Maps & Legends

After so many moves, you’d think it’d be easy. 

But, somehow, there’s always that one little thing that catapults me straight into meltdown.

This time it’s my GPS.

Bizarre, right?  It wasn’t as if I even had a GPS for most of my moves.  In Qatar, ten years ago, none of the taxis could even find our newly built housing – assuming there were taxis to be had.

Operator at 8.15am: The next available taxi is at 9pm ma’am. 

Me: You mean 9am this morning?

Operator: No ma’am, the next available taxi is at 9pm tonight, ma’am. Sorry ma’am.

19 km from the university, construction around our compound meant 10 minutes over dirt mounds to get to the highway. New roads and new lanes went in every week, and the detours changed daily.  Then there were the detours that had had no exit point, or were so long that SUVs gave up and drove up off the road in a bid for freedom. 

And yes, there were tourist maps (12 riyal in Mega Mart or Carrefour until we bought them out) but our housing was not marked on them and could not be “to protect our security,” as the wonderful Mrs Fatima, Head of Housing, explained.  And yet...

Mohammed Hussein, Head of External Affairs: Why you not worry?  Everyone crying. Everyone yelling.  Everyone angry. Why you not worry?

The legendary Mohammed Hussein, Acting Father for me while I was in Qatar.  How I miss that man.

I drew up a map and emailed it around. 

I organized for a bus to run from our compound to the uni.

We travelled in packs and shared information on routes, roundabouts, car rentals and dealerships.

And in the distance, you could always see the Stadium Tower locating our home wherever we were. So somehow, however tearfully (endless roundabouts stuck out in what was still desert were a nightmare), you could always get home.

I think that’s the first thing. 

Riyadh.  Huge. Great roads though.

After Bahrain, Doha and Dubai, Riyadh is huge.  Highways and flyovers go on forever. Along and below them, indistinguishable buildings seem closed in - their backs to you. The Londoner collecting me from the airport is cheerfully describing the distances between workplaces, housing and landmarks within the city, and after 34 hours travelling, I’m feeling slightly out of my depth.

Still I reason, I did get a SIM card the moment I got off the plane, and if Google Maps can get me around Jaipur, Poland or up the mountains outside Athens, they can surely get me around this well-built capital city.

Yep. The SIM card would be the second thing.

Things were going wrong with this right from the start.  First we couldn’t find the main telecom carrier at the airport and had to opt for a competitor. 

Then it eventuates that I am one of those people whose skin is too oily to fingerprint properly – an identity requirement here.  On and on we try, different fingers, different parts of my fingers tips, until the service staff point out that there are other people waiting.  My ever patient colleague buys me a SIM card using his – non-oily – fingerprints and takes me to a nearby grocery store at around midnight. “Buy water,” he instructs.  “I’ve switched on the fridge. Someone will pick you up and take you to work at 8 o’clock.  If he doesn’t come by 8.30 ring him.  But I don’t know what you’ll say.  He doesn’t speak English.”

Me - Desperately trying to get my oily fingers scanned.

Problem # 3. 

The next day the reason for my colleague’s surprise over my lack of Arabic becomes apparent.  No one speaks English. 

And of course, why should they?  This is the Arab world and the onus is on me to learn the language. 

But I can’t do this overnight. And I am only allowed a university driver for 3 days.

Problem # 4

Understandably, the university drivers do not see driving Simone around while she shops as their highest priority.  They will allow me 15 minutes in a supermarket and then they have an appointment.  Starbucks is not prevalent here but I’m sure they have located one or a preferred equivalent. 

The driver-Simone battles with Arabic and destinations go on for two days until finally, when a uni driver forgets to drive to the hospital because he’s so busy trying to phone HR while driving to tell them I can’t get a new working SIM card yet or go shopping or do anything that would help me locate my apartment and be able to eat, wash and sleep in it, that I lose it.  Totally.

‘Fine!  Go!  Go and drink your coffee!’ Khalas!  Go!

I sit down by the side of the highway and cry.  It is hot, dusty and I have lost the plot after a mere two days here.  I’m stuck in a big frightening city and I don’t know where I am, where I live or where I work.  Fuck it, I think. Time to try a different strategy.

Fortunately, there are heaps of taxis whizzing by.  I stick my arm out and one slides to a stop.  Looking in the passenger window I see a very brown face and concerned green eyes. 

Thank god.  The driver is Pashtun.

Now, unless you have been with me since 2005 when I lived in Sharjah, this last statement will be meaningless to you.  That was the year when taxis in that city became metered.  The companies brought in airplane loads of Indians to drive the clean, sleek, logoed cars.  Prices immediately doubled, then tripled.  All of which would have been okay, except 1) the new drivers knew less about Sharjah roads than I did and 2) they had come from a culture in which it appears to be unacceptable to say you don’t know where something is.

In this situation you have two options.  1) Rage endlessly against the roads, traffic and driver as he heads off unconcernedly in what is clearly the wrong direction or 2) Locate a taxi old-timer and beg him to become yours every morning, afternoon and for the odd weekend jaunt to Dubai.

The best of these old-timers were Pashtun: ethnic Afghanis.  The hospitality culture is unmistakable. Green eyes or no, you feel like a valued guest in their car the moment you step in. 

Carrefour, I say.  Carrefour or Lulu.  Which one?  Any.  Are you Pashtun?

Imran.  Thank god for the wonderful people of the world.

The uni driver starts yelling through the window but Imran takes off.  ‘He is crazy man?’

I make it to Lulu, as the university panics.  Worried calls come in but knowing I will soon have towels, toilet paper and food, I am now calm.  For the moment.

Problem #4

The trouble starts again on the way home.  Imran is still with me and we are using the GPS to get to the Dropped Pin on Maps labelled ‘Home.’  I have set it for the 4^th time based on the moving ‘You are Here’ symbol while sitting in my bedroom.  Trouble is, the GPS locates my bed in several places, blocks apart. So when we get to ‘Home’ there is nothing there.

Directions to my apartment. Apparently.

This is the combined result of the poor mobile service coverage in the area and inaccurate location settings on Google Maps here.  The Women’s Campus cannot even be located unless you are actually there, the Gulf Arab sense of women’s privacy kicking in again.

Logically, I understand this.  Logically, I understand no one’s going to leave me to starve. Logically I know I have people I can call.  But practically, I am lost, overwhelmed and very distressed.

I start crying again.  Whatever food, pots or bowls I now own, they are not much use to me without a roof over my head.

But we do get home and I do get to work the next day using private drivers, a phone app called Careem and a map my colleagues have printed marking the location of home and work with a pen, old school. 

The Careem taxi service.  Brilliant as long as the drivers know to follow the blue arrow.

The battles go on of course.  All the drivers have the same rubbish phone coverage as me. Fights ensue over whether a driver has ‘arrived’ at the pick up point or not, whether he can be bothered to come and find me, and about using the GPS rather than relying on my non-existent ability to direct him to my workplace.  I encounter two who do not appear to understand that following a GPS entails going in the same direction as the blue arrow.  I sail off to find locations that turn out not to be there.  Or were once there and are now closed.  Or are male only.

Each time the GPS fails me, I am a sobbing mess.  Able to deal with every aspect of the move to a new country, a new job and the death of my cat except this.  My colleagues decide I am mad.

Ant, with me for 8 years in Qatar, Dubai, Morocco, Malaysia and Bahrain, died last May.  Living with 6 other cats in Bahrain while she waited for me, she became sick or was poisoned.  I am shattered.

7 days in, I have the long sought after iqama, my residency visa and identity card.  I buy a prepaid SIM from the main telco and suddenly have fantastic GPS coverage inside my apartment and out.  I change from Careem to the Uber driver app, a cheaper, more professional service.

My Iqama.  Could never have imagined getting an national identity card from any country within 7 days of entry. Downside: The Arabic spelling of my name [Simone Kirsshten Evanshh] has made it impossible for me to open a bank account. 

And suddenly, just like that, I am fine.  Hope you are too.

Simone the Successfully Moved.