It was very late. I was returning from the airport and the tank needed filling so we stopped at a gas station. When my driver attempted to restart the car, there was no response. He turned the ignition key again and again in vain as the engine showed no sign of roaring back to life. In desperation I gestured to the attendant who just shrugged his shoulders and stared blankly at my pleading face.
“Battery is flat,” remarked the driver.
“Well, what should we do?” I asked helplessly. My knowledge of mechanics is bleak to say the least and I immediately wondered whether a jack might in some manner be the panacea of all our problems.
“We have a jack in the back,” I suggested half-convincingly trying to sound as authoritative as possible. Naturally, my lack of Arabic vocabulary in vehicle associated terminology meant that my driver didn’t understand what I meant. I got out of the car and showed him the magic contraption while the pump attendant gawped at me in disdain. He shook his head gravely.
“This is for flat tires,” commented my driver dryly. I tried to mask my stupidity by pretending that I thought that there was some connection between wheels and transmission when a Land Cruiser brimming with occupants pulled up alongside us.
“What’s the problem?” asked a young man in a thobe with a baseball cap precariously perched on his head in lieu of a traditional headdress. Rap music blared from a stereo and his friend, sitting in the passenger seat sporting a woolen beanie, tapped the dashboard as if it were an imaginary drum.
Admittedly, I did quite a hypocritical volte-face at that point. I always tend to advocate that you should not judge a book by its cover etc. but the sight of those potential hooligans made me panic. I anticipated that at any moment a placard would be raised up with a mobile number written across it, or an attempt would be made to somehow pursue a lone woman out on the streets in the middle of the night. I warned my driver not to speak to them and got back into the car waiting for them to make their approach.
I then watched an animated exchange between Baseball Cap and pump attendant and breathed a huge sigh of relief when the jeep sped out of sight. My problem however remained unsolved.
“What shall we do?” I whined imploringly to my driver. There were no taxis on the roads and it was too late to call anyone I knew.
“We need jump leads, Madam,” he replied disinterestedly. Where on earth was I expected to procure jump leads from at two o’clock in the morning, I wondered?
A few minutes later the Land Cruiser darted back into view and parked facing my car. I could make out the familiar headgear in the front and in a flash this view was supplanted by the hood of the car. There came a tap at the window and Beanie told my driver to open the bonnet. Baseball cap was brandishing a pair of elusive jump leads and connected them to my engine while one of his mates revved up his. My lethargic employee then hit the accelerator and the insolent vehicle started. With a flourish the cables, the vagabonds and the Land Cruiser had all vanished into thin air and I was left with a feeling of guilt-laden relief.
I hasten to add that this was not the only time that I have been bailed out on the roads. Once, while driving to Al-Kharj with a broken petrol gauge, the car ran out of gas between the refineries and conked out on the hard shoulder. There had been no sight of a petrol pump in miles. A police officer accosted me to find out why it was that I had stopped on the highway. After I had explained the situation, he returned within a short while with a can of fuel and followed me to the nearest gas station and then escorted me safely back to the main road.
There have been innumerable occasions whereupon asking for directions, drivers have changed their trajectories completely in order to demonstrate exactly where this highway ends or that one begins. Other than their frighteningly maniacal practice of driving, people are really very helpful on the roads.
I have been asked repeatedly about how I feel about the contentious issue of women driving. I am pro-choice in most things and this is no exception. I have a license myself from my days in London, although to be patently honest I loathe driving and always preferred using public transport instead. After passing my test on the fourth attempt I was due to leave to Saudi Arabia and informed my driving instructor of my departure.
“It’s such a pity,” I began, “that I have taken more lessons than any of your students and now I must return to the only country in the world where women aren’t allowed to drive.”
He studied my face for a few seconds and said stoically, “What you have told me has given me faith.”
I don’t really subscribe to the fearfulness of some who make out that if ever women were allowed to drive here then their mere sight would induce a traffic frenzy. What if their car breaks down, they argue, or they are pursued by depraved young men?
From my own personal experience I know that men behave with singular courtesy and sterling deference when they encounter someone in need. I therefore do not believe that women will be at greater risk than they potentially are in any other part of the world, but on the contrary, judging by the generosity of Saudis and their tremendous helpfulness, may even be better placed to drive here than anywhere else. However, for those of you who may be worried, this is definitely not incentive enough to get me behind the wheel!
(Lubna Hussain is a Saudi writer. She is based in Riyadh.)