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

by Victoria Twead

  Allison: 9th December

  Me: 29th December

  Colton: 1st January

  Emily: 7th January

  Jake: 20th January

  Joe: (ever the pessimist) 1st April, (April Fools Day)

  Our friends, being American, invited Joe and me to our first ever Thanksgiving celebration. The gang cooked up a feast and we ate until we nearly burst. I remember that evening with great affection as all six of us sat around the dining table, giving thanks in the traditional American way. Later we were joined by Kent, another American teacher from a different school, and we played silly games until we all crawled off to bed.

  Me, Allison, Emily, Jake, Colton and Joe at Thanksgiving

  November closed, and now none of us could think of anything but the approaching Winter Break.

  17. Winter Break

  ‘Sheikh-al-Mahshi (The King of All Stuffed Vegetables)’

  The 9th of December was the last day of the school term, and then we would have three glorious weeks off. As the end of term approached, I wasn’t surprised to find an email waiting in my inbox.

  “dear Ms. Vicky,

  are you planning to give the students assignments for the winter break? Mr. Wayne’s class have been given extra vocabulary.

  Fatimas mother”

  Nearly everybody had plans to spend Christmas elsewhere. Colton, Jake and Emily were going back to the States, and Allison planned to visit Vietnam. Hali-Barry went somewhere, but without Daryna, who had not been persuaded to join him on a romantic Nile cruise.

  Joe and I were amongst the very few to stay behind in Bahrain. We figured it would be more sensible to save the airfare rather than rush back to Spain. El Hoyo would be cold and I was secretly afraid that, if we returned to Spain, I’d never be able to drag Joe back to Bahrain again. Spending the Winter Break in Bahrain would give me a chance to write with few interruptions, a real luxury for me, as I hadn’t written a word since we’d arrived in the Middle East.

  Before they left for their travels, Jake and Colton made a rather exciting discovery.

  “Hey,” said Jake, “you’ll never guess what we’ve found! There’s a place by the Gulf Hotel. Looks like a kinda windowless concrete cube, but guess what’s on sale!”

  “Camels?”

  “Nah! Booze! Beers, wine, spirits, everything!”

  Joe brightened visibly. “What? You can buy slabs of beer and bring them home to drink?”

  “Yep!”

  “Wow!”

  Suddenly Christmas in the Middle East didn’t seem so depressing. We loved going to Bennigan’s, but it was expensive, and it would be nice to entertain our friends at home sometimes.

  “Hey! We’ll take you in the car and show you. You coming, Dogsbody?”

  I certainly was. We piled into the car, and, sure enough, in the shadow of the Gulf Hotel, very close to the King’s palace, was a small, unmarked, grey, windowless building. On either side of the entrance, arms folded, guns in their holsters, stood two uniformed security guards. I got out of the car, and, always on the lookout for a photo opportunity, whipped out my camera. The security guards closed in immediately.

  “No photos, no photos,” they said, waving their hands at me.

  I quickly put the camera away, suddenly noticing a sign that forbade the taking of photographs, by order of the King. Later, we were told that the King not only owned the Gulf Hotel, but also Bennigan’s, and the liquor store, too.

  Another sign stated that no Muslims were permitted to buy alcohol, which was odd as we saw several Arabs in thobes and headdresses exiting with laden shopping carts.

  Colton and Joe buying alcohol

  The liquor store was an Aladdin’s Cave of booze. Sparkling bottles of wine and spirits, and cans of beer, all stacked from floor to ceiling, under fluorescent lights. We loaded our trolleys and made our way to the checkout, where an Indian took our money and packed our purchases. It was illegal to have alcohol on public display in Bahrain, so our purchases were hidden in large, black, plastic bags for us to take out. The black bags were instantly recognisable, which rather defeated the object, I thought. The six of us partied that night.

  Sadly, we waved our friends goodbye as they left on their travels.

  Young Mohammed stayed and was celebrating because his unstable roommate, Brent, was also away for the holiday. Mohammed acquired a spring in his step and Joe’s mobile phone buzzed with messages inviting us to his room for Turkish coffee. The hotel seemed very quiet and the corridors echoed. We missed our friends but we didn’t miss the booming voices of the Three Fat Ladies and Hali-Barry.

  The ASS teachers may have disappeared, but weekends in the hotel were always busy. Male Saudi Arabian visitors drove across the causeway in their expensive cars, intent on drinking alcohol and finding women, itches they could not scratch in Saudi. It was common knowledge that Bahrain was Saudi’s playground. Saudi Arabia’s stifling laws were abandoned and carousing Saudis filled the bars to overflowing. According to hotel staff with whom we chatted, prostitution was a thriving industry in Bahrain.

  We were told that complete Saudi families would cross the causeway at weekends. At night, husbands locked their wives and children into their hotel rooms, while they went out and partied. I dreaded to think what would happen if a fire broke out, as the wives and children would not have been able to escape.

  Joe and I referred to the weekends as ‘the Saudi Invasion’, unaware how prophetic that phrase would soon prove to be.

  Meanwhile, we developed a comfortable routine. During the day, I wrote, and Joe read, or watched movies on the projector we’d borrowed from the school. Joe was in charge of shopping, and even used Trollster to replenish his beer stocks when they ran low. In the evenings, we either cooked or ordered in food.

  Takeaway menu

  Ordering take-aways was a luxury we were denied in Spain, El Hoyo being so far from the nearest town. Here, in Bahrain, we had plenty of choice but ordering wasn’t always easy. The order-lines were manned by Indians, whose accents seemed to grow thicker on the phone, and I usually left Joe to make the call.

  “Hello, may we place an order, please?”

  “Good evening, sir! It is delightful that you are calling us.”

  “Er, thank you. May we place an order, please?”

  “Oh, yes, sir! You like to order pizza?”

  “Yes, please. May we have two ‘Meals-for-Two’, please?” Joe asked. Our plan was to order double portions so that we could reheat for the next day.

  “Sir, you are wanting two pizza?”

  “No, we’d like two ‘Meals-for-Two’, please, like you advertise. That’s four pizzas altogether.”

  “Sir, you are wanting four pizza? Which size are you wanting?”

  “No, two ‘Meals-for-Two’, please.”

  “Ah, you are wanting two pizza?”

  “No, two ‘Meals-for-Two’. Four pizzas. Like you advertise on your menu.”

  “Sir, may I suggest to you our very good offer? We can give to you our very special ‘Meal-for-Two’. If you order, you will receive also one pasta pot with two toppings, two breadsticks, two wraps and two colas.”

  “Good! That’s exactly what we want! Two of those, please!”

  “Sir, you are wanting two colas?”

  “Yes! I mean, no, we want four.”

  “Ah, I am understanding the sir now. You are wanting two ‘Meals-for-Two’. With cola.”

  “Yes!” By now Joe’s face is an interesting shade of red, and a vein is visibly throbbing on his temple.

  “Certainly, sir. And the pasta has two toppings. Which delicious toppings would the sir like?”

  “Anything! Anything! Surprise me.”

  “Very good, sir. One thing more... Which crust is the sir wanting?”

  “Which crust?”

  “Yes, sir. We have Italian crust, pan crust, thick crust, thin crust, extra-deep crust or stuffed crust.”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know... Here, Vicky, take the pho
ne. I give up.”

  “Hello?” Surely ordering pizzas couldn’t be that difficult.

  “Good evening, Madam.”

  “You spoke to my husband, you are delivering two ‘Meals-for-Two’ to us.”

  “Madam is wanting two pizza?”

  “No... Oh, never mind.” I switched off the phone and looked at Joe. “Have a look in the freezer, see if there’s something we can eat tonight.”

  Sometimes it was easier to eat at Bennigan’s. Every time we entered the building, the Filipino staff treated us like long-lost friends.

  “Sir Joe! How are you? Miss Vicky! How are you?”

  They always reserved our favourite seats, and knew our regular drinks. Every hour, they would line up and perform a dance routine, (always YMCA), but as most of their customers had left for Christmas, Joe and I were usually the only spectators.

  It was at Bennigan’s that we first became aware of the birth of the Arab revolution, although it was so distant from us, it hardly registered. On the 18th December, we watched rioting on the Tunisian streets played out on Bennigan’s flatscreen TVs.

  Apparently, the police confiscated the fruit and vegetable stall belonging to a young, unemployed graduate. In despair, he set fire to himself, which sparked off violent clashes between furious protesters and the authorities. Interviews showed demonstrators decrying the high level of unemployment, inflated food prices, the lack of freedom of speech, dreadful living conditions, police brutality, and corruption. Shop windows were broken, cars smashed and set on fire, tear-gas deployed, and scores of people were arrested.

  We soon forgot all about it, enjoying our quiet winter break. Christmas was a low-key affair for us. Some of the big stores displayed a few Christmas goodies, and the Bennigan’s staff wore little red Santa costumes, with tiny mini-skirts and Santa hats to mark the occasion, but that was about it. Very different from Christmas celebrations in the UK, or our village in Spain.

  As the New Year approached, the ASS staff returned in dribs and drabs. The Islamic New Year, Al-Hijra, had already passed without us really noticing, although it is an important time for Shi’a Muslims. The Shi’a believe that New Year marks the anniversary of the murder of the Prophet Muhammed’s grandson, along with his family and followers. Our school stood in a staunchly Shi’a area, and to demonstrate their period of mourning, black flags were draped from the buildings.

  During this time, both men and women perform public enactments of grief. This includes beating their chests continuously, or worse still, using bunches of chains attached to handles, and flailing their own backs, which soon become raw and blooded. The extremely devout will incorporate razor blades and knives in the chains.

  I never witnessed this, nor did I want to, but the boys in my class showed me how it was done, and one proudly showed me the bruises on his chest.

  In contrast, our Western New Year celebrations were much lighter. The only damage we did to ourselves was to our livers and involved a heavy, but very enjoyable, session at Bennigan’s.

  Colton would be the last of our group to arrive back in Bahrain, late at night. Kent was with us that night, and for some reason, the six of us decided it would be a really great idea if we all hid in Colton’s bed to surprise him when he came home, and entered his bedroom. We knew what time he was expected, so we lay there, under the covers, giggling like schoolgirls, waiting to hear his key in the lock.

  Unfortunately, things didn’t quite go according to plan. Colton phoned Joe from the airport.

  “Hey, you guys still up? I don’t have my keys, can I come and collect my other set from your room?”

  “Of course,” said Joe, and relayed the message to the rest of us in Colton’s bed, in a stage whisper.

  “Right!” said Jake, the natural leader. “Joe, you and Dogsbody go back to your room and wait for him. We’ll stay here in his bed. Don’t say a word about us being here, he’ll never suspect!”

  It seemed like an excellent plan. The prank had been salvaged. However, Colton took a long time to arrive, and Joe fell asleep on the sofa in our apartment. Jake, Kent, Emily and Allison had fallen asleep in Colton’s bed.

  At long last, Colton knocked on our door. I let him in, poker-faced. Joe woke up with a start and sat bolt upright.

  “Colton, my mate! Did you get a fright when you saw the others in your bed?”

  “You what? The others are in my bed?”

  “Honestly, Joe, you are hopeless! You’ve spoilt it now! You weren’t supposed to tell him!”

  Colton, always a quick thinker, understood the situation immediately. “Hey, never mind, we can do a double bluff... I’ll put on my Green Man suit, ’n’ get into bed as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  Off he went and changed into his stretchy, pea-green lycra suit. It covered every part of him: face, hands, feet, everything. When Joe and I stopped laughing, the three of us tip-toed to Colton’s room. Quietly, we let ourselves in. By now it was daylight, and the sun streamed in through the windows. Colton eased open the bedroom door, pulled back the bedcovers and got into bed, ignoring the four dozing occupants.

  “Aaaah!” yelled Kent, and rolled out onto the floor.

  “Aaaah!” shrieked Allison, sitting upright, eyes huge over the covers.

  “Aaaah!” screamed Emily, and catapulted out of the bed.

  “%*$#!” shouted Jake, leaped out of bed and leaned against the wall, clutching his heart.

  Joe and I laughed until tears ran down our cheeks. Success!

  Later that day, we caught up with everybody’s travel tales. Jake’s was probably my favourite story.

  18. Confrontations

  ‘Cousin Elias’s Easy Peasy Carrot Cake’

  “dear Mr Brewster,

  I would like to draw your knd attention that ms. Vicky didn’t give the students a comperhension test on the last day. When you have a close look given to the work in Mr. Wayne’s class, you will feel you are in another school and this is not the same standard.

  Fatima’s mother”

  ۺۺۺ

  Jake is a natural storyteller, which is why he was such a popular history teacher. I never tired of his anecdotes and as always, he acted out the story.

  “Only my mom knew I was coming home for Christmas, because I wanted it to be a surprise. My dad and the rest of my family had no idea,” said Jake, a grin lighting up his face. “So, I waited for my dad to get home from work, ran upstairs and Skyped him. He was on our main computer downstairs. Anyways, we chatted, and he never caught on that I was upstairs. Then I beckoned Julia, my three-year-old sister, who climbs up onto my lap. She says, ‘Hi, Daddy!’ and he looks puzzled. He says, ‘Jake, how are you doing this?’ then his eyes tear up, and he turns to my mom. ‘Where is he?’ he asks. ’Course she’s grinning like a Hallowe’en pumpkin and points up. Then I hear him pelting up the stairs. Greatest surprise I have ever executed!”

  Our friend, Kent, now a fully-fledged BWMDC member, had also not announced his homecoming. He laid down and hid amongst the wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree, then jumped up, nearly giving his grandmother a heart attack.

  On the first day of the new term, Jasim and the school bus arrived on time. The automatic door system of the bus seemed to have developed a fault, but Jasim had a solution. We all climbed aboard and the door refused to close, so Joe jumped up to wrestle with it. Jasim waved him away and lifted a long stick from the floor. Expertly, he prodded the door closed, without even leaving his seat.

  The school looked the same, apart from Arabic graffiti that had appeared on the outside walls. However, the area looked different. The usual black Shi’a flags had multiplied and were draped from buildings surrounding the school. We already knew that the school stood in a fiercely Shi’a area, although the owners of the school were Sunni. We’d been warned not to wander out alone, as Westerners were not popular and considered spies for the government. In some Shi’a areas there were no street lights, as the residents wouldn’t accept them.
/>   Black flags

  We punched our cards into the clocking-in machine, black ink, on time, and made our way across the courtyard. Progress was slow as all the students wanted to shake Joe’s hand.

  “Good morning, Meester Joe!”

  “Good morning, Ali.”

  “Good morning, Meester Joe! You are the best!”

  “You’re not getting an ‘A’, Talal.”

  “Aww... Meester!”

  To my surprise, my classroom was unlocked, and somebody was in there, waiting for me. Fatima’s mother.

  “Good morning, Miss Vicky,” she said, her gimlet eyes boring holes into me. “The Hall Monitor let me in. I want to talk to you about the work you are planning this semester. I know that Mr. Wayne...”

  I cut her short. It takes a lot for me to see red, but I was furious. Did she not know that I planned most of Mr. Wayne’s lessons? Or that Mr. Wayne took days off at will, leaving me to set his lessons and instruct the substitute teachers? And why should I have to explain all my lesson preparations to her?

  “I’m sorry,” I said grimly. “I don’t have time for this. And I really don’t appreciate all your emails, or being stalked. Fatima is a good girl, and she’s doing very well. If you are not happy with her education, I suggest you move her to a different school. Right, the school bell will ring any minute now and I have a lot to do. So, if you’ll excuse me...” I wrenched the door open and stood back.

  Fatima’s mother looked shocked, and her pale face reddened.

  “Well!” she said. “If you will not cooperate with me, I must talk to your Principal again.”

  “Please do that,” I said, and closed the door firmly behind her. I couldn’t count on Mr. Brewster to back me, as he didn’t relate easily to female staff, and thought that Wayne walked on water. But by now, I was beyond caring.