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

by Victoria Twead

  The explosion occurred one evening at the hotel. Our telephone rang, and Daryna, breathless and talking even faster than usual, spoke.

  “Vicky, I’ve got a bit of an emergency on my hands. Can you come over right now?”

  “Of course!”

  Whatever was the problem? I shot across the hall to Daryna’s room. Young Mohammed was leaning against the wall, his face ashen, his hands shaking. I listened as Daryna quickly summed up the situation.

  We already knew that Brent objected to everything that Mohammed did. We didn’t know that Brent also segregated their cutlery, plates and kitchen utensils and insisted Mohammed keep his food separate in little plastic boxes in their shared fridge. An argument flared up about a knife, and Brent had threatened Mohammed with it, scaring him out of his wits.

  “I can’t stay another night with him! He called me a terrorist! He is insane! I don’t know what he will do...” Mohammed’s voice trembled and Daryna eased him into a chair.

  “Of course you can’t!” she said. “You must stay in my spare room until we get this sorted out. Vicky! We’ll go back downstairs with Mohammed, and he can pack a few things while we wait.”

  When Mohammed had calmed a little, we set off. Daryna was hardly dressed for battle, in her pink fluffy robe and slippers, but we took the elevator to the ground floor, thinking it would be wise to alert the staff in reception. Daryna quickly explained and five of us arrived at the apartment, Daryna leading and Toothy bringing up the rear. Daryna knocked on the door.

  There was a pause, then the door was flung open. Brent stood there, his eyes wild, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. There was no sign of the knife.

  “You!” breathed Brent, glaring at me with narrowed red eyes. Why he singled me out particularly, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care to either. Never before have I looked into the eyes of a madman and I never want to again.

  “Stand aside, let us pass,” said Daryna in her most commanding voice. Despite the fluffy bathrobe and slippers, it was a voice to be obeyed. Brent stepped back and we soldiers marched into Mohammed’s bedroom to watch over him while he packed.

  As Mohammed threw things into his suitcase, I could see through into the living room. Brent was a statue, his face expressionless, his arms dangling loosely, eyes narrowed, staring at nothing.

  “I think I’ve got everything,” said Mohammed, snapping his suitcase shut.

  “Okay, let’s go,” said Daryna.

  Brent stood motionless as we filed past. Mohammed was the first in the line, then Daryna, then me, with Toothy and the other hotel staff behind. Brent’s eyes were ice-cold and empty, flicking over each one as we passed him. I shuddered, and didn’t relax until the door closed behind us and we were in the corridor.

  The next day, Daryna reported the incident to Miss Naima in the office, and Mrs. Sherazi, the school owner, neither of whom considered the matter as serious. Daryna and I felt very differently because we had witnessed Mohammed’s state, and seen Brent with our own eyes. I was positive that Brent was a lunatic.

  Brent was issued a formal warning. Mohammed stayed in Daryna’s spare room for a couple of nights, then surprised us all by moving back in with Brent. Actually, he had no choice, as the school wasn’t happy about him rooming with the Principal. No rooms were vacant but he had been promised a change when we moved to the new apartments. Hopefully, that would be next week.

  As I said to Joe later, “This isn’t the end of the story, you know. Brent is going to lose control again, somehow, somewhere. I only hope nobody gets hurt.”

  10. Bennigan’s

  ‘Beautiful Beetroot Dip’

  “I hate this place!” Joe wailed, his elbows resting on the table, his head buried in his hands. We were still living in the hotel but I knew it wasn’t the accommodation that was troubling him.

  “I can’t teach Maths and Physics with half-classes and classes that keep changing all the time. When are they going to sort this schedule out? Every day it’s a fight with the kids and Miss Daryna. Doesn’t she realise how hard it is to teach when you don’t have a syllabus? If ever I get hold of that Worm, I’m going to grind it into the sand with my heel.”

  “Cheer up,” I said. “Ramadan is nearly over. Then we’ve got a week off, and by the time school starts again, it will probably all be sorted. Life won’t be so bad then.”

  By now we were into the second week of September. The sun was still fierce, but we were growing accustomed to it. Often the air above the city was hazy, filled with pollution and sand, blurring the silhouettes of the domed mosques and skyscrapers.

  There was an atmosphere of suspense. Everybody seemed to be marking time, waiting. The ninth month of the Islamic calendar, Ramadan, was drawing to a close. The fasting from dawn to sunset would soon cease, the shops would open during the day, and celebrations would begin.

  My students told me that, during Ramadan, they were all expected to read the Quran through at least once. Every day they rose just before dawn to eat suhoor, the last thing to pass their lips until sundown. They couldn’t wait for the end of Ramadan and Eid-al-Fitr, the ‘Festival of breaking of the Fast’, to begin, and neither could I. But first we had to wait for the Islamic elders to declare the crescent moon visible.

  I parted the curtains, trying to spot the moon through the pollution haze. I remembered nights when Joe and I had gazed up at the clear night sky in Spain, and marvelled at the billion stars glittering above. Was this moon, that the Islamic clerics were currently studying so carefully, the same friendly moon that hung above El Hoyo? It was hard to believe.

  I dropped the heavy curtain and walked over to Joe. I sat beside him and put my arm around his shoulders.

  “It’s not just the chaos at school,” he said. “I’m so miserable that I’ve put you through this. I’ve dragged you out here, and for what? Money, I know, but was it worth it? If I could just whisk ourselves back to Spain, I would. Right now.”

  “It’s not so bad...”

  “It is! And I have it easy compared with you. You have class after class, it’s relentless! You have to prepare lessons for yourself as well as that idiot, Wayne. You get no recognition for it and you don’t even have time to write!”

  A hammering on the door made us both jump and our thoughts were pushed aside.

  “Come in, it’s open!” I called, thinking it was Colton or Jake.

  The door opened, and Toothy sprang into the room.

  “Eid mubarak!” he cried and stretched his hand out toward Joe.

  “That means ‘Happy Eid’,” I said. “Ramadan must be over! He’s waiting for a tip.”

  Joe rummaged in his pocket and handed Toothy a couple of BD. Toothy bowed himself out of the room, and Joe and I looked at each other, our faces wreathed in smiles.

  “No school for a week!” said Joe, and we danced around the room.

  Then the door crashed open, and this time it really was Colton and Jake.

  “Hey! Have you heard? Ramadan’s finished!”

  “Fancy celebrating?” asked Colton. “You know that place behind the hotel, Bennigan’s? It’s an Irish pub, and it’s OPEN!”

  We couldn’t have vacated the room faster if we’d been chased by a herd of rabid camels.

  The bus passed Bennigan’s every day, but I’d never given it much thought, as it was shuttered up during Ramadan. Now a green neon light was flashing a welcome and the doors were open. The four of us skipped in.

  The Bennigan’s sign

  I’d be lying if I said that Bennigan’s was exactly like an Irish pub. It wasn’t. The building did not remotely resemble an Irish pub, but we liked it. Big green cutouts of shamrocks were pasted in odd places, and a television was mounted on almost every wall.

  Judging by the hubbub, the other customers were mostly from the American Naval Base, although there were also several Arabs. Bennigan’s staff were not Irish, but Filipino, and utterly charming. They learned our names that first evening, and never forgot them.

&n
bsp; “Sir Joe, wha’ you like to drink?”

  “Oh, a beer for me, a white wine for Vicky, and whatever Jake and Colton want.” Such ordinary words, but in such surreal surroundings.

  Soon we had glasses lined up on the table in front of us and the party really began. We were so unused to alcohol, it went straight to our heads. Everything was hilarious.

  I remember that night with huge affection. It was exactly what Joe needed and the birth of the Bennigan’s Working Men’s Drinking Club (BWMDC), of which I, being female, was an honorary member. It was that night that I discovered I could bark like a Jack Russell, and became known as Dogsbody. Being with Colton and Jake, so full of intelligence, nonsense and energy, was like being with two bright puppies. We loved it.

  Bennigan’s became our meeting house, a precious place to escape from other staff, from school, from Bahrain. If anybody wanted to join us, we’d politely chase them away. Bennigan’s was ours, where we shared memories, secrets, hopes and dreams. If any of us was having a tough time or had a difficult decision to make, we’d call an Extraordinary BWMDC Meeting at Bennigan’s and all four of us would be there.

  The next morning, we had the luxury of staying in bed because there was no school. I carefully opened my eyes. It felt as if six midgets were wrestling behind my eyeballs. Of course! Eid had started! Bennigan’s! The formation of the BWMDC!

  I opened the curtains and saw the bright lights of the stores and restaurants opposite, all open for business. I groaned. I’d promised myself to go clothes shopping after Ramadan. Now all the shops and malls were open, I had no excuse.

  Hailing a taxi in Manama is easy, but choosing which mall to shop in isn’t. Should I go to the Dana Mall or Marine Mall? Or the Lulu Centre near the Pearl monument? In the end, I decided on the City Centre mall, just because it was the biggest. Saeed had recommended it when I had enquired at Smokers’ Corner.

  “City Centre is the best. At City Centre you can get l-l-l...”

  “Lots of things?”

  “No, l-l-l...”

  “Lovely things?”

  “No, l-l-l-lost, because it is so big.”

  “Yes, I like City Centre the bestest,” said Rashida, who had just woken herself up with an elephantine snort. “You can go to the Food Hall and try all the samples. Sometimes I go there when I do not want to cook for my own self. And I do not spend one fil!”

  City Centre was everything that I’d been promised, and more. I’d never seen such a huge, glitzy mall. The marble floors stretched away in every direction, numerous escalators rose to brightly lit upper floors, shop windows glittered with designer merchandise. Shopping here was going to be easy, wasn’t it?

  I’m not a city gal, and shopping fills me with dread, but I was confident that I’d find everything I wanted. I needed some outfits for school, with sleeves that covered my arms.

  With Joe trailing behind me, I rifled through racks of clothes, trying to find something suitable, which turned out to be a much harder task than I’d imagined. To my surprise, everything on display was low-cut, skimpy, glittery, or a combination of all three. Rack after rack of strumpet-wear. How was that possible when Muslim ladies are dressed from head to toe in black, with only their faces (or just eyes) showing? Who buys these clothes?

  We deduced something that day. Outwardly, Muslim ladies are the picture of anonymity and decorum, but underneath those veils...who knows what saucy show-girls are lurking?

  ۺۺۺ

  The telephone rings and I pick it up. It’s my son.

  “Mum? Is that you? How’s Bahrain?”

  “Hello! Oh, it’s fine. Taking a bit of time to settle in, but Bahrain is a nice place, and the Bahraini people are really friendly and helpful. Some things take a bit of getting used to, like weekends being Friday and Saturday. Hey! I thought you were on holiday with Hannah in the Seychelles?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Are you having a good time?”

  “Fantastic!”

  “What are the Seychelles like?”

  “Perfect! We’re staying in a lovely place, the beaches are fabulous, the food’s great. Beautiful weather. Really enjoying it.”

  “Oh, good!”

  “Oh, and by the way... Hannah and I just got married.”

  “Y-you WHAT?”

  “Hold on, Hannah wants a word.”

  I hear him pass the phone to a giggling Hannah.

  “Hello, Mother-in-Law!”

  “Oh my G... It’s not a joke then? You just got married?”

  Laughter in the background. “Yep! We just didn’t want any fuss, and it’s like paradise here, so we just went ahead and did it!”

  “Well! Congratulations!”

  For once, I’m struggling to find words. I’m delighted, but profoundly shocked. It takes a BWMDC Extraordinary Meeting before Joe and I can fully absorb the news.

  ۺۺۺ

  How we enjoyed that week of Eid! The school’s promise to move us into our new apartments didn’t materialise, but that didn’t matter to us, although poor young Mohammed was beside himself. Each day living with Brent was torture for him.

  We got lazy about cooking, ordering fast food that arrived on a scooter, delivered by an Indian. We swam in the rooftop pool, unless Brent was there first, and explored our surroundings. We spent far too much time at Bennigan’s, and revelled in the fact that we didn’t need to rise at 5.30 in the morning.

  All good things must inevitably come to a close, and Sunday, 19th September 2010 arrived much too quickly. Now we would start teaching in earnest. The schedule for the Middle School was complete, although the High School only had a makeshift timetable with which to work.

  Jasim was already parked on the sand outside the hotel. We all piled onto the bus, Mohammed sitting as far from Brent as possible. Texan Andrea and her roommate, Saja, chatted, heads together. Ibekwe, oblivious, hummed songs to himself. Jasim raised a can of Coke, glugged a mouthful, accelerated across bumpy sand and into the morning traffic.

  We picked up Hawa who was already waiting outside her apartment block. Today she wore scarlet, her hijab embroidered with tiny pink flowers and intertwined leaves.

  “Goo’ morning, everybody!” she called as she settled herself.

  “Morning, Hawa,” we chorused, and held on tight as the bus lurched away again and joined a busy main road. I was lost in my own thoughts when Jasim, twisting the steering wheel, veered into the oncoming traffic. Some teachers closed their eyes, others, like me, gripped the handrail tighter. Joe laughed. Without slowing the bus, Jasim hurled his empty Coke can at an open trash bin on the opposite pavement, missed, shrugged, then swung the bus back into the correct traffic lane.

  “Bad luck, Jasim!” Joe shouted and Jasim smiled at him, gold teeth glinting, in his rear-view mirror. I wondered if I’d ever get used to Jasim’s erratic driving.

  As usual, there was a distinct lack of camels, but Mercedes, Ferraris and Range Rovers were plentiful outside the school. Today there were many more vehicles. Ramadan was over, and school was beginning in earnest. Jasim barged the bus through the traffic and pedestrians, scolding parents for blocking the main entrance.

  We clocked in (black for once) and made our way into the school building. Pots of pink and red petunias had been placed around the courtyard, adding a welcome splash of colour. As the students waited outside for the first school bell to ring, I made my way to the staffroom, where Mr. Brewster was holding a hurried meeting.

  11. Children and Chickens

  ‘Lebanese Minted Liver’

  “Welcome back,” said Mr. Brewster, looking round at us all. “Just two main points this morning. Firstly, we’ve had a delivery of some new overhead projectors. The little portable ones that you can link to your computers. There are not enough for everybody, so we’ll have to share. I’ve labeled them with the names of those who are getting them. Please collect them on your way out.”

  I was near the projectors, and flicked my eyes over the labels. I immediately saw I
hadn’t been allocated one, although Wayne had. In fact, it seemed as though only the male teachers had been allotted one.

  “Secondly, we’ve been warned that the Ministry of Education is making a surprise inspection.”

  Ah! That explained the sudden appearance of the petunias outside.

  “Please make sure your classrooms are in order, and that your bulletin boards are looking attractive. We can all learn a lesson from Wayne, whose boards are already looking wonderful.”

  I looked around for Wayne, but he wasn’t in the room. The school bell shrilled and we all turned to leave.

  “Oh, and please collect your class lists,” shouted Mr. Brewster.

  I grabbed my stack and quickly scanned them. Fatima’s name jumped out at me.

  “Miss Vicky!” called Mr. Brewster. “Wayne has phoned in sick. Would you mind finding some work for his classes and starting them off?”

  Look after my own back-to-back classes and Wayne’s? This was going to be a heavy day.

  “You see wha’ I say?” said Hawa as we hurried to our rooms. “Mr. Brewster, he like men best. I not get projector either.”

  A boisterous rabble of kids was rioting outside my classroom, waiting for me to open the door.

  “Right, class!” I shouted above the din. “I’m going to unlock the door now, and I want you to come in quietly, and find a seat. You may sit where you like, just for today. Tomorrow you’ll have a seating plan. I need to go and sort out Mr. Wayne’s class, so you can talk quietly amongst yourselves while you wait for me.”

  I unlocked the door and stood back as they surged into the classroom like a tsunami. Then I ran down the corridor to speak to Wayne’s class and give them some work. On my return, I heard my class long before I saw them.

  I paused in the doorway, surveying the scene. One boy was wearing the wastepaper basket on his head and dancing between the desks. Another two were doodling on the whiteboard, using permanent markers. A wrestling match was taking place at the back of the room, complete with cheering spectators. My carefully pasted paper had already been torn from the windows and three boys were leaning out, bawling at others still outside in the courtyard.