I am flying from KL to Bahrain on Gulf Airlines. About ninety eight percent of the passengers are from the Gulf, many of them, by the way they are dressed, from Saudi. Living in Saudi I am used to seeing large numbers of Arabs on my flights to and from the country, but usually they are travelling in twos or threes. These passengers are travelling in packs. Just in front of me at checkout -- and through the whole airport it seems -- is a pack of 17 Saudis, all from the same family. They are amusing both because of their behaviour and appearance.
Three generations travelling together. The men all have long, rather impoverished beards that, in the English tradition of facial hair, would suggest that they were Open University sociologists stuck in a time warp or vagrants suffering from incontinence and a sense of hopelessness. In Saudi, of course, it rather conveys an air of the devout, a certain religious fanaticism. The girls and women all have huge hips and backsides, the pre-teens in too-tight jeans, the post-teens in shapeless black abayas and veils.
The whole family is queuing noisily, constantly making phone calls or sending a delegation off to one shop or another for emergency food supplies. Suddenly there is a crash as the 8 year-old, who has been rolling around on top of the huge pile of cheap luggage, falls from his perch and bangs his head on the barrier. The family pick him up and laugh at him whilst he rubs his ear and cries loudly but without tears.
When their turn comes at the check in desk they swarm forwards, pushing and shoving each other to get to the counter, dragging their bags and trolleys after them. Looking overwhelmed the petite Malay girl behind the desk asks the nearest behemoth for his passport. His backside shudders under his thobe as he turns to ask his brother what the woman wants. There is an exchange in Arabic and the oldest brother rummages in his hand-luggage and produces a collection of passports and tickets.
Between them, the family have about forty pieces of luggage, which the arrange on the floor, not understanding that they are expected to lift it on to the conveyor-belt themselves. Gradually, thanks to the patience of the Malaysian check in officials, the problems are gradually overcome and boarding passes issued.
At the immigration desk and security check the family once more swarm at one clerk, ignoring the other desks which are free. It is obviously important for them to stick together. I just hope that I am not sitting with them on the plane.
Three generations travelling together. The men all have long, rather impoverished beards that, in the English tradition of facial hair, would suggest that they were Open University sociologists stuck in a time warp or vagrants suffering from incontinence and a sense of hopelessness. In Saudi, of course, it rather conveys an air of the devout, a certain religious fanaticism. The girls and women all have huge hips and backsides, the pre-teens in too-tight jeans, the post-teens in shapeless black abayas and veils.
The whole family is queuing noisily, constantly making phone calls or sending a delegation off to one shop or another for emergency food supplies. Suddenly there is a crash as the 8 year-old, who has been rolling around on top of the huge pile of cheap luggage, falls from his perch and bangs his head on the barrier. The family pick him up and laugh at him whilst he rubs his ear and cries loudly but without tears.
When their turn comes at the check in desk they swarm forwards, pushing and shoving each other to get to the counter, dragging their bags and trolleys after them. Looking overwhelmed the petite Malay girl behind the desk asks the nearest behemoth for his passport. His backside shudders under his thobe as he turns to ask his brother what the woman wants. There is an exchange in Arabic and the oldest brother rummages in his hand-luggage and produces a collection of passports and tickets.
Between them, the family have about forty pieces of luggage, which the arrange on the floor, not understanding that they are expected to lift it on to the conveyor-belt themselves. Gradually, thanks to the patience of the Malaysian check in officials, the problems are gradually overcome and boarding passes issued.
At the immigration desk and security check the family once more swarm at one clerk, ignoring the other desks which are free. It is obviously important for them to stick together. I just hope that I am not sitting with them on the plane.
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