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.
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