The author and her best friend in matching farwas, ready for desert camping
A paradox. A desert as if encased in glass where sand is in the air and on the ground—an hourglass and a snow-globe in one, or should I say, sand-globe, where time ironically stops and traditions are unshaken. The pendulum constantly swings from past to present, from present to future, but occasionally is paused at the mere mention of religion. Saudi Arabia, although an oxymoron in itself, is a utopia without the shadow of suspicion. It was overwhelming, it was paralyzing. But it was the best experience of my life.
Landing in Saudi was whirlwind in itself. The air was thick with incense and the sky looked unfamiliar. The sun burns differently in the desert—slow and intense, hot and distinctly shaped, hidden in the grains of sand that block its rays, making it seem perfectly circular. My first encounter with the Saudis involved a language that sounded like vocalized script, and garments that I saw only in movies.
Moe, the gracious host, fist-bumping one of the characters at the Boulevard
My best friend Dania and I landed at the edge of dusk, greeted by a blanket of black sky and by our gracious host, Moe, and his best friend (who also so happens to be my boyfriend), Iñaki. Our first drive through the capital, Riyadh, was blurry, with the stars only beginning to introduce themselves to the night, and us too distracted by giddy conversations and laughter, realizing our little family was back together. Finally.
I met Moe in college—a rather unusual occurrence, when a Filipina and a Saudi Arabian meet in the north of Spain somehow to get through university with zero knowledge of the language. Through the years, we have gotten closer and closer, to the point where he decided to visit me in my country and I decided to visit his—trading cultures as if they were cards.
Enjoying the sea breeze on a day trip to Jeddah
Never have I been so welcomed in someone’s home. In my mind, nothing compares to Filipino hospitality, but perhaps we have met our match in the Saudi Arabians. To describe his house as simply a house would do it injustice—it is an entire compound separated by towering walls enclosing one big property, all owned by his family. Hopping from one home to another is the norm here, mimicking what I imagine it would be like if I attended a permanent summer camp, scurrying off to a friend’s house in the middle of the night, watching movies under the covers and indulging ourselves in the occasional midnight snack.
I definitely did not predict going to a combat field on our first day
My first interaction with the family was in the heart of the compound—their grandmother’s home, where I met the human version of a firecracker. At the corner of the house was a peek into what my future could be like if I was half as cool as Moe’s cousin, Hala—a lawyer, a poet, an artist, a woman who has lived what seems to be multiple timelines in one. We sat in her eclectic room, decorated with photographs and newspaper clippings of her achievements—suing Boris Johnson, for example—or her published writing. She was welcoming, unbelievably intelligent, with a bow of charisma to tie everything together. The genes in this family are something else, I thought.
Even not knowing what to expect in the next two weeks, I definitely did not predict going to a combat field on our first day. For three months in a year, Riyadh has what is called Riyadh Season, an intimidatingly large project of multiple events all centered in Saudi’s capital. Our first glimpse of it was Combat Field, a 310,000sqm amusement park full of combat-theme activities—laser tag with artificial shocks, virtual reality escape rooms, militarytheme zip-lines, and a real shooting range. There are too many attractions to count, and impossible to do all in one day.
Luckily, we had another lovely cousin of Moe to guide us around the gargantuan park. The conversations were quiet, subtle, moderated mostly by Moe and his ability to make anyone feel welcome in whatever situation. The bond of these cousins seems to be knit tight by a shared experience of growing up in the Middle East. Gazing at them from behind, watching their profiles curve from half-moon smiles and bursts of laughter, sprinkled magic on our already unconventional night. We grazed the perimeter, hesitating, simply attempting to gauge each other’s aura, only to fall into the deep end of conversations about life, love, and religion. The more time I spent with Moe’s cousin, the more of her mind she began to unveil: complex, almost too intricate to understand, full of lessons on the divine feminine. In that moment I thought, I want to be her when I grow up.
The nights were consumed with soul-baring conversations and cheesy movies. Fluffy rugs and Arabian desserts comforted us until the sun peeked through the horizon and we finally decided to shut our tired eyes. Most nights were spent in a different house: a cousin’s, an uncle’s, his grandmother’s. But some of my favorite nights were spent with yet another cousin of Moe, Maha, who had fire in her soul that bared itself whenever she opened her mouth. Yet hers is a flame that burns quietly in the night—holding her deep love for family, so deep that it extends to those who are not bound to her by blood but are there simply out of love for her cousin. And that seems enough for her.
One of Moe’s promises at the beginning of the trip was to take us shopping for abaya, the robe-like garments women wear in Saudi Arabia. But alas, a man’s brain does not always remember its promise (and I say that with all the love for my dear friend Moe), so instead, Maha took it upon herself to honor this unwritten contract—not in the mall, but in her own closet. You can imagine the thud when my jaw dropped to the floor as she unhesitatingly handed me a midnight blue abaya, sleeves embroidered with beads, fully made of silk. She then left me free to choose. I did not know generosity until I somehow stumbled onto this situation. This was going against everything I was taught as a child: “Be as demure as possible. Demure equals respectful. Do not let the host do the work, that’s rude.”
But Saudi is a whole different ball game. Here, generosity is like a second language spoken with whomever they welcome. It is a sin to deny them this, and it is even worse to act hesitant. As a wise woman once said, “Stupid questions get stupid answers,” and from then on, I never bothered to ask whether or not I could borrow another abaya.
Riyadh the city is diced into fine little squares, scattered across the territory like jewelry spilled from a woman’s purse
In the corners of Riyadh, you will find deserts upon deserts. The vast and dusty dry land gives locals an everyday peek into oblivion with its endless breadth. It is almost impossible to fill such a wide space—a never-ending coloring book with an extremely limited number of crayons. Riyadh the city is diced into fine little squares, scattered across the territory like jewelry spilled from a woman’s purse. Elegant, random, charming overall. Fix your eyes on any spot where there is a glimmer begging for attention, and the view of utopian buildings will flirt with the idea that maybe, Saudi Arabia is…not actually real? Surely there is an explanation for the topsy-turvy skyscrapers and heaps of beige concrete that resemble sandcastles. The fever dream begins with its skyline, but falls into inception as one explores the cracks.
A night out at The Boulevard
One of its rather elusive cracks was a feature in Riyadh Season: Boulevard. Whenever I find myself describing what exactly this is, it comes out illogical, incoherent, or, for lack of a better word, crazy. The history of the entire infrastructure in itself is unbelievable; 900,000 sqm of land with high-end shops, restaurants, and activities, all for leisure and enjoyment. At the entrance, we were greeted with animations of dancing crystal figures, jumping from one giant monitor to the other. A flood of strobe lights created a ceiling to compensate for the lack thereof, creating a sense of grandeur, as if the place was not already grand enough. The streets were pristine and the air carried whiffs of fresh cotton and sweet citrus. My mind did not know what to focus on first—the giant flat screens or the two men on stilts in hot pink and green suits, shaking hands, taking photos, as if this was an everyday occurrence. Maha so graciously offered to take us on a tour. Who better to do so than the project manager herself?
Across the lengthy road was a ring of restaurants, lavish with their fancy names and greenery crawling in the crevices of each individual sign. In the center, a fountain was bubbling, a cauldron teasing its audience with random bursts of water, providing a light spray for anyone that needed to cool off from their evening activities.
The opulent greens and florals made a nice transition to the purple neon of the giant tech-zone. Two arcades ran parallel to each other, big enough to be mistaken for indoor amusement parks, complete with every video game you can name and a plethora of rides. The smell of cheesy nachos and sweet tea prevailed, though missing the usual pairing of sweat and socks. Rather, it was that familiar scent of citrus and fresh sheets that seemed to follow us through the area.
On top of all that was a sports zone at the intersection of a winter-theme area and one of music—a zipline, skate park, and sports pub filled with banana split, a state-of-the-art driving range serving as the cherry on top. Our final destination was at the end of the premises: a white, frosty looking plaza alive with winter features, from Swiss chocolate cabins to indoor ice-skating rinks. I could feel the inner child in me getting giddy with excitement, while classic Christmas music flowed in rhythm with my thumping pulse. I spotted a slide. And then another, and another—four of them. Each stood at 117m tall, with children flashing smiles almost as wide as those of the adults, waiting in line in the grown-up playground.
An escalator brought us up to the top of the slide, allowing us to take in the blinking lights of the city
The ride up was almost as fun as the ride down—an escalator brought us up to the top of the slide, allowing us to take in the blinking lights of the city ever so slowly, almost as if to distract us from the sheer dizzying height of the ride. The drop was a combination of icy wind and stomach-dropping speed, and me laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of the situation—a childhood fever dream materializing in the most amplified way. Boulevard gave me back my youth, wrapped in laughter and screams, jokes and popcorn shrimp. In my mind, baby Amanda was still in line for the slides.
Traditional Saudi Arabian breakfast
Cue the entire soundtrack of Aladdin. Cue genie lamps, bonfires, and flaming orange sand that could sift through mesh like it was air. The morning was cold and damp, but was met with the promise of discovery and experience, particularly on how Saudis go camping. Smack in the middle of the desert and deep between the sand dunes, a jet-black tent, stamped with tribal drawings and rope, welcomed us—warm, full of blankets and thick rugs, ready for us to dive into comfort. We wore wool robes called farwas and ate lamb by the fire, exchanging stories and laughing at the moon, all while slightly suffocating at the scent of burnt wood.
The author going farwa shopping in the local market
I thought I was cultured until this night, I thought I was well traveled. My mind sped back to when I first laid eyes on the Eiffel Tower, or discovered what Carbonara was truly supposed to taste like—all memories I unlock to get a dose of serotonin or two. Gratitude and reverence flow as I write about that night in the desert—the new set of eyes it gifted me left me curious about this new culture, this strange land that I stumbled upon, and all its secrets. In that moment, humbled by the oddity of it all, I realized I knew everything and nothing at all.
If you ever find yourself in Saudi Arabia on New Year’s Eve, I really cannot tell you what to expect. I spent two weeks delving into every tradition and sign of culture I could, yet I still found myself wondering what hallucination I had stepped into on the last day of 2021. The house was quiet, uneventful even, despite the sudden burst of ’90s music I would hear across the hallway. The streets were surprisingly solemn, with an eerie sense of normalcy flowing with the river of cars packed like cans of tuna, honking their horns at each other, blurring the incoming new year. The houses have the same beige walls, looking like a continuous maze when seen from a passing car window.
Right at the curb of the road appeared some hint of color—some blue, some gray, some red—then heads of palm trees sprouted out from behind, with the hum of music drawing closer. We found ourselves in a house, just as large, just as beige, but filled to the brim with people, the rooms juxtaposing the simplicity of the exterior against velvet couches and silver-lined mirrors, a lazy Susan dining table paired with the standard mahogany IKEA chairs. What I assumed to be a pool room stood unique, so unlike the others in its design. The smell of chlorine divided the salon into two, one for swimming and another for lounging. The walls were painted with scenes of Roman history and balloons graced the ceiling, each tied to an individual flower, each of a different color. There were no women in sight, just men, loudly and without inhibition bopping up and down to the strum of the Oud. Why am I the only girl here?
Saudi has a commodity that other countries seemed to have lost between the wrinkles of age and arrogance: sheer will
It is easy to forget, when you are a guest in Saudi, that women and men must remain segregated at social gatherings. However, not one man flinched at my presence. We watched as waiters served Arabian coffee and tea, the guests seated gripping their cups. I basked in my heightened feeling of royalty as I sipped and laughed and schmoozed my way through the night, my head a little lighter FROM constant puffs of shisha in the air. Time stopped, and has not continued for me since that night.
Saudis hold the secret to time, perhaps because the country is only in its adolescent years. Not enough time has passed for them to develop a sense of history, and their economy is still very much under construction. What people do not understand is that Saudi has a commodity that other countries seemed to have lost between the wrinkles of age and arrogance: sheer will, driven by the insatiable need to prove themselves to a world that has rejected their untold story. There is no will like a will to prove yourself.
And with that, Saudis hold their country in the palm of their hands, molding, sculpting the corners, the plateaus, the curves, choosing to sift the grains of time between their fingers as they please. Time is defined by them, but they do not seem to have a concept of tomorrow. Everything needs to be done yesterday. So the Saudi Arabian hourglass continues to sieve the sands of the then and now, encased by the limits only they can impose—each day getting better and better, chasing inevitably their only competition: themselves.
View from the Kingdom Tower
