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

by Victoria Twead

  “It’s here,” he said, rounding the corner behind one of the administration blocks and pushing a gate open. We walked down a narrow alley, flanked by the school perimeter wall on one side and the classroom block on the other. Around two corners the alley opened out a little and I saw two rows of old chairs, facing each other. Someone had constructed a temporary roof that provided much-needed shade.

  “This is Smokers’ Corner,” said Joe. “Rashida told me it’s for staff to use if they want. Imagine providing a smoking area for teachers! You wouldn’t get that in the UK! Anyway, it’s a private area for all staff, whether they smoke or not.”

  “So who is Rashida?” I asked.

  “I think she teaches Algebra in the High School. She’s Lebanese and has worked here for years. She borrowed my pen... Actually, I don’t think she gave it back.”

  Joe and I were just comparing observations when Joe’s phone rang. It was Colton, telling us that Jasim and the school bus were waiting to take us to the bank. ASS insisted we open bank accounts for the payment of our salaries.

  The bank was cool, modern and airy. We had to wait a long time, as accounts needed to be opened for each new teacher. It was the turn of a fellow teacher, Barry. Older than most, he was talking incessantly to the bank teller. Barry, who sported huge yellow teeth and wafted bad breath as he spoke, never stopped talking.

  “I’m just a dude,” said Barry, leaning in to the poor bank-teller, who recoiled from the blast of toxic odour directed at her. “I’m just a dude from the good ol’ US of A, here to instruct kids in your country. Before I came here, I was...”

  “Get on with it!” muttered Joe.

  But Barry was in full swing and unlikely to be stopped easily.

  “And then, of course, before Saudi, I...”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Joe through clenched teeth, scratching himself down below.

  “I’m just a dude, but I always think...” Barry droned on. And on.

  Joe’s impatience rose in a crescendo, and he pushed his way out through the bank’s entrance doors to cool his temper with a breath of fresh air, quickly returning when he discovered there wasn’t any outside.

  “Get on with it!” repeated Joe in a voice loud enough for Barry to hear.

  It had the desired effect. Barry signed the last paper and vacated his seat. Joe and I were next and were soon clutching our new bank account number. As we waited for the last few, I noticed most of the bank staff’s name tags read ‘Kalifa’.

  “That means they’re related to the King,” whispered Jake. “I don’t know if it’s true, but somebody told me that the King gives all the best jobs to his friends and relations.”

  Back at the hotel, we felt exhausted and settled down to take a nap. I was just dozing off, when the telephone rang.

  “Hi! Jake here! Fancy coming down to our room? We’ve got some beer and wine and a few people here. Come and join us!”

  “Tell him we’ll be there in an hour,” said Joe, half-asleep.

  “Jake? We’ll be there in an hour.”

  “Aw... Can’t you come now?”

  Reluctantly, we got up, splashed warm water (cold tap-water doesn’t exist in August) on our faces and knocked on Jake’s door. The apartment was filled with other new teachers who all stopped talking and spun round to look at us as we entered.

  “Sorry about that,” said Joe to the room. “It’s not often I get a chance for a spot of afternoon hanky-panky with Vicky. We were just getting into it when Jake called.”

  My jaw dropped with horror and embarrassment.

  “But we weren’t doing anything!” I squeaked.

  Everybody was silent, staring at us, probably imagining us oldsters in the throes of passion, and not enjoying the image. Only Jake and Colton roared with laughter; they already understood Joe’s warped sense of humour. Later, whenever they got the chance, they would harmonize ‘Afternoon Delight’ in our hearing, much to my chagrin and Joe’s amusement. Actually, they both had excellent voices, but the song always made me wince.

  In spite of Joe’s bad behaviour, we had a good time and stayed late, after most of the other guests had left. There were six of us, and we were to spend a lot of time together in the future. There was Jake, and his beautiful girlfriend, Emily. Emily held a British passport but had been raised in America and no traces of an English accent remained. She would teach in the Elementary school. She had made friends with another Elementary teacher, Allison, a lovely redhead from Iowa. Then there was Colton, and finally, Joe and me. We sat round the big polished table in Jake and Emily’s suite, and laughed the night away. It felt like a scene from ‘Friends’, except that Joe and I were so much older.

  Jake and Emily

  “So,” I said after a few glasses of wine, “who knows why the Three Fat Ladies hate Miss Daryna? They’ve hardly met her!”

  “I think I know,” said Jake, who always seemed to know everything that was going on. “I think Dr. Cecily was expecting to be given the job of High School Principal. And they used to have a really easy time with the last Principal, so I think Miss Daryna’s arrival has really ruffled their collective feathers.”

  This confirmed what I had suspected and filled in a few more gaps.

  “And what do you think of Barry?”

  Everyone groaned. “Hali-Barry?”

  It was an apt name, the halitosis being Barry’s chief trait. Nobody remembered exactly where in the States he hailed from but, during the previous year, he had been teaching in Saudi Arabia. Apparently, he had left under ‘mysterious’ circumstances that were never properly explained.

  “Hey, I’m just a dude...” said Jake, imitating Barry perfectly, hands shoulder-height, palms exposed, exactly as Barry often did.

  “He’s creepy,” said Emily.

  “Yes, he stares at you, then corners you and tells you his life history,” said Allison. “And all the time he’s talking, he’s kinda undressing you with his eyes.”

  “Hey, he’ll be a member of your faculty,” Colton happily pointed out to Joe. “He teaches Math, doesn’t he?”

  Joe shuddered. “And what do you think of Brent?” he asked.

  We all agreed that Brent was very peculiar. All of us had spelled our names for his notebook several times.

  “Well, school starts on Tuesday. I wonder how many kids will turn up?” someone asked.

  I tried to imagine myself teaching a class of Arabic kids, with no schedule, no books, no paper, in a classroom the size of a cupboard, but failed miserably.

  Back in our room, a scribbled note had been pushed under our door.

  Vicky! I’ve found something out! Come over for a coffee when you can. D.

  I looked at my watch. It was too late now, but I was very curious to hear what Daryna had discovered.

  6. The Worm

  ‘Arabic Salad’

  Early the next morning I tapped on Daryna’s door. She appeared in a pink fluffy bathrobe and tugged me inside. I shivered. Daryna always kept her air conditioning set at ‘Very Cold’.

  “I guess I like it that way because I’m from Canada,” she said. “And your room temperature is like Spain.”

  “So what did that note mean?” I asked, when she’d made coffee. “What did you find out?”

  “The schedule! You know the schedules aren’t ready?”

  “Of course, everybody’s talking about it. What’s the problem?”

  “A Worm! A Worm is the problem!”

  I looked at her blankly. A Worm?

  “The reason the schedule is not ready is because the staff member who was in charge of time-tabling last year didn’t get his contract renewed.”

  “So?”

  “So, he infected the system with a worm. A virus or something. And he’s the only one who knows the password to the school’s set-up. He’s left the island, and the school can’t fix the program.”

  “Oh my! That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes! It’s all being kept hush-hush beca
use it would reflect badly on the school. We don’t want the parents or the students to know about it. Mrs. Sherazi made him a promise that she wouldn’t call the police if he handed over the password.”

  “So has he agreed?”

  “No! He has not! This is one very disgruntled ex-employee!”

  “So what’s going to happen?”

  “Mrs. Sherazi is going to offer him money to come back and fix it. Miss Naima from the office is going to meet him secretly somewhere. I’m assuming he’s agreed to come back to the island. We’ll just have to wait and see. All the students are arriving on Tuesday expecting their schedules, and the teachers can’t function without theirs. I’ve been closeted in the central computer room with Datu and Mr. Brewster, trying to get our heads round the problem.”

  “Yes, my classroom is next door, I heard you.”

  “Mr. Brewster is being a bit obstructive. I gather he fell out with the last Principal, so he’s probably suspicious of me. He’s supposed to be a bit of an expert with computers. The Middle School is going to be easier to sort, because it’s much smaller than the High School. We have a real problem on our hands with the High School.”

  We chatted on. I asked Daryna whether she was pleased with her staff so far. Had she met them all? What were her first impressions? It was then that I learned, nice as she was, Daryna was not the best judge of character.

  “Oh, I have two favourites already,” she said happily. “That nice Barry, I think he’s going to be an asset to the school, and he’s such a gentleman, so attentive! And Brent, a very intelligent young man with credentials as long as your arm!”

  Daryna had a way of accompanying her words with actions, like a Kindergarten teacher. “As long as your arm” was illustrated by shooting out one arm to emphasise just how very long Brent’s credentials were. Unfortunately, she knocked over the table lamp and spilled her coffee in the process.

  I had news for her, too. I explained why she wasn’t popular with the Three Fat Ladies, which bothered her not at all. Daryna was one of those people who never bares a grudge, dare I say, a rare quality for us women. I’m ashamed to confess I’ve been known to harbour a grudge for years, until I can’t even remember why I disliked that person in the first place.

  ۺۺۺ

  The few days before school started flashed past in a haze of heat and activity. Every morning we waited in the hotel lobby, shadowed by Toothy, the porter, who bowed and scraped, offering to carry our school bags, hoping for a tip.

  Jasim was usually late, but nobody ever complained, probably for three very good reasons.

  First, Jasim was popular. Everybody liked him. He reminded me of the genie in Aladdin because they shared the same broad, friendly, grinning face.

  Second, Jasim had a dark side. His driving style reflected his mood, and a journey with an unhappy Jasim was not an experience anybody, except Joe, enjoyed.

  And third, nobody would be foolish enough to argue with Jasim, who was built like a brick outhouse. Like the genie in Aladdin, he had huge forearms, and stood with his arms folded. When not driving the bus, he would join the security team at the school gates, his powerful muscles rippling under his uniform.

  Each drive with Jasim was an adventure. Every morning we greeted him and clambered onto the school bus for the first of our twice-daily fairground rides. Jasim would accelerate away, tyres screeching and sending up plumes of sand that obscured a bowing and waving Toothy.

  Jasim’s school bus

  Few journeys on the school bus were uneventful. For instance, Jasim had two mobile phones that often rang simultaneously. As his passengers held their breaths, Jasim would clamp a phone to each ear and fire off a stream of Arabic, whilst steering with his elbows. He regularly drove at oncoming traffic, ignoring their flashing headlights and horns, at the last moment suddenly diving down a side street. Traffic lights meant nothing to him, stopping only if obstructed by other vehicles. Joe, smiling broadly at the conclusion of each journey, would shake his hand and say, “That was awesome, Jasim! Thank you!” The rest of us would emerge trembling.

  During those days without students, we familiarised ourselves with the school and I prepared my classroom. Joe, of course, was a ‘floater’, with no classroom of his own, so he had little to do except chat with other members of staff. Having no schedule, he had no idea what classes he would be teaching and therefore was unable to prepare for them.

  Once home again, we waited for nightfall when the shops would open, then purchased teacher stuff: cardboard, red pens, files and folders. I bought coloured gift-wrapping paper and, as Hawa had advised, pasted it on the windows of my classroom, blocking out the view of the courtyard. I would also have bought a fish and fishbowl if I’d had enough space in my classroom.

  Tuesday loomed, the first day of school, and still we had no schedule. The veteran teachers, led by the ever-resentful Three Fat Ladies, blamed Daryna. Even the new staff blamed Daryna, having listened to the Three Fat Ladies. Only a few knew the truth but we weren’t permitted to discuss it. The villainous Worm hadn’t kept his assignation and the computer program was infected beyond repair. Daryna, Mr. Brewster and the administration staff were attempting to assemble the schedule manually. The task was enormous and hugely complicated.

  Suddenly it was Tuesday morning, the first day of the new school year. We rose at 5.30 a.m., as we would every school day in the future. I couldn’t eat any breakfast, partly due to the early hour, but mostly because of my nervousness. Being Ramadan, it was our last chance to eat something until late in the afternoon, when we returned from school. My stomach churned and the toast Joe made me tasted like sawdust. I couldn’t swallow. Even Joe was unusually quiet.

  Jasim was late. By the time we arrived at ASS, the street outside was filled with parked cars disgorging students. I gaped. Many of the cars were chauffeur-driven, and all were glittering, expensive vehicles: Mercedes, Range Rovers, Ferraris, Rolls Royces. Not a camel in sight. Jasim somehow barged his way through the shiny cars and dropped us off at the front gates.

  The courtyard was thronging with students of all shapes and sizes. Tall young men shouted and called across the yard to each other. Pretty, veiled teenage girls stood in huddles, whispering and giggling behind their hands, or texting on their iPhones and Blackberrys. Younger students kicked empty Coke cans, rough-and-tumbled, or chased one another. Nobody seemed to be in charge and everything appeared disorderly.

  We fought our way to the clocking-in machine and punched our cards for the first time. It was 7.15 a.m. and the machine was unforgiving. Because it was after 7 a.m., it stamped the time in red. Three red ‘lates’ meant we would be deducted a day’s salary. Not a good start.

  We all headed for the classroom block, the students staring curiously, standing back, creating a path like the parting of the Red Sea. Brent strode ahead, alone. Hali-Barry was talking loudly to Andrea and her beautiful roommate, Saja. Neither appeared remotely interested.

  “Good luck!” I whispered to Joe.

  “Good luck!” he answered, and we pushed through the swing doors into the school building.

  ۺۺۺ

  The first thing I noticed was a chair, occupied by an Indian lady in a sari, in the corridor.

  “Welcome to your firs’ proper day at ASS!” said a voice at my elbow. It was Hawa, dressed in sky blue, her veil decorated with tiny feathers and butterflies.

  “Who is the lady in the chair in the corridor?” I asked, unlocking my classroom.

  “Tha’ is Hall Monitor,” explained Hawa, her brown eyes twinkling. “She keep order in the corridor.” She clapped her hands. “You see soon!”

  My classroom was dark and stiflingly hot. I switched on the lights and air conditioning. I checked that the desks were lined up in neat rows, and sighed deeply. Bring it on, I thought. I was as ready as I ever would be. Then the bell rang, and a huge roar of youthful voices rose from the courtyard. I heard the students stampede to the entrance doors, shouting, pushing, jostling. I braced my
self.

  “OUT! OUT! All Middle School students go back out to the courtyard!” bellowed a voice that I recognised as belonging to Mr. Brewster, the Middle School Principal.

  “Awww...” yelled the kids, but obediently spilled back outside.

  The lower part of my classroom windows were papered over, so I needed to stand on a chair to see what was happening outside. With difficulty Mr. Brewster and his Deputy divided the students into groups of twenty.

  “GROUP #1!” roared Mr. Brewster. “Group #1 go to Math with Miss Hawa.”

  Group #1 picked up their school bags and headed for the doors.

  “GROUP #2! Go to English with Miss Vicky.”

  I hurriedly jumped off the chair and stood by the classroom door, ready to welcome them, and was almost bowled over by the mob of children intent on reaching the best seats, those in the back row. Chairs overturned and small fights broke out. I waited until each student was seated, aware that first impressions are all-important. At last they settled, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Look at my classroom!” I said. “I expect you to come into my room QUIETLY, not knocking over desks, not charging in like a herd of wildebeest!”

  Some kids pulled faces at each other, others fell silent, others grumbled.

  “What is a wildebeest?” asked a cheeky-looking boy.

  “It’s an African wild animal,” I said shortly.

  “Mees called us animals!” said a moon-faced boy, eyes wide.

  I sensed I’d already made a faux pas, but blundered on. “Now, I want you all to stand up and go quietly out into the corridor, then come back in again sensibly. This time, I want you to sort yourselves out into alternate rows of boys and girls.”

  “Mees? What we do, Mees?”