Arabian night - a broken fantasy!

My plan was to trace the ancient Silk and Spice Routes by land as much as possible. So, in a moment of adventurous spirit, I decided to take a bus from Riyadh to Jeddah, crossing Saudi Arabia from east to west. A 12-hour journey through the vast Arabian desert! It sounded thrilling, mysterious, and perhaps a little daunting. But how wrong I was, more on that in a moment.

Before embarking on this desert odyssey, I spent the day soaking in Riyadh’s glitz and glamorous shiny skyscrapers, luxury malls, and spotless streets. But I wanted something with a little more history, so I made my way to Diriyah, the birthplace of the Saudi kingdom. This was where the first members of the Saud family established their capital. Today, of course, it’s a polished tourist attraction, complete with boutique shops, high-end restaurants, and all the modern amenities one could ask for.

Right next to Diriyah was Wadi Hanifa, a seasonal river. Saudi Arabia, being mostly desert, has no permanent rivers, just these wadis that appear briefly after heavy rains before vanishing into the thirsty ground. Riyadh, it turns out, sits atop a plentiful supply of groundwater, though you wouldn’t know it by looking at the landscape.

After roaming around the carefully restored ruins, I sat down at a charming cafe within the complex. The waiter greeted me with a warm smile and, to my surprise, shared my name. Like many in the service industry here, he was an economic migrant from India. A hotel management graduate, he had worked in several countries before landing here. He proudly mentioned that he also managed catering at a golf course, which seemed to give him a great sense of satisfaction.

He recommended a Date Latte and a pastry with dates and saffron. Now, I’m not a coffee expert but dates and saffron in coffee didn’t seem right, tastes ok may be worth trying once.

Just as I was attempting a selfie (with my usual terrible angles), a young Saudi woman approached me from next table and offered to take my picture. I hesitated for a second, my preconceptions about conservative Saudi society kicking in, but her confidence and friendly demeanor were disarming. She was dressed traditionally, but her attitude was anything but reserved. It was a small but warm moment, another reminder that cultures are never as rigid as stereotypes suggest.

Leaving the well-maintained ruins behind, I ventured into the real down town and it was a world away from the pristine tourist spots. The streets were chaotic, loud, and had that familiar touch of disorganization that reminded me of home in India. Litter was scattered around, honking filled the air, and the vibrant energy of service expat communities made it feel like a completely different city.

The upside? The food. Oh, the food! I finally got to taste proper Arabic cuisine in its authentic, unpolished setting. With my stomach full and my backpack slung over my shoulder, I made my way to the bus station.

The contrast between Riyadh’s posh, futuristic metro stations and the bus terminal was, let’s just say, significant. The place was chaotic and worn down, but to my surprise, the bus service had an airport-style luggage check-in system. They even tagged the bags, quite impressive for a bus journey. But why? Who was going to steal my backpack full of crumpled clothes and phone chargers?

The bus itself was comfortable enough. As we left Riyadh, I eagerly awaited the grand, starry desert views I had imagined in my mind- moonlit dunes, endless horizons, maybe even a camel caravan in the distance. Reality check: nothing of the sort happened.

Instead, both sides of the highway were lined with bright industrial lights and an endless stream of Aramco oil tankers. Any hint of wilderness was swallowed by commercial activity. The few patches of desert I managed to glimpse were underwhelming, with the occasional crescent moon hanging above them, but no sweeping landscapes of rolling dunes like I had imagined.

Three rest stops along the way was good to stretch the legs, but each was just a functional pit stop with tired travelers, fluorescent-lit cafeterias, and overpriced snacks. No beautiful oasis surrounded by date palm trees or tribal people around a fire narrating stories of their travels and adventures. I sighed and decided to keep my Arabian Nights fantasies to myself.

After a long and rather unremarkable bus ride, we finally reached Jeddah the next morning. I was exhausted but excited as this was the next chapter of my journey, and despite the unexpected twists, I was ready to explore.

Moral of the story? Sometimes travel surprises you in ways you don’t expect. And sometimes, your imagination is better than reality.

Keep imagining!

Where are all Saudi’s?

I landed at Riyadh International Airport in the ungodly hours of the night, at 1 AM to be precise. I had imagined a ghost town, with empty halls, sleepy-eyed security officers, and a struggle to find a taxi or even a snack. Turns out, I was in for a surprise. The airport was buzzing with life as if it were the middle of the afternoon.

Stepping off the plane, I was greeted by a gentle 12-degree breeze not too cold, not too warm. Just right. The airport itself was spotless, shining as if someone had polished every tile with devotion. But the real shocker? Every single passport control officer was a woman. Yes, in Saudi Arabia. In full burqas, yes, but working efficiently, checking passports and scanning fingerprints like seasoned pros. Now, I grew up with the belief that women in this part of the world weren’t t given jobs like these. Clearly, I had been misinformed.

My officer, who took my fingerprints (first-time visitor perks!), asked me a few questions in fairly decent English, stamped my passport, and welcomed me to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Well, that was easy.

Walking into the arrivals lounge, I was met with a bazaar of activity -taxi drivers haggling like I was a rare artefact at an auction, people chattering in Arabic, and, to my delight, restaurants still open. At 1 AM.

One particular fast-food place, Al Baik, caught my attention apparently the McDonalds of the Middle East. But what really got me was the two men behind the counter speaking in Hindi/Urdu. Turns out, they were from Pakistan. I had a little chat with them, grabbed a meal, and tried booking an Uber. No luck. My WiFi wasn’t t working, and of course, the airport required a local phone number to access it. The irony is why would they need a number when most visitors phones wouldn’t even work here?

Left with no choice, I agreed to take a taxi from one of the haggling drivers. He quoted me the same price as Uber, so I followed him. And that’s s when things got weird.

He led me to the parking lot, then out of nowhere handed me over to another man. No explanation, no introductions, just a silent exchange. This new guy, also speaking only Arabic, motioned for me to follow. I suddenly realized I was being passed around like a parcel. The original guy? Just a middleman. The actual driver? Standing by his car, waiting for passengers to be delivered to him.

By now, my internal alarm bells were ringing, but what could I do? I tried using Google Translate, but these guys were operating on fast-forward mode. Before I could protest, my bags were already in the trunk.

Once in the car, the driver quoted a price 10 riyals higher than what I had agreed upon. Classic. He mumbled something about airport parking charges. Honestly, at 1:30 AM, in an unfamiliar country, I wasn’t about to argue over 10 riyals. I paid up.

Despite the language barrier, we managed a conversation. He asked if I was from India. I told him I was coming from Birmingham. Blank stare. I tried London. Ah, recognition! To many, the UK is just London.

My driver, a middle-aged Syrian, had fled his homeland due to the war. Now, he drove taxis in Riyadh to make a living. The ride wasn’t t too bad, and he got me to my hotel by 2 AM.

At check-in, I met an Indian night manager, who helped with the process. The bellboy? A young Bangladeshi, who immediately asked if I was from India. I said London, but he wasn’t interested in my geography. He had politics on his mind.

Out of nowhere, he declared in a thick Bangladeshi-Hindi accent, “Modi didn’t do a good thing, sir.

For a moment, I was lost. Then I realised he was talking about India granting asylum to Sheikh Hasina. He was not happy about it.

I nodded, offered a vague comment and escaped to my room. I wasn’t about to get into a political debate at 2 AM.

The next morning, I set out to explore Riyadh. Walking towards Kingdom Center, the city’s s tallest skyscraper, I was finally hoping to see some actual Saudis.

Instead, I met Abid-a young, well-dressed man in his late 20s. He introduced himself as Pakistani, then quickly added, Oh, my parents are from India too, so I am both Indian and Pakistani. In Pakistan, I’m Abid. In India, I’m Abi. Smooth.

He was in Saudi Arabia looking for a job but had been scammed by an agent who took his money and disappeared. Now, he was wandering the city, handing out CVs, hoping for a break. His story wasn’t unique many young men fall for these job scams. I wished him luck and moved on.

Everywhere I went -malls, restaurants, hotels I saw Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and other expats. But where were the Saudis?

Determined to interact with a local, I went to buy a SIM card. Unlike the UK, where you can grab one from a supermarket, here you needed to visit an official mobile network office.

At Zain Mobile, I finally met a Saudi national a well-dressed store manager who spoke fluent English. He handed me a token and told me to wait my turn (organized, I’ll give them that). While chatting, I casually asked, Where are all the Saudi people?

With a knowing smile, he explained: Most Saudis have middle or upper-middle-class jobs. The lower-income jobs? Those are for expats.

A quick Wikipedia search later, I found out that out of Saudi Arabia’s 36 million people, only 18 million are actual Saudi citizens. The rest? Economic migrants. 50% of the country’s s population is made up of foreign workers. No wonder I wasn’t t seeing locals in the service sector!

Trying out Riyadh’s fancy new metro, I noticed something interesting. The train had separate compartments: single men, families, women-only, standard class, and first class.

As I tried stepping into first class, a platform attendant stopped me. He explained in Hindi that this was first class, hinting that I should stick to standard.

Ouch. Was it my brown skin? Or was I just assumed to be an economic migrant who couldn’t t afford luxury? Either way, it stung. It felt like economic apartheid not based on race, but wealth. A system where the rich could afford everything, and the rest just couldn’t.

Despite the odd encounters, I had met warm and hardworking people-migrants chasing better lives, Syrians escaping war, and a Pakistani-Indian man with two names.

I came here expecting to observe Saudi culture. Instead, I was witnessing a country built on the labour of others.

I’ll continue exploring and reflecting. Because at the end of the day, I see people as humans first - beyond race, nationality, or class.

More to come in my next blog.