The Mountain Cities of Saudi Arabia

Standing in a dusty carpark at the side of a busy road, I was on my own once more. Fouad (from the hostel in Baish) had assured me this was the place to find a shared taxi to Abha, the first mountain city of my trip northwards. After being pointed this way and that by various drivers who would’ve struggled to organise a piss up in a brewery, I ended up in a car with three others and heading towards Ad-Darb (i.e. not the place I wanted). Once I had been dropped off, I tagged along with the guys from my car, following them around the corner to a rabble of taxi drivers and their equally dishevelled assortment of cars. Prices were being thrown around and I was haggling hard, but after getting a fair price I finally agreed to go with a driver.

The final leg of the journey negotiated a slowly steepening valley, at the end of which loomed an enormous wall of rock. The seemingly impassable natural terminus to the valley seemed like a dead end but as we grew closer I could make out the shape of buildings peering over the ledge far above. To meet the civilisation in the sky, our road began to climb, the asphalt clinging more and more tightly to the vertical cliff face. The road was a marvel of modern engineering and the views to our right, beyond the barriers, were a testament to the slow yet powerful forces of our planet. The steep mountain valley we had come from stooped beneath us and soon many more just like it appeared parallel to its highest peaks. These vast drainage systems bounded by angular mountain slopes were seemingly infinite as I stared along them to the north and south, their forms remained but their details became more and more intangible amongst a pallid blue haze.

Abha

Having reached the top, we were in Abha and immediately it felt different. Sitting at 2,270 metres above sea level, the mountain air was unburdened by the excess moisture of lower altitudes, instead it felt light and refreshing.

I had time to wander through the green and quiet city on my first day. The parks were vibrant, not with the rapturous growth of a tropical climate but instead the refined verdure of spring. The heat of the day no longer smothered me from all sides like an oppressive blanket, instead my skin welcomed the gentle touch of sunlight and the distinct areas of shade in equal measure.

I was definitely enjoying Abha more than Riyadh and Jizan, this feeling was cemented when I began my walk up to the partially intact Ottoman castle, Shamsan. While the city looks down on the cascading ‘Asir Mountains, the ground that hosts the city is not flat, instead it is a rolling stony carpet, bulging and subsiding at a whim. So, as I walked slowly upwards towards the castle, narrow roads would dip away into the clement afternoon air revealing houses and mosques on far slopes of the city. The castle itself was pretty impressive despite being closed, but it was the serene atmosphere and the views over the quiet city streets that made the place a perfect welcome to the mountain cities of the coming week. 

Rijal Almaa

The main reason I had come to Abha was to visit the village of Rijal Almaa. This village is one of the flagships of the soon to come Saudi tourism industry, so I wasn’t going to miss it. The route to the village wasn’t a simple hitchhike, therefore, I got an Uber the whole way which took around an hour and a half. Sitting in silence, I had almost forgotten the geographical position of Abha. So, as we cruised through the hills dotted with farmhouses on the eastern side of Jabal Soudah, I was not nearly as enthused about the landscapes as I had expected. I had heard adjectives thrown around pertaining to the immensity of the views from Jabal Soudah but all I was seeing were the green rolling hills of rural Arabia. That was until the ground dropped away completely. For a few minutes our road seemed to be tracing the edge of an infinite void, the edge of the known world. But with a graceful sweep of the road and a dip in the metal barrier, I finally saw land beyond. Far below us, rising from a dense light blue haze were the angular peaks of giant mountains. The atmospheric obscurity meant that each peak seemed to be nothing more than a crest of a rogue wave rising from an otherwise flat and indifferent ocean. I knew that Rijal Almaa lay somewhere among the mist, deep in the recesses of the mountains that were hidden from my view. Before beginning our descent into the mists and down the twistiest road I’ve ever seen, we passed through a tiny village on Jabal Soudah. It was quiet and baboons seemed to be running the show. I spotted a monkey sat apart from its troop. It was perched on the step of the local corner shop, looking bored. It sat there like it was most natural thing in the world, in fact, if it had brought a can of coke to its lips and started scrolling through TikTok at that moment, I don’t think I would’ve been surprised.

The drive down to the valley floor was utterly insane with countless baboons bounding along the roadside and the dips in the distant ridge lines allowing cascades of light to surge across the sky and onto otherwise shaded mountainsides. 

Rijal Almaa, which is at least 900 years old, is cradled by hospitable green slopes which lead upwards to the sawtooth ridges of the ‘Asir mountains. Consisting of traditional houses restored to their original glory, the village is an angular patchwork of stone. From a distance, every inch of the green mountain’s base is hidden by the beautiful stonework, which is dense and dark in the early morning. However, as the day wore on and direct sunlight swept over the faces of the houses, bluey-brown hues shone from the stone. Beside them, the foliage of the few trees shading the main pathway were encouraged from their slumber, producing oxygen and glowing a vibrant green once again. The houses were made from large flat stones caught in a solid lattice of smaller rocks which were arranged with precision to hold everything in place. To make this even more impressive, the houses could reach up to eight stories high and seemed like personal little castles. In the village itself, most buildings seemed to have been restored or kept in good condition, but I did find a small dirt path that led around the corner at the top of the village, to a view of the rest of the valley. From there you could see the crumbling remains of many more ancient houses which hadn’t received the same attention. I vowed to check it out later in the day. 

The restored village was small and I had seen it within no time, but I wasn’t in a rush and I was keen to observe what secrets the ancient geometry could reveal with the movement of the sun. So, I took up a perch under a tree, atop a zigzagging wall which accompanied the path through the village. There I was shaded from the sun but still felt its warmth. The occasional breeze that sought to playfully rustle the green foliage above my head also happened to cool me nicely. In the couple of hours that I sat there, I was left unhounded and undisturbed. From the quiet solitude of my perch the only noises were the cooing of pigeons, cries of eagles, the distant hum of a generator, the rustling leaves and the intermittent crisp turn of another page in my book. 

As I sat there, I felt that Rijal Almaa was ready for tourism but I was glad it hadn’t reached it quite yet. That being said, as I delved deeper and deeper into intricate tale of The Count of Monte Cristo, I did watch three tourists come and go. Two of them were an elderly German couple who smiled and seemed interested in the photographic opportunities of the unusual architecture and the colourful shutters. The other tourist was an American. A very American American. In fact, I knew he was American before he even spoke and I decided to call him Brad. He was a young guy, maybe in his early 30s and clearly on a private tour. Brad was loping around the base of the village with his baseball cap on backwards, talking very loudly and constantly vaping. But even worse than the sound of his immodest American voice reverberating around the serene village was the fact that he obviously didn’t care about where he was, he didn’t look up from his Go Pro/ drone at all. He flew the drone for a few minutes and endlessly videoed himself. For this I am thankful because once he puts these videos online it’ll allow me to dislike him in another medium. What a treat. 

After Brad had left and I had made a dent in my book, I took a slow and indirect walk back down to the circular plaza in front of the village. From there I started walking around to the unrestored area of the village I had seen before. Only 100m down the road I turned off behind the mosque and up a steep concrete path through the derelict section of the original village. Gone were the closed doors and newly painted windows, instead many walls were caved in and the bare wooden rafters were visible. It was just as quiet as the restored village but the scuffling animals moving between the debris filled rooms and the susurration of the long grasses and draped vines made the place seem a little more alive. 

After finishing my wander and sitting in awe of my surroundings while listening to the call to prayer, I decided I should try and head back to Abha. There was no chance of getting an Uber this far into the mountains so I decided to hitchhike, Abha being the closest big city and the likely destination of a lot of people. Unfortunately, hitchhiking usually requires a fairly consistent through-traffic and I was stood on the side of a sleepy village’s road. After failing to flag down a few cars, I thought it was probably a better bet to try and head up the steep hill from the village to the main road. I started walking, cautiously eyeing the baboons which ran along the shaded low wall to my right. Suddenly, they all jumped out onto the road and the large male surrounded by a few others sat down in the middle. I slowed my pace and began to rethink my plan. This reassessment was solidified when the big male stood up, not to run away, but to stare at me. There was absolutely no way I was going to risk being mauled to death by a baboon just to get a better hitchhiking position, so I walked back defeated and waited for more cars to head my way.

Soon after, a nice man and his two young sons picked me up and took me to the main road and from there I was immediately picked up by a man who wanted a little money but it was far less than the Uber had cost me. The guy was friendly but a bit strange. We were talking for a while and I told him about my plans to go to Jeddah, with this his eyes lit up and he started telling me how great the city on the Red Sea is. After no more enquiry from me, he blurted out that I could find a wife there, and the best part, the women don’t even want you to have money! Only personality!! Now, famously, I don’t possess either of these, and yet, by a twist of divine intervention or luck, I do have a girlfriend. So, I think I’ve done pretty well for myself considering my romantic hinderances.

The rest of our journey upwards went quickly and by the time we had reached the top of Jabal Soudah the clear morning air had gone. Now, the forests which climbed the final hills of the rolling mountain plateau to our right were being engulfed. Fingers of cloud probed the undergrowth of the forest while the evolving white mass continued to follow. Somewhere inside the gathering mass of cloud was the hidden edge, a step into the abyss where I knew mountains and valleys lay hundreds of metres below. Rising from these depths and then high into an otherwise clear sky, the indomitable march of the cloud through the forest reminded me of the much more destructive suffocating front of a forest fire. It was stunning.

Al Baha 

After an early start in Abha, where I talked to some friendly taxi drivers in the cold, I was on the bus to Al Baha. It wasn’t a long journey and I enjoyed the views. To the left was the ever present void and to the right was a rubble strewn landscape of hills sloping off into the distance. Despite this seemingly barren landscape of haphazardly piled rock, colourful villages appeared in the valleys. Modern constructions of cement and steel had replaced the ancient architecture of a bygone age. Nevertheless towers of this style, held aloft by centuries old craftsmanship, still stood above the valleys. They watched as the world moved on with its incessant modernisation that tossed away resilient artistry for unsightly convenience, but they also saw how life had remained much the same. People still worked the terraced fields which were held together by old walls, weathered hands still fingered misbaḥah beads with idle reverence and the changing of seasons meant that soon the fields would be once again greeted with the welcome rains of winter.

Al Baha was smaller than Abha and the streets seemed empty all day long. My walk to my expensive furnished apartment was comfortable despite the midday sunshine. After dropping off my bags, I walked around the city, ducking below low tree branches and observing the slow pace of life at the date market. My leisurely walk and the rejuvenating power of gentle mountain sunshine was not enough to stave off the hunger though, the two bananas I had had at 5:30am before my bus had given me all the energy they could and now I was ravenous. Luckily, I had done some research and I had a place in mind for lunch. 

Hashi Bashi is one of the most famous restaurants in the area and is known for its camel meat Kabsa (spiced rice with meat on top). They didn’t have the Kabsa but they did have the Madghoot which is the same but the rice is pressure cooked with the meat which gives it a more juicy feel, meaty flavour and perhaps most importantly it’s easier to scoop up with my right hand. I sat down in one of the little rooms (that are commonplace in Saudi restaurants) with a guy, who was already eating and waited for my food. He immediately offered for me to share his food which was quite a normal occurrence but then kept looking at me. After a few minutes he told me I was sat in his private room and that the public eating area was across the restaurant. Very embarrassed, I scuttled over to the large carpeted room where everyone was sat cross legged around the edge. Soon, I destroyed my platter of spiced rice and camel meat, which was incredibly tasty, the meat reminding me a lot of lamb.

Thee Ain 

I hadn’t come to Al Baha just to eat a young camel, instead I had come mostly because of its proximity to the abandoned village of Thee Ain. Despite being another old village in a far off mountain valley, Thee Ain impressed me even more than Rijal Almaa. 

I had begun my hitchhiking in Al Baha in the late morning and was picked up by a lovely guy called Sami. He had initially driven past me but on a moment of reflection he decided I probably wasn’t an axe wielding maniac. He was right, I don’t carry my axe on Thursdays. Sami talked quickly with absolutely no regard for my clearly lacking Arabic skills and I got the impression he was excited to chat with a foreigner, showing off the fact his brother is a big shot doctor in the city of Jeddah. So proud in fact, that he pulled the car over so he could ring his brother and so that I could chat with him in English. His brother’s English was impeccable and both him and Sami were stand up human beings, both inviting me to their houses for dinner. 

Once he had dropped me off, and told one of the guards of the empty carpark to look after me because I’m a British traveller, we said our goodbyes. From there I was alone all day, not a tourist in sight. While it was clear the government had invested a lot of money into restoring the 16^thcentury village which is made up of polished stone houses, there felt like there was a little more character here than in Rijal Almaa. While the restored section of Rijal Almaa had been a semi-circular smattering of houses which you weren’t granted entrance to, the houses in Thee Ain were open to explore and built around a large shining marble outcrop of rock. This setting gave the village a conical appearance, with the angular buildings hiding the slope and tapering out towards the sky (much like Ait Ben Haddou in Morocco). The setting of this village meant that there were far more narrow streets and mysterious stairs for me to poke around in. Shaded by high walls, I walked along the dusty streets at the bottom of the village and into the houses which were mostly around 5 stories high. Inside they were dark but spacious with tree trunk rafters, carved pillars and dusty floors. As I climbed the village and looked down on the houses below, either from the rooftop or the intricately carved open window frames, the village was a flattened mosaic of walls. The houses’ measured angles were diametrically opposed to the natural beauty of the valley which was in raptures of green. Behind a small village on the far side of the flourishing valley floor were the dark mountains that seemed to wrap around the scene. It reminded me a lot of my journey through the Wakhan Valley.

Above the bare marble slab, the village’s grandest buildings watched over the rest. More like squat towers than houses they were adorned with decorative white stones at their tops and a large rooftop courtyard allowed for an incredible view. However, by this point I was getting dangerously sweaty and a fly had taken an unwelcome interest in me so, I thought it must be time for a bit of a sit down. I came down from the village, followed a path towards the trees and the sound of running water. I came across a beautiful little spot where the clear mountain water had been diverted alongside the path. Under the shade of many trees and with the sound of running water, I sat and read. I don’t know for how long, I had nowhere to be, so I just zoned out of the real world and engrossed myself in that of 19^thcentury France. 

Rejuvenated by Dumas’ detailed imaginings of carefully woven acts of revenge and the coolness of my resting place, I had enough energy to go down into the jungle-like swathe of green and see Thee Ain from another angle, one where it’s architectural majesty was clear. Not hidden below a mountain, Thee Ain was proud and steadfast on its conical hill, protected by the taller mountains that watched over it. 

Taif

The final mountain city and the one I will remember the most fondly, Taif held far more for me than I expected. I caught the bus as per usual and unfortunately I hadn’t found anyone to host me on Couchsurfing so I booked a hotel. However, getting concerned that I was spending too much time in my book and not much time with people, I decided to check out the section of Couchsurfing just for people that want to hang out. Before I arrived in Taif, I messaged a guy called Abdulrahman and he said he would pick me up from the bus station and then we could go and grab some food and tea. 

I got off the bus in the late afternoon and was very aware that Abdulrahman would be late. I’m accustomed to disappointment in time keeping matters and so I was prepared to wait. To make my sad roadside submission to different cultural norms even sadder, I was constantly beeped at by people offering me a lift into the city centre. The roadside taxi drivers looked at me turning down lifts and insisting a friend was coming to pick me up like I was loner at the prom claiming his date will be turning up at any moment. After an hour, Abdulrahman’s old white Lexus 4×4 pulled over, I hopped in the front seat and all seething resentment was forgotten.

Trying Not To Bare My Sole

He was a young guy my age, dressed in a traditional white thobe with a beard clinging to his jawline, a monobrow and a thick moustache. He immediately struck me as a friendly and open guy. As soon as we had exchanged greetings and pleasantries, I told him that I’d needed to swing by my hotel to check in before going for food. A look of uncertain surprise crossed his bearded face, he replied, “What do you mean ‘check in’? You are my guest in Taif. Tonight you’ll dine with my family and you will stay with us as long as you like.” Now it was my turn to be shocked. I felt honoured, it was a Friday (the holy day for Muslims often spent with family) so I of course had to make sure I wasn’t imposing, which is a cardinal sin of all Brits. But he said, “You are my guest and in my culture and religion guests are sacred”. That was that then. I cancelled my hotel room and settled into what was to be one of the most memorable evenings of my life. 

First, we drove through the city and onwards into the rocky hills. The sun was getting low, the road was smooth and wound peacefully through the landscape. In that drive I felt as though we got to know each other quite well, Abdulrahman was such an inquisitive and open guy so the conversation flowed easily, both of us clearly very interested in learning about the other’s life. I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going but he was playing beautiful Arabic music (see “Alf Leila wi Leila” by the National Arab Orchestra) and I was content. We pulled into a distillery but this was Saudi Arabia so there was no whisky for me. Instead, it was a rose distillery. Abdulrahman went to pray and then we had Arabic coffee with some of the employees. Arabic coffee is very different to the coffee all you hopped up addicts guzzle so that you don’t have to deal with the nauseating discomfort of a human existence every morning. Instead of the black colour, Arabic coffee is golden, spiced with cardamom and bitter in taste. Given to you in a finjān (a small handleless cup with a decorative pattern), the portion size is minuscule but that suited me just fine. After the warm welcome, we had a free tour of the rose distillery. The Taif region is famous for its roses and this distillery is one of many that produce rose water and oils for perfumes and many other products. The process was really interesting and I was soon brought through to the shop to see all of the products. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Whether it was a guilt trip aimed at getting me to buy rose related products or just part of the tour I didn’t know, but either way I held firmly parsimonious. Abdulrahman was busy chatting away with the guy who showed us round and then it became clear he was buying various things, the bag of which he gave straight to me as a gift. Genuine kindness hits when you least expect it.

We drove back to Taif where we picked up some of Abdulrahman’s friends. They were all friendly and wanted to talk about the availability and prices of the illegal things in Saudi Arabia such as drugs and alcohol. One of them had an Arabian horse which they were keen for me to get on despite how skittish it was. If the man who owns the horse can hardly control it there’s no way in hell I’m getting on it. Back in Kyrgyzstan, even the hatefully capricious Lebron (the horse not the basketball player) seemed relaxed before you got on him. I had learned my lesson, horses aren’t dogs, they don’t have a biological imperative to make you happy. After swinging by the stables, I was getting very hungry and luckily we headed off towards dinner not long after. 

Abdulrahman wasn’t in a hurry and so we stopped for some fruity Turkish tea and a massive box of dates. Saudi Arabia is the third largest grower of dates in the world and their flag features a date palm crossed with swords in the centre. Dates are very important to the Saudis. Therefore, as you would expect there are almost endless varieties of dates available to buy, far beyond the famous Medjool date. The dates we got were apparently one of the most expensive and sought after varieties and when I tried one I realised why. They were incredibly sweet and tasted like caramel, we snacked on those and ma’amoul (date or nut filled biscuits) as we headed to dinner. The road we took was a famous route from the mountains to the holy city of Mecca (which appeared in the featureless black night to my right as a small city far below, as if seen from a plane). The ancient road we were travelling had been used by generations (including Abdurahman’s grandfather) to bring camels down from the mountains to the plain bordering the Red Sea but now the treacherous earthen road had been replaced by smooth tarmac. The road was a stunning feat of engineering, the ease at which the road swept over vast drops, or clung to the sheer edge of the mountains as we descended, was astounding.

After reaching flat ground we soon came to the family farm where dinner would be happening. As we pulled in, the ubiquitous white pick-up trucks filled the yard and everyone shouted a welcome to me, it was then I noticed how woefully underdressed I was. There were perhaps 30 men and all of them were wearing freshly pressed white thobes (apart from two or three who wore different colours). I, on the other hand, was wearing a dirty fleece and walking trousers. In front of the L-shaped building was a large patio which was covered in red carpets. Everyone was sat around the outside looking over to us until I got out of the car. Then, everyone stood up, straightened out their thobes, keffiyehs and agals. I went around each person, Abdulrahman introducing them one by one and I shook their hands. Then, as everyone sat, I was placed alongside the patriarch of the family (Abdulrahman’s uncle who owned 3000 sheep and 300 camels making him a very rich man). Sweets, cakes and other treats were put in front of me immediately and I was waited on hand and foot, always having my tea topped up by one of the teenage boys. The atmosphere was relaxed yet traditional in a way I had not experienced yet. I had to be mindful of not showing the soles of my feet towards anyone, taking anything with my left hand and the hierarchical nature of family here. It was endlessly fascinating to watch everyone interact. Most people couldn’t speak English but Abdulrahman spent most of his evening explaining who I am and what I’m doing in Saudi Arabia to everyone, especially seeking the approval of his uncles and father. I did spend a little time speaking to Abdulrahman’s older brother who was a doctor, he was just as friendly as I had come to expect from this family. However, mostly I just snacked and watched. Some people reclined on the floor cushions or low walls around the patio absentminded fingering their misbaḥah beads, others laughed, joked and debated, while the younger boys played games on their phones, and others stared at me. Abdulrahman occasionally relayed information to me about his family members and asked me questions in return. I was relaxed but also conscious of making a good impression. 

Soon people were getting up and heading across to the gravelly ground next to the house. Turns out it was time for dinner, but first, we had to haul it out of the ground. We were having Mandi, a dish originating from Yemen but also very traditional in southern Saudi Arabia. It consists mainly of meat and rice with a special blend of spices, cooked in a pit underground that resembles a very half-arsed attempt at a well. First, the meat is boiled with whole spices until tender, and then the spiced stock is used to cook the basmati rice which is placed in a huge pot at the bottom of the pit. Next, the meat is suspended inside the pit above the rice. After that, the whole tandoor oven/pit is then closed for up to 8 hours. The first job for everyone was to clear the earth from the top of the oven which was done under the direction of Abdulrahman’s dad. Brushes of different sizes were used to make sure absolutely no dirt remained on the lid to the pit before lifting it. Once removed, I could see the multilevel rack full of meat. Two lambs had been killed for this feast and every part was used, in fact I could still see a head in there. Once everything had been taken out, the dishing out operation began. Enormous platters were brought out, rice was spread out on them and then meat piled on top. But no one waited to eat, everyone tucked into the liver (kibbdeh) right then and there. So, soon every hand had a hunk of liver in it as the crowd readied for the main spread of food. 

The platters of meat were placed evenly in the other carpeted section of the patio. We would eat in terms of the family hierarchy, the older and most respected sitting around the furthest platter, the youngest members at the closest platter. I was placed at the middle platter with Abdulrahman but no one was sitting down to eat. I asked Abdulrahman why and he said “You are the guest, you sit down before anyone else”. Usually, I would’ve been concerned about eating too much and appearing rude but that sentiment doesn’t exist in Arabia and anyway there was far too much food for all of us to eat. So, I tucked in all guns blazing, well, the best I could with my single hand. The food wasn’t exceptional and could’ve done with some more spices but the meat was beautifully tender and I was eating a traditional meal with a Saudi family. I was happy and desperately full in no time. 

We left late at night and I was unsure where I was going to stay. I asked Abdulrahman and he said that originally I was going to stay with one of his uncles but he had said he didn’t want me to think badly of him for his unclean house so instead his family would pay for my hotel room. I tried to say they didn’t need to and I was happy to pay for my own hotel room after a day of such hospitality, but Abdulrahman wouldn’t hear of it. Me paying for my own hotel would’ve brought him and his family shame and he refused to hear more about it. We found somewhere for me to stay by the early hours of the morning and he tried to give me the entire box of dates to take with me but as much as I loved them, all I wanted was a shower and some sleep. He told me that he would pick me up the next day and I slept like a baby. 

Praying to Richard Dawkins That The Saudi Religious Police Hadn’t Bugged Me

I checked out fairly early from my standard windowless hotel room so that I could grab breakfast and explore. However, after a falafel breakfast I found everything was closed in the old souq area of town despite being the weekend and so I found a nice quiet square with lots of benches and pulled out my book. The sun was shining but it wasn’t too hot. I had my linen shirt on, some jeans and I sat there in the morning sun for hours soaking up the rays. 

Abdulrahman was surprised how long I had been out of the hotel, saying that I could’ve relaxed in the room for much longer but I was glad to have spent that time outside, people watching and reading. He had made plans for us and we set off to another farm owned by his family, but not before picking up freshly made Arabic coffee and tea made by his mum. 

The farm was tucked away amongst the boulder strewn hills which seemed to be mostly devoid of vegetation. Abdulrahman donned a tote bag full of dates, coffee and tea and we set off for a walk. First, we stopped by some young camels in a pen, they were friendly and inquisitive unlike the lone bull camel in the pen opposite which snorted and ground his teeth aggressively. We continued up the dry wadi and then climbed the unstable hillside to reach a ridge. There we sat and the sun swept across the landscape in waves, each one emboldening the earthen oranges held in the crumbling rock . The tea and coffee were both excellent and we talked the afternoon away, delving into deeper topics and including religion (something I had been told to avoid when in Saudi Arabia). Being atheist in Saudi Arabia is apparently a terrorist offence, Wahhabi Islam (a revivalist conservative version of Sunni Islam) is the state religion and so other religions are not permitted to be practiced (at least publicly). Christianity is accepted as a brother religion by many because it just believes that Jesus was the final prophet and not Muhammad, a fairly trivial point to most Muslims who revere Jesus and the Virgin Mary highly. However, atheism is inconceivable at best and blasphemous at worst. Nevertheless, when Abdulrahman (whose name means “servant of the most gracious”) asked me if I’m religious I didn’t want to lie to him. Over the last day and a half he had struck me as one of the most genuine, openminded and thoughtful people I had ever met. So, I told him I don’t believe in a God. Rather than being appalled or confused, he wanted to hear why, understand my reasoning and then come back with his own ideas and justifications. In the end he was accepting and gracious but sad, he said to me “I think everyone has the right to believe what they want and no one should be forced down a path to religion, they have to find it themselves. I hope that one day you’ll find your own path to believe in God because I would like to see you in heaven”. After Abdulrahman prayed atop our little hill, we walked back in the sunshine, past the tall cactus style tree things (I’m not Alan Titchmarsh leave me alone) that stood resolutely as the only vertical components to the crumbling landscape. 

After stopping by another family farm, Abdulrahman had to go to a meeting. He offered to drop me at a mall which was an appalling idea to me, so I suggested he dropped me at a local cafe where I could just chill. We pulled into a barely lit car park which was surrounded by unused buildings and one brightly lit shop on the corner, next to the shop in a windowless gap and in it Abdulrahman showed me up some unlit stairs. Yes, this sounds like the part where I should’ve run away but I continued and we entered a square doorway. There was a counter to the right where Abdulrahman ordered me some tea and I was shown to one of the small raised rooms with thin walls and floors. In each there was a TV and cushions, I was brought my tea and spent my time relaxing, writing and reading while in other rooms I heard people watching a football match. I liked the privacy of this café set up immensely and the Bangladeshi guy who made and served the drinks was nice (especially when I showed him that I knew how to count to 20 in Bengali). I was picked up a while later and we spent the rest of the evening with one of Abdulrahman’s friends, cruising around town, eating and chatting until it reached the early hours of the morning. I was offered to stay in Taif as long as I wanted at one of the farms or alternatively Abdulrahman was heading down to Jeddah (because that’s where he lived during the week) and he offered me to come with him and stay at his apartment. A free lift and stay in Jeddah was very enticing so I decided to stay with my Saudi buddy. We said a goodbye to his friend and some of his family, his brother shook my hand and said, “Just remember you will always have family in Saudi Arabia, whenever you come back you are always welcome”. And with that we were gone. 

Final Thoughts

While the intricate beauty of Rijal Almaa and Thee Ain will stay with me forever, the hospitality shown to me by Abdulrahman and his family was something that connected me to the country’s identity on a deeper level. From Bedouin heritage, to Islamic orthodoxy and the curiosity and kindness of strangers whom I had no reason to expect anything from; I felt immersed wholeheartedly in Saudi life. Tradition itself won’t necessarily enrich your trip, it’s the people who remember it, live by it and take a risk on that tired looking dirtbag on the side of the road, they’re the people that stay with you. I hope the profundity and sincerity of tradition within Saudi Arabian society is not eroded with increasing westernisation and an influx of tourism that will surely come, but the cynic in me says it will be. 

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