Saudi Arabia: He Sings about His Gun
By Matt Scott

The cable car traveled down the side of the mountain at an alarming speed. As I looked down at the sheer grade of the slope, the car began to rock; wind howled through the open window, and the car bumped up and down on its wire. It was several minutes before we entered a dip in the mountains and the swaying began to stop; I was finally able to relax and admire the scenery as we descended from Jebel Soudah, Saudi Arabia’s highest mountain.

A hawk soared on the thermals close by, before diving to catch its prey hidden somewhere among the rocks far below. Juniper and acacia trees grew in between compact cacti that dotted the ground below. Even thought the foliage was sparse, the environment was in stark contrast to the desert that covers the majority of the Kingdom, where little, if anything grows.

To the left and right of the car lay the rocky valleys and peaks of the Al Souda mountain range, partially concealed in the morning haze. Stretching along the southern border of the country, the Al Souda Mountains are an impressive end to the vast desert and form part of the unique Asir region of Arabia; one of the most scenic and spectacular regions on the Arabian peninsula.

The area around Jebel Soudah, at 3,133m, is the most visited part of the park; and the cable car has become a popular way to visit an impressive demonstration of Asir’s culture and heritage: Rijal Alma, one of the oldest rural towns in Saudi Arabia. The town, which once served the trading routes from the Red Sea, opened as a museum in 1986 and is proud to boast over 2,000 artifacts and 30,000 visitors a year. It is just a short drive from the foot of the cable car.

As we arrived, an elderly man came forward to greet us. Even with a rifle in one hand, his arms were wide in welcome, as if greeting old friends. He wore a traditional white thobe with a colorful striped scarf draped over both shoulders. A hint of a paunch protruded over his belt, which held an ornate curved knife. I could smell the flowering basil in his top pocket as his shook my hand, “Salam Alekum.” Welcome.

He directed the group – a few travelers and our guides – towards a small awning at the side of the main house. I sat down on a colorful chair; a basic wooden fame with a multicolored weave making up the seat. This decorative but practical style reflected the architecture of the buildings around us.

Set in a V-shaped steep valley, the houses stretched up the sides of both hills, reaching different heights, some just one or two stories, some up to seven. Their distinct exterior, dark, rough stone and clay, rose vertically twenty or thirty feet. The walls were broken up with white rock that framed the bright doors and small, colorful windows; it surely makes a striking impact on any visitor. There appeared to be many buildings in the development that was ahead of us, the levels and sizes differed according to the lay of the land, others constructed according to no apparent architectural law, just added on as the residents saw fit. The apparent random placing of extensions gave the impression of a sprawling complex, growing both up and across the hill.

“Welcome,” the man said in English, “Mohammed,” he said thumping his chest with a fist. He then began the traditional welcome dance: stamping his feet, walking back and forth from his guests, singing in a high voice; waving his gun by his side and over his head. He moved away from the group and bowed slightly as he approached.  Gun in hand, his singing continued as he spun round, jumping first towards then away from the group. The dance finished as he moved back towards us, heavily stamping his feet with a finale of a loud yelp.

It was silent again and we began to clap politely.

“There is no need to clap. You don’t clap for someone welcoming you,” Khalid, one of the escorts, told us. “He sings about his gun, about how powerful it is, and how his weapon welcomes you”

“I am seventy-three,” Mohammed said, now speaking through an interpreter. “When I was younger, I carried two guns and could do this with both.”

He stepped away from the awning and held the rifle one handed at the very end of the barrel; with one swift movement he swung it in a wide arc until it was straight above his head.

“Who would like to try?”

I stepped forward, and Mohammed handed me the gun.  I suddenly realized how heavy it was; at least ten pounds, probably more; the weight balanced throughout its length. Holding it by the end of the barrel, I let it rest on the floor. As I began to lift it, my wrist bent, my fingers doubled back to my arm, and my muscles strained.  I gritted my teeth and lifted it three inches of the ground. I could see Mohammed smiling broadly. Pausing, I tried again. After some puffing and grunting, I made a gain of only a few more inches. My futile attempt extracted a few polite claps from the group and a large grin from Mohammed. Several others also tried, and all failed.

As we began the tour, Mohammed casually picked up the rifle, swung it over his head, and rested it on his shoulder.  As we walked towards the entrance of the nearest building, Mohammed paused and looked around the village.  He began to reminisce as he glanced across the old houses. He sighed, “Once, this village was self sufficient,” he pointed to the hills, “farming,” into the valley, “a market,” and to the buildings opposite, “a mosque.”

“What more do you need?” Khalid added in agreement. The original houses were constructed on this hill over 1000 years ago; and some remnants remained under the brickwork of these more modern additions, some of which still dated back over 400 years.

The traditional way of life in this region has been struggling to survive for decades. Influence from rival villages, people moving to the cities, and the influx of modern ideas have all had their impact. Rijal Alma has maintained a traditional way of life for many years, while others have given way to modernity. Now even nature is threatening the few traditions that remain.
Several hollow logs were stacked next to us where bees were traditionally kept. The logs were mostly empty with just a few small bees flying around. “We are being threatened by the African wasp,” we are told. “Just five of these wasps can destroy a whole nest.”    

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