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

by Victoria Twead

  Something good came out of that encounter. Mr. Brewster’s Deputy sided with me and a new school rule came into force. From now on, parents couldn’t wander around ASS, accosting the teachers at will. The security guards at the entrance gates were ordered not to admit Fatima’s mother during school hours. If she, or any parents wanted to speak to a teacher, they now had to make an appointment.

  It didn’t stop the emails, but now they were sent to Mr. Brewster, or his Deputy, and were no longer filling my inbox. In fact, this was the last one I saw, as Mr. Brewster finally agreed that the woman was a nutcase. He ignored all further messages from her. Hooray!

  “dear Mr Brewster,

  Mr. Wayne’s class did a vocab quiz today and also questions from the yellow book chapter 12. I feel English is the biggest subject and it needs more concern and follow up. I hope you agree.

  Fatima’s mother”

  There was also other good news. Dr. Cecily, one of the Three Fat Ladies, handed in her notice. She’d secured a job as some kind of advisor to the Crown Prince, and would be leaving ASS. This didn’t affect me much, being in the Middle School, but I was pleased that one of Daryna’s enemies would no longer be there to needle her.

  Smokers’ Corner was buzzing with the news and all the other ASS gossip. All the regulars were there, apart from Rashida, and much of the gossip centred around her in her absence.

  Our contracts stated that we were not permitted to give paid private tuition to students without the school’s permission. Rashida, ever money-conscious, had flouted that rule for years. Unfortunately, she’d taken it a step further. The story was that she’d deliberately given a bright student low grades, and then charged his parents for extra tuition. Mrs. Sherazi, the school owner, had found out and was justifiably furious.

  And there was more gossip. Young Mohammed whispered that Dawn, another of the Three Fat Ladies, and crazy Brent had become an item. There must have been a big age difference, and it was hard to imagine the two together.

  “Oh well, at least they won’t spoil another couple,” said Joe.

  “It’s t-t-t...” stammered Saeed.

  “It’s true?” suggested Joe.

  “No, it’s t-t-t...”

  “It’s Tuesday?” Colton tried.

  “No, it’s t-t-t...turning c-c-cold now, isn’t it?”

  Essam, from Egypt, who taught Arabic Studies in the High School, happened to be at Smokers’ Corner, sitting next to Colton. Since the beginning he had always called Colton ‘Mr. Kelton’ but nobody had ever corrected him.

  “Mr. Kelton,” he asked, turning to Colton, “are you cold?”

  “Yeh, I do feel a bit cold. The wind is quite chilly today.”

  “Hee hee!” wheezed Mr. Essam. “I will call you ‘Mr. Colton’, because you are cold! Mr. Colton! Hee hee!”

  Back at the hotel there was more news concerning the Three Fat Ladies, although this snippet was told to me confidentially. Daryna invited me into her room.

  “So,” she began, “I was going to suggest to Rita that she might prefer to teach computer skills in future. She’s brilliant at computers, a real natural. I thought she’d jump at the chance, but she didn’t, at all. She must have heard about my plan through the ASS grapevine. She storms into my office and goes completely berserk! And you know how big and loud she is...”

  “Wow, scary! Was anyone else in the office?”

  “Yes, my secretary was there. Anyway, Rita is bawling at me, stamping her feet and slamming that huge fist of hers (it’s the size of a ham!) onto my desk. She is livid, and I’m just glad she didn’t explode - that would have been messy!”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “Somebody told me ages ago that she’s on medication for mood swings,” said Daryna, “so I wasn’t too surprised. But my secretary went ashen and just gaped.”

  “Gosh, you’re brave!” I said. I’d heard Rita in full voice and it scared the chorizo out of me.

  “Well, she finishes up by stomping round to my side of the desk, still shouting, and says, ‘blah-blah-blah, you can kiss my ass’, and bends over, pointing at her planet-sized derriere. My secretary is shaking by now. I can see her knuckles have gone white. Rita marches out, satisfied that she’s made her point, and I just get on with my work.”

  “Well, I’d have been terrified! I hope that was the end of the story?”

  Daryna laughed and took another sip of coffee. “Of course it wasn’t! You know ASS! I’d already forgotten about it, but it seems that my secretary got straight on the phone to Mrs. Sherazi and told her all about it. Mrs. Sherazi was horrified and told my secretary that she would not be renewing Rita’s contract for next year as behaviour like that was unpardonable. So I wrote a long begging letter to Mrs. Sherazi, explaining that Rita’s on meds for mood swings, she was probably just having an ‘episode’, and that I’m sure she didn’t mean it, etc.”

  I was impressed. The Three Fat Ladies had done nothing but make Daryna’s life a misery, and here she was standing up for them.

  “Well, I got a very terse reply from Mrs. Sherazi. She said that my letter didn’t sway her at all, and that her decision was final, and never to write her begging letters again. And, to make matters worse, she summoned Rita, and ordered her to apologise to me.”

  “Did she apologise?”

  “Yes, she did, though I didn’t really want the apology. I forgave her immediately, but after having got Mrs. Sherazi’s reply to my letter, I knew she’d need to look for another job.”

  “Oh dear. Then she doesn’t know about that?”

  “Nope. She will soon, though. The Letters of Intent we have to sign if we want to come back next year are beginning to arrive in people’s mailboxes now.”

  Were they indeed? Should we come back? Without Fatima’s mother on my back, school life had settled down somewhat. I thought perhaps we should stay one more year, just to put money aside for our future. The thought wasn’t attractive, as my heart was in Spain, but it would be the sensible thing to do. However, I knew Joe would fight me tooth and nail. I doubted I’d ever persuade him to stay in Bahrain another year.

  January was an interesting month. Jake and his girlfriend, Emily, both had birthdays in January, so the rest of us hatched a plan. How about a stay at the luxury Gulf Hotel? Colton and I spent a hilarious half-day checking out the hotel, and working on a deal. We were given a guided tour of a typical guest room. The staff seemed to think that the not-very-good-unless-you-were-a-contortionist view from the window, of the King’s palace, was the main selling feature. And they got very excited about offering a complimentary ‘KG chocolate cake’. We didn’t like to ask what exactly that was.

  But the 16 fine-dining restaurants, and lagoon-style pool set in tropical gardens, were attractive. And, as the hotel blurb states:

  “Platinum rooms offer contemporary furnishings, luxury bedding, 24-hour room service, evening turndown, attentive butler service, in-room safe, private lift, satellite TV and Internet access. In addition, individually controlled air conditioning and mini-bar ensure a perfect stay, whilst the luxury bathrooms offer shower, bath tube and an extra plasma TV.”

  A bath tube and plasma TV in the bathroom, plus the complimentary KG cake? We were also promised balloons, a Happy Hour, and breakfast with a ‘live cooking egg’. How could we resist? Colton and I signed on the dotted line and booked a Platinum Room. I confess, I’m still not sure what a bath tube is, or a KG cake, or a live cooking egg. One day I must remember to ask Jake.

  Now we had to wait for Emily’s birthday later in the month to surprise both Jake and Emily with our gift.

  The death of the young Tunisian who had set himself on fire, after having had his fruit stall confiscated, was announced on the 4th of January. Over 5000 people took to the streets of his home town, demanding better living conditions and a stop to police brutality and corruption in Tunisia. The Arab Spring, unnamed as yet, was born.

  19. Field Trips and Terrapins

  ‘Harissa (S
picy Chili Sauce)’

  Every chair in Smokers’ Corner was occupied. Young Mohammed toyed nervously with his phone, lost in his own worries. The Egyptian teachers sat huddled together, faces serious, talking Arabic in undertones. We knew what they were discussing and the reason for their troubled expressions.

  After weeks of demonstrations and ugly scenes, the Tunisian president had stepped down and fled to Saudi Arabia, but not before dozens of lives had been lost in fierce clashes between security forces and demonstrators.

  The world was watching. With the departure of the Tunisian president, crowds surged onto the streets of Egypt, chanting, “Tell Mubarak there is a plane waiting for him, too!” Our Egyptian friends had all left family behind in Egypt, and were justifiably nervous.

  Discontent was contagious, infecting other Arab countries. Speculation was growing amongst politicians, scholars and ordinary people, all wondering whether other countries, such as Algeria, Jordan, Libya and Syria would follow suit.

  Unaware of the first uncertain trickles of the Arab Spring, Joe, Colton and I chatted away at the other end of Smokers’ Corner.

  “So when we’re floatin’ down the Boise River, we have this contest. It’s called ‘Wizard Staff’.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, fascinated.

  “Well, we use duct tape ’n’ stick all our empty beer cans together to make a long staff. Then we prod other people as they float past.”

  “How do you win the contest?” asked Joe.

  “Whoever has the longest staff is the winner,” said Colton.

  “And what do you win?”

  “Oh, nuthin...” Colton’s impish grin lit up his face.

  The conversation was cut short by the arrival of Rashida, who shoved her way past the Arab teachers. Colton, always the gentleman, sprang up and gave her his seat, but received no thanks. Rashida was already rummaging in her bag, and we all knew what was coming next.

  “Colton, give me cigarette. Today I leave mine in the classroom.”

  Colton obliged.

  “Vicky,” she said, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke straight at me. “How are your chickens?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know, Rashida. We didn’t go home for the Winter Break and our neighbour isn’t the letter-writing sort.”

  “You remember I tell you we give our chicken husband to man at shop?”

  “Yes, I remember, he put it on his farm. Did your husband get those chicks he promised your grandson?”

  “No, and now we have no chickens.”

  “Why not?”

  “Before, we have two chickens, now we have not any chickens.” Her fingernail scratched thoughtfully at a stain on her sleeve. “The chickens, they love the chicken husband very much. When chicken husband go, they are very sad. They do not give eggs, and they stand, very quiet, all the day.”

  “They missed him?”

  “Yes. Even when my grandson talk to them and give them tomato, they sad. One day, my husband went in the balcony, and the chickens not in the balcony.”

  “Where were they?”

  “I do not know. I think they, how you say it, commit sui-dice?”

  “Oh, what a shame. Or perhaps they flew away to find him?”

  “No.” Rashida shook her head sadly. “I think they jump off balcony and commit sui-dice.”

  I could see Joe and Colton struggling to keep straight faces.

  Rashida brightened suddenly and dug in her bag. “I have this for all of you!” she said, pulling out a paper bag.

  Rashida giving something away? Now that was unusual.

  “It is Arabic bread,” she said, and passed the bag around.

  We each broke off a piece and tried it. It was very tasty, fresh, and fragrant.

  “And now I must go to my class,” said Rashida, beaming broadly. “Colton, you will give me more cigarettes for later.”

  Colton placed a couple of cigarettes into her grimy outstretched hand and Rashida departed.

  “I’ve never seen her give anything away before,” I remarked, somewhat uncharitably.

  “Hey, she got the money off me this morning,” said Colton. “She said she’d forgotten her purse and didn’t have money for lunch.”

  That figured. Rashida’s penny-pinching was legendary. She was famous for going to the canteen, buying a sandwich, eating most of it, then demanding her money back claiming it didn’t have enough meat in it.

  My classes were particularly unruly that day. Cheeky Mohammed and Ahmed had set up sports kit, shoes, borrowed spectacles and a hat to create a ‘new student’ in an empty chair. For some unknown reason, they introduced the student as Gorg Washingtun, writing his name at the top of the quiz paper I was giving the class that day. I went along with it, although the lesson became more and more rowdy. Fatima rolled her eyes but little Huda, the mute, actually smiled.

  Eventually, I had had enough, the class had become almost uncontrollable. The door opened, and Hawa slipped in, dressed from head to toe in aquamarine.

  “How you spell ‘quotient’?” she asked, whispering into my ear, unaware of Gorg Washingtun sitting in the front row.

  I spelled the word, and she darted back to her class.

  “What did Miss Hawa want?” asked cheeky Mohammed.

  “I was just going to tell you,” I answered, my face poker-straight. “The Ministry of Education is giving the school a surprise visit. Expect that door to open any minute. Straighten your desks, make sure you have your books open in front of you, and no more talking! The Ministry may ask you questions about today’s lesson.”

  Gorg Washingtun was hastily dismantled, the kids quietened down and I had no more trouble. The trick worked so well that I used it on all my classes that day.

  Hawa had been ordered to organise a Grade 6 field trip, which I was looking forward to, but with some trepidation. I had heard that field trips were difficult, owing to a lack of places of interest in Bahrain, as well as the students’ rowdy behaviour.

  A classic example was a High School field trip that took place about a month later. A European group was visiting the Bahrain Fort at the same time as our ASS students. A well-dressed lady smiled at the students and said, “Hello”, whereupon our students rudely mimicked her. The lady was visibly affronted and was swiftly ushered away by her party. The lady was none other than Queen Margrethe II of Denmark.

  “We are going to the City Center mall for our Grade 6 field trip,” announced Hawa, adjusting her lilac beaded hijab. “We go to Magic Planet.”

  I raised my eyebrows in question. I knew that Magic Planet was an amusement arcade.

  “This is how we do it in ASS,” said Hawa. “You see! We will tell the kids to bring money to spen’, then they mus’ write what they spen’, and how much is left over.”

  It seemed a rather elaborate way of making the kids do a sum, but I figured a day out of the classroom would be nice.

  The day of the field trip arrived, and the kids all climbed aboard Jasim’s bus, as well as other buses hired for the occasion. The boys were shrill with excitement, and it was hard work just getting them to remain seated. Jasim stood up and barked an order in Arabic, and the kids immediately subsided. Then he poked the door closed with his long stick, started the engine. We were off.

  Each child clutched a 10BD note (£16.50) for spending, although many had 50BD or more. Even Fatima’s eyes were shining, and little Huda’s downcast face held a tiny smile.

  At City Center, we all piled out and the teachers issued last-minute instructions. I joined forces with Hawa and young Mohammed and together we marched our charges through the mall, up the moving staircases and to Magic Planet, trying not to lose any kids on the way. Unfortunately, Magic Planet refused to accept a lump sum and demanded 2BD per child. Nobody had any change. All 120 ASS kids stood in the line, impatient to experience the rides and amusements, but were forced to wait and be processed separately. Young Mohammed and I, intent on finding change, shot away into the mall leaving Hawa in charge. Half an hour
later it was sorted and the students entered amidst whoops of excitement.

  I enjoyed that day. I enjoyed watching the kids on the hair-raising rides, and little Huda laughing when her shoe flew off. I enjoyed seeing young Mohammed shooting foam balls at the kids, his crazy room-mate, Brent, forgotten. But most of all, I enjoyed watching Hawa on the caterpillar ride, her face set in a scream of terror as it whipped her around, until she climbed off, pale and laughing.

  “Oh, oh, oh! I thought thi’ ride only go slowly!”

  The Grade 6 field trip was a success.

  ۺۺۺ

  The four of us were at Bennigan’s, relaxing and laughing, enjoying each other’s company. The bar was rowdy that evening, filled with off-duty Naval personnel from the American Fifth Fleet.

  “Hey,” said Colton, “when your friends, the Gin Twins, come over next month, how’s about I pick them up from the airport wearing my Green Man suit?”

  What a brilliant idea! I was so looking forward to the Gin Twins coming over to visit us, and they would wet themselves laughing when they saw their chauffeur.

  “Well,” said Jake. “I finally sorted out Emily’s birthday present. Good lord, what a performance!”

  “Sir Jake, Sir Joe, Sir Colton, Miss Vicky? You wan’ another drink?” interrupted a smiling Filipino barmaid.

  We all accepted, and settled down to hear Jake’s story. As always, he acted out the scene, waving his arms and changing his voice to suit the speakers.

  “So,” he began, “I’ve been thinking of getting Emily some kinda pet for her birthday.”

  “A camel?” suggested Joe.

  “Oh yeah! That’d look good tied up outside the hotel, or our new apartments if we ever get there... Nah, a couple of terrapins maybe. You know that pet shop in the mall, the one with the aquariums outside?”

  We all nodded.

  “Well, I went in about a week ago and there’s this Indian guy in there. So, no kidding, this is how the conversation went...” Jake stood up to demonstrate.