Behind Palace Walls. Cay Garcia
framing the bed on each side. There are murals on all the exposed walls. Although large, the room is cluttered. Boxes of possessions, bought on the princess’s most recent trip to Paris, fill each corner, still unopened.
After exaggerated pleasantries, she informs me that I will be fetched at seven that evening to have my medical for my iqama. Every expat has to undergo this to cement a year’s work visa as the original visa is valid only for three months.
She invites me to sit so we can become better acquainted. We talk for hours. She appears vulnerable – a victim of many wrongs. I listen, and readily express sympathy, which seems to make her even more forthcoming. For one so young, she is suspicious, mistrustful and very angry. But still I have no inkling of the cruel nature that lies behind her sweet smile.
The driver collects me promptly at seven. We are accompanied by a tiny old lady, wizened by the desert sun. She argues heatedly with the driver in Arabic, her voice a knife’s edge. I am sitting in range of her vengeful spittle, which sprays everything within reach. I endure 40 minutes of this before we enter a filthy, rundown, heavily populated neighbourhood. Stray cats in various stages of malnutrition wander the littered streets. The sight depresses me no end.
Accompanied by the driver, I walk up a grimy flight of stairs to the clinic on the first floor. Every seat is taken, and the run-down room is crowded with patients, standing, waiting. The stillness is broken by coughing and a kid’s screams from further down the passage. The smell of a rubbish dump hangs in the air. Torn posters hang off the pale green walls. At reception, the driver discusses the necessary, again in Arabic. My elbows stick to the counter.
I am ushered into a small, dank, poorly lit room where two medical personnel wrestle with a pile of files a foot high. The princess had given me two bottles beforehand so that I could deliver my samples in private, but no matter how hard I tried, I could only fill one. Handing me the empty bottle, the doctor insists I give him a stool sample. Though there has been no sign of any stools over the past five days, I now have to produce one on demand! I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The more I tell him that this is not possible, the more he insists. I trudge off to the bathroom.
What meets me fill me with disgust. My chest heaves involuntarily. The floor is wet with urine and streaks of faeces smear the walls. My stomach churns at the stench. This strengthens my resolve; with the hem of my abaya hitched knee high, I turn around, the bottle empty. I feel humiliated as I try to explain this to the doctor while the palace driver looks on. With no choice but to settle for the urine sample, the doctor turns his back on me. He scratches around noisily in a metal filing cabinet and takes out a single syringe. My eyes lock on his long dirty fingernails. He draws blood without wearing gloves. I sit there, inert with disbelief.
Next up are chest X-rays. This time a woman calls my name. Relieved to be done with the abrupt stool doctor, I follow her orders and disrobe. She walks over to me and roughly shoves my shoulders closer to the X-ray machine. She is impatient, and seems terribly annoyed with the world in general. So much for the softer touch.
The driver and I walk two blocks down the road to where the car is parked. Men mill about outside, chatting in groups. The traffic noise off the street is deafening, it is not a beautiful noise. The hot evening air, thick with exhaust fumes, feels suffocating. Everyone stares. Even wearing the hijab, I clearly stand out as a foreigner. I feel dirty and violated. A lump is forming in my throat.
As we settle back into the car, the old woman picks up where she left off. This time the driver reciprocates. Their loud angry outburst sets me off. My throat constricts as my stoicism crumbles and tears run freely down my face. The old lady is so involved in what she is trying to get across to the driver that she doesn’t notice. The misery reflected back to me from the city streets doesn’t help.
Back at the compound, I drop all my clothes on the floor, flinging the abaya into the furthest corner of the bathroom, and drain the geyser of hot water. God, what I would give for a glass of wine. I fall into an exhausted sleep.
In the morning, I still feel traumatised. Mona and I discuss my experience at breakfast. She says I was brave to have held out until I got to the car. She had not had a predelivered sample, and was forced to use the toilet at the clinic. She had burst into tears right there. The acrid reek of urine soaked into the hem of her abaya followed her home. She stopped crying only when she stood underneath the pelting heat of the shower.
Second day at work
I START at two in the afternoon on my second day so I have ample time to get myself positively psyched for the day ahead and put last night to the back of my mind. The dragging tiredness has abated somewhat although my eyes remain bloodshot.
As I arrive at the palace, I leave my shoes at the door. As from today, I am to walk around the villa in socks. It is a comfortable arrangement and as the floors are spotless, I happily oblige. I spend the day summing up what has to be done, making lists and getting to know where everything is.
The princess calls. She expresses concern about my red eyes and hands me a gel to alleviate dry eyes. The thick liquid instantly dissolves mascara. I am looking at her through a haze, as if I’d opened my eyes underwater.
Nine hours later I thank God for the sock arrangement. There are a lot of stairs to climb, numerous times a day. The laundry on the top floor is outside on the roof so that noise is kept to a minimum. It is a sleek, modern room with rows and rows of well organised shelves.
Tomorrow I plan to get better acquainted with the staff but I spend time working with each of them today, asking questions and making notes. They all have their duties, defined long before my arrival so I listen, while I observe their presentation. They are extremely polite and respectful. The two Filipinos are more reserved than the Malawian women who chatter cheerfully. When everyone is present in the basement kitchen, the focal point, the rule is that only English is permitted to be spoken. Surprisingly everyone sticks to this rule, which I’m grateful for.
I am called up again. I knock softly and the princess asks me in. I sit with her for two hours taking notes on how she wants things done. Her list of demands gives me a little more insight into her troubled character. She is a germaphobe. Every inch of her villa is cleaned every day. This includes the windows, even though her curtains are always drawn. As we walk around, I write as fast as I can. All door handles have to be wiped after anyone from the outside has entered the villa, and that applies to family too.
We proceed to her bathroom. It is the size of my entire cottage at home. She points to the bidet. “I don’t know about you people but we use the bidet every time we go.” I smile slightly at her comment but I don’t respond.
The conversation then takes a nasty turn as the princess abruptly changes the subject. “Under no circumstances trust the maids. They come from conditions where they live worse than animals! They are no better than animals!” she says contemptuously. Her face distorts as she leaves the statement hanging, to maximise its malicious impact. She looks at me with raised eyebrows, waiting for me to agree. I have no choice but to reply, “Yes, Your Highness.” It is protocol.
I feel as if I have betrayed myself.
At eleven, the princess tells me I may leave. After throwing the abaya over my head and putting on my shoes, I feel for the plastic container of pellets in my handbag. I had asked Sultan to buy me a bag when he went shopping.
As I walk to the gate, the pitiful meowing from the bushes becomes louder. I prise the lid off the container. With a flick of my wrist, hoping no one from the main palace is looking out at just that moment; I throw the pellets in the direction of the noise and quickly return the container to my handbag. The meowing stops immediately.
Buying laptops and cell phones
MONA IS instructed by my princess to take me shopping for a new cell phone and a laptop – at my own expense. I have not received my iqama yet so I have to buy what I need on Mona’s iqama.
On our way to work, we stop at a popular book store where you can buy pretty much anything electronic. The sales men standing around talking to one another behind the counter ignore me. I am