Behind Palace Walls. Cay Garcia
say no. Anyhow, I am secretly delighted as it affords me an extra month in Cape Town. I re-rent my garden cottage for a month.
The hunt for a yoga studio begins. My body has not seen exercise in a while, so, with great trepidation, I enrol. I give them brief details of what is needed and they work out a schedule for me. What I know about yoga is sketchy so on my first day, my instructor hands me some books on the subject and a very large manual to work through. I’m excited but uncertain I can do it. I decide to, quite literally, go with the flow.
My first class, Vinyāsa, takes me by surprise it is so enjoyable. My body feels light and supple the rest of the day. The next day my second class, Bikram – hot yoga – is sheer hell. The heat is unbearable. Sweat pours down my face and drips off my chin. I come out drenched, wrenched and seeing stars. Apparently I am cleansed from the inside out. My glowing skin encourages me.
A month down the line, I’m a lot more agile, and wiser in the ways of the yogi. The manual had seemed insurmountable but I’ve worked through it from cover to cover. My test is to present a 15-minute class to the teachers while they critique me. I’m given the all clear. I’m good to go!
Between the many send-off parties with different groups of friends and the more sobering requirements for my visa – medicals, inoculations and police clearance – time blurs.
At the very last moment, I remove my belly ring, with its delicate cross, and replace it with a little ruby. We’ve come a long way and I feel quite naked without it. The princess has made it clear: Bibles and crosses are banned in the Magic Kingdom.
The journey
STRAPPED IN, ready for the second leg of my journey from Johannesburg to Dubai, I wonder where my life has deviated so far off the well-trodden path. My new-found bravado is gone and for a moment I feel that my common sense has left with it. And in its place, I’m at the mercy of who knows what. The reality of what I’m about to take on hits home with the same force as the jet engines that lift me into the unknown. There is no turning back. I bow my head and ask God for protection – what from, I don’t know, but I feel better for asking.
There is serious turbulence for the first two hours of the flight so service is postponed. This only adds to my unease – I’d intended to take advantage of the complimentary wine to still my mind and relieve my fear of flying. In Saudi, alcohol is strictly forbidden and if you’re caught in possession of it, the penalty is fifty lashes and up to seven years in jail. Drug trafficking or possession carries the death penalty. No exceptions. Even for a little weed. For this very reason my friends laughingly rename Riyadh “Rehab”.
Once we leave the turbulence behind, I’m pleased to see the drinks cart being wheeled down the aisle. I request two small bottles of red – you never know when they will come around again. Five hours into the eight-hour flight, I am hoping for sleep to overtake me but it doesn’t. Poignant images of the many goodbyes said in the last weeks come to mind as the wine dulls the rough edges, and adds a rosy glow to my apprehension, which can’t be a bad thing.
The landing at Dubai International is flawless. Stiffly, groggily, I make my way to the exit, to be hit by heat so intense it almost feels abrasive. I’d been noting the temperatures in the Middle East over the past two months, relieved that I was not arriving in July when temperatures hover round the mid forties. But I had not taken the humidity of Dubai into account.
It’s early morning. I’m tired and bleary eyed. I have time to kill until my connecting flight to Riyadh in an hour. I’m conscious that I need to keep my wits about me. In no time at all, a sign flashing a final boarding call for my flight catches my eye. So much for keeping my wits about me. After asking how to get to gate 35, I am told it is a 15-minute walk from where I am standing, and half that at a run. I start to run.
My outsized handbag bought specially for travelling and the very heavy rucksack – complete with yoga manual – feel like a ball and chain bouncing painfully off my back as I zigzag through the hordes. It will not make a good impression this early on if I can’t get myself onto a connecting flight. It’s just six o’ clock yet the airport resembles Grand Central station at peak hour.
I am last on the bus. A couple of seconds later the doors hiss and we pull away from the terminal. People stare blatantly as I try to regain my breath. My near miss has jolted me awake and alert. My head throbs and the heat doesn’t help, but I know I only have myself to blame.
I’ve chosen a window seat to take in every detail. I stare at the arid earth below. I need water. My eyes feel scratchy. Miles and miles of desert slip past. Riyadh appears on the horizon. From up here, everything looks devoid of colour. Just a drab yellow as far as the eye can see with drab buildings to match. Excitement surges through me.
The arrival
KING KHALID Airport feels like another planet. I am the only woman who isn’t shrouded from head to toe in black. The aircon is set so high that even in my winter clothes, I am freezing.
It’s not the majestic international airport I’d expected. What I see now falls terribly flat. The arrivals hall has a depressing look and a sombre mood hangs over the place.
I’m not too alarmed about looking so out of place as I have been assured that the princess’s secretary will have an abaya for me at arrivals.
In Islamic countries, all parts of a woman’s body that are awrah – not meant to be exposed – are covered by an abaya, an outer garment, and a hijab, a head scarf. In many of these countries, a woman’s face is not considered awrah. But in Saudi Arabia, awrah includes every part of the body, besides hands and eyes, so most women are expected to wear a niqab, a veil over the face, as well.
There are several queues. The signage is in Arabic so I follow the people ahead of me. A man in a scary looking uniform strides up to me. His arrogant bearing makes me feel alarmed. Without making eye contact, he pulls my passport out of my hand. He says something in an urgent tone, still avoiding eye contact, and points to another queue. I’m relieved – it turns out he is just trying to help me, or perhaps he it’s the black leather boots!
At the last checkpoint, the official behind the counter looks at my passport, then at me, then back at my passport and says softly, “This is not a good photo.” I have to agree, and I laugh with him. It was taken straight after graduation, when I was in the grip of severe flu, my eyes barely open – and the new rule of having to pull your hair back off the forehead doesn’t help one bit. He is not a local. No Saudi man would make such a flippant comment.
After my photo and finger prints are taken, I make my way to the public arrivals hall. Among the throng of men waiting to pick up passengers, I expect to see the princess’s secretary holding a board with my name on it. I scan the hall. After 30 minutes of hanging around, the crowd thins. Still no sign of the secretary.
That was my first lesson in Saudi time-keeping. If you are punctual, get over it; waiting is just part of Saudi life.
After an hour of wandering around, looking for someone to claim me, I give up. I find a seat in the back row of a cluster of seats and take out my book.
I discreetly watch the comings and goings around me. I am fascinated. The crowds have thinned but the hostile stares haven’t. Another hour passes.
Then I notice two men walking briskly in my direction. They stop right in front of me, towering over me, smelling strongly of cologne. “Passport!” says the taller one. I hand it over. They inspect it briefly then start walking away, summoning me to follow. Half relieved, half apprehensive, I scramble to get my luggage together and follow. That is the last I saw of my passport.
We walk into an underground parking area. I’m lagging behind, struggling with my luggage, still in Western clothes – no help is forthcoming and no abaya either. I am elegantly dressed in a long black and grey tailored skirt, a white shirt that lost some of its crispness somewhere over Africa, a red, black and grey paisley scarf and a black tailored jacket and black boots – only my hands and face bare. Yet the hostile stares continue. As my luggage is stowed in the boot, none too gently, and I’m ushered