Arabian Autographs: A Very Saudi Christmas
Open Writing welcomes a new columnist, Angela Townsend.
Angela is a New Zealander. She was a commercial pilot, a flight instructor and a veterinary nurse. She was also a community newspaper journalist in Australia.
She gave birth to a son a few weeks ago and is now living with her husband in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.
It's just another day.
At least that's what I tell myself Christmas morning, feeling more homesick by the hour. Actually here in Saudi Arabia, it really is just another day. It is Saturday, first day of the working week, my husband is at the office and I am home alone. Well, not completely alone. I have my three-week old son Faris for company.
I ponder the imitation, black-market Christmas tree in the corner, with its flashing lights and gaudy decorations discovered at a local craft shop. How I long for the scent of pine and a can of snow spray.
It is my first Middle Eastern Christmas and I have to admit I am envious of those from the compound who have taken flight to their various homes around the world. It is also my first `winter' Christmas.
I have always wanted to experience a Northern Hemisphere Yuletide, although I always imagined it would involve snow. While it is a little cool at this time of year, it is no colder than springtime in my home country of New Zealand.
Back home my parents have made the six-hour drive from the west coast city of New Plymouth to my brother's home in the sleepy seaside town of Coromandel. A former nineteenth century gold mining town, it is a retirement haven for Aucklanders and a popular holiday destination during summer.
I can imagine what it is like there at this moment. The warmth of the mid-summer sun makes the fine layer of salt white against my skin. I hear the sound of the waves gently curling their way up the familiar beach, thousands of miles away. Adolescent memories of school trips and friends are awakened in the corners of my mind and I am transported, momentarily, back to a different time and place.
Then the baby cries.
I suspect my family will have feasted on crayfish, oysters and freshly caught snapper from my brother's mussel barge. They will be sitting around the barbecue having a few drinks and reminiscing about Christmas's gone by.
I phone, seeking the comfort of familiar voices.
We are invited to spend Christmas dinner with some other Kiwis and an Irish couple from our compound.
The moment we shut the door on our villa the sky, which has been threatening all afternoon, delivers on its promise. My husband says we should stay home.
Rain in the desert capital of Riyadh is a rare occurrence and one of the things I miss most.
Any other time I would kick off my shoes and dance like a kid in the puddles, but the timing couldn't be worse as I balance two plates of food and try to keep my hair dry while maneuvering the pram at Formula 1 speed.
Beneath red and green streamers our friendly Irish hosts (whom we have just met tonight) serve Saudi champagne (apple juice with sparkling mineral water) and genuine Budweisers (which, naturally, don't contain a drop of alcohol under Islamic law).
The dinner table is impressive, straining beneath genuine Christmas fare, with a turkey the size of a sheepdog (there are very few stray dogs in Saudi Arabia, so I'm not overly concerned) and succulent Australian lamb discovered at the local Geant supermarket.
The heady combination of good company, fake champagne, opera music blaring from the kitchen and the fact I didn't have to cook the turkey begins to lift my short-lived depression.
But, I have to confess, the highlight of my night is dessert.
It doesn't fail to impress my sweet tooth, with one of the Kiwi blokes having whipped up a traditional pavlova, and a real Christmas pud smuggled all the way from Ireland.
I immediately forget my post-baby diet and cheer myself up with a generous helping of each. Bring on the whipped cream.
It may be Christmas in Saudi, but after all, it's still Christmas.
