Aramco Holiday Bundle

These three classic books chronicle the first ten years of the company that is now Saudi Aramco. From the original negotiations for the concession in 1934, through the difficulties of desert exploration and drilling in a harsh, hostile environment to the elation of discovery - soon to be dampened by World War II and the travails experienced by the hundred Americans that remained in the field. Now available for a limited time only through December 18th.

For details and more information about the Holiday Bundle

First Steps

The Flying Camel with an Aramco stewardess- 1952

It’s amazing how far the attitude towards smoking has changed in 50 years. In the 1950s I remember going with my mother to the doctor and after my exam the two of them smoking like fiends while they discussed my current affliction. On those spectacular New York to Dhahran flights on the Flying Camel or Flying Oryx, once the plane was in the air, a great cocktail party would begin, especially on the departing flights. The cabin would be filled with people in the aisles, sitting on the arm-rests chattering away with each other, drinking and smoking like it was a wild Christmas party in Dhahran.
     Smoking on the plane was always a little close but so acceptable that it was barely noticed. Except for my highly allergenic friend Dave who just resigned himself to being covered with hives by time he got to Shannon airport in Ireland. With the advent of the 707 the Aramco airline shut down and we all flew commercial. So it was about 1963 and Smith and I were flying on BOAC out of Athens back to high school in the States when we witnessed an all-time first in air travel. 

Lockheed Constellation

     Once the plane was airborne the stewardess came on and announced that BOAC had just started a no smoking policy. If you objected to smoking you should switch seats now. And then she said, “For the duration of the flight smoking will only be allowed on the left side of the plane.”

     Smith and I laughed so hard that people started looking at us. “On the left side of the… (fill in your lame joke) became our tagline for the flight. I guess even a child has to crawl before it walks, we were there for baby’s first steps.

Dhahran's Palace of Dreams

Growing up in Dhahran in the 1950s without television and barely radio the movies were everything. Our only link with the outside world. Three movies a week with a rerun on Thursday, as kids we’d go to pretty much anything that was playing. Even if the feature was some unfathomable drama about thwarted love, boundless ambition or existential trauma in 1950s America, we’d go just for the pre-show filler.

     There would always be two cartoons. Glorious big screen, lovingly made animated stories, the likes of which today’s children will never see. Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, the incredibly violent Tom and Jerry or Woody Woodpecker, another particularly vicious character whose antics couldn’t be shown these days without a PG-13 restriction. Once in a while Mr. Magoo or Droopy would wander across the screen as marvelously clueless as we were. In the later years we had the pleasure of watching the Road Runner duel Wiley Coyote on the big screen.

Looking for Lana

Since when we were in Fourth grade, we all knew that we would be sent away after Ninth grade to high school - somewhere. By Sixth grade it was an accepted fact of life. By Eighth grade it was in our faces. Some kids welcomed it and others were uncertain about their fate, but we generally agreed that the kids whose parents couldn’t bear to separate with their kids and resigned were doomed as they could never experience the joys of being a returning student.

Now anyone in their right mind would do everything possible to avoid being in Arabia in the summer, but we weren’t even close to being rational at that age. Like almost every Aramco kid, I’d rather have ten root canals in a row than miss out on being a returning student. Many kids went to Rome or Beirut or Switzerland, but I was brainwashed into going to the Benito Mussolini School for destroying social graces in the dying town of Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin –a Jesuit boy's school on the edge of Hell. I must admit that there was a certain fascination to going to a school in America. I knew more about Rome and Beirut than I did the USA and thought that it might be interesting to sample the real American lifestyle – mistake number one.

So 1962 I showed up on the banks of the Mississippi with a windbreaker and desert boots. No one told me that it’d be ten below with three feet of fresh snow in a few months. Somehow I acquired a parka, sat on radiators all winter long and was finally released. For some odd reason I flew back by myself though my brother and a couple of friends went to the same correctional facility. I flew into the Rome airport and was wandering around waiting for the next flight when I bumped into the famous Jimmy R. who I had known since before Kindergarten. He was the kid who got caught by his foot upside down in the ficus tree by the swimming pool.

Think Ahead

Think ahead. Be prepared. Always have a plan B. These are the kind of concepts that my dad tried to pound into my head, and probably your parents too. How hard could it be to remember them? The first two consist of only two words. Pithy, sound advice, except that when you are 17 who needs advice? You are way smarter than that because, though you don’t know it, your frontal lobe isn’t yet fully connected to the rest of your brain.

The frontal lobe comes up with marvelous ideas like wouldn’t it be fun to ride a skateboard down a steep hill that crosses a busy intersection? Or my favorite that actually happened – wouldn’t it be a kick to grab one of those deadly poisonous sea snakes at Half Moon Bay and handle it until it bit you? If this lobe was connected to the cerebral cortex the answer would be obvious, but then the whole spontaneity thing would be lost.

The Gingerbread Boy

Deceit is a many splendored thing. Never began to master the subject until Smith and I, 16 years old and always hungry were hanging around his kitchen. It was one of those windy days when shamaals swept the streets of Dhahran, the AC was quietly humming and there wasn’t a soul outside except for some hapless house boy pedaling his bike in vain against the blowing sand on the way back to domestic camp after serving a bridge group luncheon.

After we opened the refrigerator a half dozen times looking for something to eat, we wandered into his dining room to behold a giant gingerbread boy cooling on the typical Danish modern dining room table. Smith picked it up and said, “My mom made it for my little brother’s birthday. Do you want a bite?”

Hooky

Standing, Tim at age 6, David Snyder, Mary Barger - 2+

For some unknown reason, throughout my life various circumstances have led me into unusual situations. Perhaps the drummer I was marching to played Stockhausen on the snares, but it began early in life. I was born in Dhahran in 1947 where I lived at 1134. Hamilton House, the palatial, by Dhahran standards, company guest house was on the next block to the north. It was the only place with a lawn covered hill in town. Rolling down the slope was great fun and you’d always come home with grass stained jeans, itching like mad from the bugs in the grass.

To the south was a large median with two bachelorette portables. The bachelorette portables were terrific. If you were a kid, you could go and knock on the door and almost always some lovely single woman would answer, invite you in and spoil you with cookies and maybe a Pepsi. A block further on was the recreation complex: the pool, the bowling alley, the Fiesta room – a snack bar and coffee shop, the tennis courts, the ball field, the movie theater, and unfortunately the school.

I didn’t really have anything against school, my brother and sister went there, but it did seem somewhat constricting as you had to go every day at the same time. So when I turned six it was off to the Gulag. However my family was on a short leave, so I started Kindergarten a week or so late. 

Island in the Gulf

Island in the Gulf was the brain child of Jack Benjamin who worked in Aramco's Public Relations Department. His son Mike and his close friends: Jeff Jones, Jim Mandis and myself were fanatic skin divers, so Jack figured that it would be a great idea for Aramco to produce a movie about some teenage boys who travel to Juraid Island in the company of two scientists to explore the island's flora and fauna. The late Charlie Armstrong, an avid amateur naturalist, and Stephen Bates joined us as the American youths while Jim Mandaville and Dr. Alio were drafted for their scientific credentials. The Academy Award winning director Richard Lyford and the accomplished Palestinian cinematographer Jack Madvo did most of the filming with the assistance of the film editor Ibrahim Yousef. 
      We camped on Juraid for three nights, spearfished all day, chased birds and had the exquisite experience of seeing giant sea turtles laying their eggs at night to mention just a few of the highlights. It was one of the best times of our lives. Unfortunately the film was re-edited with the inclusion of some clumsy voice overs that detract a bit from the show but don't diminish the splendor of visiting a pristine island in the gulf.
      This trip resulted in my first published article, "Of Turtles and Terns", which was printed in the May/June 1968 edition of Aramco World. I was delighted to be published but didn't know that they paid too. I was a sophomore in college when I received a check for $300 and nearly fell over. I used some of the money to buy a portable typewriter as there seemed to be a future in this writing business. 

Scott Miller's Invention

Ten year-olds in the mid-1950s,  we roamed Dhahran like feral animals on bicycles in search of even the slightest diversion, and so one day we landed at Scott Miller's house on Christmas Tree Circle to behold his new invention. A long piece of rope tied to the handle atop the metal lid of one of those Aramco issue garbage cans. The other end knotted firmly to the stem of his bicycle seat. As if he had discovered fire, he glowed like Prometheus with the satisfaction of his ingenuity as he demonstrated its brilliance.

Riding around the circle, he dragged the screeching lid and by maneuver was able to make it perform like a water skier who first swings widely to the right and then quickly to the opposite side of the arc. We jumped with delight as it first crashed into the tire of a parked car and then bounced back outwards from the rubber bumper. And again it came screaming back into the tire of the next car and rebounded wildly back. He did the whole circle, maybe half a dozen cars, and we howled in approval.
       Feeding on our joy, he redoubled his speed and circled again. Working one car after another, he sailed the galvanized disk to and fro. Each ricochet fueling the speed of the next to come. Wild-eyed with manic glee, he grinned at us over his shoulder. The thin, flying puck came skittering back towards the next target ... and wedged itself firmly behind the tire. The rope tightened and his bike came to an instant halt. He didn't. With the most wonderful expression of surprise and self-realized irony Scott Miller sailed over the handlebars and into mythology, as he hit the street face-first and bounced along the hot asphalt. Convulsed with laughter, we all died a thousand deaths, mirthful witnesses to a sublime miracle of humor, a gift from the goddess of Fun to her devoted followers.

Hidden Places

As kids growing up in Dhahran in the 50s we were naturally attracted to alleys and ratholes and hidden places totally devoid of adult supervision. One neat but prosaic place was inside the tepee-like hedge that anchored Christmas Tree circle. You could go through a small door at the bottom and hang around within, maybe smoking a stolen cigarette or just laughing at some inanity or another. However it was very popular and far from secret.

The first recreational place Aramco built was the tennis courts, probably in the late 30s. They put a fence around it to keep out the wind and it made a good place to show the outdoor movies. They planted a hedge around the fence and added water. The fence grew taller as did the hedge. By the mid-50s the fence and the hedge were maybe twenty five or thirty feet high. Prowling around one day looking for something to do, one of us noticed that there was a narrow space between the fence and the hedge. So with some difficulty we wiggled between and started climbing up. It wasn't exactly simple because in many places the hedge and the fence were completely entangled together. Also the hedge was filthy with years of accumulated dirt and malathion and we eventually were dusted from hedge to toe with the stuff. But it was all worth it when we got to the top.

We crawled through the hedge to the outer side and thirty feet off the ground we perched in the tangle of branches like some kind of strange birds nesting. We could see everything from the school, later the pool hall, to the swimming pool, the patio, the bowling alley, over to the theater. Way up in the air we watched people come and go, the gardeners working over by the pool, the bachelors and bachelorettes flirting with each other en route to the Fiesta Room, mothers hurrying their children to the pool. Cars driving down King's Road.

We could see them but because they had not the slightest inclination to look up, they couldn't see us. Like mocking birds, we mocked and laughed high above the world as we knew it.

Rite of Passage

     In the Dhahran of the 50s there were many rites of passage. The involuntary type like when you are perfectly content riding your bicycle down the street and a fly shoots into your open mouth and down your throat. You crash your bike to the asphalt, coughing and choking, certain that you are about to die. There are the voluntary kind such as the first time you jump off the end of the salt water injection pier at Abqaiq beach or when you slip out of camp at night, head for the jebal and climb to the top of the radio tower. Spread out below you is all of Dhahran, bathed in the flickering glow of the flares at the Stabilizer, the night sky littered with stars like so many rhinestones strewn on black velvet. What a view.
     Billy James lived across the street from me. He was four years older and a ninth grader but sometimes he'd let me hang around. One day he told me there was a labyrinth of tunnels that stretched endlessly beneath the movie theater. They were dark and pitiless, teeming with fanged albino rats, venomous snakes and tarantulas as big as your fist. You had to be careful as one wrong turn and you'd be lost, doomed to die of hunger beneath the movies. How could I resist.

Playing Cards

In fifth grade there was a kid I'll call Cecil. He was big as an eighth grader, but not the shiniest spoon on the table - a clumsy, good natured guy with a great goofy smile. One night while his parents were at a party he decided to poke around in his dad's top drawer. After a bit of browsing around Bingo! He found a deck of nudie playing cards. After going through them carefully he figured that he could pocket a few and his dad would never notice. Not sharp thinking because when his dad found the queen of hearts, the black deuce and the jack of diamonds gone Cecil's days would be numbered. But that was for another time.

The next morning Cecil showed up at school and he was the most popular guy around.  (Teachers are always talking about boosting the self esteem of their students but I presume this is not an approved method.) Mind you this was the 50s so there were no sultry, come hither super models, just semi-unclad middle-aged women with uni-brows in open kimonos or artfully draped bathrobes. They all looked like they had peptic ulcers or at least extreme indigestion. Didn't matter to us, we all thought this was just terrific.