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

by Victoria Twead

  “I see that Daryna, the High School Principal, isn’t here,” I said to Dawn, after our introductions. “She’s new, too, isn’t she?”

  Stony silence.

  “It’s her first year, too, isn’t it?” I persisted, perhaps a little unwisely.

  “Miss Daryna wasn’t invited,” said Rita. I saw her exchange glances, and raised eyebrows, with Dr. Cecily and Dawn. I sensed a grudge lurking somewhere but, as yet, was unable to fathom the cause.

  It seemed that Dr. Cecily was responsible for hiring most of the new teachers as a result of a Job Fair in middle America. Every voice was American, apart from ours, and I remembered very few of the names or faces. There was, however, one exception: Brent.

  I first noticed Brent when he was talking to Joe. Joe is six feet tall but Brent was taller. I guessed that he was about 30 years of age. He had a mane of unruly hair, growing untidily around a central bald patch, and instead of a can of beer or wine glass, he clutched a notebook and pencil. Perhaps he was a reporter? I excused myself from the Three Fat Ladies, extracting myself with difficulty from the suffocating depths of the sofa.

  “Please, what is your name, please?” Brent was asking Joe.

  “I’m Joe.” Joe extended his hand, but Brent chose to ignore it.

  “Please, how do you spell that, please?”

  “Er, J.O.E...”

  Brent scribbled in his notebook and looked up again. “And where do you come from, please?”

  “I’m British, but actually we live in Spa...”

  “And what will you be teaching, please?” Scribble, scribble.

  “High School Maths and Physics.”

  “Hello, I’m Vicky,” I said, joining them and smiling at Brent. “I’m Joe’s better half.”

  Brent swung round to face me. I tried shaking hands but he ignored me, too. Joe rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Please, what is your name, please?”

  “I’m Vicky.”

  “Please, how do you spell that, please?”

  “V.I.C.K.Y.”

  “And where do you come from, please?” Scribble, scribble.

  “England. Via Spain.”

  “And what will you be teaching, please?”

  “English.”

  Brent wrote, then turned away from us to face a young couple, cutting into their conversation.

  “Please, what is your name, please?”

  “Who was that?” I whispered to Joe. “A reporter?”

  “No, that’s Brent, teaching TOK in the High School. I think he’s a bit of a weirdo.”

  “Oh. What’s TOK?”

  “Theory of Knowledge.”

  “Oh.”

  I was out of my depth, and felt a wave of homesickness for El Hoyo, for our house, for the chickens and neighbours, for the simple life. What were we doing in this alien place, with these strange people?

  The front door opened again, and an attractive, veiled Arabic lady entered. The Three Fat Ladies welcomed her and introduced her to the room.

  “This is Miss Naima, head of Human Resources,” announced Dr. Cecily.

  Miss Naima smiled, looked down at the wad of brown envelopes in her hand, and then started calling out names. Her English was accented but excellent. Our names were called, we stepped forward, and she handed us our envelopes.

  Impatient as ever, Joe peeked into his envelope and his eyes widened. “It’s money!” he said. “Lots of it!”

  “Okay, y’all!” called Dr. Cecily, officiously clapping her hands. “Miss Naima has just given you your settling-in allowance. Now let’s get this show on the road! The school bus is waiting below to take y’all on your night-tour of the city.”

  Joe and I were first out of the door, but when we reached the waiting bus, Joe kept on walking.

  “Make some excuse for me,” he said over his shoulder. “I can’t face any more polite smalltalk. Take some photos, tell me how you get on. I promise I’ll come on the trip tomorrow.”

  I sighed. This wasn’t unusual. Since his military days, Joe had developed an allergy to crowds. I watched him march away across the sand and boarded the bus alone, just as the evening prayer chants began. A wail floated from a minaret above a mosque, then another, then more, all from different directions of the city, filling the air. I looked at a large building opposite, decorated with a giant picture of the King, several floors high. The King smiled benevolently down upon his subjects and, more than ever, I felt like a fish out of water.

  The others now boarded the bus. I was a little surprised at the condition of the interior. Some seats were slashed and graffiti scrawls were evident.

  “The students,” explained a Fat Lady who caught me staring. “They’re spoilt, those kids. They just do whatever they want. They know somebody will clean up after them.”

  The driver started the engine and we set off across the sand lot, heading for the road. I’d noticed that the Bahrainis seemed to build their apartment blocks first, not concerning themselves with paving the roads until later, if ever.

  I don’t recall much of the tour. I know I saw brightly lit mosques, malls, the Pearl monument (again) and the famous Financial District with its modern towers. Most of the time I just watched neon signs flash past in a blur. I should have been excited, but I felt homesick and deeply lonely.

  The Three Fat Ladies pointed chubby fingers at buildings and landmarks, rarely pausing in their running commentary. The youngsters on the bus chattered and squealed. For them it was a huge adventure. Newly qualified, most had never travelled, and I could hear Brent with his, “Please, what is your name, please?” repeated over and over.

  Little did I know that not many seats away from me were two of the greatest friends Joe and I would ever make. Colton and Jake, younger than our own kids, would delight us and transform our days in the Middle East.

  And there was somebody else on that bus whom I instantly liked, and who would play a big part in our everyday lives. It was Jasim, the bus driver, and I was to discover that his mood would affect every one of our days at the school.

  At last the tour was over and I rejoined Joe in our hotel suite. He was fiddling about with the TV, unable to find many English-speaking programmes.

  “Did you see any camels?” he asked.

  I shook my head and went to bed. Perhaps things would look brighter in the morning. Tomorrow was going to be another very busy day.

  ۺۺۺ

  Next morning, we woke well-rested and ready to face the day. We had coffee and I was reading the hotel’s rules and information when I made a discovery.

  “Hey! The hotel has a swimming pool!”

  The hotel rooftop swimming pool

  Things were looking up. Joe and I had plenty of time before being picked up by the bus for our next sight-seeing tour. More than enough time for a swim. We grabbed our stuff and took the lift to the roof. We passed the gymnasium with averted eyes; this was not a place in which we intended spending much time. We pushed the door to the open-air pool and squealed as we touched the metal hand-rail. It was hot enough to grill a chorizo.

  Somebody else was already in the small pool. A fit young man swam up and down, up and down. Brent.

  Joe and I settled ourselves on sun-loungers, waiting for Brent to tire. But he didn’t. Eventually we could stand the heat no longer and slipped into the shallow end, only to find that the water was hot. Far from being refreshing, it was more like swimming in soup.

  “Hello, Brent,” Joe said cheerfully, as Brent slowed to turn.

  “Please, what is your name, please?”

  “I’m Joe. We met last night.”

  “And where do you come from, please?”

  Joe gave up and started swimming. We swam awhile, then departed, leaving Brent to continue with his lengths, up and down, up and down, up and down.

  ۺۺۺ

  Jasim arrived more than half an hour late to pick us up for our next sight-seeing trip. Joe was annoyed but it was a taste of things to come.

&nbs
p; 3. Sand, Sand Everywhere, and Not a Drop to Drink

  ‘Tahini Sauce’

  Arriving late did not bother our bus driver, Jasim, at all. Jasim came when Jasim was ready, not before. And if Jasim was in a good mood, the journey was smooth. However, if Jasim was unhappy, we’d soon know about it. He’d rattle our bones as the bus lurched through the sand, wrenching the steering wheel from side to side, causing us to be thrown around like dried peas in a box. He’d ignore traffic lights and every corner became a fairground ride.

  The itinerary of our sightseeing trip looked interesting. We were going to the museum, the Grand Mosque, the Formula 1 racetrack, and, best of all, to see the King’s camels.

  By now, many of the teachers had become familiar to us, although new ones were arriving all the time. We avoided Brent as far as possible, but others we liked and chatted with. Daryna didn’t join us as she was spending her time at the school and had already seen the sights. I heard her name frequently mentioned by the Three Fat Ladies, Cecily, Dawn and Rita, our self-appointed sightseeing guides. And, judging by their frowns and whispered exchanges, Daryna was not the flavour of the month. This astonished me, as Daryna had not yet begun her job as Principal.

  The heat was indescribable, and the air-conditioned interior of the bus was our sanctuary, but we all streamed out obediently to mill around the museum. Joe was fascinated but I couldn’t find much enthusiasm for the few 6000 year old, unrecognisable artifacts. Everything looked dry and shrivelled. Joe tried to pique my interest by showing me a restored Buick, donated by the American government in 1932. He failed miserably.

  At the beautiful Grand Mosque, or Al-Fateh which I recognised from the 20BD banknote, we all removed our shoes. The females of the party were ushered into an anteroom where we were issued with all-covering abayas and hijabs, without which we would not be granted access. The mosque was only 22 years old, sparsely furnished and decorated, unlike Christian places of worship. We all sat on the carpet under a vast fibre-glass dome, listening to an Imam’s lecture. My concentration was thin. I was more interested in studying fellow members of our party, and two little girls, with only their faces visible, playing on a bench.

  Me at the Grand Mosque

  By the time we’d visited the museum and the Grand Mosque, Joe and I were parched. There was nowhere to buy a drink, everything was closed. And now we understood why. Ramadan. No food or drink, not even a sip of water, was permitted between sunrise and sunset. Not being Muslim, we could eat and drink, but only in private, for fear of offending the devout.

  “Okay, y’all,” said one of the Three Fat Ladies. “We’re going to the Formula 1 racetrack now.”

  The news was greeted with damp enthusiasm by the passengers, who were hot and irritable. But not Joe.

  “Crikey! The Bahrain F1 racetrack!” he yelled. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to see it!”

  Joe is a huge fan of the Grand Prix, and this was the highlight of his day. I noticed other teachers giving him sidelong glances, and I guessed Formula 1 was not high on their interest list. The sun hammered down as just a handful of us left the cool bus to explore the circuit. Apart from us, the grounds were deserted.

  “Vicky, can you believe it? Look, there’s the starting grid! And the pits! Wow! I can’t wait for March when the Bahrain Grand Prix is on! Did you know that Bahrain is hosting the opening round of the season?” Joe’s head was beetroot red, caused by a mixture of heat and excitement.

  I like F1, but not enough to stand in the searing heat admiring the track’s bends and grandstand. All I really wanted was a drink. Even my enthusiasm to see the King’s camels was fast diminishing.

  Back on the bus, Jasim made an announcement, gold teeth glinting through his broad grin.

  “Today not go see King’s camels.”

  “Why not?” asked Joe.

  “Very hot, too much hot.”

  I was disappointed, but going home was attractive. I was hallucinating about our fridge’s interior, and the glasses of cold water that I would soon be pouring down my throat. The camels would have to wait.

  Tomorrow we’d visit the school for the first time. We’d meet the owners, check out the facilities, and see our classrooms. I was more than a little nervous.

  ۺۺۺ

  “Vicky, I don’t understand it. I’m getting no support at all from Dr. Cecily, Dawn or Rita. In fact, they block everything I suggest.” Daryna was already a constant visitor to our suite, and she frequently reported back, providing us with juicy snippets of the school’s preparation for the new term.

  “The Three Fat Ladies?”

  Daryna chuckled. “Is that what you call them? Good name!”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going on there, but I’ll try to find out.” I said. I remembered witnessing the Three Fat Ladies’ hostility towards Daryna at the ‘Meet and Greet’ party. Perhaps our first school visit would shed some light on the mystery.

  “And wait until you meet the owner, Mrs. Sherazi!”

  “Why?”

  “Wait and see. I have to give a speech, too, and you’ll meet your Middle School Principal, Mr. Brewster.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He seems okay. He’s American, of course. A man of colour. He seems a bit on the defensive and I’m not sure why.”

  At 7 a.m. the next morning it was already hot. I’d hidden a bottle of water in my bag, knowing there would be no refreshments during the day. Ramadan was a harsh time.

  Jasim, the bus driver, was late and we waited for him in the cool of the hotel foyer. Our favourites, Jake and Colton, kept us amused with tales of their home towns. Jake was from Chicago and Colton hailed from Boisie, Idaho.

  This was Jake’s first teaching position and he had arrived in Bahrain with his lovely girlfriend, Emily, full of hopes and ambition. Fair-haired, polite, with a competitive streak, Jake was a born showman and teacher. His stories and his ability to mimic fellow teachers, including Brent and the Three Fat Ladies, often left us weak with laughter. Jake had presence. Everybody gravitated towards him and he was popular with Arabs and Westerners alike.

  Jake

  This was Colton’s first year of teaching, too. Having completed his college education, he became a waiter in a Boise restaurant. He was hugely successful, earning money hand over fist, but decided serving was not enough. He trained to become a teacher and accepted the offer from the American Specialist School, or ASS.

  Colton was impossibly good-looking, but never vain. He had the kind of face that could have originated from anywhere: Arabia, Spain, America, wherever. His brown eyes sparkled with fun but he never took himself very seriously. He attracted female attention wherever he went, but it was not only his looks that attracted. Colton was gentle, sensitive, generous and incredibly thoughtful. In spite of their age difference, Joe and Colton soon developed a special bond and later would spend hours together, watching movies, arguing, talking about nothing and roaring with laughter.

  Colton

  Later on, both Colton and Jake became popular with the students, although their classroom styles were poles apart. Jake was strict and ran a tight ship, although humour was an important part of his delivery. Colton, on the other hand, was relaxed and friendly with his students, and they adored him. Both were extremely effective teachers.

  The other young teachers milled about, some leaning against walls, all chatting. Brent was there, notebook at the ready. I saw him closing in, pencil poised, but luckily the bus arrived. I steered Joe away before Brent had the chance to ask our names yet again.

  Jasim was in a good mood, and that first drive to school was fascinating. Forty years ago, the area where our hotel was located, was under the sea. The land was reclaimed and modern skyscrapers sprouted up where once there had only been water.

  The houses were large, expensive and hidden behind walls with only their upper floors visible. We caught glimpses through ornate gates of Indian servants washing cars or watering flowerbeds. Between houses lay sand lots,
no doubt earmarked for future construction.

  Now and then we stopped to pick up teachers, already veterans at the school, who chose to live in preferred accommodation. Although the school was quite close to our hotel, the frequent stops and heavy traffic turned a ten-minute journey into one of half an hour.

  We swung off the main road and left the tall, opulent buildings and gated compounds behind. Now the road was narrow and dusty. Here the houses were low, flat-roofed, cramped and crumbling, often festooned with black flags. Arabic graffiti adorned bare walls. In a few short weeks, we were to discover that the graffiti spelled out political messages, like ‘Freedom!’

  Our school lurked behind very high walls topped with wire fencing and we could see nothing, except huge metal gates guarded by uniformed security men. I don’t really know what I’d been expecting, but the building looked more like a prison than a school.

  We piled out and passed through the gates into a courtyard. The main classroom block was three floors high and, together with a few administration blocks, surrounded the large, partly shaded courtyard. I tried to imagine the place filled with Arabic kids, as it soon would be.

  The Three Fat Ladies herded us into an administration block and introduced us to the square gadget fixed to a wall.

  “Hey y’all, this is where you punch in every morning, and punch out at the end of the day.”

  Joe and I exchanged glances. So we were expected to clock in and out every day? I hadn’t done that since I worked on a factory assembly-line, making fire-guards, when I was a student.

  “And if you’re late three times, y’all lose a day’s pay.”

  “And if you’re sick, you need to call in yourself and explain, or y’all lose a day’s pay.”

  “And if you don’t have a doctor’s note, y’all lose a day’s pay.”