Mohammed

The murdered-out Jeep Wrangler snakes violently to the kerb knocking over a plastic trash can.

 

We are outside the pair of expansive villas in the shadow of the Kingdom Tower where Mohammed lives with his mother and brothers. Father dead, his legacy an enviable property portfolio and thriving catering outfit.

 

Leaping out of the truck and heading towards a set of double doors, Mohammed is abnormally animated.

 

“You’re gonna love this bro.”

 

Four Filipinas in neat uniforms mill around a reception area. Mohammed does not acknowledge them, I offer a sweeping “Hi” and smile warmly. No response.

 

We ascend four flights of stairs in complete darkness. This entire space in the house is unused. Doubtless costly furniture and clutter is piled everywhere and I pick my way onward with demonstrable difficulty.

 

Mohammed hands me a short, thick joint which I instantly blaze up.

 

“Fuck me, man. Green!”

 

Contrary to received wisdom, Saudi Arabia is awash with hashish. There is, however, a distinct scarcity of weed.

 

I savour the taste, at the opposite end of the spectrum to the acrid taint of adulterated hash of often questionable quality.

 

Pulling a door open, a small but busy grow-op is unveiled.

 

“Kush dude. OG. AK47. AK48. White Widow…”

 

“That is a fucking good effort.”

 

I’m astonished that this indolent teenager has managed to acquire an extensive array of clearly prohibited equipment, assembled it and brought seeds to impressive bloom. Ten or eleven plants are a month into their grow cycle. The smell is a reeling gut-punch.

 

“Let’s go and see Faisal eh? And DON'T tell him about that.”

 

“No worries.”

 

I follow the young Saudi all the way down and outside into a courtyard. Faisal is actually in Mohammed’s apartment with a friend who is never introduced and speaks only Arabic throughout. He acknowledges us and smiles but no attempt is made to communicate.

 

Faisal, somewhere around thirty, resembles Standard Rich Arab. He is dressed in casual cashmere and linen, bearded and with long, wavy hair. Faultless teeth are flashed as he very warmly greets and welcomes me before turning around and continuing to devour his pot of noodles.

 

A monstrous Bang & Olufsen broadcasts a football match between bitter rivals and both Faisal and his friend gesticulate, roar, moan and laugh oblivious to our presence. Mohammed has no interest in football.

 

He briskly makes his way towards a floor safe and, with his back blocking the view, extracts several packages, locks it back up and we bid Faisal and – let’s take a punt: Abdullah? – adieu.

 

“Let’s get fucking mashed bro. We’ll use Faisal’s place.”

 

Back out into the courtyard. It’s 10pm but still nudging forty degrees. It feels like a scarf of heat.

 

Ambling down into a basement, a swimming pool, never used, abuts Faisal’s plush quarters.

 

A corner couch stretches all the way around a section of a room crammed with high-end products. Cushions are scattered to the point of excess and that stereotypical leopard skin rug breaks up the otherwise monochrome lounge.

 

A low-standing table overspills with assorted bottles of upscale vodka and whiskey.

 

“Hungry dude?”

 

Without awaiting a response, Mohammed makes a phone call and barks Arabic commands. Although I do not speak the language, it’s clear that his tone was hardly polite.

 

Fifteen minutes later, two Filipinas enter and unload tray upon tray of food onto various portable tables they have brought along with the snacks.

 

They look mildly surprised to see a token Westerner in the house. All three brothers have spent time in the US, ostensibly studying, so I presume I’m taken to be a random visitor from college.

 

As soon as they leave us to it Mohammed again reaches for his BlackBerry and, sixty seconds later, one of the young girls returns bearing his MacBook Pro.

 

“Don’t you feel bad the way you treat those girls bro?”

 

“They’re fucking servants man. It’s their job.”

 

You could argue that traversing a hundred metre stretch to retrieve a laptop would be well within the grasp of an emaciated but sprightly nineteen year old but Mohammed has a bearing of pure entitlement and will do nothing for himself that another can do for him.

 

I met him at the PIA where he eased his way through four levels of basic English. Upon entry he was already practically fluent but the procedure is for all students to start at the beginning.

 

“I really do love the Wrangler dude.”

 

“It’s fine for a year with those fucking PIA peasants. Bedouins.” He spits this word out like poison. “I only agreed to have it if Mum freed up the money for a Mercedes next year. S63 AMG.”

 

“She said yes to that?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

He reaches forward and wrestles with a plastic red and white capsule fifty times the size of a medicinal version.

 

After considerable difficulty he pulls it apart and out tumble several Ziploc bags half-filled with weed. A food container is packed with blocks of hash. Xanax tablets are on the table already and Mohammed again heads towards a safe.

 

Placing another phone call to acquire the combination, he extracts a black Louis Vuitton shaving bag and, after closing the safe, tosses it on the couch, slumps back and proceeds to build several joints, one with each strain.

 

“These are obviously not ready man so I’ll put some hash in too eh?”

 

I’m thrown two joints, again short and stubby.

 

“Have some Xanax with your tea bro.”

 

Don’t mind if I do.

 

The quartet of reefers are finished unceremoniously and four more provided. In Saudi smoking culture the guest is never required to skin up. The host considers he is failing in his duty if he sees you reaching for Rizla.

 

“These fucking skins get me every time dude. No glue!”

 

“It’s bad for you, the glue.”

 

That outlandish party line yet again.

 

Opening the shaving kit, a childlike grin splits across Mohammed’s gaunt face.

 

Wraps of cocaine. A coke bullet and snorter, the trusty duo. A cutthroat razor.

 

“Faisal gets it from Jeddah. From the niggers.”

 

Mohammed’s racism is casual and sweeping, frankly an embarrassment.

 

“The Nigerians?”

 

“Yeh, man. The niggers. He’ll tell you all about it next time.”

 

Incomprehensibly, he then packs everything away, drops it on the floor and never mentions it again. A blight on otherwise faultless hospitality.

 

Perhaps, like so often in the Magic Kingdom, it would be next time. Bokra. Inshallah.

 

Obliterated, we enjoy a midnight chicken kabsa prepared by an Indonesian chef, shoot a few racks of pool then Mohammed sighs…

 

“I can’t take you home dude. I’m fucked.”

 

“Oh man…”

 

“It’s cool bro. The driver can take you.”

 

Whisked home in a Lexus by a pristine Bangladeshi, I ponder that this was not how I envisaged a typical Thursday night in Riyadh.