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

by Victoria Twead

  “Indian guy: Good morning, sir! How are you?

  Me: I’m very well, thanks! Do you have terrapins?

  Indian guy: (nodding away) Oh yes, we are having terrapins, sir.

  Me: Do you have small ones?

  Indian guy: Oh yes, we are having small ones, sir.

  Me: Right! Good, do they grow big?

  Indian guy: No, sir, they are not growing big.

  Me: Excellent! Could you show me the tanks, and food and stuff, please? I’ll pick a tank and then I’ll come back next week and buy the tank and two terrapins.

  Indian guy: Very good, sir.”

  The Filipino barmaid arrived with our drinks, and Jake stood aside, waiting while she served. We thanked her and turned back to Jake.

  “So, did you go back?” I asked.

  “Yep! I went back to the shop today. Good lord! This is how the conversation went:

  Indian guy: Good morning, sir! How are you?

  Me: I’m very well, thanks! I’ve come back, like I said.

  Indian guy: Excuse me?

  Me: I’ll take that tank we decided on last week.

  Indian guy: Excuse me? What tank is the sir wanting?

  Me: (I’m a bit annoyed now, I spent ages with this guy.) You remember, that tank and two terrapins that don’t grow big. For my girlfriend’s birthday present.

  Indian guy: You are wanting to buy a tank and two terrapins that are not growing big for your girlfriend’s birthday present?

  Me: Yes! Yes!” Jake paused, remembering his exasperation.

  “He’d forgotten you?” I asked.

  “That’s what I thought! I spent a long time looking at tanks and terrapins with this guy, how could he forget? Then this door opens at the back of the shop, and...the Indian guy’s identical twin brother walks out.” Jake smacked his own forehead at the memory. “Then it all made sense!”

  “I have the terrapins hidden in my room ’til Emily’s birthday,” said Colton.

  Joe, Colton and I exchanged furtive glances. We couldn’t wait to give Jake and Emily their birthday surprise.

  20. Birthdays and Valentine’s Day

  ‘Rosewater and Pistachio Ice-cream’

  The

  BWMDC

  Cordially invite Emily and Jake

  to

  Bennigan's

  on

  Thursday 20th January

  at

  6.00pm

  for a Birthday Presentation

  RSVP

  Thursday evenings were invariably celebrated at Bennigan’s. It was the beginning of the weekend, so we could let our hair down a little. That night, Jake, Emily, Allison, Colton, Kent, Joe and I were seated round a table. Emily said she was delighted with her birthday present, the terrapins, which she had named Stella and Art(ois). Sadly, Art died a few days later. Apparently he’d never been too lively. We’d already enjoyed a few drinks before the Bennigan’s birthday ritual began.

  The staff at Bennigan’s were very good at celebrating their clients’ birthdays, if a little unorthodox. We’d tipped them off, and Amlet, the manager, gave us a theatrical wink. He lowered the music volume, switched off the TVs, and dimmed the lights. A conga of Filipino bar staff suddenly crashed through the kitchen doors, dancing, banging tambourines and singing Happy Birthday, although not to the familiar tune. The Filipino ‘Happy Birthday’ rendition involved lots of ‘happy-happy-happies’, tambourine beating and hand-clapping. The last in line bore the birthday cake, complete with burning candles.

  The ritual didn’t stop there. Whoever’s birthday it was, in our case, Emily and Jake, was expected to stand on his or her bar-stool, with an over-sized salt and pepper pot in each hand, and dance along to the singing. It was always bizarre and unfailingly hilarious. Of course everybody else in the bar, whether Naval personnel, Arabs, or family gatherings, stopped to gape, adding to the embarrassment of the birthday people. I know, because I had to do it on my birthday.

  Jake and Emily fulfilled their obligations without falling off their bar-stools, blew out the candles on their cake, and the bar staff retreated, leaving us in peace.

  “From all of us,” I said, placing two small wrapped gifts and an envelope on the table.

  They opened the first gift. It was a book of matches Colton and I had taken from the Gulf Hotel. They opened the second, a pen with ‘Gulf Hotel’ stamped on the side. Jake and Emily exchanged puzzled glances.

  “C’mon, open the envelope,” urged Colton.

  So they did, and drew out the hotel booking together with our suggested itinerary. Judging by their reactions, I think they were surprised and delighted, although Emily eyed the itinerary somewhat dubiously.

  Jake and Emily’s birthday surprise

  Suggested Itinerary and Activities

  Friday 2.00 - 6.30pm

  Check in. Ride in private elevator. Try out bed. Order butler to unpack suitcase, press clothes, and polish shoes. Eat fruit. Try on bathrobes. Try out bed. Play with balloons. Take a bath while watching plasma TV and using Bvlgari toiletry. Try out bed. Conduct meeting in private meeting room. Eat KG chocolate cake. Admire view. Try out bed. Send the BWMDC an email (with photos) using hotel computers with high-speed Wi-Fi, in Platinum Lounge. Write on personalised stationery. Try out bed.

  Friday 6.30 - 9.30pm

  Happy Hour with complimentary alcoholic beverages.

  Friday/Saturday 9.30pm - 2.00am

  Dine at Zahle Lebanese restaurant with musicians and floor show. Mr. Wissam, the manager, is expecting you and looking forward to giving you personal service.

  Saturday 9.00am (approx)

  Read newspapers and magazines. Breakfast in Platinum Lounge with live cooking egg.

  Saturday 12.00am - 2.00pm

  Checkout.

  Typically thorough, Jake and Emily chronicled their birthday adventures at the Gulf Hotel. Not only did they take photographs, but created a hilarious presentation so that we could share their mini-holiday experiences. Joe and Colton set up the school projector in our hotel apartment and we awaited their arrival.

  Then Joe and Colton decided to commemorate the event by dressing up. I have no idea why, except that when you put those two together, nothing good comes of it. Colton donned his Green Man outfit, but with the addition of a jacket and necktie. But I was mortified by Joe’s outfit. He appeared in nothing but a black necktie and black underpants, with a black whiskey-bottle bag strung, sporran-like, from his waist, and a white tea-cloth folded over his arm.

  “I’m going to stand behind Emily’s chair,” he said, “like a butler.”

  “I’ve never seen a butler dressed like that!” I protested.

  The Green Man and the butler

  Jake and Emily arrived, full of their stories, and more than a little alarmed at Colton’s and Joe’s attire. Poor Emily was most uncomfortable as Joe stood at her elbow, straight-faced.

  “Would Madam care to spank the butler?” he asked, dead-pan.

  We all fell about laughing, except for poor Emily who looked justifiably horrified.

  Allison was the next to celebrate her birthday. We clubbed together and provided a slap-up surprise breakfast and gave her money for an extravagant shopping spree in the malls. Jake and Emily were in charge of finding a birthday cake.

  “We were looking at all the different cakes at the bakery counter,” Jake told us. “You can choose one that’s pre-written, or order one with your own message. I complimented the Indian guy behind the counter on the beautiful writing, and he says, ‘Thank you, sir. I will bring to you the writer of the messages’. Before we can stop him, he shoots away, and comes back with the chef. Good lord. The chef is covered in icing sugar and stuff, and he’s holding up his hands like a surgeon. I couldn’t shake hands with him, so I just shook his elbow.”

  ۺۺۺ

  That January, ugly protests erupted in Yemen, Algeria, Jordan and Lebanon. On the 25th January, later called the ‘Day of Rage’, thousands of Egyptians marched in the streets, demanding tha
t President Mubarak step down. The protesters made their way to Tahrir Square in Cairo and set up camp, claiming the Square as a symbolic stronghold. The government blocked Twitter, the Internet and mobile telephone services.

  Our Egyptian friends at the school became frantic. Yussef couldn’t reach his wife in Cairo to find out if she and their newborn triplets were safe. I watched him in Smokers’ Corner, stabbing the digits of his mobile phone, again and again, making no connection. Essam lost his permanent grin and our Deputy Principal looked pale and anxious. The school gave all Egyptian teachers permission to go home early.

  The Arab Spring was gathering apace.

  I suppose we were naive, but Joe and I adopted the typical British stiff-upper-lip approach. We failed to recognise that these world events could have an impact on us. Of course we were horrified, watching the protests on TV, but never believed they would affect us in Bahrain. After all, Bahrain was a contented, peaceful, tolerant, wealthy island. Wasn’t it?

  I remember 11th February clearly as we watched the event on TV at Bennigan’s. A huge announcement. After eight weeks of protests, and numerous deaths, the Egyptian President, Mubarak, stepped down from office.

  His Deputy read a speech. “In the name of Allah the most gracious, the most merciful. My fellow citizens, in the difficult circumstances our country is experiencing, President Muhammad Hosni Mubarak has decided to give up the office of the President of the Republic and instructed the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces to manage the affairs of the country. May Allah guide our steps.”

  Coincidentally, (or not) the King of Bahrain suddenly announced that he was giving 1,000BD (£1,600 or $2,600) to every Bahraini family. The money was coming out of his personal coffers, and all families, whether Shi’a or Sunni, would benefit.

  “That’s generous,” I said to Joe. “I wonder why he’s doing that?”

  “Well, it just shows how rich he must be,” said Joe, “to be able to give away so much without flinching.”

  “Nobody would protest here in Bahrain, would they?” I asked. “Bahrain seems to look after its people. They were saying at Smokers’ Corner how education is free for the islanders, and their health service is free. And there’s no income tax. So what have they got to complain about?”

  How naive could I be? So we forgot about it, but not for long.

  Two days later, on Sunday, the first day of the week, we returned to a very different school. In stark contrast to the week before, our Egyptian friends were besides themselves with joy. Yussef had contacted his wife and triplets and confirmed they were all fine. The Deputy Principal was handing out silver-and-gold wrapped chocolates in the corridor. Smokers’ Corner was loud with backslapping and laughter. To everyone’s relief, the troubles in Egypt appeared to be over.

  Egyptian parties were taking place in the Arabic staffrooms. Rashida, although Lebanese, visited each party, sampling the wares, and surreptitiously slipping food into her bag to take home.

  However, a large number of pupils were absent that day. Bahraini staff were seen talking in whispers, their faces visibly concerned.

  “Hey, all the other schools are closed!” said Jake.

  “Why?” Joe asked. “What’s going on?”

  “The kids in my class, they told me that there’s a big protest planned for tomorrow. It’s all over Facebook and Twitter.”

  “What? A protest? Here on the island? Why?”

  “Yeah, here in Manama. Looks like they’ve been inspired by the goings-on in Egypt.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Who is protesting? And about what?”

  I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t enjoy or follow politics much, but gradually, I grasped the situation. The Shi’a were protesting against the Sunni government. The Shi’a, who made up seventy percent of Bahrain’s population, were resentful. All the top governmental posts, the best contracts and most lucrative business deals, they claimed, were awarded to Royal Family members or Sunnis. The unelected Prime Minister of Bahrain, the King’s uncle, was the longest-serving Prime Minister in the world. He had been appointed in 1971, forty years ago.

  Followers were being whipped up by Twitter and Facebook, urging them to congregate for a ‘Day of Rage’. It was obvious that Egypt’s uprising had sent powerful shockwaves across the Middle East, which now lapped the shores of Bahrain.

  That night, I checked out Twitter and was disturbed. Tweets were coming through, so thick and fast, I scarcely had time to read them:

  “Join us! Shi’a should not be 2nd class citizens! #Bahrain”

  “March to Pearl Roundabout, 14th Feb #Bahrain”

  “Day of Rage. Be there! 14th Feb #Bahrain #Lulu #Pearl”

  This was serious. As the crow flies, our hotel was roughly a mile and a half (2.5km) from the Pearl Roundabout, the centre of many intersecting highways. The Lulu mall was also situated there, hence the hashtag Lulu. Was this protest really going to take place in peaceful Bahrain? Was something terrible about to happen? We awaited the next day with trepidation, and my thoughts turned to our peaceful Spanish village where the only conflict was about football.

  Valentine’s Day, the 14th February 2011, dawned as a beautiful day, warm and cloudless. A Valentine’s card and wrapped chocolates from Colton were left outside our door. Emily had sneaked out early, to fill their car with pink, heart-shaped balloons, as a surprise for Jake.

  Jasim and the bus arrived on time and I spared a thought for Daryna. She now travelled in a separate school minibus, which picked her up at a ridiculously early time. She was the only passenger, and each day her driver arrived earlier and earlier.

  The reason for this was Arab etiquette. Daryna was the High School Principal, an important person, and her driver didn’t want to keep her waiting. Daryna, naturally polite, didn’t want to keep her driver waiting. So each would arrive earlier every day, intent on not offending the other.

  “If this carries on, I’ll be catching the bus the night before,” she said ruefully.

  The journey to school seemed pretty normal. Jasim poked the door closed with his stick and ignored two sets of red traffic lights. The only unusual sight was the police presence on the road, much more than we’d ever seen before.

  Ameena’s valentine card

  Less than half of the kids in my class attended school that day. One of my pupils, Ameena, surprised me with a Valentine’s card, and I began to take the register. There was a knock on the classroom door, and to my astonishment, Joe marched in. He presented me with a single, long-stemmed, red rose. As he is definitely not the romantic type, I was quite taken aback.

  Of course this event set off whoops and whistles from my class.

  “Mees! Give him a kiss, Mees!”

  So I did, amidst much cheering.

  “This is my husband,” I informed them severely.

  Later, I spoke to Hawa, who had watched the scene through her open classroom door.

  “My husban’, he never give me no rose!” she said.

  “Well, it’s a first for Joe...”

  “So I phone my husban’ and I say, ‘Why you never buy me no rose?’ and he say, ‘You no’ worry! If I buy you rose it mean I done something bad!’”

  In my classroom, I did not launch into my planned lesson, much to the kids’ delight. There seemed little point with so few kids there. And as the day wore on, we heard helicopter activity above us and police and ambulance sirens screaming past.

  21. Funerals and Attacks

  The school sent everybody home early that Valentine’s Day. Back in our hotel room, I opened Twitter and watched the tweets (and photos) fly past. Many tweets were in Arabic, but there were enough in English to see what was happening. There was no doubt about it, the protest was massive. People were marching from all corners of the city and congregating at the Pearl Roundabout. Just like Tahrir Square, in Cairo, the Pearl Roundabout had become the symbolic stronghold of the protesters.

  The demonstration made the BBC news, which reported that thousan
ds had joined the march. Chillingly, tweets were claiming that the authorities had arrived and that police were firing tear-gas and rubber bullets, even though the protest was peaceful. One protester was reported killed and instantly proclaimed ‘The Martyr’.

  To celebrate the Prophet Muhammed’s Birthday, the 15th February was a holiday. I was determined to ignore the buzzing helicopters and constant sirens and use the time to catch up with my grading. As usual, the sentences the boys had written made me wince. Fatima’s, though, were perfect.

  Fatima: My mother gives me sympathy if I hurt myself.

  Cheeky Mohammed: The music was play by a sympathy.

  Fatima: Animals will perish if you don’t feed them.

  Mustafa Kamel: I perish my shoos wen they are dirty.

  Joe was snoozing, and my heart wasn’t in grading. I turned back to Twitter, then wished I hadn’t.

  Muslims usually bury their dead within 24 hours. First the family wash the corpse, then wrap it in cloths. The body is then carried on a funeral march to its place of burial. It will be laid in the ground, usually without a coffin, on its right side, facing Mecca. I knew the funeral of yesterday’s ‘Martyr’ was taking place, and was dismayed to read the tweets on my computer screen:

  “Started walking w body of young man killed y’day police fired at us #Bahrain”

  “#Bahrain Stop!Stop!Stop! We r all brothers and sisters! #Lulu”

  “#Bahrain Footage appears to show police shooting into crowd. Can anyone verify?”

  “Riot police charging, firing birdshot on peaceful protest #Bahrain”

  “Teargas. Some people scared shitless incl myself. Gunfire made us all run back #Bahrain”

  News of the protest and heavy-handed riot policing hit the world news that day. The BBC, CNN, and all the major news networks reported that there had been numerous injuries, and at least one more death at the funeral procession of ‘The Martyr’.

  My email box filled up with messages from friends and family, all basically asking the same thing: “We’ve just seen the news, are you okay?”