the sojourn begins

“In the desert you can’t remember your name
‘Cause there ain’t no one to give you no pain”—America.

To get a work visa to the Holy Land of Saudi Arabia, it’s almost like you have to take a fulltime job at the embassy. For two weeks I visited the embassy almost everyday. That’s in addition to the intermittent visits I had paid earlier. I was thinking of pitching a tent outside the embassy gates. Only the sight of the Saudi guards who are prone to gurgling incomprehensible expletives (I guess) deterred me from doing so.

It was a job with no payments, though. Instead, I had to pay the Saudi government loads of my hard-earned cash for visa processing, certificate attestation, internet registration and what not; not to speak of the enormous amount I had to dispense with for medical tests, Arabic translations, attestation, police clearance, notarization. I had to travel to my school town for attestation of certificates and send copies of my University of Tokyo certificates to the Land of the Rising Costs for verification, with due payment, of course, amounting to a hefty share of my monthly paycheck. And don’t forget the fuel cost for the daily commute to the embassy. I haven’t converted my car to CNG yet.

When they finally handed me the sticker affixed to my passport, I was euphoric to the point of losing my senses. Once out of the embassy compound I regained my composure and inspected the visa sticker more carefully, and noticed that the inept clerks had misspelt my name. Worried that this might lead to problems upon arrival at the Kingdom, I hurried back inside to voice my concerns. They assured me that it would be no problem because the guys manning the immigration gates at the Saudi airport are equallyl callous and would not notice the difference.

Fast forward to Dammam Airport. The guy at the immigration gate was visibly too bored to care if George Bush’s name were printed on my visa. He took my photograph and finger prints, stamped my passport, and yawned 18 times during the process. The customs guy was more alert. He opened my bag to inspect my data CDs to see if I was carrying anything that could lead Saudi youth morally astray—like video clips of raunchy women flashing their bare elbows. At the gate of the airport I was greeted by a horde of shady taxi drivers with their flowing white robes and red headdresses with black bands. Their cabs looked totally out of sync. A pack of camels would have appeared more natural. One of the cabbies dropped me at my hotel at Khobar city. Inside my room I flipped on the TV to sample the fare the channels were offering. I expected to see bearded men and women in black dispensing moral sermons on every channel. Instead, I saw a European movie showing three full human figures, without a shred of clothing on their bodies, involved in hot, steamy action in bed. That’s something I had never seen on satellite channels in our land of lesser Muslims. I turned off the TV before the smoke-detector got activated.

The next morning found me at the Hospital for another round of medical tests. The guy who processed my papers copied my name from the visa sticker, but decided to mutate it even further. I spent the rest of the day at the hospital responding to calls for somebody who was not really me.