You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

CARAVAN

When, in June of 1982, we set out on our sojourn to Saudi Arabia, we had no idea what household implements we would find there. We decided to take everything we would need. I had five wooden shipping crates built. They were the shape of coffins but half the size. We filled them with everything from clothing, kitchen pots and pans and even a new Apple computer. Thinking that a new computer would be seen as an import item and be subject to import tax, we had the use markers to do artwork on the computer box. These crates were shipped as we left Portland. We were promised that they would be at the Dammam Port when we arrived in Saudi in late August.

I joined the faculty of King Faisal University in August. Our crates had not yet arrived. While I had carefully planned for the shipping of our things halfway around the world. I had not thought about moving our crates the last 10 miles from The Port of Dammam to our apartment in AlKhobar. I asked other faculty members how they had moved their shipping crates from the Port to their apartments. They had shipped by air freight which had included delivery to their residences. I probably could have found a local moving company to pick up and deliver our things if there were phone books and I spoke Arabic. In addition, there was the possible problem of using a local company and learning, too late, that the company I chose was not trustworthy or unreasonably priced. I was told that there had been a faculty member, years ago, who went to the port himself to collect his things. He had flagged down a Bedouin trucker at the port and paid him to haul his things to his apartment. Who were these Bedouin truckers? I inquired and learned that the Bedouins are nomadic Arabs who traditionally lived in the desert herding camels and goats. In the past, some Bedouins ran camel caravans of goods between cities across this vast desert kingdom. King Khalid had wanted to modernize the camel caravan trade without putting the Bedouins out of work. So he had offered to provide a new Mercedes six-wheel heavy truck to any Bedouin camel driver who would agree to use the truck to transport goods around the kingdom. If he did so for five consecutive years the truck would be his. If he failed the truck would be confiscated and given to another Bedouin. I had seen these trucks, they were all the same with wooden slatted sides around the bed. I decided that I would collect my crates on my own and hail one of these Bedouin truckers to haul them to our apartment.

Eventually, a letter arrived at the university notifying me that our crates were at the port. I started early on the day I planned to collect my crates. I took a cab, cash, and the letter from the port. We drove north along the coastal highway, passing out of town, first past masonry houses, then through a commercial section, and finally past the outskirts with humble mud and stone houses. We drove north along the coast highway, with the desert on our left and the Arabian Gulf on our right. After 10 miles the cab turned off the highway and passed under a large sign announcing “Port of Dammam”. The cab stopped at an ornate gate. Armed guards approached the cab. After showing my letter, we were informed that I could proceed on foot but the cab could not enter. I paid the cabbie, got out into the scorching heat, and watched the cab drive away. The winding route, from the gate to the port, was a quarter-mile-long passing through a chaotic parking lot. It had no marked parking lanes. Truck trailers, shipping containers, and large equipment were stored there leaving a path among them through which trucks could wind their way from the gate to the piers.

I walked until I reached one of several large industrial sheds. They were open steel frame buildings with sheet metal roofs. They were very long, being the length of a ship, I would guess them to be 600 feet long, and about 50 feet wide. The floors of these sheds were elevated from the driveway to form a continuous loading dock. They were open along both sides. There were several of these port buildings extending out into the Arabian Gulf on a pier. Ships were moored along one side. Trucks loaded along the opposite side. It was a relief to climb up into a shed and away from the searing sun. After searching among piles of crates and other cargo I found a stevedore and showed him my letter. He was helpful and told me which of these shed buildings would have my crates.

I walked the considerable distance to the correct shed and climbed up onto that platform. I found myself surrounded by twelve-foot-high stacks of freight. I wandered through these for some time. It seemed hopeless, but after a half hour of searching, I found my crates. It was strange to see those crates sitting there in the Port of Dammam, Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I had last seen them at my home in Portland Oregon, USA.

I needed an inspection and certification to remove them from the port. Again I set out wandering among the piled freight, this time in search of someone who looked official. I found a man with a clipboard and a crowbar. He agreed to inspect my crates. The lids of the crates were secured with four 6-penny nails, one at each corner. I expected him to use his crowbar and simply pry the lids off the boxes. This would have left me with the fairly simple task of placing the lids back onto the crates and pounding down the nails. Bewiltered, I watched as he used his crowbar as a sledgehammer and smashed the lids and sides of the crates. Perhaps I was supposed to bribe him to be more gentle. He dug through our things pulling them out as he did. This left everything scattered around on the dusty floor of the shed. Feeling he had sufficiently messed up this American’s stuff and seeing that we had no contraband. (He passed over the computer box with children’s markings.) He signed and stamped the form that I would need to present to the guards at the gate. I gave him his fee and he walked away. I set about collecting my scattered belongings and reassembling the crates as best I could with no tools. Although they were heavy, I was able to load the broken crates onto a cart. I pulled the cart to the truck-loading side of the shed.

Trucks passed. Some were Bedouin Mercedes trucks. I tried to hail them. The drivers would glance at me and my broken crates and drive by without so much as a change of expression. Again I had doubts about my doing this by myself. After a while, a truck lumbered to a stop. It was partially filled with bolts of cloth and boxes. Through hand signals and the few Arabic words that I knew, the Bedouin driver and I negotiated a price to take me and my crates to our apartment in Al-Khobar. We loaded the crates into his truck and I climbed in.

We were stopped at the gate, to clear our paperwork. After being released we drove to the highway intersection where the truck lane from the port joins the coastal highway. A turn to the left would take us to Al-Khobar and my apartment. A turn to the right would take us north to the exclusively Saudi town of Dammam. The central square, of which, was known for Friday be-headings. The driver was telling me something in Arabic that I could not understand. He was also shooting anxious glances in my direction. Instead of turning left, towards my apartment, he turned right. He could see that I immediately became anxious. He continued to talk in reassuring tones but in Arabic. The only Arabic word that I understood was “schwey-schwey”. It means something like “a little bit”. He continued driving north for several miles, during which time my anxiety level was increasing. I was thinking, “All he has to do is get rid of me, and he will own all of our household possessions”. Before long he turned left, off the paved highway onto a sand track heading west, out into the desert. By this, point I was certain that I would end up out here in the desert with my throat cut. There was no escape. If I were to jump out of the truck I would either die of the impact or die trying to make my way back to civilization. After crossing the desert for three or four miles, I saw on the horizon, what looked like a dozen Mercedes trucks similar to the one I was in. As we approached I could see that the trucks were parked in a circle. We pulled up to a spot between two trucks and my driver was hailed by others who hugged and greeted him. I was greatly relieved. These friendly men seemed not to be the throat-cutting type. My driver signaled me to come down from the truck and join him with the others as they walked toward one of the other trucks. In the shade under the other truck were six other drivers. They were sitting in a circle on a large plastic sheet. My driver beckoned me to enter this jovial circle of welcoming men. I crawled under the truck and sat next to my driver. Soon a large stainless steel bowl was produced. In the bowl were fresh dates floating in water with ice cubes. The bowl was passed around and each man took a drink of the water and two or three dates. They seemed to know just how many each man could take so that all would have an equal amount. After a period of what seemed to me to be small talk, they began a serious discussion. While I could not understand the words, I realized they were negotiating about which driver would take cargo, to their various destinations and the payments necessary for making the delivery. As they spoke I became aware of how very fortunate I was to be sitting in the midst of a tradition that had gone on for centuries, possibly in this very location, only instead of Mercedes trucks, in times past, these Bedouins would have been surrounded by camels.

After the hottest part of the day had passed along with several more bowls of icewater and dates, we all crawled out from under the truck. The men then transformed their negotiations into action. Cargo was exchanged among the trucks corresponding to each truck’s destination. When all the shifting of goods was done, monetary exchanges made, and farewells given, the trucks began to depart in different directions. My driver and I climbed up into his truck. He turned to me, with a relaxed smile on his face, and speaking in Arabic, he said something about Al-Khobar. I knew my broken crates and I were heading home.