Behind Palace Walls. Cay Garcia
so he calls a colleague for help – one of the men behind the counter. He walks over to us, scowling, highly irritated at being disturbed, especially to assist a woman. He is abrupt and refuses to make eye contact. I will be spending thousands of riyals but that seems irrelevant.
I am still bristling at the way women are treated – I haven’t been here long enough to have become accustomed to it. Note to self: rein that in!
We are third in our queue when the second call for prayer comes. The cashiers drop everything and walk away. For the love of God! This means a 30-minute wait until prayer time is over. I don’t know whether I can bear to stand in one spot for half an hour but I have no choice. I wait.
Once back at the compound, I call home on my new mobile phone. Though I’m overjoyed to hear the voices of loved ones, the conversation is cryptic. Mona has warned me that our conversations, emails and text messages could be intercepted by the palace.
Contact with home takes on particular significance because I am in a potentially dangerous situation, so far away. It is comforting to know that I can speak to my loved ones within seconds. What did expats do in the past? Send smoke signals?
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