and pools of azure water to emerge from the rocks’ hidden bases. The final and perhaps most spectacular part of the wadi was the presence of the huge trees which seemed lean over the water to gain a better view of the sky above. Their slender trunks drew the eye upwards and their magnificent foliage created a colour contrast to the radiant orange of the wadi’s walls. 

I walked, waded and climbed through the wadi, blending in with the Saudis who had come to the watery mountain haven for the day. After a while I reached a pool and a cave, I had been told by Fouad that the cave was not the end and that I should try and find a way through. A group of local lads had obviously heard the same so we went in together, scouring the pitch black interior for signs of a way through. After searching every corner, the shout came and we found a rope. This tatty rope had been tied to a piece of driftwood which had been jammed into the cave and acted as a cross beam. Once you had clambered up the surprisingly difficult surface to the wood, you had to contort your way through a tiny hole and out into the daylight again. From there, a final tattered rope climb to the top and the waterfall which awaited. At the waterfall I got chatting to the guys, one of whom said I should call him when I go to his city and he’ll show me around. I never did call him but that was the fault of my antisociality rather than his personality. I walked back from the waterfall at a pace never seen before or since by these legs, I was performing a leisurely amble and it was because I wanted to revel in the serenity of this mountain recess just a little longer.

When I got back to the car, my Saudi uncle was just chilling on a mattress, he smiled widely as I approached packed up his stuff and said he would take me all the way back to town. On the way back he told me about the next sheep market, which would be in Baish on the following day, even earlier in the morning. I told myself I would make it there and then sunk myself into the seat during the relaxed drive all the way back through the mountains to Baish. 

The Market – With Legs This Long Walking is a Mode of Transport

By 6:30am I was on my way to the market. It wasn’t far from the hostel, maybe 20 minutes on foot, and bathed in the red light of the low hanging sun I was already warm. When I reached the road to the market, I was passed by endless white pickup trucks carrying sheep and goats which told me I must be going in the right direction. Up ahead all of these pick-up trucks were crammed together with people running between them vying for the prime position from which to enter the small gate to the market. 

As I snuck through the front gate, the size of the place really hit me. Unlike the roadside market the day before this was a slightly better organised rabble. Rows and rows of pick-up trucks extended into the distance and between them the clamour of the market ebbed and flowed. Flower crowns, orange beards and multi-coloured shemaghs jostled for position in the dusty fray. Sheep and goats were tied to things and held tightly with brightly coloured ropes. The sincere faces of discerning buyers moved deftly through the tangle with practiced eyes. The soft sand underfoot made each footfall a muffled drum beat and the constant bleating and Arab volume of chatter made for an atmospheric yet discordant symphony.

Adjacent to the livestock section, where pickup trucks protected the lines of sheep and people, were enormous trucks covered with orange tarpaulins. Curious what they were and even more curious why I occasionally saw men standing on top of these lumbering giants, I went over for a look. This was the section for hay bale transport. These grassy blocks were constantly being moved from the giant lorries into pickup trucks, which then I assume were moved to the bleating consumers of the hay. Straight away I was struck by the physical task at hand and the difference in the people working there. In this section most people were Sudanese and they were throwing these green bales of hay from 2 or 3 stories high into the pick-up trucks below. In contrast to the colours of the Arab dress, they were clothed in simple white dishdashas (long shirts typical of Arabia) and taqiyyas (Muslim skull caps) they moved with such ease through the scene. Tall and athletic, they made light work of the strenuous task. Silhouetted against the blueing sky and with their white clothes contrasted with the vibrant trucks, they almost looked elegant. Unlike the Arabs who often looked at me and my camera with suspicion, the Sudanese guys were friendly and open. So I wandered around that area for a while. Taking photos of those who asked and trying to accurately portray of the work of these men. While some hauled the hay, others made tea in giant golden teapots and some groups sheltered from the already oppressive heat in the shade of the wheel arches.

Further still from the livestock was the food and clothes section of the market, where I saw women perusing the options alongside the men. The fruit and vegetables looked fresh but I was slightly put off by the decantation of various oils and viscous ignition fluids into empty water bottles a couple of feet away from the produce. In the shade of tarpaulins and pick-up trucks men were making knives by hand, hammering away at pieces of metal and stopping occasionally to resume their conversation. On a meandering path back through the market, I got stopped by the police who just kind of made sure I knew I was in a market and that I wasn’t lost. I think they probably wondered what the hell a tourist could gain from walking around a dusty, poo filled market. I must’ve wandered a long way from my five star hotel. Despite the poo and the dust, this was one of the defining experiences of my trip to Saudi Arabia. The vibrant yet tough reality of life was intense and beautiful.

Jabal Aswad – Motorbikes

After a few hours spent recovering all of the water I had lost during my walk around the market, an exciting new experience presented itself, a motorbike trip. As well as being a hostel, Siesta is a motorbike workshop and café so it seemed inevitable that I would end up on a two wheeled machine at some point during my stay. The day before, a Colombian expat named Manuel rocked up to the hostel to meet up with Fouad and, with us all getting on swimmingly and Manuel a bike enthusiast, it was only natural that we would all head off into the mountains. Being the only one without any experience, I was put on the back of Fouad’s brother’s motorbike, the enormous Honda Goldwing. With nothing but a linen shirt, a pair of jeans and a helmet (that felt as though I could bend it in half with nothing but my measly human arms), i.e. woefully inadequate safety equipment, I mounted the bike and we set off. 

To my surprise Muhammad (Fouad’s brother) was not the leisurely rider that such a big comfy machine would suggest. Instead he was a speed demon and I was the helpless piece of meat who was coming along for the ride. We spent the afternoon hurtling down the long straight roads leading to the mountains and then slowing down for the hairpin bends and rogue goats or baboons. Eventually, we made it to Jabal Aswad where we entered the clouds and stopped to take in the somewhat obscured landscape. Our stopping place was on a narrow ridge, where a huge valley lay below and to the right, its grandeur flattened by our height. Soon the view was covered by clouds that were being quickly funnelled upwards towards us. When they reached our precipitous ridge they spilled over it to the other side where they swirled around in the free air until joining the clouds which had attached themselves to the tops of the highest mountains. We continued upwards and through ever thickening cloud banks, occasionally seeing glimpses of terraced slopes that surround the small mountain villages in this green corner of Saudi Arabia. After a small break, we returned from the mountain in even thicker cloud but emerged to see a beautiful sunset welcome us back to Baish. 

This first experience on a motorbike was amazing. I was genuinely scared at points (mainly the points where I couldn’t see due to hitting 70mph with only £10 sunglasses to protect my eyes and the points where Muhammad didn’t manage to avoid the bumps and I was bounced out of my seat). Despite the whole fearing for my life thing, it was incredibly freeing to be out in the elements where you can sense the differences in your environment. I understand the visceral thrill of biking. I have been initiated. Now all I need is a leather jacket, a big bushy moustache and almost homoerotic desire to be around other leather-clad men. 

Food & Friends 

As well as the really chill Manuel, I met some really nice locals while at Siesta. One night they had a BBQ where tonnes of people came to eat the incredibly tasty meat being cooked by a Turkish chef. While I sat there, listening to live music and chatting to Manuel, a guy who reminded me of my brother sat down and started talking to me. Now, as much as I profess my dislike for people, his friendly approach was welcomed. This tall moustachioed fella was a well-preened Saudi and he had spotted my English accent. It quickly became apparent that he had been to the UK and then he asked me if I know Bournemouth. For those who don’t know, Bournemouth is a seaside town 30 minutes from where I live and not a place often frequented by those coming to the UK. I was amazed and asked him whether he liked it (because I’m nothing if not polite) but it soon became apparent that this man had not only been to Bournemouth, had not only lived in Bournemouth, but had developed a severe obsession with this mediocre (at best) seaside town. He had travelled all around the UK, from York to Yeovil, Birmingham to Brighton, Liverpool to London. He had seen much further and wider than many foreigners do in our green and pleasant land, but he had settled on Bournemouth as his favourite. Yes, you heard correctly, his favourite place in the whole of the UK. Unable to comprehend that this man had been to Cameo nightclub and walked along Bournemouth high street while still gleefully in wonder of his surroundings, I was digging myself into a chasm of utter confusion. However, only minutes later, I discovered that he is someone who doesn’t appreciate food (he sees it only as fuel and derives no pleasure from it, calling eating a “time consuming chore”). This made me understand him a little better. Obviously he’s clinically insane. 

On my days of reading and relaxation I required food to fuel my unstoppable surge through The Count of Monte Cristo and trying local food became my mission. Fouad showed me many delights but these were the stand outs among the crowd:

1. Falafel Sandwich – After living in Jordan for some time I became somewhat of a connoisseur of the humble ball of goodness we call a falafel. So, what I was not expecting was a world class falafel sandwich in the back alleys of Baish. Nevertheless, I trusted Fouad and came out of the small sandwich shop with a semi-circular handful of heaven. As well as falafel, chilli sauce and freshly cooked chips they add unctuous cheese, sour tamarind sauce and a special blend of seasoning dusted on top. The almost exotic take on the falafel sandwich I was so accustomed to was refreshing and incredibly tasty.  
2. Mersah – Torn pieces of unleavened bread, mashed up banana, honey and ghee. It’s sweet, its chewy, it’s almost addictively tasty. Fouad’s wife made us a bowl of it and it was incredible.

Final Thoughts 

My time in Baish was my introduction to the real Saudi Arabia. It was a base from which to explore some of the culture, cuisine and landscapes that had originally drawn me to this country. However, the comfort of Siesta was so intense that I almost forgot I was travelling, after 5 days there I knew I had to hit the road and once again forge my own way through the country unaided. I’ll be forever grateful to Fouad for his hospitality in Baish and also to my Saudi Uncle who’s friendly smile will live rent free in my mind for years to come.