"Don't take the powdered ones".
I looked up. A westernised Arab was feeling spices at the weekly market. Huge white sacks were lined up along the street containing all manner of fragrant and coloured plant-life.
"Impossible to tell the quality" he stated.
I think the Arab had identified a pale westerner and therefore had leapt into English. Yet this man wasn't a stall owner; he was dressed in jeans and a calf-skin beige jacket. The sun searing above us was forcing him to squint and he seemed slightly impatient, both having a conversation but also glancing around; catching his eye on other stalls, on other things as if searching for something.
"The problem is these piece-$£% lying sellers".
I stifled a laugh. When people used English as their second language it always seemed to contain misplaced expletives; a surrogate for lack of vocabulary I supposed.
"You see they mix it. Mix it with anything they have. Increase the weight, turn it into s*!t.".
The venom and frustration was clear in his voice and he threw a pile of spice back into a sack and sought another; this man has been burned before.
I glanced around and back, watching as he slowly fed grain through his hands, feeling the texture and the quality. He continued to glance.
"I need some," pointing at the sacks, "but I don't know where my wife is.", excuses followed, "She normally does this thing and I don't know what we need. Where is she?"
He continued to look, and as nonchalant as he'd started the conversation he drifted back into the crowd looking for his lost flock.
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I was standing in the middle of the busiest market I'd ever seen and on my scale that's pretty busy. I'd been to spice markets in Morocco, wet and dry markets in Hong Kong. I'd even seen the chaos of a floating market in Thailand. This market in Saudi Arabia however was different.
The sun pumped heat and light above us, below on scraps, concrete, oil drums, rugs, cloths, whatever was to hand, was the most bewildering array of goods for sale. To all intent and purpose things were arranged into district because of the markets size. At one end was clothing and hand-made goods, but as you progressed there came food and then livestock followed.
We ambled through the chaos, no real path due to the people and wares on the floor. The pungent odours of food, animals, leather and most importantly people, penetrated the air; all steamed into this soup of life.
It was hard to define what constituted a transaction, or to some extent what people actually wanted you to buy. Percolated between wares were sellers from Pakistan and India; even Bedouin women (the most harden traders) touted for business, selling crafts they'd made during previous months of travel. Old melded with new in the most unusual fusion and of course nothing had a written price.
You could walk the area trying to identify cooking utensils, or swing the corner and be confronted with poorly made, unsafe plastic toys that would have been banned anywhere else in the world. Then just to displace this chaos of poverty, a Shiite Arab man would drive an over size white Mercedes through the crowd as if he'd made a wrong turn; tinted glass windows closed and presumably a/c pumping at full blast.
To quantify the place wholly lacks expression, the environment could only be experienced.
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We ambled to a sweet vendor selling a mixture of local product; heavily scented with cardamom, coconut milk and dates. Samples to try, sales to be made; prices varied depending on how you looked and how you discussed. Some people liked you; others considered it a chance to rip you off.
In the end it was no different from our Arab friend who'd lost his wife; trust no-one but yourself, particularly when buying spice.
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This will be my last article in the Saudi series. I have little more material I can use in my writings. Fortunately there are new trips planned in the following months and so hopefully, human nature being what it is, I'll have more travel journals for yourselves.
Maybe I'll try some fiction loosly based on fact. Irrespective I encourage you to comment or send feedback (privately or otherwise) otherwise the public photo areas and articles will dry up if no interested is shown.
