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

by Victoria Twead

  “I’m not sitting next to a boy!” exclaimed a girl wearing a hijab.

  “Sit next to a girl?” asked the cheeky boy. “Not me!”

  Things were not going at all well, but I knew I had to follow through. “Into the corridor, all of you!” I repeated.

  “Aww... Mees!” complained the class, but they did as they were told, much to my relief.

  “You! All you! Go back in classroom!” shrilled a voice outside. It was the Hall Monitor. “You not allowed in hall in lesson time!”

  “But the Mees told us to come out!”

  “It’s okay,” I explained to the Hall Monitor, “I sent them out. Now, class, go back in. And quietly!” From the corner of my eye, I saw a black-robed, shadowy figure watching the whole scene. Somehow, I sensed this lady was no idle spectator. This lady was going to feature in my future.

  7. Giving Up

  ‘True Falafels’

  The class filed back in, a little more orderly this time, with no chairs knocked over, although I noticed the moon-faced boy attempting to trip the girl in the hijab. It was only when they were seated once more that I saw a flaw in my plan to separate them. More than three-quarters of the class were boys. I gave up with the seating plan.

  “Good morning, everybody,” I began, standing at the front in the only tiny space available in the room. Thanks to the Worm, I had no class list, so I had to improvise.

  “My name is Miss Vicky. Please call me ‘Miss Vicky’, not ‘Miss’, and I shall attempt to take your names, one by one.” I turned to the cheeky boy, who was now sitting in the front row.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mees? My name is Mohammed, Mees.”

  I wrote it down and looked at the next boy. “Name, please?”

  “Mohammed, Mees.”

  “Hmm... Two Mohammeds in this class? And you?” I asked a third boy.

  “Mees, Mohammed, Mees.”

  This was getting ridiculous. Three Mohammeds?

  “Okay,” I said, “how many Mohammeds do we have in this room?” A forest of hands were raised. I should have asked who wasn’t called Mohammed. I tried asking for their second names, but the strange words and spellings just confused me further. The children were becoming bored and fidgety. I gave up with the class list.

  “Mees, where are our schedules, Mees?” asked the cheeky boy. “Where do we go next lesson?”

  “Er, they’re just being finished.” I said. “You’ll be getting them soon. And please call me ‘Miss Vicky’, not ‘Mees’.”

  “Sorry, Mees.”

  “Mees, what you want us to do, Mees?”

  I sighed and gave up with the ‘Mees’.

  “Right!” I said brightly. “I’m going to tell you four things about myself, and then I want each of you to tell me four things about yourselves. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mees.”

  “Number #1. My name is Miss Vicky, and this is my first year at ASS.”

  “Where ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED!” shouted the class, making me jump.

  “Number #2. My husband teaches Physics and Maths in the High School.”

  “Mees? Does he, Mees? He might teach my brother!” said a girl.

  “Oh, really? What’s your brother’s name?” Silly question.

  “Mohammed, Mees.”

  “Number #3. I’m British, but I live in a little village in Spain.”

  “Mees! Spain won the World Cup, Mees!”

  “Yes, I know, I was there at the time.”

  “Mees? Which football team do you support, Mees?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but the class had dissolved into a shouting match, each boy yelling out the team he supported, and leaning over to punch any boy within range who didn’t agree.

  “Mees! Liverpool is the greatest!”

  “Mees! Mees! Manchester United!”

  “No, Mees! Arsenal!”

  “Mees! Chelsea!”

  It seemed that Arabic kids knew more about English football than I did. I was just trying to regain order, when a pale face appeared briefly at the little window in my classroom door. It was female, black-veiled, and I guessed belonged to the shadowy figure I had seen earlier in the corridor. Who was she?

  “Number #4. My hobbies are reading and writing and I love animals.”

  Hoots of derision from the class.

  “Mees? Reading and writing is boring, Mees!”

  “Mees? Why you like animals, Mees? Animals are dirty!”

  “Animals are ugly, Mees!”

  I gaped at them. Perhaps I hadn’t heard right.

  “Don’t you have pets?” I asked.

  “No, Mees!”

  “Not even camels?”

  “No, Mees!”

  “My father and my uncle have falcons, Mees. But they’re not pets.”

  I gave up on animals. In desperation, I hit on a sure-fire subject, one that I knew was of interest, one that my pupils in England adored talking about.

  “What is your favourite food?” I asked.

  “Mees,” said a sweet-faced girl patiently, “it’s Ramadan. We don’t talk about food in Ramadan.”

  Again, I gave up. Enough class discussion, I would quieten them down by getting them to write.

  “Okay, I want you to get out paper and pens. Write your name at the top of the paper, then write four good sentences about yourselves.”

  “Mees, we didn’t bring paper and pens today.”

  “Why not?”

  “We never do anything on the first day of term. Not many kids come to school because of Ramadan.”

  Mentally I threw in the towel yet again. Luckily, the bell rang, and my charges departed, only to be replaced by another batch of rowdy Mohammeds. I fervently hoped that Joe was faring better.

  ۺۺۺ

  After nearly four hours of solid ‘teaching’, without so much as a sip of water, I closed the classroom door behind the last Mohammed. My voice, unaccustomed to such heavy usage, had deteriorated into a rasping croak. I had an hour before my next lesson, valuable time to prepare for tomorrow. Then I had to attend a meeting where all the Grade 6 teachers would meet each other. Finally, back to the hotel.

  I sighed and tried not to think of our home in the village of El Hoyo, where the only people I met were villagers, where I could eat and drink what I pleased, and nobody was called Mohammed.

  I was just straightening the desks, when somebody tapped on the door.

  “Come in!” I rasped.

  The door opened, and a black-robed figure swept in. I recognised it immediately. It was the shadowy figure I had seen in the corridor, when I had sent my first class out. I examined her face, and was certain that it was the same face I had seen peering into my classroom.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “Miss Vicky? I am Fatima’s mother.”

  “Oh, hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  I smiled and offered my hand but quickly dropped it when she made no move to reciprocate. Her hands remained hidden in the flowing folds of her abaya. This lady had a pale, waxy complexion, her face framed by a black hijab. Her narrow, colourless eyes drilled into mine. Her voice was accented, but she spoke English well.

  “I’m so sorry,” I began, “I’m not sure which one is your daughter. I met three classes for the first time today.”

  “Fatima was in your first class. She is an exceptional student.” The pale eyelids twitched.

  “Well, I look forward to getting to know her,” I said. “But the class lists haven’t been finalised yet. Mr. Wayne may be teaching her, not me.”

  “No, I have spoken with the school’s owner, Mrs. Sherazi, and also Mr. Brewster. They have both promised me that you will be teaching Fatima.”

  “Oh.” Was this a compliment? I wasn’t quite sure, but I felt most uncomfortable.

  “Fatima’s education is extremely important, and English, in my opinion, is the most important subject.”

  “Er, yes, English is very important.”

  “So
I came here to introduce myself, and to let you know that you have my full support in giving Fatima the best education possible.”

  “Er, thank you.”

  “One more thing,” she said, her cold eyes boring into me. “Please do not call my daughter a wildebeest ever again.” She bowed briefly and swept out of the room, not allowing me to explain that I hadn’t exactly called her daughter a wildebeest.

  The words Fatima’s mother had uttered weren’t threatening, but I was left with the distinct impression that I was being warned. I shook my head to clear it. I didn’t have the time to worry about a parent just now.

  Somehow I got through the last class, and headed to the Geography room for the meeting. The Arabic teacher sat in her upholstered teacher chair, her hands folded in her lap, while the rest of us sat at the students’ desks.

  “You meet Fatima’s mother already?” whispered Hawa, rolling her eyes.

  “Yes. I wasn’t sure what to make of her.”

  “Tha’ woman! Everybody has heard of tha’ woman!” All the little butterflies pinned to her hijab trembled in sympathy as she spoke. “Tha’ woman, she make life miserable for all the teachers in the Elementary school las’ year. Me, I not let her bully me!”

  I believed her. The clenched fists and grim look of determination didn’t fit with the delicate, exotic butterflies dancing around her head, but I sensed a huge inner strength, and began to understand why she described herself as ‘the meanest teacher’.

  Mr. Brewster entered at that point, and the meeting began. All the Grade 6 teachers were present and we introduced ourselves to each other. I already knew Hawa, and had shaken hands with the Arabic Geography teacher. I also knew young Mohammed, the Science teacher, who was a quiet, gentle, bespectacled young man from Lebanon. He rarely spoke, and telephoned his father every evening. Like many of the new staff, this was his first teaching job, and the first time he had left his own country. I knew he was sharing a hotel suite with Brent, the strange TOK teacher, and wondered how compatible they were.

  My eyes searched the room. It was Mr. Wayne that interested me most, because he was the only other Grade 6 English teacher. I assumed we would be working as a team.

  “The only person missing is Mr. Wayne,” said Mr. Brewster, looking around. “Ah, here he is!”

  Wayne’s athletic outline filled the doorway. Very tall, he was an African American, like Mr. Brewster. He was thirty-something, with the physique of a weight-lifter, but it wasn’t his bulk that was remarkable. It was the multi-coloured clothes he wore. It started from his feet, encased in yellow, patent leather shoes with black stitching, went up to faded jeans (with designer slashes), continued with a purple shirt under an orange cardigan, and was topped off by a lime green felt hat. His style definitely made a statement, although I wasn’t sure what statement it made. So this was the other member of my team?

  “Cool!” breathed Wayne.

  “Wayne, welcome!” said Mr. Brewster, clapping him affectionately on the back. “Take a seat. We’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome to ASS!”

  “Where ALL STUDENTS SUCCEED,” chanted the other teachers without much enthusiasm.

  Mr. Brewster waxed lyrical, describing Wayne’s many talents as described by his former employer. I listened carefully, but it seemed that Wayne hadn’t actually been a schoolteacher before. Oh well, it had been a long time since I’d been in a classroom too, so probably we were on the same level.

  “Mr. Brewster, he don’ like women very much,” whispered Hawa from behind her hand. “I been here many, many year, and he not listen to women! He only make best friend with the men! You see!”

  “Is Mr. Brewster married?” I asked from the corner of my mouth.

  “Yes! He choose a wife las’ year from village in Thailand.”

  That surprised me.

  The meeting wound up, and I tried to chat with my team member, before I caught the bus, but didn’t make much headway. Wayne was leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, chin resting on his chest, absorbed with texting on his mobile. I stepped over his legs and sat in the vacant chair beside him.

  “Hi! We should have a chat about what books and stuff we’re doing this year,” I said.

  “Cool...” he purred, but didn’t look up.

  For the hundredth time that day, I gave up, and made my way back to the waiting school bus, via the clocking-in machine. I caught sight of Fatima’s mother hovering around the admin block and gave her a brief smile, which wasn’t returned. It had been a very long day, and it hadn’t finished yet...

  8. Adjusting

  ‘Mejeddarah’

  Joe was already on the bus, looking haggard. I slipped into the seat beside him. The bus was unusually quiet, all the teachers looking exhausted and more than a little shell-shocked. Jasim started the engine and drew away from the school, homeward bound. A few blocks from the school, some road-works were underway. Indian workers were paving the sidewalk with red bricks, and a No Entry rope was stretched across the road. Jasim ignored it, driving through and snapping the barrier as the workers leaped aside in alarm.

  “How was your day?” I asked Joe at last.

  “Diabolical.”

  “Oh dear, why?”

  “Well, the schedule isn’t finished yet, so I was given a class to look after. About twenty of them. None had any books or paper or anything.”

  “Ah, that’s exactly what happened to me!”

  “Miss Daryna said that we were supposed to start teaching right away. But the students I was given were all different ages, ranging from 14 to 19. Only two of them were doing Physics.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, first I had a chat with them. Then some got out their Blackberrys and sent texts to their friends. Some just sat around, playing cards or listening to music on their iPods. I just let them get on with it. Luckily I had my Ibsen Plays with me so I sat and read.”

  “So what was the problem?”

  “Well, you know how immersed I get when I’m reading?”

  “Yes...”

  “I didn’t notice the class go all quiet. Miss Daryna must have been passing and heard the noise. Anyway, she came in and bawled at them. She said playing cards wasn’t allowed, and they weren’t supposed to have iPods or Blackberrys in the classroom. She said I should be teaching them, but how could I?”

  “Did the kids behave after that?”

  “As if!” Joe snorted. He scratched his nethers. “Some of them escaped, I don’t know where they went. The rest just carried on playing cards and stuff.”

  “And the rest of the day?”

  “All the same. The students just wandered around doing whatever they liked. Sometimes, when some escaped, the Hall Monitors brought them back, but they soon slipped out again. Miss Daryna came back in once, and I didn’t even notice. She confiscated their playing cards and stuck them right under my nose. Gave me a shock, because I was so immersed in Ibsen.”

  I laughed. “Well, let’s look on the Internet tonight. We should be able to find some general knowledge quizzes or something to occupy them tomorrow.”

  “The whole thing is just chaos,” said Joe, giving himself another hearty scratch. “You can’t run a school without a timetable. I honestly don’t know if I’m going to last the course. The thought of the months ahead makes me want to book the next flight back to Spain.”

  Judging by the snippets of other conversations on the bus, everybody had had a bad day. And they all blamed one person for the absence of a schedule. The Principal, Miss Daryna. I’d been sworn to secrecy about the evil Worm, so I couldn’t defend her.

  “This wasn’t what I was expecting at all,” Joe grumbled, and lapsed into silence.

  I knew what he was thinking about, and so was I. I pictured our garden in Spain. Swallows swooping and wheeling in the sky, cicadas chirruping busily in our grapevine. Village cats with their new litters of kittens would be hiding from the heat, coming out to play and hunt in the cool of the evening. Our
neighbours, the Ufartes, dancing flamenco in the street. And we’d given all that up for this? Was it really worth it?

  Jasim dropped us off at the hotel, and I marched past Toothy and headed straight for Daryna’s room. I wanted to know if the schedule problem had been fixed.

  “Come in!” she called when I knocked on her door. “How has your day been?”

  I told her the condensed version and she sympathised.

  “I’m afraid the Worm has gone underground,” she said. “He’s refusing to communicate at all now, and we’re no nearer to completing a schedule. I’ve spent all day trying to get the teachers to teach something, anything! The students aren’t stupid, they know the school isn’t running properly. Did you know the last Principal let them run wild? There used to be fights and stampedes in the corridor! Honestly, they were allowed to do as they pleased. I’ve promised Mrs. Sherazi that I’m going to crack down. She wants me to stop the students wandering around the school, or playing cards, or listening to music when they should be learning.”

  I didn’t mention Joe’s tale of woe. Secretly I wondered how successful she would be with improving discipline in the school.

  Daryna laughed. “Never mind,” she said brightly, “I don’t mind being the ogre. That’s my job and it’s what I’m paid for.”

  I certainly didn’t envy her the job.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “I didn’t tell you about my shopping yesterday. I was just picking up a few things from the supermarket last night, and guess who popped up and gave me a hand?”

  “No idea...”

  “That nice Barry. He carried the shopping bags all the way to my room, which was very kind of him. The trouble was, I couldn’t get rid of him afterwards, he just wouldn’t go.”

  Hali-Barry? I remembered what the other female teachers had said about Hali-Barry, and how they disliked his attentions. Perhaps Hali-Barry was trying his luck with the Principal?

  ۺۺۺ

  The Worm never surfaced, and we lurched through the remainder of August and the first week of September without a schedule. My team member, the colourful Wayne, asked me for ideas to occupy our classes until a structured timetable was in place, so I shared the resources and worksheets I had created. The Gin Twins had sent me a wonderful parcel of workbooks from England, exercises on punctuation, grammar and creative writing, which probably saved my sanity. I tore the staples out of the workbooks and took them up to the photocopying room, a few at a time.