The Protocols of Carstairs
Copyright© 2021 by Ron Dudderie
Chapter 17: The pilgrimage of Carstairs
Friday, September 25th 2015. Highway 80, just before As Sayl miqat checkpoint.
Although Mecca is a restricted area, the large, coastal city of Jeddah is accessible to non-Muslims. It’s a major commercial hub, what with its port and international airport. And so there is something informally referred to as the ‘Christian bypass’, although Hindus are also not allowed (and atheists are jailed, so nobody claims atheism in Saudi Arabia) to steer us sinners around the holy cities Mecca and Medina if we want to go to Jeddah. It’s not one specific road, but a set route marked as ‘non-Muslim’ lanes and exits.
In some places the main carriageway goes through what is technically Mecca, but there the police have checkpoints at the exits. It put me in mind of the Helmstedt autobahn, the highway corridor through East-Germany that led to West Berlin, where stopping for any reason was strictly prohibited. The Allied forces checked your paperwork before you were let through, and also made sure you had enough fuel to get to the other side. There was even a mechanic workshop, for any last minute repairs your car might need. Because God help you if you stopped on that road for any reason. You had to make it to the other side within four hours or they would come and look for you. I never made that trip but my dad did. And now, some forty years later, I was driving along a similar corridor.
“I bet God was surprised that you suddenly called him on the other line,” joked Asim after about five kilometres travelled in silence. I laughed. I can’t really stay mad at him for long.
“Probably,” I chuckled. “Hey, thanks for helping me through this. You’re right, it’s best if I learn how to do it, in case we get separated.”
Asim nodded and reached for the bag that held our candy and water supply.
“I could eat,” he announced, after discovering we were out of chocolate.
“So could I. Is it far to the Rose Palace?”
Asim made that sound I have come to hate, the ‘sucking his teeth’ sound that is the introduction to some unwelcome news.
“We are not going to the Rose Palace. Omar thinks the staff there will talk when a non-Muslim is in residence. You and I and Alexandra will stay at the Pullman Zamzam.”
“Oh?”
“You will know it. It is the very large tower that overlooks the Grand Mosque. With the clock, like Big Ben. We have a few floors there, for the Royal Family. Omar reserved one of those floors.”
It now dawned on me that this would put me far away from Omar’s laptop!
“Uhm ... So is Omar staying with us?” I asked. If not, I’d crawl out of K-T via the window and turn this fucking rig around right now. I wasn’t going through with this charade if it served no purpose! But I needn’t have worried.
“Yah. The Rose Palace is in Ta’if, up in the mountains where it is nice and cool. It’s so lovely there. They grow grapes and dates and pomegranates. And roses, of course. So many roses, it smells of rose oil on some days. Ahhh, so good. But it is almost an hour from the Grand Mosque, so Omar will stay with us. His wives and children will be at the Rose Palace.”
“Oh. Good.”
Asim turned his head very fast, intended as a joke.
“Good?! Omar being nearby is good? What happened to you? I thought you hate him!”
“I don’t hate anyone. I am a Christian, after all. I just quietly revel in the knowledge everyone else will burn in hell for all eternity. No offence. So tell me about the hotel.”
The tower with the clock face isn’t actually the Pullman Zamzam hotel. If you look closely you’ll see that there are six other skyscrapers standing around that one tower and there are various luxury hotels operating in each one. The entire complex is called the Abraj Al-Bait endowment project, as its construction was government sponsored.
The tallest tower is called the Makkah Royal Clock Tower and houses the Fairmont hotel. It’s 601 metres tall and has 120 floors. You can see it from 25 kilometres away.
Then there are two towers that are each 279 metres tall, so they seem tiny next to the Clock Tower, but that’s still 58 floors and falls well within the definition of a skyscraper, which is 150 metres. The Pullman Zamzam was located in one of those. Then there are two towers that both stand 232 metres tall and the two smallest ones are 220 metres each. There’s no need to explain which hotel is where. Just remember Pullman Zamzam. And in answer to your question: yes, if the Clock Tower fell over it would obliterate the Ka’bah, as that is only 420 metres away from its entrance. But I’ve done some sums and even though I am not a demolitions expert I’m pretty sure I would need approximately 2300 kilograms of Semtex, spread out over at least fifteen different locations (as it would be a shame if the damned thing fell over the wrong way). And I didn’t fancy my odds at getting that done, glorious though it may be. For one thing, I’d have to drill an awful lot of very big holes in the walls of the underground parking structure. That alone would take weeks, even with full permission (which seemed unlikely). Still, it’s the dream, isn’t it? Boooooom pfieuw splat! Uh-oh! Go on then, tell us what Allah’s idea was allowing THAT to happen?
We passed a checkpoint, which looked like a toll-road onramp. A sign warned us this was a ‘miqat’ point, a point where pilgrims were to enter the state of ‘ihram’, or prohibition. You see, Islam is quite a lackadaisical religion, as we all know. Live and let live, do as you please but don’t upset the horses, that’s Islam in a nutshell. But within the boundary around Mecca indicated by miqat points (which are also announced in airplanes by the way, causing a stampede to the toilets so men can put on their ihram outfits, consisting of two white sheets) things get a bit serious for a change. And indeed there was a checkpoint, where you could be asked to show ID and your entry visa or permit to do the hajj this year. You can’t just show up, you see. Unless you’re Saudi royalty, of course.
Six lanes widened to fifteen, with fifteen booths. Our driver took one marked for trucks and chatted with the attendant, who looked up to see who was in the car. Asim opened the window and waved, flashing his leather wallet with the Royal medallion. The officer in the booth saluted and opened the barrier.
“See? No problem,” smiled Asim. “How come you can sing and dance in front of hundreds of people, but you are afraid of just one policeman?”
“I’m not afraid of that one policeman. I’m afraid of your entire legal system. I’ve already been to jail once and that was quite enough. I don’t know why I agreed to this. I should have stayed in Riyadh with Alexandra,” I muttered.
“My friend, when you are with me you are perfectly safe. There may be another checkpoint, I’m not sure. Usually I don’t drive. In fact, last time I was here was ... ten years ago?”
“Weren’t you here a few weeks back?”
“No, I was at the Rose Palace. Where it’s nice and cool. This is not nice. This is hot and crowded and it is full of pilgrims. And none of my friends live here. Well, not my best friends.”
I really don’t feel up to describing yet another ostentatious luxury hotel to you, especially considering how I’m currently situated. Let’s just say that if someone were to compile a list of places that might be nuked in order to make this planet a better place the Abraj Al-Bait complex would rank somewhere between the US Capitol building and Nestlé headquarters. Probably just below the actual Grand Mosque itself and wherever the Republican party has their next conference. Might be tied with Monsanto HQ and The Hamptons, I’d have to check some figures to be sure. I’ll get back to you on that, okay? Let’s just park that for now.
So if you’re wondering what a holy city looks like: meh. It’s nothing like, say, Rome, which I have once described to you as ‘a fairly pedestrian city with some amazing monuments in it’. I sometimes flinch when I think back to that description when I see Rome in the news or in a movie, I don’t mind telling you. Not sure what was going through my head at the time. Rome is a corpse, I stand by that, but a beautiful corpse.
Mecca can’t hold a candle to cities like Rome, Budapest, Paris or Washington DC, which all have their own distinctive style and grandeur. Mecca on the other hand has the architectural sophistication of Charleroi’s prostitution district. There appear to be no building codes whatsoever. It’s located in a very inhospitable area, where nature clearly felt only lizards and scorpions should feel at home. The same can be said for Dubai and Doha, of course, but those cities are very, very different from Mecca. I was impressed by Doha and stunned by Dubai, which gives off a futuristic vibe. Doha enjoys a wealth of daring architecture (yes, we all know about the slavery that goes into building it) and Dubai is a lot more than a collection of skyscrapers, aquariums and fountains. But Mecca only absorbs natural and manmade resources and then gives nothing back save untreated sewage. Its own history means nothing, because it’s all about the Grand Mosque. Almost nothing that’s old remains, even though it has been a major religious site for hundreds and hundreds of years. In a way it reminded me of the Alamo Mission: a tiny chapel with a big (if largely despicable) story that stands surrounded by San Antonio’s concrete jungle. There’s a LEGO store around the corner and a waxworks across the street, but you’d never know it from the pictures.
Well, that’s more or less what happened to Mecca’s history. In fact, the Abraj Al-Bait was built on the grounds of the former Ajyad fortress, an 18th century Ottoman citadel which stood on a hill and overlooked the Grand Mosque. It was ruthlessly torn down to make way for a few thousand luxury hotel rooms.
I’m not saying Mecca is poor or looks run down, by the way. Far from it, in fact. Commerce is thriving because all these pilgrims need to eat and aren’t averse to a bit of shopping, if only for a new pair of sandals. The Saudi Government wants to put its best foot forward, because almost every Muslim on Earth will at one point visit Mecca and spend the rest of their lives telling others who have yet to come about it, so everything is new and as clean as things can get in a scorching dustbowl.
It’s like any city in that there are restaurants ranging from fast food to upscale fine dining, malls, train stations (there’s a high-speed rail link to the Jeddah airport), there are touring companies and car rental agencies, banks, hospitals, schools and supermarkets. Oh, and lots of religious institutes that help you to study or simply memorise the Qu’ran. There’s a surprising amount of public transport, because all those hospitality workers would clog up the city if they went to work by car. And there are many apartment blocks and family homes, all built in that curious style that appears when your house also needs to be a prison for the women of your family. High walls, small windows with frosted glass. No gardens or roof top terraces because what would you do there? Have a drink? Can’t. Sunbathe? They don’t do that, ever. Have a family meal? The neighbours might see your wife’s shoulder! And anyway, it’s too fucking hot. The air in Mecca isn’t very clean, it sits in a hot, dusty valley 70 kilometres away from the sea, there are no natural trees to speak of and hundreds of thousands of motor vehicles are on the road at all times.
Mecca serves only one purpose: receiving pilgrims and making money off them. If you live there you either work in tourism or a related field such as security or logistics. Mecca itself produces nothing of any value except low to medium quality service industry jobs and revenue for the state and property owners, often one and the same.
There are one or two parks the size of a parking lot that serve a city of 1.5 million souls, but nobody spends any time outdoors unless they feel they have to. The place is buzzing with AC-units, but at least there are no pools or lawns that waste water. And let’s be honest: Las Vegas is no better, even if its main selling point is very different. But whereas Vegas sells fun and looks like it, Mecca is just soulless and tasteless: no building matches its neighbour, it’s all either pure marble and gold or extremely utilitarian and nothing seems to be older than about fifty years, though I will admit I haven’t seen that much of the city. There’s bound to be a quaint little souq somewhere, with woodcovered corridors where salesmen offer gold, perfumes, spices or genuine leather sandals handmade in China from hole in the wall shops, or a museum located in a building that’s actually older than Arnold Schwarzenegger. I just haven’t seen any of that. In Riyadh I can drive you to a dozen locations worth a look, but how miserable must a city be to make Riyadh look vibrant and historic in comparison...
What I saw resembled many mid-size American cities that have grown an endless sprawl of concrete boxes and parking lots that don’t even try to form a unified whole and all want to be the one and only epicentre of commerce. Come visit our grouping of concrete boxes! There’s a cinema in this one and the box next to it sells ice cream! Please ignore any other boxes. Our boxes offer anything you might like, with a parking lot in the middle. Once there was nothing here, but now there are boxes with things you can buy!
Well, that is basically how it worked in Mecca: here’s a bit of empty land. Let’s flip a coin: hotel or apartment building? Shit, apartment building ... Look, can’t these workers come in by bus? And so there are many hotels, more than I’ve ever seen in one city, ranging from cheap hostels where Afghani sheep herders who have saved up for a ticket all their lives sleep six to a room to mid-range hotels such as you might find in tourist-heavy cities such as London or New York, though they have all the oddities I have come to expect in Saudi: hardly any female service staff, separate prayer rooms, signs directing where single men are not allowed and Mutawa on foot patrol, keeping an eye on all these foreigners. There’s a vast police presence, and the police and the military in Saudi are almost interchangeable. This is also not a city that facilitates a night out. No bars, no cinemas, no clubs with illuminated pools. Early to bed and early to rise is the motto, though not for the hyper-rich, obviously: they too are catered for, out of sight.
That was my world, my view of Saudi Arabia. I trotted along with the royals, the people who did absolutely nothing useful but who received generous stipends and access to special airplanes and suites. They seemed to me to exist mostly so that housekeepers, gardeners and car salesmen might have something to do.
Our driver pulled into a petrol station in what I assumed to be the outskirts of town and disconnected my car as the ramps lowered automatically.
“How much you charge?” he asked, after turning off the generator.
“Uhm ... I’m at thirty-two percent,” I answered.
“Is okay?”
“Yes, thanks. Are there any charging points in the city?”
“Yah. Your hotel. No problem. All luxury hotel. Valet will charge when charger is busy. No problem. If you need me, call.”
He pointed at the phone number I had been looking at for almost three hours, painted in white on the back of his baby blue cabin, above the generator. I had already written it down. He didn’t seem the tiniest bit bothered about having smuggled me into Mecca, held his phone against Asim’s which I assume concluded some sort of digital payment, nodded at me as I drove off the flatbed and took off in a cloud of soot
“Okay, one more checkpoint, then we are clear. We’ll be in our room within thirty minutes, I promise. Let me readjust your shemagh.”
The second checkpoint wasn’t checking everybody right now, because that would cause a ten mile traffic jam. Asim flashed his medallion and was directed via an empty booth with an open barrier. We were now entering downtown Mecca, which looked more or less like Riyadh. We drove past mostly yellow or light brown buildings with blueish glass and arched windows, clean streets, a lot of roundabouts, pedestrian bridges to cross six lane boulevards, rows of topiary trees and date palms (or maybe not date palms because those produce dates, which attract rats), lots of paved sidewalks and paths. There were few women out and about, not even as car passengers. I saw only two or three children, all with the brown hue of migrant workers. As Mecca is situated in a valley, rather than an almost entirely flat plane like Riyadh, the local geology was a bit more present: car parks were hewn out of rocky hillsides and low mountain ranges, hills really, were visible in the background. We even passed through a tunnel at one point. There are no tunnels in the Netherlands. Only viaducts and aqueducts, technically speaking. It’s still a bit of a thrill, if I’m honest. (There aren’t many around London either, it must be said.)
///booklet.expires.striving
There was lots of construction going on and there might have been as many trucks and buses on the road as passenger cars. Only traffic signs were bi-lingual, but not nearly all of them. Apartment buildings all had AC units on the outside walls, in reinforced cages. Every third car was a crossover, every tenth car a taxi. Roads occasionally went uphill. A railway line ran overhead, stood on vast pillars. The city has a serious pigeon problem. There were almost as many pigeons as there were minarets. We were following the signs to ‘Al-Masjid al-Haram’ or as it is called in English: The Grand Mosque. Not even Asim seemed quite sure where to go: if you miss an exit, you’re in for a bit of a puzzle. But pretty soon we pulled up at the hotel, where a valet took care of K-T. Asim made sure to request she was charged, which caused some confusion because the valet was only familiar with Teslas, which have their charge ports in the same place where regular cars have gas caps. K-T is charged at the front, with her connectors accessible via an almost hidden panel. Still, I was sure she’d cooperate. She even pretended that a square bit of plastic that as far as I know does absolutely jack shit was a valet key, though it might be there’s actually a passive transponder chip in that card.
Our bags were already waiting for us, possibly already unpacked. Asim didn’t even pass the check-in desk but just walked to the elevator that led to the royal suites, where he identified himself to a clerk and got me an access card. They didn’t ask for ID when I showed my royal medallion but gave me a plastic credit card with the name Mirza Abdullah Bushri embossed on it (in Arabic), and an ID picture they took on the spot with a camera embedded in the check-in desk. The card was hot from the fuser when they gave it to me. Only then did they ask Asim: ‘Is Mr. Carstairs joining you today?’ and that’s when Asim realised Omar had already signed me in.
“Uhmmm ... later, I think. Mr. Bushri has full privileges, right?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” confirmed the clerk. And that was it: we were allowed into the elevator with our cards and went to the 50th floor.
That floor had a check-in desk as well, or perhaps more of a concierge lounge. From here up to the penthouse was basically a royal palace, not accessible to any paying guests. Here they could arrange everything for their demanding guests and they were more up to speed with court protocols and who is who. I think the lobby clerk had called ahead, because I was welcomed as Mirza Bushri without question. It happens: some Westerners convert, for love or because their own life is so shitty that a chance to join a religion that is spreading like, if not wildfire then certainly mildew, seems to be a good move. It’s always the losers who convert, the feeble minded, the ones who never fit in. If Islam hadn’t snatched them up, Scientology, the Klan or the NRA would have. I blame no man for being a Muslim because he was born into it. I can even understand why those who realise all religion is bogus and this one in particular keep up the pretence. After all, a few poorly chosen words and you’ll lose your entire family, risk prison or death and in Asim’s case something worse than any of that: an end to that cushy allowance from the royal purse.
Omar came to greet us, now hobbling along on one crutch. We then walked to a seating area.
“Salaam. How was your trip? No trouble?”
“It was fine,” said Asim, leaning in for a quick hug. “It is good to be here.”
“I see Mr. Carstairs is playing dress-up again? Passing himself off as a proper Muslim?”
“Yes, with a new name! Mirza Abdullah Bushri!” beamed Asim.
Omar’s eyebrows shot up.
“Really? So you will keep this up as long as you are here?”
“Well, I’d rather not, but I think an Englishman in a three piece suit might attract a lot of unwanted attention,” I said, not entirely sure if the receptionist should be privy to this conversation.
“Then don’t wear a suit. Plenty of people who work in the city wear normal Western clothes. And you won’t be going anywhere without Asim, I imagine. I don’t know what you normally do during the day, but you won’t have to cook for us so no visits to the supermarket. Just focus on Alexandra’s education.”
“Yes, yohwrihness. I was rather under the impression we’d be visiting the Rose Palace, though?”
“Yes, perhaps. I want to do at least part of the hajj. I have some important matters to attend to in the next few days, very important, but considering the great losses we have sustained in the past few months I want to do what I can while I am here.”
“Which great losses, if I may ask?”
If eyes could shoot daggers ... Omar’s crutch slid to the floor while he berated me.
“Mister Carstairs, I know it meant very little to YOU, but I recently lost my good friend Professor Rasul, in whose ROOM you LIVE. And he died doing something ... very upsetting. And shortly afterwards there was an attack by the Jews on my most beloved mosque and I lost another friend, the respected scholar and my advisor Imam Musa ibn Ja’far. Not to mention all the blood that was shed around us that day. Does that not count as ‘great losses’ in your book? Huh?”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, not because I fear him but because I saw he was genuinely upset and didn’t want to make that worse. He got up, supported by Asim, who handed him his crutch.
“It is the holiest month and I want to worship my creator, my God. I need to tell him that I give myself over to his plan, whatever it is and whatever is asked of me. You may do that by holding a bake sale and thirty minutes of singing per week, but for us it is different. Now please put an end to this despicable charade and dress like you always do. I find it very distasteful to see a man with so little respect for the one true religion playing dress-up. ASIM, LET ME GO, I can walk fine, thank you!”
After Omar had stumbled off, Asim and I located our rooms. The four of us had connecting suites, with mine being furthest away from Alexandra for some reason. Omar was next to her and Asim next to me. The entire floor consisted of sixteen of these suites, several of which were currently occupied. There was also a prayer room and a common area that could easily host sixty people. In the middle, or rather at the head, stood a gilded chair that might pass for a throne. Even though it was unlikely that the King would ever bother visiting this minor node within the sprawling network of royal palaces, there would be a suitable place for him to hold court.
The suite was half the size of the one I’d had in Las Vegas, and laid out very differently. It had some small self-contained rooms inside it, the size of regular hotel rooms. That’s where servants and guards would stay. There was also a kitchen, but no mini-bar. No piano, either. But there was a very large window, that overlooked the city from about 240 metres up. As views go, I’ve had worse.
I stood at the ceiling to floor window and looked out over the Grand Mosque, that lay below us in the scalding heat. After a few minutes Asim came in through a connecting door and joined me in silence. There was a lot to see below our feet.
A picture really is worth a thousand words in this case, but I’ll give it a shot. It was vast, much larger than any building I’ve ever seen. I’m in no position to Google anything right now, but it’s far larger than any football stadium and probably as large as that Tesla factory in Nevada, but that is a number that won’t age well as Musk keeps adding to it. Eighth largest building in the world, from the top of my head.
Anyway, the focal point of the mostly white and beige structure is the large, round open space around the Ka’bah, that famous (or infamous) black box. It’s actually a stone structure covered in black cloth, embroidered with verses from the Qu’ran. That cloth is called the Kiswah and when they change it for special occasions (like, I dunno, Christmas?) they act as if they’re changing grandma’s underwear on her deathbed: inch by inch, revealing as little of what’s underneath as possible.
There used to be more of these buildings dotted around the Middle East, but this one somehow became the biggest deal. Pilgrims dressed in black or white (far fewer in black than white, big surprise) were slowly circling the structure. We took it all in for a few minutes, without feeling the need to talk.
The view of the Grand Mosque could not be better. Not that it was in any way beautiful to me, but I can’t deny being impressed by the scale. The entire footprint was not dissimilar to that of a cathedral, but the base was intersected by a slanted, covered walkway that seemed to throw the entire structure somewhat out of kilter. There were four main gates, that each had a name which didn’t seem worth remembering. One was the Umrah gate. I knew that word: the little hajj. There’s also a weird, wedge-shaped extension tacked onto the main building. I can’t stop thinking of the Millennium Falcon whenever I see it.
“That small golden dome, that’s where the Zamzam well is,” explained Asim.
“And those three golden domes in a row?”
“Uhm ... I don’t know. When you’re inside everything seems a lot bigger. And I was here ten years ago. That long gallery is the walk between Safa and Marwah. And if you count the minarets you’ll see there are nine. Only the mosque in Medina has more: ten.”
I thought I’d counted eleven, but perhaps I had inadvertently included two that weren’t part of the mosque.
“Is that important?” I asked, which stumped Asim.
“I ... I suppose so?”
“So what’s in Medina?”
“Masjid an-Nabawi, the Prophet’s mosque. That is where he is buried.”
“Oh. And is that part of the hajj?”
“No. Many people visit there, of course, because how often are you only an hour away from Medina? But it’s not one of the five pillars.”
“I bet the Medina tourist office isn’t happy about that.”
“Oh, I think they find it’s busy enough,” grinned Asim. “Well, it’s almost Dhurh. I think I’ll go downstairs and help Omar get into the Grand Mosque. He’ll appreciate it if I join him. You know, I didn’t realise the death of the professor had hit him so hard. I wasn’t even sure he liked him.”
“Apart from yourself, do you know ANYBODY whom Omar genuinely likes?”
“Yes. His second wife, Adina. Try not to order food during prayer, it’s suspicious here. Are you going to sleep?”
“Don’t know yet. Maybe a nap after lunch.”
“Okay, I won’t trouble you unless I hear from you. Don’t look so worried, Carstairs. So far you have done a good job of blending in. This is a unique opportunity. Use it.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
Asim knew exactly what me becoming extra polite towards the end of a conversation meant. He playfully thumped my shoulder and went off to find Omar. I discovered that my bags had arrived and indeed been unpacked! Presumably Amina would show up at some point. Maybe she was resting right now. As the Azaan began for noon prayer, louder than I’d ever been subjected to before, I found a bathroom and had a shower, followed by two hours of sleep.
Hunger woke me up. My phone had been recharged, and my watch was still at eighty percent. I double-tapped the screen, but K-T was far out of reach, hundreds of meters below me and with many inches of concrete between us. I picked out a suit, but found my shirt and jacket were creased. As there was no iron, nor a board, I called room service. They answered in Arabic, which is not entirely unreasonable given the circumstances. And because I was still a bit drowsy from my long night and daytime nap, I just switched to the wrong character:
“Good afternoon, this is Mr. Carstairs in suite six. Some of my clothes...”
“Ah, Mr. Carstairs! You have arrived!” said an enthusiastic man.
“Ah ... yes. Some hours ago.”
“I am so sorry to have missed you! My name is Nasr, I am the hospitality manager. His Royal Highness Prince Omar told me to expect you.”
Oh my God, what had I done? Wasn’t I supposed to be Mirza?
“Did he? Good. Uhm...”
“Yes Sir, what can we do for you?”
“I need some clothes pressed. And lunch would be nice. Would that be...”
“Absolutely Mr. Carstairs. I see here that you have not received a pass yet, correct?”
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