I left the States in May 1983. Just two months prior, my brother Mike had died at age forty. He had been over sedated when in a clinic to get stitches and, in effect, drowned in his own phlegm. He had chronic bronchitis and was too much out of it to expectorate. He left five young kids behind. We just buried his oldest son this last December. Mikey was 39.

I took the opportunity to stop in France on the way to Jeddah. It had been twenty-eight years since our emigration. I had never met my half sister, Janine nor her daughter Cerise. Janine and my mom had a falling out during World War Two and she wound up in Paris and gotten pregnant. Cerise did not know her father. Rich, my oldest brother, was communicating with them and supplied me with Cerise's address in Paris. I did not announce myself.

I landed at DeGaulle International in the morning, rented a car, checked into my hotel and headed for the address. It was an apartment building, so I located the name on the doorbell and pushed. A voice on the intercom:

"Qui est la?" (Who's there?")

"Jean-Pierre Stachura" I reply.

Silence. More silence. I press the bell again. This time the door is being buzzed open. I walk in and find the apartment number and knock. The door is opened by a woman, but it isn't Cerise. I had seen pictures. So I ask,

"Ou est Cerise?" (Where is Cerise?")

The woman's gaze turns left and I see Cerise coming out of hiding. She has an astonished look on her face. The first thing she wants is to see my passport. I comply. When she verifies that it is indeed me, she takes me in a bear hug and won't let go. She had been troubled many years for not having family and was even considering hiring a private investigator to find her father. I was first contact. She got bleary-eyed.

This day was her husband's birthday and she had to make preparations for a large dinner party in his honor. She needed to get fresh produce and victuals from one of the open air markets. She absolutely insisted for me to accompany her and would not stop asking questions. She seemed elated. When we reached the market, she wasn't in too much of a hurry. She grabbed my biceps with both her hands and held on as though to prevent my running away. We spent the afternoon establishing our friendship and promising to never stay apart for long.

The party was great and I enjoyed renewing my French. Having not slept on the flight, I left early to get some rest with the understanding we would visit her mom the next day.

It turns out that my sister had settled about four miles from my birthplace. Cerise would drive the hundred and fifty miles from Paris to Lury and never once stopped talking. I loved it. The drive itself was wondrous. It was mid-May and the countryside was gorgeously swathed in early blossoms. When we neared my village, the road had shrunk to one car's width. We passed underneath the north town gate and entered. Memories flooded my mind as we passed through town - maybe a mile wide, and exited through the south gate. Another half mile and I stood in front of the house where I was born. The current owner remembered our family and gladly let us in so that I could stand in the spot my mother dropped me thirty-eight years before.

My childhood came rushing back as I wandered the grounds, went to the well where I had so often fetched water, checked out the gooseberry bush behind the outhouse, the cherry trees in bloom, the river, etc. What a joyous day! Cerise was with me and I would tell her the stories of how we grew up here. She was listening now. After a couple of hours, we drove the last few miles to Janine's house.

We hadn't told Janine of our coming to see her, either. She was even more taken aback than Cerise had been. We spent the entire day listening to her story about how my mom had forced her to leave the house during the war and how she had to live on her own in Paris. She seemed relieved to have dumped on us. I was too. We returned to Paris and I headed for my hotel to get ready for the morning flight to Jeddah.

Jeddah presented another culture shock. I had read "The Arab Mind" and the Koran when I got the news of my contract, but any assumptions about being prepared for what I saw when I entered the airport quickly dissipated. It was prayer call and a sea of white thobes (floor-length shirts for the men) on one side and a lake of black abayas (mandatory ladies' wear) on the other were occupied in group prayer. I froze, not knowing if I should move while this was going on. There was going to be plenty more new experiences in this country.

I was a software manager for a Saudi company, so I was not as restricted as most expats. I had a translator, a car and a nice two bedroom apartment. I had an international staff of Filipinos, Pakistanis, Indians and a couple of Brits. My job was to keep them busy working on projects that I had solicited from Saudi companies. Also, I was to create projects that I could then sell to individual organizations. We also partnered up with other companies for large projects. I designed a system for Saudi Agricultural Bank from start to finish at a price tag of twenty-six million dollars, for example.

My translator and I went all over the Kingdom. Based in Riyadh, we worked in Jeddah, Taif, Dahran and a couple of other cities. We would go to meet with some mucky-muck in his office and join those already there. Normally, all meetings were group meetings. We would take a seat and wait to be addressed before we said anything. Sometimes, there were as many as forty people in the large office. A tea boy would make his rounds, refilling any empty glass while the conversation was going on. When recognized, we would state our business and, if appropriate, we would start the process of concluding a commitment.

Fully one-third of US expats never finished the honeymoon period of three months in their contract. Coming into a country that has no movie houses, no bars, five prayer calls a day and a very strict code of conduct was too much for some. I loved it. I took advantage of everything available. We had group convoys into the desert on weekends, visited the souks, ate at some great restaurants in some great hotels and kept ourselves happily occupied. I even joined the Riyadh Golf Club for some desert links experience. It brings to mind a memorable day.

In Saudi Arabia, as in most Islamic countries, Thursday and Friday comprise the weekend, Friday being the day the population goes to the mosque. On this particular Friday, my day started with golf at the Riyadh Country Club. I joined my foursome at 6:00 A.M. to begin our round. We wanted to finish before 10:00 A.M. because the temperature would pass 100 degrees about that time.

Golfing at Riyadh Country Club is quite different than golfing in the United States. Number one, there is no grass. The fairways are scraped by a road grader into a semblance of flatness and the greens are actually "browns" created by sand which has been oiled to prevent its blowing away. Some of us carry plastic bottle caps to place the ball for elevation from the rocky soil while others carry a piece of Astroturf to prevent club damage. Particularly fun is watching a drive bouncing down the fairway like a pinball and going past 300 yards easily.

From the fairway, shots are aimed at the brown. When the ball hits the oily sand, of course, it gets buried. Near each brown is a pipe attached to a long handle so that players may smooth a path to the hole and putt. You can imagine how footprints from prior players pockmark the surface.

On this day, a peculiar event occurred. The seventh hole is a "water hole" where we have to imagine a dust dry depression as containing water. Of course, my drive reached it. When I arrived there and stooped to retrieve my ball, a yellow and red snake appeared from a scruffy bush a few feet from me and looked me in the eye. It was about six feet in length and seemed to contemplate where its next slither would take it. I felt no fear, only respect. I believe in omens and thought about what meaning this carried.

Friday is also the day the Bedouins come to the city from the desert to sell crafts in the "Bedou Souk." We had arranged for a group to go there after the round of golf. I had no time to spare because of the arrangements, so I didn't even have a chance to properly refresh myself. In the summer, it is considered wise to always carry water, no matter what the activity. The air is so dry that there is no feeling of sweat because it evaporates immediately. Too much exposure can cause problems. Although this Friday wasn't the hottest I suffered, it was hot! (Hottest day while there was 141 degrees.)

The souk is located near Clocktower Square in downtown Riyadh. The main mosque is there, faced by the Hall of Justice. The clock tower is at the north end of the parking area, Hall of Justice to the east and the mosque opposing it on the west. The south end leads to the souk.

After a short time at the souk, I began thirsting. I separated myself from the group with the intent of finding some refreshment nearby. I exited the souk and headed for Clocktower Square to find a store and get some water. I entered the parking area to be surprised by the lack of cars. It was prayer time and it normally would be filled. As I started to cross the empty lot, a Saudi soldier ran down the steps of the Hall of Justice to intercept me. He was dressed in uniform and carried a grease gun over his shoulder. He said nothing, but motioned with his head to have me walk towards the west side of the lot. Thinking of the oddity of the situation, I obeyed and went for where most of the cars were parked.

As I was proceeding, I noticed two men standing on concrete dividers overlooking the empty lot. I approached them and asked them what was going on. They said that there would be a "topping" after prayer call. That explained it!

A "topping" is British vernacular for someone having his head chopped off. I had been in Saudi Arabia for over a year and had heard stories from expats about such events, but none of them had ever seen one. All stories were hearsay of what someone else had told them. As thirsty as I was, I made the decision to join the two on top of the divider and questioned them about their experiences. One was French and, since I speak French, we talked about his witnessing a topping in Taif a few months prior. He pointed to a brown van across the lot as where the prisoner was kept.

As we spoke, the cacophony of prayer call was blasting from loudspeakers just above us. After a few minutes, the Hall of Justice doors opened and a stream of young Saudis in uniform, (probably early teenagers,) filed down the stairs and started to make a cordon of bodies framing the empty lot in an approximate square. Shortly thereafter, an older group of Saudis with grease guns shouldered formed an inner cordon behind the youngsters. All faced outward from the center. By this time, a crowd had gathered and was kept at bay by the cordons. The Saudia 747 passing overhead on its way to Riyadh airport made me realize how surreal this scenario was.

Suddenly, the loudspeakers ceased their obnoxious noise and Saudis began exiting the mosque. Many of them gathered near the southwest corner of the lot and waited for the event. Only a minute or so passed before another loudspeaker sounded. This one was in the hands of a policeman in the middle of the square. As he explained to the crowd what the offense had been, a man was taken from the brown van and being led by four policemen towards the center.

He was blindfolded from the crown of his head down to his chin. He moved with difficulty due to his leg irons. His arms were bound at the biceps tightly behind his back. I was hypnotized. As he reached the center of the square, he was forced to kneel and one of the policemen forced his head forward to make his torso parallel to the ground, ripped the collar of his thobe backwards to expose his neck and stepped back.

I never even noticed the executioner until this moment. He had been trailing the group to the center to do his duty. He was dressed in ceremonial attire of red and gold and carried a golden sword perpendicular to the ground immediately behind the group. As soon as the policemen made room, he stepped forward, made a practice swipe, and brought the sword down, cleanly severing the head from the body. The Saudi entourage politely clapped for the executioner's prowess.

When the weight of the head fell, the body jerked back and the carotid artery spewed a red fountain of blood into the air. As the body leaned to the left and keeled over, the arc of blood continued to pulsate outward. My knees buckled and I almost fell off the divider. The pavement was now covered with a huge pool of blood.

Within moments, another man was being led from the van. No! This one was much bigger and bulkier than the first, but the same procedure was occurring. When the executioner brought his sword down this time, there was nothing but a sickening sound of metal meeting bone. Disgusted, the executioner turned one step and came back to the victim (whose head was now touching the ground) and tried once more but only the same sound happened. He tried one more time with the same result and stepped away. A few minutes went by before a doctor came forward to look at the bleeding victim as the blood was gushing from the wounds onto the pavement. He pronounced him dead a few minutes later.

I went to get some water.

Each two-year Saudi contract contains six weeks of paid leave. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with those weeks. From the time of being a small boy in France, I wished to cross the Equator and International Date Line. The Date Line was handled during Vietnam duty, so the Equator would now be conquered. I also craved to go to Australia and New Zealand. I arranged an around-the-world trip for myself and had the time of my life. (I should have capitalized those words.) I stopped in Chicago briefly and left there at 9:00 A.M. on a Monday. By the time I landed in Sydney, I had absolutely no idea what day it was.

The four-hour flight to San Francisco was the first leg. I went to Embarcadero Square, Fisherman's Wharf and Chinatown to pass the eight hours for my next flight. Two hours to Los Angeles International and a two hour wait for the flight to Sydney. (Taking off in a fully-loaded 747 with every seat taken for a sixteen and a quarter hour flight is quite an experience in itself. It took an agonizingly long time for takeoff.) All the passengers cheered when the wheels finally left the ground. It was morning when we landed in Sydney. I had no sleep because of a young lady next to me. She wanted to sleep and requested me to raise the arm that divided us and placed her pretty head on my lap. Chantal Contouri was her name and she was returning to Australia after visiting her best friend, Olivia Newton-John. How could I say no?

I wanted to get going on my adventure immediately. I rented a car and was asked if I was going to leave the city because, if I did, they would have to notify the constabulary to keep track of me. I said no. I went to get into my Peugeot 505 and got in the wrong door. The steering wheel was on the right! I forgot! Correcting myself, I got into the driver's seat to find a manual transmission which I would have to operate left-handed. Oh well, such is life. As I was pulling out of the parking spot, I was narrowly missed by a delivery van. Wow! Practice time.

I waited for a car to pass me by and began following it. I wanted to get accustomed to the opposite way of driving. After ten minutes or so, the driver had obviously noticed his being followed and began speeding up and making unwarranted turns, so I peeled off. I had enough practice, anyway. We still used maps then, so I stopped and consulted one to plan my path. Before starting off, I stopped at a store and picked up five pounds of apples and ten gallons of water. I then proceeded across the bay bridge and headed up the Eastern coast. Twelve hours later, I stopped at a motel near Brisbane and slept for about fourteen hours. I had to pick up a newspaper in the morning to know the date.

What a country! From Brisbane, I would drive to Toowoomba, Bourke, Lightning Ridge and on to Adelaide. Stay a couple of days to visit and take a tour, then twelve hours across the Barossa Valley, through the Blue Mountains, back to Sidney. The sights were glorious. Wildlife was abundant. Kangaroos would hop next to my car at more than thirty miles per hour, emus would cross my path unconcerned, and beautiful birds abounded all along the way. This is what I had dreamed of. Of course, the unexpected happened.

Once in the Outback, forget pavement. At no more than a mile from any town, it's unusual to even see gravel. Ruts, my friend - ruts with grass growing in the center. When I was scoping out my leg from Bourke to Lightning Ridge, I had two choices: the hypotenuse road or the right triangle legs. The map showed a red line for the hypotenuse, so I decided to go that way. Within a mile from Bourke, grass was tickling the underbelly of my Peugeot. The distance of the Hypotenuse was 333 miles and the going was not turnpike speed. I steeled myself to expect a long day.

After about one-third of the way to Lightning Ridge, a small sign loomed ahead: "Bridge Out." It was right. I stopped and surveyed the situation. Now I realized why the Hertz counter girl asked if I was going out of town. I ate an apple while staring at water about fifteen feet wide flowing by. There were tire marks on both banks (from Land Rovers , probably,) and I weighed my options. I could go back and lose a whole day, but I wasn't sure now if the other road had similar issues. I finished my apple, got back into the car, backed up about fifty yards and put her in gear, got to third gear before hitting the water and skimmed across. Longest ten seconds of my life until the front-wheel drive Peugeot gripped the opposite bank and pulled me up.

Another hundred miles further, same sign. The water here was wider, but appeared shallower. No hesitation this time. Revved 'er up and shot across the same way. I hoped I had seen the last of these challenges. I had. Another eighty miles further, I saw another vehicle heading in my direction. What a welcome sight after almost ten hours of driving in wilderness! Not long after, I was on a well-paved road and never stopped to hunt for opals in Lightning Ridge as planned. I went straight to Adelaide and settled into my Hilton Hotel crib. Nothing noteworthy in Adelaide, but fun to visit.

Barossa Valley is one of the largest agricultural areas in Australia. Twelve hours drive from Adelaide to Sydney and all of it is modern pavement - Yeah! The valley reminded me much of my Belle France as a countryside. The Blue Mountains are not far from Sydney and since I had made up time, I roamed up and down the paths and stood under waterfalls for hours. When I checked into my hotel in Sydney, I paid the bellboy to return the Peugeot. I had put 3300 miles on it in six days.

I still had a whole day to explore Sydney after I returned the rental car. Not knowing the city, the first thing I did was take a guided bus tour. Sydney is quite beautiful and cosmopolitan. The harbor is busy with ferries taking people to and from work, merchant ships abound and the environment is very clean. The opera house was stunning and the main park was awash with blooms of all varieties. I had lunch at one of highest vantage points that overlooked the entire city. Very nice day.

I landed in Auckland the next day. I did not know what to expect in New Zealand. What I found was a very relaxed lifestyle. I did not find a shop that was open after 3 in the afternoon. Hardly any were open on the weekends. At the time, the population was around three and a half million and people were pretty much subsidized by seventy million sheep. The drive in the country was highlighted by looking at the sheep like puffs of cotton on the lush green hills.

My highlight was over, however. I continued on to Hawaii for a day's rest, on to Tokyo for tour and sightseeing; bullet train to Kyoto for more tours; stopped briefly in Hong Kong and Singapore and back to Riyadh. Singapore is worth a trip of much more than the day I spent there.

Now, back to work.

After what I had just gone through, I had plenty of food for thought. I had been trying to write about my epiphany, but couldn't seem to get anywhere. Another problem was that I began to resent Muslim society to some degree. I felt restless. I wanted out.

One thing I did not like was the lack of books. Censorship is very tight. Someone once told me that, to be a good writer, you have to be an avid reader. There was no Internet then and the choice of reading material was sparse and not what I wanted to study anyway. I finished my commitment and returned to Chicago.