Two Old Fools on a Camel: From Spain to Bahrain and Back Again

by Victoria Twead

  “Leave them there,” said the grim-faced Indian who operated the giant photocopying machines. “When do you want them?”

  “For tomorrow, please.”

  The next day, I went up to collect them, but was disappointed.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said the Indian, not looking apologetic at all. “They’re not done yet.”

  So I ran back down the stairs, desperately thinking what tasks I could set my classes that day. This happened every day and having anything photocopied seemed an almost impossible dream.

  One hot, airless day I was sitting in Smokers’ Corner, the only place where we could escape the oppressive building. I liked the regular group that congregated there. It was an assortment of male Arabic staff, Colton, Rashida and young Mohammed from Lebanon. Even Jasim, the bus driver, would sometimes come and sit for a while. The folk there always made me laugh and helped me forget my troubles. It was also the best place to garner gossip. Some smoked, some didn’t, but I always felt I was amongst friends.

  Joe was there and we’d been laughing hysterically at Colton’s latest tale about his hometown, Boise. The story involved the Boise River, an inflated tractor tyre and a girl with a glass eye.

  “Hey, how’s it going in the Middle School?” asked Colton, when we’d all stopped laughing.

  “Terrible!” I said. “It’s bad enough killing time because we can’t do anything without a schedule. And I’m sick of not being able to get any photocopying done. I take my stuff up there, and he never does it. And that photocopying man is so grumpy!”

  “Hey, d’ya have some that needs doin’ right now?” asked Colton. “Give ’em to me.”

  I pulled some sheets out of my bag and handed them over.

  “I need 120 of those. It’s a lot, I know, but I always do some for Wayne’s classes, too. I don’t think you’ll have any luck though. There were piles of stuff waiting to be photocopied when I went up just now.”

  Colton just smiled and walked away. To my astonishment, he returned ten minutes later, with all my photocopying completed.

  “How did you do that?” Joe and I asked, astonished.

  “Hey, it was easy!” said Colton. “I just slipped him some baksheesh. 1BD does the trick every time.”

  It had never occurred to me to tip the photocopying man. The next time I went up, I tucked a 1BD note, just visible, under the top sheet. It had an instant effect.

  “Thank you, Miss,” he said, grinning so broadly I thought the top of his head might come off. “You wait here, I do them now.”

  It worked like a dream and I never had to wait for photocopying again. The photocopying man’s face lit up whenever he saw me approaching, as though I was his most beloved aunt.

  Ramadan stretched ahead, and I often looked longingly at the padlocked canteen doors and the empty cold-water dispenser in the staffroom.

  Mr. Brewster called the occasional meeting, although there wasn’t much to discuss. Until we were allocated our permanent classes, we were all merely marking time. But these meetings held another source of annoyance for me.

  “I’d like to congratulate all of you for coping so well,” said Mr. Brewster. “Particularly Wayne, who has produced all kinds of English worksheets for his classes. He is an example to us all.”

  Inwardly I seethed, but said nothing.

  Mr. Brewster also had the unfortunate habit of talking for far too long about very little, making chopping motions with his hands to emphasise each point, and constantly repeating himself. Although I liked him, I found it hard to concentrate, especially after a long day in the classroom, and without any refreshment.

  Worse still, he often made the Middle School teachers late for Jasim’s bus, and the other passengers were forced to wait until he closed our meeting. Joe and I devised a plan. Joe would call my mobile phone if we were late, and I would look up and say, “I’m sorry, the bus is waiting for us.” Then Hawa and I, and all the teachers who took the bus, would stand up en masse and leave. That cured the late meetings as well as the impatience of our fellow passengers who had been kept waiting.

  There were fewer regular passengers on the bus now. Jake, Colton, Emily and Allison hired a car, which they shared, and we missed their nonsense on the bus. Daryna caught a separate bus, probably wisely, as conversation often centred around her latest rule enforcements. This left a hardcore of passengers: the awfully strange Brent, Hali-Barry, Texan Andrea, her exquisite roommate, Saja, quiet, young Mohammed, Hawa, Ibekwe from Ghana, Joe, myself and sometimes a few others.

  Andrea was feisty and streetwise, and although she’d never taught before, was full of confidence. By contrast, her roommate, Saja, was a tiny, delicate Iraqi girl, gentle, quiet and friendly. She had moved to America with her family when she was very young but still understood and spoke Arabic fluently. Students were supposed only to speak English at school but, understandably, reverted to their native tongue whenever possible. Saja enjoyed an immense advantage over the rest of us in understanding Arabic. Her students didn’t know she could understand them, and were probably horrified when they found out.

  Saja

  Andrea’s story was also interesting. She’d met and fallen for an Arab in Texas, and had applied for the job at ASS to be near him when he returned to his home in Bahrain. Her Arab boyfriend was a wealthy Sunni who lived in a luxury compound with his extended family. We, however, felt sure there was no future in their relationship, and she probably did, too. We guessed he was already betrothed to a cousin, a common Arabic practice that keeps the money in the family. We could see her boyfriend’s family compound from our hotel window. However, although he lived so close, we never met him, and heard that he refused even to be seen out with her. Perhaps their cultural differences meant he shouldn’t be seen with a Westerner? Instead, he visited her secretly, often very late at night.

  Every week we were told that our new apartments were almost ready to move into. But six weeks later, we were still residents of the hotel. I didn’t mind. Our rooms were cleaned, and the sheets and towels changed daily. In my whole life I had never had so few chores. And no bills! Apart from food and mobile phone bills, everything was paid for. Were we grateful? Yes. But were we happy? I’m afraid not.

  Anyone working in a Middle Eastern country for the first time is bound to suffer from culture shock. But when you come out of retirement, and your home has been a tiny Spanish village, it’s very hard. We weren’t accustomed to being surrounded by so many people, as our village has only a handful of permanent residents. Although we lorded it in a hotel suite, we had no outside space, apart from the rooftop pool. We missed our garden and the ability to sit outside or stroll around the village. Being outside for long in the Bahraini summer was impossible as the heat sapped our strength and the sun scalded our skin.

  But most of all, Joe and I missed the wildlife. We’d seen no animals and no birds, except for some exhausted-looking pigeons and a few seagulls. Surprisingly, there were no flies, but there were no other insects to be seen either, not even an ant. Jake and Emily visited the Bahraini Zoo and were astounded to see one of the exhibits, a dog in a cage, with a sign proclaiming ‘Domestic Dog’.

  Any waste ground was just an expanse of sand. No weed had the strength to survive in such dry, barren conditions. Neither did any weed dare to poke its head out from between the cracks in the red-bricked sidewalks. (Colton informed us that the reason every pavement was identical was because one of the King’s relations had secured the contract.) We saw no trees, apart from ornamental ones, carefully tended by servants.

  And then there were the strange customs and rules. I was terrified of making a silly mistake, like passing something using my left hand, or inadvertently showing the soles of my feet. I already knew that my clothes were not really suitable. Either they were too hot, or the sleeves were too short, revealing too much arm. I promised myself, as soon as Ramadan was over, to go clothes shopping.

  9. Crazy Teachers

  ‘Spiced Lamb and Date Tagine’


  Smokers’ Corner was a sanctuary, a place to hide away from the hustle and bustle of the main school building. However, it wasn’t always peaceful. The school was in the midst of several surrounding mosques and the call to prayer regularly filled the air. In the building, the walls muffled the sound, but at Smokers’ Corner it was a different story. First one, closely followed by another two, so loud that we couldn’t speak until all three had finished. They were always live, never recorded, and they seemed to compete with each other. Sometimes one of the chanting elders would dissolve into a coughing fit, and Joe and I avoided looking at each other, afraid we might laugh and look disrespectful.

  The Arab staff who frequented Smokers’ Corner were equally noisy. They loved to bawl politics at each other or discuss English soccer. Saeed, in charge of maintenance and stationery, suffered from a serious stutter and usually sat, quietly smoking, not joining in with the conversation. But sometimes his face would flush, his fists would ball, and one foot would begin tapping. Suddenly, he would leap up and lean over Yussef, or Essam, or Jasim, his cheeks inflated, as he tried to force the words past his stutter.

  The first time Joe and I witnessed an argument, the red faces and clenched fists, we honestly thought they were all going to come to blows. The ‘fights’ were always in Arabic and we understood nothing. It was only when we listened carefully that we realised what the topic of the argument was centred around.

  Saeed: #|(&%...(stutter)... #@%& 8$!...(stutter)...^*@%&!

  Yussef: &%#@%&!

  Essam: (^*@% &%#@%&!

  Saeed: @% &%# * (^*@%@%...M-M-M-Manchester United!

  Even quiet, young Mohammed, his spectacles flashing as he became animated, was drawn into these ‘fights’, which dissolved as quickly as they erupted.

  Saeed loved to fight physically, too, or at least demonstrate his strength. He adored Jake, but had a strange way of showing it. Whenever he encountered him, whether at Smokers’ Corner or in a school corridor, his eyes would light up and he’d hold out his hand for shaking. But this was no gentle hand-shake. Instead, Saeed would seize Jake’s hand in a vice-like grip and twist his arm behind his back. Jake played along at first, and it became a contest. Saeed never said a word, and his expression never changed, apart from a twinkle of pleasure in his eyes as he wrestled Jake to the ground. As time went on, the well-meaning assaults became more violent. Jake began to avoid Saeed, sending students to the stationery office on his behalf, unwilling to risk serious injury.

  But perhaps the loudest, most strident person at Smokers’ Corner was Rashida, the Lebanese Algebra teacher. Rashida used the five-minute break between lessons to smoke half a cigarette, hide the other half in a groove in the wall, and then hurry back to her class. During her free periods, she would often fall asleep in Smokers’ Corner, and we tried in vain to conduct conversations over the noise of her steady snoring. She was not popular for many reasons, the main one being her miserliness, which was legendary.

  “I have forget my cigarettes,” she would whine, looking imploringly at the smokers’, until somebody gave her one, usually Colton. I could see into her bag, and knew she was not telling the truth.

  Saeed needed to collect 50 fils (about 85p or 1$) from each of us as a deposit for our keys.

  “You not want 50 fils from little me?” wheedled Rashida, wearing her most winning smile.

  “Everybody must g-g-g...”

  “Get 50 fils?” Joe helpfully suggested.

  “No, g-g-g...”

  “Give you 50 fils?” I tried.

  “No, everybody must g-g-g-go to the auditorium for a meeting with Miss Daryna after school. Rashida, please give me 50 fils.”

  Rashida nipped off the end of her cigarette, surreptitiously hid it in the wall, and marched away, a determined look on her face. I happened to be there, with Saeed, when she returned later in the afternoon.

  “Here! I have for you the 50 fils,” she said, and dropped a handful of coins into his outstretched palm.

  “Th-th-th...”

  “Thank you?” I suggested.

  “No, th-th-th-that’s a miracle,” he said and even Rashida smiled.

  Rashida smoked her half-cigarette and strode away, to be replaced by Joe and Colton.

  “That Rashida!” complained Colton, “She’s just asked me if I can spare some some small change for a phone call.”

  “That’s strange. She just asked me, too,” said Joe.

  “And me,” said Essam.

  It seemed that everybody had contributed toward Rashida’s key deposit, except Rashida.

  Rashida was in her late 50’s and had left her husband back in Lebanon, attracted by better wages in Bahrain. She called him daily and her booming voice, like the prayer chants, halted all conversation in Smokers’ Corner.

  “Hey, were you having a fight?” Colton asked, when she’d concluded a particularly loud and aggressive-sounding call.

  Rashida frowned. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I just suggest to my husband what he make for his dinner today.”

  Rashida was mannish, and rather unkempt. She wore her hair scraped back, and her make-up must have been applied in the dark with a spade. Her English was quite good, but her taste in Western clothes was questionable. Somehow she poured her ample backside into trousers much too small for her and would plonk herself in a chair, knees wide apart. She also had the disconcerting habit of standing up, bending from the waist, and digging into her bag on the ground. For maybe a minute, somebody, usually Joe, would have Rashida’s huge bottom blocking out the light, inches from his nose, while she rummaged.

  “Somebody tell me you write a book?” she once asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, not elaborating.

  “Chickens,” she said. “You write about chickens?”

  “Well, not exactly... It’s about our life in Sp...”

  “You give me book?”

  “Er...” Because I’d only brought three copies of ‘Chickens’ to Bahrain, I couldn’t hand them out freely to anybody who asked.

  “Good. You bring me book tomorrow.”

  I hoped that she’d forget but she nagged me about it every day until I was forced to hand over a copy. I forgot all about it until a week later, when I was astonished to find a Middle School teacher reading my book.

  “Where did you get that, if you don’t mind me asking?” I said, but I’d already guessed.

  “Oh, Rashida from the High School sold it to me.”

  Rashida loved to talk, and she always assumed I wanted to chat about chickens.

  “I have two chickens,” she said, leaning back, clasping her hands behind her head and spreading her knees even wider apart. “Back in my home in Lebanon, I have two chickens.”

  “Really?” I asked. “In your garden?”

  “No, I live in Beirut city, in apartment. The apartment is on 8th floor. I do not have garden.”

  “Where do you keep them?” I asked, curious.

  “In the balcony. They are very nice chickens. But one day I look in the balcony, and there only one chicken!”

  “Oh! What happened to the other one?”

  “My husband and me, we look down, and we see our chicken walking along the street. It must have fallen!”

  “So what did you do?”

  “My husband, he run, run, run down all the stairs and go into the street, looking for chicken, but it gone. He look everywhere but he not find it.”

  “Oh, that’s a pity...”

  “Then, three days later, the apartment security man he call me. He ask if I lose chicken, because one walk through entrance doors.”

  I smiled. This was an unusual chicken story.

  “I tell security man, yes, we lose chicken, and it is my chicken. My husband, he is going to run down the stair and take the chicken. But the security man, he say, no problem, he put the chicken in the elevator and send it up to the 8th floor.”

  “Did the chicken arrive?”

  “Yes. My husband, he wait for elevator, and
when door open, the chicken walk out. There is a lady in elevator, too. She is standing there with mouth very big and open. She don’t say something, just was staring at the chicken walk out.”

  “And was it your chicken?” We were all laughing now.

  “Oh yes! I don’t know where the chicken go for three days, but it come back.”

  “Um, are you sure you’re not getting confused with homing pigeons?” asked Joe.

  Rashida guffawed and slapped Joe’s leg playfully, leaving a bruise that stayed for a week.

  Of all the people in Smokers’ Corner, it was young Mohammed who worried me. He spent all his spare time there, chain-smoking and staring down at his shiny, pointed, winkle-picker shoes. We sensed he was unhappy, and gradually he began to confide in us.

  Being Lebanese, he was not allowed to open a bank account in Bahrain, which made life difficult for him. Most of the money he earned was sent back to pay for his little brother’s education in Lebanon. But his financial problems were not his main concern. It was his roommate, Brent, who was making his life a misery.

  There was no question about it, Brent was mentally unstable. Bahraini summers are unbearably hot and yet Brent refused to allow Mohammed to turn on the air-conditioning in their apartment. Mohammed often locked himself in his bedroom, playing Turkish music quietly. Brent would hammer on his door, demanding that he turn down the volume. Brent even complained about Mohammed’s alarm clock, despite being up well before it rang in the morning.

  “Go and tell Miss Naima in the office,” I suggested. “You can’t live like that! Perhaps you can change rooms with somebody?”

  Mohammed did approach Miss Naima but she was not sympathetic and refused to alter the accommodation arrangements. Joe and I sensed that a fuse was burning, and that some sort of explosion was inevitable. Unfortunately, we were right.