Most of what is now Riyadh was once an oasis surrounded by desert, before it was transformed into a metropolis where neighborhoods were divided into one-kilometer blocks—a city devoid of squares and other spaces of assembly. Today, its highways are packed, its fast-food restaurants are full, and skyscrapers pierce the horizon.
When winter comes, city-dwellers go out to the desert. Some only venture as far as Thumamah, on the outskirts of Riyadh. Others travel a hundred kilometers to oases such as those in Tuwayyq. Besides enjoying the modest greenery and springs that the winter rains bring, these sojourners are driven mainly by a desire to flee the city.
At night in the desert, people wrap themselves in wool, sip tea, converse, and warm themselves by a fire. The word for “fire” is literally “light.” Spark the light. Some tribes used to view the sparking of the light as a sign of hospitality, a beacon to attract guests and wayfarers.
I’ve never been a desert person, but a friend of mine is. I went with him to Thumamah recently, much to his chagrin. He had wanted us to venture farther, to the “real desert.”
“After a rainfall, it’s wondrous,” he said as he opened the trunk of his car and pulled out a carpet, which we spread over the sand. “Leave your phone in the car so we can speak freely,” he said, alluding to the ubiquitous surveillance.
We took out some pieces of wood, charcoal cubes, and a coffee pot, and sat down on the carpet as my friend started to spark the light. The sky did not boast many stars, but the moon was full. He warmed his hands by the fire and poured me a cup of Saudi coffee. Then we began to talk.
Tariq al Haydar’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Beloit Fiction Journal, Crab Orchard Review, North American Review, and elsewhere.
