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     Disregarding the SAUDIA Flight 163 fiasco, killing 301 people, I elected to continue with SAUDIA, as I was on the safer aircraft.

     So why did I sense the 707 was safer, dear reader?

     Whenever an aircraft manufacturer comes out with a new “radically designed” transport aircraft – whether one appreciates it or not – the flight crew ends up as “test pilots,” while the passengers become “crash-test dummies.”  This can go on for a decade until they get all the bugs worked out.

     Lockheed L-1011 TriStar.

     The Lockheed L-1011 TriStar went into service eight years before, on 26th April 1972 - whereas the Boeing 707 entered service 22 years before, in October of 1958.  Therefore the 707 already had ample time to iron-out all its bugs – making it safer.

     Boeing 707.

     After a probation period of six months, SAUDIA allowed its foreign flight attendants to bid for bases outside the Kingdom. Pilots, on the other hand, were incarcerated at Jeddah. Requiring me to accept the fact, I’d be based in dreaded Jeddah for my duration with SAUDIA.         

     There is no life after Jeddah, dear reader.  So what was life like in Jeddah, among the heathen-Arabs, you good Christians are no doubt wondering? 

     Before I begin my descriptions, let me lay down some spelling ground rules:  First of all: Jeddah.  Although you’ll find it in various spellings, I’m going with the official spelling on aviation charts: “Jeddah.”

     In fact, dear reader, T.E. Lawrence felt that any transcription of Arabic names to English was arbitrary.  In his book “Revolt in the Desert,” Jeddah is spelled three different ways on the first page alone.

     As for the religion, comparable to Christianity, Islam I discovered has sects.  Basically, the Saudis were Sunni Muslims – as opposed to the more militant Iranian Shi’ite Muslims.  Regarding the Holiest City in all of Islam, which Saudi Arabia contains, during my sojourn in the Kingdom the Saudis changed its spelling to “Makkah.”  As they thought too many hotels, bars and nightclubs worldwide were using the name “Mecca.”  I disagree, so I’ll use the original spelling: Mecca.  This is where the Great Mosque (Al-Haram) contains the Ka’abah, the huge, black, sacred shrine purported to be built by the Biblical patriarch Abraham.

    Satellite View of Mecca.

     More down to earth view of Mecca.

     Al-Haram Mosque: The largest mosque in the world.

     The Ka’abah at the heart of the mosque.

     Apparently the Muslims accept the Holy Bible and all its prophets.  While the Holy Qur’an (Koran) picks up where the Bible ends - thus supplanting Judaism and Christianity with Islam in the 7^th century - Islam being the product of a religious evolution.  As for Jesus of Nazareth, the Muslims respect him as a prophet and teacher – only don’t accept him as the Son of God.

     The Saudis claim they are the “guardians” of the true faith.  This is reflected in their flag: a green field with a white sword, above which are the Arabic words: “There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is God’s Messenger.”  All of SAUDIA’s aircraft bore this flag – a flag that is never flown at half-mast on occasions of distress or mourning.

     Jeddah was originally a fishing hamlet established on the east coast of the Red Sea in 500 BC, and was even later visited by Alexander the Great.  Another visitor was T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) in 1916, in preparation for assisting the Arab revolt against the Turks during WWI.  I happened to stumble across the merchant’s house that Lawrence stayed in – still standing in Jeddah’s Al-Balad, or old town center - among 1,000 traditional old-fashioned structures.

     T.E. Lawrence at Jeddah in 1916, and the merchant’s house where he stayed.

     Jeddah was the biggest port on the Red Sea, and the second largest city in the Kingdom; Riyadh its capital being the greatest.  For centuries Jeddah was the principal gateway for pilgrims to Mecca, which able-bodied Muslims are required to visit at least once in their lifetime.

     A typical caravan, hundreds of years ago, heading for Jeddah.

     The  etymology of the name Jeddah comes from the Arabic word for “Grandmother.”  Because the “Tomb of Eve” (as in Adam and Eve – the “Grandmother of us all”) was traditionally located there and visited by pilgrims for centuries.  However, driven by religious paranoia, in 1975 religious authorities had the tomb sealed over with concrete to prevent Muslims from praying there.

     Eve’s tomb in 1900.

    

 Eve’s tomb sealed in concrete. Note individual graves are marked by Arabic numbers.     

     One of my favorite parts of Jeddah was the souk (open-air marketplace).

     Technically, it was named the Al-Balad, dear reader; the rundown, centuries-old, historic city center.  We expat infidels, out of ignorance, merely referred to it as “the souk.”

     Entering it was a time-warp - stepping back to the 14^th century.  Men milled about in white thoubs (ankle-length nightshirts), ghutras and agels (tea cloths and fan belts), while women drifted past as black ghosts in abayas and shaylas (cloaks and veils) - plus Arabs from other countries in their native dress.

     Saudi men dancing in their thoubs.

Saudi men kissing in greeting, in their ghutras and agels (tea cloths and fan belts).

      Saudi “Black Ghosts.”

     The streets were actually cramped, dirt-packed alleys, with the occasional pile of garbage, dumped from a four to five-story ancient apartment building - sagging as though it would collapse at any moment - built from badly weathered wood, concrete and coral reef.  The wood was intricately carved, with lattice work on balconies preventing one from looking in.  There were also prerequisite knots of goats feeding on the garbage piles.

     The alleys that contained shops were fascinating - their wares all on open display - especially the spice shops with all manner of brightly-colored heaps of spice.

     Every time I’d turn a corner, I half expected to bump into T.E. Lawrence – very little had changed here in the souk since 1916.

     On Friday (the Saudis’ Sunday) - usually after the noonday prayers – there was a parking lot somewhere in the souk where the Saudis held their criminal punishments.  According to Shariah Law, these came in the form of chopping off heads, hands, legs, feet, pistol shots to the head or caning.  Not wanting to happen upon such a scene, I always avoided the souk on Fridays.

     What we expats called the “Chop-Chop Parking Lot.”

     A man being “caned.”

     Theft deterrent. The right hand is used for dining, whereas the left is used for wiping the bum. Removing the right makes one a social outcast.

       Deterrent for rape and murder.

     Having worked for seven police departments during a six-year period in the States – I was intimately familiar with all manner of U.S. crime - which drove home the fact our American legal system was badly flawed.  Possessing an “insider’s view” of crime and punishment, I never really felt safe in any American city.

     In contrast, during my six years in Jeddah, I seldom locked my house or my car – crime there was practically zero.  Unlike the States, with its gangs and drug problems, I never considered crime a threat in Jeddah. 

     Shariah Law may be barbaric, dear reader.  But by God...it sure as hell worked!

     Even so, all was not a safe paradise in Jeddah – the traffic was a horn-honking, congested, accident-prone nightmare! 

     And what else could one expect, when you introduce thousands of ragheads, with the mental capacity of an eight-year-old, to the internal combustion engine?  Leading me to witness spectacularly-impossible accidents; such as the white Mercedes sedan that got catapulted on top of a 12-foot wall - upside down – wedged between the wall and a power pole!

     I’m at a total loss to explain how this happened. The Arabs were always coming up with something new.

     And then there were the odd body parts, I’d occasionally come across in the middle of a busy highway – such as a foot, whole leg, or arm.  We had these Muslim pedestrians from darkest Africa, who had never associated with cars or trucks before.  Preventing them from gauging the speed, or distance covered, by a fast-moving vehicle on a main highway.  They’d dart out at the last possible instant – when it was totally impossible for them to make it across safely - and SMACK!  Body parts everywhere!

     In all that traffic chaos, I was constantly on the lookout for these “suicide pedestrians.”  Plus any drunken Saudi Prince, which might slam me with his high-powered sports car, sending me to prison and an exit visa; if I survived the crash!  Basically, driving was the dangerous part of living in Jeddah.

     On account of this, and many other cultural reasons, the airline decided in 1977 to build SAUDIA City, in an attempt to isolate all its foreign employees.  This was to be a huge walled compound covering over 1.5 million square meters of land, with 3,377 housing units, a desalination plant, power and sewage treatment plants, a shopping arcade, gas station, plus swimming pools with parks and gardens.  Its apartment blocks and villas would ultimately house 12,000 people.  It was built in the desert, at the edge of Jeddah’s northern city limit, not far from the new international airport.

 

     It was also supposed to be finished by 1980.  Sadly, it was still not completed when I left in 1986.  All the same, I couldn’t bitch, for the company issued me a fully-furnished, three-bedroom, two-bath, fourth-floor apartment, containing an immense dining room, front room, foyer, large balconies, and kitchen with all the modern appliances; including washer and dryer.  Rent free, of course, plus they picked up the water and electric bill – the electric being substantial since I cooked with it and ran the air conditioners constantly.  

     Promptly I purchased remote controlled, battery-powered, model race cars – racing them up and down the marbled hallway that ran from my foyer to the back bedrooms – which seemed to go on forever.  I even bought an outsized, remote controlled, battery-powered, tractor-trailer; delivering drinks on the trailer’s roof to guests in the front room, while never leaving the kitchen.

     Please forgive me for being such a child, dear reader, but this apartment was massive!  Having no wife or kids to contend with...what else was I to do with all that space?  Plus during my first year, I was always on “standby,” resulting in far too much time on my hands.  That, coupled with female companionship, was why I took up wine making.

     This was where events, during my residency in the Kingdom, took a strange turn.  Prior to leaving the States, all my flying pals lectured me regarding the lack of booze and women in Saudi Arabia.  Sticking my fingers in my ears – I steeled myself for the worst. 

     I needn’t have bothered, dear reader.  During those six years in Jeddah, I was literally awash in a sea of booze and young, attractive, horny women!

     Let’s start with the alcohol:  It was outlawed in the Kingdom.  Despite this, if you manufactured your own, and didn’t attempt to sell it to a Saudi, SAUDIA City Security would turn a blind eye to your operation.  And, to be socially accepted among your expat-peers, it was expected of you to, at the very least, provide wine.  The British proved most accomplished at this, since they were usually ex-RAF, and had been making their own wine and beer for years due to the RAF’s miserly salaries; it was the only way the Brits could afford to drink.  They gave me an excellent recipe, plus a wine-making kit from the “Boots” pharmacy chain in London. 

     Using cases of Swiss cherry and apple juice, purchased from “Leb-Joe’s” (Lebanese Joe’s Market), I commenced production on a dry, red wine, plus a sparkling, white wine - both containing roughly 26-percent alcohol.  Just enough to give a young, inexperienced stewardess a really nice – inhibitions lowering - buzz.

     Both the Swiss apple and cherry juice bottles came with the perfect stopper for preserving wine.

     The more adventurous expats also produced their version of white-lightning, which they called “siddiqi” or ”sadeeki” (I’ve seen it spelled both ways – which is Arabic for “my friend”), or simply “sid” for short.  I’d usually purchase a gallon of it for 500 riyals - then cut it with a gallon of distilled water – as it ran un-cut at 150-proof.  If it was filtered properly, it wasn’t half bad in a glass of Pepsi (Coca Cola was also outlawed in the Kingdom – because Coke had the franchise for Israel).  Ergo we would have “Pepsi Parties.”  Which was code for: “Sid will be served.” 

     A notorious SAUDIA City “Pepsi Party.”

     Nevertheless, once in a while I’d go to an expat-stranger’s flat, discovering the sid he served was anything but “my friend.”  After consuming a half-glass of Pepsi with sid, I’d at once develop a raging hangover with a whopping headache!  I didn’t even have to wait for “the morning after!”  It’s a wonder I didn’t go blind or deaf!

     Okay, dear reader, we’ve covered the lack of alcohol problem, so let’s discuss the lack of women problem.  For once in my life the “Goddess of Nooky” smiled down on me!

     Inside the southeast corner of SAUDIA City the company had constructed a second walled-in compound.  This was the Air Hostess Compound, where, on average, could be found 600 frustrated, lonely, attractive, young women.  The source of their frustration was the way Saudi society treated foreign working women - as they were here without their families – hence they must all be prostitutes.  Both the company and the Saudis treated them accordingly.  No wonder they were fed up and angry.

     Saudi women were not allowed to fly for the airline, thus SAUDIA was forced to hire foreign women from the States, Europe, Middle East, India and Far East.  The new hires were required to serve a six-month probation based at Jeddah, then, if they could take all the shit that was dumped on them, they were allowed to bid an out of Kingdom base.  Some quit, others stayed on, and jumped at the chance to get based outside the Kingdom; powering this constant turnover in “new faces” at the Air Hostess Compound.

     Needless to say, dear reader, it was a bachelor’s paradise, leading to an endless stream of young women, from various nationalities, traversing the king-sized bed in my massively empty apartment.  I’m ashamed to admit that during my six years in Jeddah, there were so many, I can’t begin to remember them all.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  I’m not bragging.  I was merely a product of the “forbidden-fruit syndrome.”  Hell, I could have been a leper and still got laid.  This situation would never occur again in my life.

     A sample of some of the flight attendants that “crossed” my path:

     There was one stewardess, though, which I will never forget.  We’ll call her “Y’ve,” and frankly, she was the closest I’d ever come to finding a genuine nymphomaniac! 

     Poor fucking me.     

     The first time I picked Y’ve up at the Air Hostess Compound, in my new Hyundai Pony (No...the Koreans actually labeled it the “Pony”), I drove her out to “The Creek.”  This was a good-sized lagoon north of Jeddah, where the locals and expats kept their boats. 

     In addition, further north were even more lagoons off the Red Sea, which were quite secluded in an empty desert.  It was the end of winter, with mild, dry temperatures – unlike the summers that sizzled; heavy with humidity.

     Occasionally, on our way out to the lagoons, we’d happen upon a herd of wild camels.  

     Y’ve was a blond with large, beautiful blue eyes, from Kent, England, having a German mother and English father.  At five-foot-two, she had an athletic build from years of judo competitions, possessing a proper British accent, plus fluent in German, and, at the ripe old age of 23, was an ex-constable.

     She was also a strong swimmer, so we swam out to the deep end of the lagoon to check out the fish and corals.  We had face plates and snorkels, plus sneakers to protect our feet from the stonefish lurking in the lagoon’s sandy bottom.

     We left the lagoon behind and swam to the reef’s edge, which abruptly dropped off to infinity.  I’d never seen a reef such as this; it dropped straight down comparable to a cliff at the Grand Canyon in Arizona, covered in exotic fish of all sizes and colors, with all manner of colorful corals. 

     Way off in the distance, towards the center of the Red Sea, I could make out huge, dark shapes traversing both north and south. 

     Those “shapes” scared the piss out of me, dear reader.

     I reined in Y’ve, who wanted to swim out there to investigate those mysterious shapes, and we swam back to the lagoon instead.  When we reached shallow water and stood up, before I could get my mask off, she pulled down my trunks and went down on me – underwater – quickly getting Mr. Meat Puppet rigid.  Dropping her bikini bottoms, she wrapped her legs around me – shoved Mr. Meat Puppet up her vaginal vault – and we were off to the races! 

     Ultimately screwing so hard, dear reader, we frightened away all those poor “little fishies” in a 50-yard perimeter!

     It was late afternoon when we reached my apartment, and as we entered the foyer, I asked the magic question: “White or red?”

     Y’ve opted for white wine.  I told her to make herself at home as I left for the kitchen.

     Pulling out two wine glasses from the freezer, I filled them with frozen strawberries and my chilled, sparkling white wine.

     Upon entering the front room, I found it empty.  I then began the “Great Y’ve Safari” – wandering from room to room – eventually discovering I was meandering all alone in my mammoth, empty apartment!  I even checked all the closets!  No Y’ve!

     Feeling frustrated, bewildered and foolish, I retraced my steps to the foyer where I last saw her.  Lying on the floor, inside the front room, I detected Y’ve’s black, crumpled abaya.  Further on I spotted her sandals, then T-shirt, then shorts, then bra and panties.  I followed her trail of discarded clothing to the glass door off my dining room, which led to the long balcony that stretched from my front room, past the dining room, a guest bedroom, and ending at the master bedroom.

     At the far end, at last I located Y’ve, sunning herself in the nude on one of my bathroom towels. 

     Dumping my clothes and grabbing a towel, I joined Y’ve on the balcony with the wine. 

     Lying down next to her, dear reader, we sipped our chilled wine.  One thing led to another...and before you could say, “Elton John is the real Queen of England,” Y’ve was riding me similar to a bucking bronco!  Yeee Haaaw!  Mr. Meat Puppet couldn’t believe his good fortune!

     After we showered, I barbecued a couple of thick T-bone steaks from Safeway (they had recently opened a branch in Jeddah), with salad, baked potatoes, and my fabulous red wine. 

     Y’ve attending “Pepsi Parties.”

     Finishing dinner, I put on a movie in the front room, and we stretched out on my jumbo couch.  By this time we had changed to comfortable kaftans, I had picked up in Morocco, sans underwear.

     Moroccan kaftan.

     When it was approaching 8:P.M., I half expected to hear the “prayer whistle” going off at any moment.

     The Muslims prayed five times a day, dear reader, and frankly it proved to be a pain in the ass.  Especially when you were out running errands and shopping, because when the “prayer whistle” went off, you’d find yourself locked up inside a shop or business for the next hour.  No...really, the Saudis actually locked the front door!      

     However, tonight I was in for a special treat.  As the prayer hour approached, Y’ve got restless and fidgeted – as if she literally had this terrible itch in her crotch.  Finally, she filled our wine glasses, got me on my feet and ordered, “Follow me!  Quick-march!”  Suddenly she was a constable again.

     Totally bewildered, I did as I was ordered, and she led me to the roof.  My apartment building was right up against the north wall that bordered the SAUDIA City Compound.  There was a street outside the wall that ran past a new mosque a half-block away.  It was dark, the street lights were on, and from the five-storied roof we could see the well-lit mosque clearly. 

     Shortly the mosque’s muezzin starts warming up over the loudspeakers in the minaret; calling the faithful to prayer.  The effect it has over Y’ve is startling.  Setting her wine glass on top the roof’s low wall, she grips the wall’s ledge as she rubs her crotch, and begins to literally moan in tune with the muezzin. 

     As the muezzin increases his wailing, Yvonne does an about-face, squats, raises my kaftan, and sucks Mr. Meat Puppet back to life; all the while moaning with her mouth full! 

     While I hear Mr. Meat Puppet, dear reader, bitching, “What?  Again?  I’m not made out of rubber, you know!”

     Despite his complaining, Mr. Meat Puppet comes to attention – ready to launch.  Prompting Y’ve to standup, spin around, raise the back of her kaftan, look over her shoulder, and bellow, “Well, don’t stand there like a gob-smacked booby...mount me dammit!”  The constable was back!

     Not wanting to disappoint a lady - particularly a constable – I put down my wine and did what I was told.  Grabbing her hips, I probe the depths of her honey-wet warmth, from behind, with rigid Mr. Meat Puppet.

     And as the muezzin continued to wail in pain, or ecstasy (I could never determine which), I get with the program - pick up the pace - rapidly pumping Y’ve robotically.  This in turn causes her to wail in competition with the muezzin!

     Presently I’m terrified, dear reader.  SAUDIA Security might hear Y’ve, while on one of their patrols, and come up here to investigate.

     SAUDIA Security.

     So I clamp a hand over Y’ve’s mouth – not knowing she’s into bondage which increases her sexual excitement - causing her wails to become muffled screams!  Inciting her to bite down on my hand...very hard!  Now I’m yelling in pain!

     And there the three of us are, dear reader.  The muezzin, Y’ve and myself, all wailing together - akin to stray desert dogs in the night!         

     This produces a sexual metamorphosis in me!  What with all the screaming and pain - while pumping her as a maniac - coupled with half expecting SAUDIA Security to burst through the roof’s door at any instant - resulting in captivity at a shithole Saudi prison and being severely caned for doing the nasty at prayer time - then booted out of the Kingdom and back to the States in poverty!  Stress, from all these horrific thoughts, incited one of the most thunderous, mind-blowing orgasms I’d ever experienced!

     Honest to God, dear reader, it resulted in an actual religious rapture.  While coming, I saw Jesus floating above me...holding hands with Elvis!

      Resting from our rooftop episode: Y’ve set up her camera with its timer as a “surprise.”

     Somehow I managed to survive my evening with Y’ve – getting her back to the Air Hostess Compound before her midnight curfew.

     Y’ve working first class on the B-747.

     Over the years that followed, dear reader, I explored many more “sexual adventures” with Y’ve in some of the strangest, exotic locations.  She was always ready to “launch” at the drop of a hat.  Quite frankly...I miss her.  

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