The Meaning of Inshallah

We've learned to say inshallah with some frequency over the last few days It means "god willing": getting our first paycheques cashed, inshallah, at the local bank without benefit of an account which we can't open because we don't yet have our iqama(our proof-of-residency card) which might come by the end of October, inshallah, as long as our paperwork is in order and the sometimes desperately slow wheels of Saudi bureaucracy turn the appropriate number of times, inshallah; getting our airline tickets which must be paid for before two o'clock, inshallah, at the travel agency for the 50 minute flight south to Jeddah two weeks from now, a process our New Zealand friend Ollie tells us could take 15 minutes, inshallah, or an hour and fifteen minutes depending on how long the line-up is and complicated by the fact that during Ramadan the office is only open from 10:30 to 2:00.

We hear it every day: on the bus taking us to work, in staff meetings, in the grocery shops. It's everywhere, and I suspect the reason for this is that you can never tell with any confidence what's going to happen, how long it will take when it does finally happen, and if it's going to work out in the end anyway. Things here can be maddeningly uncertain, so when things do work out as you might hope they will it is wise to assume Allah has decided to favour you, and it's even better to ask ahead of time with an "inshallah" aloud after every wish, hope, desire, or plan.

Take this morning's trip up the coast of the Red Sea, for instance.

The plan was to go north for an hour or so by car to a small cove with shallow waters and some spectacular coral reefs for a bit of snorkeling. Borden and Anita had set this up for us a week ago and we spent some time yesterday in one of the many pools on the compound learning to use the equipment people had generously lent us for the trip. Friday morning arrives, sunny and 94F, and by 8:30 we're loading the car with folding chairs, mats for the beach, coolers with snacks and drinks, towels, and all the standard beach paraphernalia. Two things, though, make this more than a trip to Sauble Beach or Wasaga. We have two massive containers of water, capable of keeping the four of us well hydrated for days, and "ladders" for the tires to grip the sand should we get stuck on the beach. These ladders are metal frames about two to three feet long, about eight to ten inches wide, and welded together so as to resemble a miniature ladder. The water and the ladders remind me that any trip out of town in Saudi has to allow for being stranded well out of town, and this always means at the very least lots of water.

With everything loaded, we're heading out of town and are driving along a fairly new multi-lane highway when, about 3 km out of town the highway ends quite suddenly in what turns out to be a villager's dusty sun-baked front yard. The highway just ends. We wind our way along bumpy narrow lanes between the village houses and emerge once again into someone's front yard where the multi-lane highway immediately starts again. It's the strangest thing. Borden tells us that the land for this village was a gift from the King to the owner of all the homes and he is reluctant to sell the King's gift to make way for the Yanbu version of the 401. I suspect it is simpler than that: he hasn't yet been offered what he thinks is appropriate compensation.

About two km later, the car overheats and we have to stop. Yanbu is still quite clearly in sight and the nearby mountains, less now than 30km away, loom impressively across very flat fields of quite scrubby brush and sand, lots and lots of sand. We inspect under the hood, and the problem is a mystery to the two of us. No leak, fluid levels clearly fine, fans working, but overheated nonetheless and foolish to go on without getting the problem solved. We limp back to town, stopping to allow the engine to cool every kilometer or so. And with every stop, as the engine cools, we heat up.

The best way for me to deal with the heat we endure as the car cools down is to get out into the sun and mild breeze with a bottle of water and feel grateful this problem didn't arise an hour up the road. Rose and Anita, on the other hand, stay in the car with the doors open, chatting, sipping lemon drinks. It's pretty clear the male fascination with motors and the problems they can cause cuts across vast cultural boundaries. Several Saudi drivers stop to offer help as we wait, hood up, fluids bubbling, and I get a lesson in sign language by watching Borden speak English to an Arabic speaking fellow about what's wrong and where it might be fixed on the Saudi equivalent of an Owen Sound Sunday. Lots of nodding, arm pointing, sweeping gestures meant to indicate heading off to the left or right in search of a mechanic. It's a strange dance.

An hour and twenty minutes after we left the compound in coral-snorkeling anticipation, we return with reassuring comments about being able to use the time to get some marking done. We'll try the adventure again in three weeks, inshallah, Borden and Anita suggest apologetically. With the opportunity of marking ahead of us, Rose and I change and walk out the front door into our front yard which is in fact a 14m by 7m pool. The water might be a decent temperature, inshallah. It isn't the Red Sea, and there isn't any brightly coloured coral in it, but it is cool and very refreshing.