by Cay Garcia
The dining hall is the size of a rugby field. I feel as if I have walked into a fairytale. The colour scheme is blue and cream, with crystal. A large swimming pool dominates the centre of the room, tiled in nautical patterns in gold and shades of blue. Around the pool are ten 12-seater dining room tables, each different. One that stands out is clear Perspex. Gold candles placed on every surface create a mystical effect.
We are directed towards the buffet, to a cluster of 10 smaller round tables for the staff. Each table has a metre-high vase holding an explosion of colours of flowers. I am fascinating to see that each vase doubles as a fish bowl, in which exotic fish swim in circles.
We are offered a choice of fruit juices by the palace staff while the royals dish up for themselves. Once again, a buffet table about 20 metres long groans with the weight of every imaginable dish. When it is our turn, I fill my plate with prawns. Even though we are in the middle of a desert, these prawns are the best I have ever eaten.
After dessert, we are served Arabian coffee. I have seen ice blocks with little lights in them before, but these brightly lit sugar cubes are new to me. I am not sure if they are edible, so I gently sip my way around them. I ask Mona what would happen if we swallowed them. “Light would shine out of your arse,” she says, and we dissolve into giggles. Even Mona has her moments.
Feeding the cats has become a nightly routine and they slowly allow me to get closer to them. Mr Grey goes wild when he sees me and I now spend time sitting on the grass playing with him. He cannot get enough affection. Something black comes hurtling out of the tree; it’s a small kitten, just skin and bone, watching the bigger toms warily, after being put in its place once too often.
I gather up some pellets that are still scattered around and slowly fling them towards the black kitten. It lunges forward, grabs a pellet and runs off to eat it. We repeat this a couple of times. What a life these poor animals live. They stand no chance.
Lea has told me, to my horror, that many in Saudi, her palace included, take cats and kittens into the desert, fling them out of the van and drive off, leaving them to die. I feel this cruelty as a physical pain. The desert heat is unbearable, the hot sand blisters bare feet instantly. All I can hope is that they die quickly.
Second visit to Doctor Friendly
THREE MONTHS after my arrival in Saudi, I wake up on a Saturday morning with a feeling of inexplicable dread. I feel burnt out. I am teary and shaking; tension overwhelms me. I cannot face going into work today. Although I try to talk myself into it, I can’t. The only way to get out of work is to go to the doctor. Physically there is nothing wrong with me.
I fluctuate between overwhelming relief when I get home after a day at the palace and acute apprehension on my way to work. Whether it will be a good day or a day from hell depends on the princess’s mood. These people wield real power. If a royal killed a staff member, it would be swept under the carpet, never to be mentioned again.
After phoning the princess who shows concern and assures me that she will send a driver straight away, I shower and am ready in no time. On the way to the hospital, the princess phones and asks me to come by the palace after my doctors visit, not to work, just for her to make sure I am okay. How do I tell her that she is the cause of my severely unsettled mental state?
I cannot quite believe that Dr Friendly, after asking me where I am from as if he has never seen me before, goes through the whole “Goeie more, hoe gaan dit?” shpiel again. I understand that he sees a lot of patients, but still. He accompanies me to his consulting room and closes the door behind us.
As much as I try to contain myself, I cannot stop the tears. I am not openly sobbing but the tears just keep on coming. A constant stream of medical personnel interrupts us, even though the door is closed. I am a mess but the intruders pretend not to notice and I am too exhausted to care if they do.
Between the ongoing interruptions, I try to tell him how unhappy I am, not because of Riyadh itself but because of the person I am working for. He asks me why I don’t leave. I tell him why I can’t. If I break my contract before the year is up, I have to pay a $4000 penalty to the princess, my ticket back home and the recruiter’s fee for the remainder of the contract, which is 25% of my annual salary. The amount is close to R90 000. I feel trapped. There is no way I can manage that.
I think back to all the goodbye parties back home where male friends jokingly promised that should I be unable to leave Saudi, they would find a way to get me out. Their promises seem absurd now, but I loved them for saying so.
I ask the doctor’s advice. I plead with him, not quite sure how he can help me. He listens, concerned. The tears refuse to stop. I tell him of the constant tension, of the princess’ terrible moods and bullying demands and I touch on the subject of the abuse she metes out, now almost daily.
In my desperation, I ask him if he could send me home on medical grounds. He acts as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Perhaps a bribe would refresh his memory but I don’t have it anyway.
After our talk, he is kindness itself and instructs a waiting nurse to take my blood pressure and to draw blood. Alarm bells go off as I am convinced the blood tests will reveal the red wine from the previous day. “When will you have the results of the tests, Doctor?” I ask, innocently. “In about a week,” is his reply. Okay – so for a week my flesh will remain intact and I can still enjoy the sanctity of my own bed.
Sultan is waiting outside and we make our way to the palace. I have hardly entered the villa when the princess comes flying down the stairs to the entrance level. She is pale and for a reason I am yet unaware of, she is livid.
Dr Friendly phoned her soon after I left his rooms and repeated almost everything I told him. I was expecting sympathy.
She is outraged that I had the audacity to discuss my work conditions with the doctor. “Pay your penalty and you can go!” she shouts. Although prayers blare from the little radio on the windowsill, they don’t drown out the princess’s harsh words.
I am learning the hard way that the protocols and work ethics of the Western world mean nothing in Saudi Arabia. Doctor patient confidentiality doesn’t seem to exist. I am stunned. In reaching for help, I put the first nail in my coffin.
The friendly doctor advised her that it would be better to let me go. “Why keep someone who doesn’t want to be here? It is counterproductive,” he said. At least that showed some sound judgment. I realise nothing I can say will aid me so I stand in front of her with my hands behind my back as protocol demands and I don’t say a word. She rants for what feels like an eternity. As beautiful as she is when she is in a pleasant mood, she is ugly, with veins bulging on her forehead, when she is angry.
I look up at her contorted face now and again, but mostly keep my eyes down in an effort to defuse my simmering anger at the injustice of it all. I am angry that anyone, especially one so young, so unimportant in the bigger scheme of things, has the power to abuse others so.
My face betrays none of these thoughts. When she’s had her fill, she dismisses me. With a “Thank you, Your Highness,” I turn and walk out of the room, breaking protocol. It is not intentional but I am not thinking straight. I make my way to the front gate where Sultan is waiting to take me home.
Holding my head in my hands so that Sultan cannot see my tears, we drive to the compound. I have reached one of the lowest points in my life.
As we pull up to the compound gates, Sultan turns in his seat and offers me a chocolate with a slight smile. This has never happened before. I don’t think this gentle man will ever know what his gesture of kindness meant to me. In a way, it was an outstretched hand of unity. He has felt the same despair. We are in the same boat. To this day I have not forgotten the feeling of utter amazement that kindness does still exist in a moment when I felt most alone in the world.
No doubt, the worst is still to come.
I arrive back at the compound and go straight to Serge’s apartment. The kettle is on and he is waiting for me
. The pillows and duvet on the carpet have been straightened in anticipation of my arrival. After kicking off my shoes, I fall down onto the pillows. I am too drained to talk much. He leaves me on my own. After a while, he puts the ornate gold leaf tray down in front of me. He pulls me into his arms and gently rocks me. It is surprisingly soothing. We sit like this for a few minutes, not talking, and it calms me completely.
I start to talk, my face half buried in his neck as his arms are still wrapped around me. I tell him about what I saw as the doctor’s betrayal. He vehemently tells me not to trust anyone, ever! He is visibly upset and I end up comforting him. Under his breath, he mutters, “Fucker,” as he stares menacingly into the air. I explode with laughter as I have never heard Serge swear. Maybe it was the intensity of his statement, but I feel better for it.
“Habibty, listen to me,” Serge says as he moves around to face me. “Move in with me,” he says simply. At my silence, he repeats what he has just said. I love him for it, but it is impossible. I would not put it past the princess to make an impromptu visit to our compound.
Some evenings at home, I switch my phone off. If the princess doesn’t reach me, she contacts me on Mona’s phone. And when she does reach me, she asks to speak to Mona immediately afterwards. If I was with Serge and the princess asked to speak to Mona, I would have to run up a flight of stairs and down the passage to our flat. It is just too much of a risk. I tell him so.
I am too distracted to stay over. He understands, but asks me if he could stay over at my place. I cannot help but laugh at his earnest face. Mona would have a field day with this – having another guest in “her” apartment. I beg off, saying I am exhausted and not good company. He walks me up the stairs.
Dreaded confrontation
SULTAN IS waiting for me at the gate at two the following day. The trip to the palace is far too short. I kick my shoes off as I enter the villa. The staff heard every word the princess shouted at me the day before and respectfully avoid eye contact. They seem gentler than before.
“Madam, we kept you some cake,” says Maria as I walk into the kitchen. My fondness and respect for these women grows with each day. Here I am, much older, supposedly wiser, yet they seem to handle the princess better than I do. They are so sweet and accepting of the almost daily abuse,. Because of this, I feel protective of them and this fuels my resentment towards the princess. I understand that she is hurting but how do I show her that relief does not come this way?
She eventually calls for me. I am not invited to sit. “Good afternoon, Princess,” I greet her softly. “You will call me Your Highness!” she responds sharply, glaring at me. Without hesitation, I repeat, “Yes, Your Highness.” She is scowling. For the first time ever, I feel a strong dislike for this slip of a girl who believes she is superior to the rest of mankind – by accident of birth.
She does absolutely nothing all day except shout down – rather than phoning – to the basement whenever she wants something. Whenever she wants me, she shouts for one of the girls, who rush upstairs, only to be told to call Mrs C.
As I stand in front of her, I have had about as much as I can take.
Anger has replaced the overwhelming fear I have felt over the last 24 hours, knowing this confrontation was looming. I’ve reached the point of not caring what happens, which is dangerous for me. For now, I am still going along with protocol and just basic good manners. It doesn’t last long.
“What is wrong with you?” she shouts. “Your Highness, if you feel that there is so much wrong with me, I suggest I phone Mr Lewis to send a replacement.” My reply leaves her looking at me in disbelief as I have never spoken back to her. “Mr Lewis!” she screams. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you!” Did the princess who is perfection herself, in her eyes at least, just use the word “fuck”? I almost want to laugh, the tension is so thick.
“I beg to differ, Your Highness,” I respond rebelliously.
She takes a deep breath before continuing in a harsh voice, “The only time Mr Lewis contacted me was via email on the second day after you arrived for full payment. Not once have they phoned to see how you are doing and still you protect them?!” I keep quiet. What can I say to that? Although Mona has warned me on many occasions that the princess lies incessantly, I don’t know what to believe. And I don’t trust what Mona tells me either.
She changes topic. “The doctor told me everything you said to him. How dare you discuss your work conditions, how dare you!” she screams. I know the doctor spoke to the princess but I also know that he could not have told her everything otherwise I would have been in shackles by now. “Who am I supposed to speak to if I cannot speak to a doctor, Your Highness?” I am still bristling at how little doctor patient confidentiality means here.
“You have attitude, and Mrs M thinks so as well!” she shouts. I could see this coming. All those evenings behind closed doors, Mona was trying to integrate herself into our villa. Mona’s job is not secure and her contract is about to come to an end. She has often come home in tears, complaining that her staff won’t listen to her. Lately, she has taken to buying my staff little gifts – chocolates and useless trinkets.
“You are a butler! You shouldn’t have any emotions!” the princess rants.
By now, it is obvious to her that I am angry. Though protocol demands that my hands remain behind my back, I am waving them around in emphasis as I try to make my point. I shoot back, “Yes, that is true, but I am a human being first, Your Highness.”
Before I can carry on, she screams, “I have watched Downton Abbey and you are nothing like that butler!” Did I just hear her correctly? I want to tell her that if she was anything like those employers, I could also serenely go about my daily tasks without any emotion but I know the thought would be wasted on her so I say nothing.
“No one has EVER spoken to me the way you speak to me,” she screams. Without hesitation, I shoot back, “Well, Your Highness, then we have something in common. No one has ever spoken to me the way you speak to me either!”
I know I have just sealed my fate, but I feel it had to be said. Not that I planned it; it was out of my mouth before I could give it any thought. And I had pointed at her when I said it. A grave mistake.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!” she screams. I turn around on the spot and walk out.
Thirty minutes later, switchboard calls to tell me the driver is waiting for me. The princess’ door is closed but I text her goodnight anyway. Surprisingly, she replies with a curt goodnight.
I ditch the abaya as soon as I get home and join the guys at the pool. I need the distraction tonight as my mind is racing. Mona arrives home an hour later and joins us outside. Quite clearly she knows what went down at the villa. The conversation turns to work.
“I am highly respected by my staff,” Mona lies blatantly, without blinking. I just look at her. Dislike for her grows by the minute. I came outside to get away from the turmoil at the palace, not to listen to Mona polishing her own marble.
Serge listens to this as he is the only one at the table who knows what is going on. As we make eye contact, I give a slight nod that only he sees and he knows it means it is time to go. He winks at me in understanding.
I say goodnight to everyone and get up to leave. Mona has not finished her coffee and looks at me in surprise as if she expects me to wait for her. This is one evening I cannot stand the sight of her. I don’t even look in her direction as I walk away from the table and am out of the flat before she has a chance to return.
Psychiatric evaluation
THE FOLLOWING day I am told by Lilly that the princess wants to see me as soon as I get in.
“Doctor wants to see you again,” the princess spits out at me. My mouth is bone dry when I ask the princess why he wants to see me. She ignores my question. I have learned that this is when the princess comes alive. She thrives on drama as this makes her own life more exciting. “Your appointment is in one hour. Sultan will take you.” Before I can say anything,
she says loudly, “You are dismissed!”
I am royally pissed off that I have to face this doctor, when he has betrayed my confidence. How will I manage to be civil to him?
An hour later, we are at the hospital. This time round there is no “Hoe gaan dit?” from Dr Friendly. From now on, I’m calling him Dr Traitor. There is little by way of greeting from me either.
I sit opposite him, the wide desk separating us. My face is blank and I say nothing. He is sweetness itself. He speaks to me as if I have a mental disorder and need to be treated with kid gloves. “Mrs C, in order to help you, would you consider going to a doctor friend of mine?” I want to laugh at the question that is not a question at all. I know this has come straight from the princess.
Between the two of them, they have decided to send me for a psychiatric evaluation.
Most of the royal family in Saudi live for their sessions at psychiatrists. Is there room for pity here? These privileged people travel the world in private jets, have more food than they need, and live in lavish palaces with staff catering to their every whim.
I am, in my opinion, of sound mind and have nothing to hide so I agree to go. Not that I have a choice – my appointment has already been made. Doctor Traitor assures me that he will chat to the psychiatrist to brief him.
On what? That there is an expat on the loose who does not take kindly to abuse?
At six that evening, Sultan drops me in front of the huge hospital. After inquiring at three different counters, I am sent to the other side of the huge hall where the psychiatry department is situated. The waiting hall is packed.
The receptionists look at me as if I have just wandered in off the street looking for trouble. The doctor is fully booked and cannot see me, they say. I tell them that I have an appointment but it has been overlooked in the frenzy of this busy hospital. Then I add that my employer, a princess, made the appointment. There is a sudden change in attitude, and half an hour later, I am called in.
