Behind Palace Walls
CAY GARCIA
Behind Palace Walls
In the service of a Saudi princess
TAFELBERG
Dedication
THIS BOOK is dedicated to my sister. For your ongoing support in all that I do, your unconditional love and for being there for me no matter what. My love and respect for you knows no bounds.
PROLOGUE
The beginning of the end
IT IS two o’ clock in the morning. The sandstorm is at its peak. The windows are rattling as if someone is hammering on them from the outside. The desert sand, like talcum powder, penetrates even though everything is tightly shut. It hangs in the air making breathing difficult.
The noise is unsettling. I am alone at home.
There’s a light knock on my bedroom door. My flat mate, Mona, who works in the same palace and has just returned from work, hands me a large envelope. She seems flustered as she relays the news, “You have to be out of the country today!” Her tension is evident in her shallow, rapid breathing, but the excitement in her eyes confirms my suspicion that there is much riding on this for her.
The envelope contains a flight ticket and an exit permit. This, at the whim of a princess who doesn’t have a clue what’s really going on beyond her bedroom door. Although I knew this was coming – and asked for it even – I reel at the finality. A flood of adrenalin propels me out of bed. I run two doors down into a wall of sand, to what has become my island in a storm.
We agree to stay awake the whole night and treasure the time left together. Exhilarating but utterly draining shows of emotion have us falling into an exhausted sleep at six in the morning.
Suddenly it is 10 o’clock. I feel bereft at the 11 hours left. The enormity of what I have to get done floors me and, quite frankly, I don’t know where to start.
The rest of the day plays off in slow motion, yet time has never moved faster. As I pack, I try to make sense of it all. Every surface is piled with clothes, beautiful pieces of material and artwork collected over the past four months. Six hours until take-off.
Decisions
IT’S A beautiful Saturday afternoon as I drive to work – not a cloud in the sky and not a breath of wind. A day that begs for a long walk on any beach around the Cape peninsula or a breathtaking mountain or forest trail.
As I turn into the largest mall in the southern hemisphere, where I work, I’m amazed at the volume of traffic at every entrance, queues wrapped halfway round the block. Inside, people scurry like ants. The noise is deafening. I feel a surge of frustration and restlessness and my mind rages with the thought that surely to God there must be more to life than this!
Roughly a month later, after careful deliberation, I resign from my job and enrol in a fulltime, 10-week butling course. I’m not sure if my brain is still capable of studying at my comparatively advanced age but the qualification is internationally recognised and promises great opportunities of work in any corner of the world, not to mention pretty substantial salaries and perks. I have no dependants and the idea of doing something this outrageous at my age only adds to the excitement.
The demand for the excellence that butlers offer increases every year, as more and more people reach millionaire status. The idea that one person can manage their staff, mansions, fleet of cars and holiday homes has caught on as it is an attractive alternative to having short term staff from dubious agencies.
The statement on the website that the course is intensive and exhausting is no lie. But it fails to mention that it is also the most fun you can have with your clothes on.
On day one, everyone is on time. We are issued with three intimidating manuals, black bowties and white gloves. Throughout the course we are required to wear black suits crisp white shirts and a bowtie. Trying to keep it straight is an ongoing challenge.
At the first military-style line up outside the Academy, white gloves donned, I revel in the chaos as students rush to please without really having a clue what to do. We all feel proud but the reason escapes us at this early stage. Strangers become friends and allies.
Our principal, Mr Van Wyk, an attractive man in his early thirties, takes us under his wing as we clumsily try to follow his instructions. Not only is he an expert in his field, but he has the experience to match; he has been butler to presidents and international celebrities – so who are we to argue about his tried and tested methods? We are all in awe. And, I might add, terrified.
Our class guardian, Mr Fourie, initially comes across like a Machiavellian character from The Godfather but we soon discover that he has a heart the size of Manhattan. He is relentless in his quest to turn us into professional butlers. He spots little things – never again will I leave the table without pushing in my chair.
The third person in this dynamic trio is Mr Lewis, the recruitment agent and photographer. His sense of humour knows no bounds and we love him. He puts us through rigorous Skype interviews conducted from his office while we face a monitor in front of the class, trying to answer questions like, “Are you arrogant?”
We cover Silver Service; handling a fork and spoon is child’s play with bare hands – but with gloves on, we’re soon on all fours retrieving objects we have dropped from dark corners.
As part of the different dining ceremonies, we cover Russian service, French service, family service and the correct etiquette for a buffet, to mention just a few. My favourite is the graceful art of “Ballet of Service”, which they do at Buckingham Palace.
At this stage, no one can balance a tray with anything larger than a matchbox on it. We stand with books balanced on our heads as six long-stemmed champagne flutes are filled with water and placed on our trays. Our wide eyes give us away – panick reigns supreme – but no one breaks a glass. Yet.
Wardrobe management is next; we learn how to colour code, to separate clothing according to its function and season, and everything else besides, from caring for furs to polishing and placing shoes onto shoe horns. We pack and unpack a suitcase until we can do it in our sleep. A suit jacket may be kept in a suitcase for up to three months and, if packed correctly, it will not have a single crease. After three months? I think back to my last trip – to Italy – and my heap of crumpled clothes. I am seriously impressed.
We polish silver as part of housekeeping. We learn to poach eggs the French way and cook up delicious dishes like Crêpe Suzette – without burning the Academy down.
A barista shows us how to make spectacular espresso and cappuccino. Half the class focuses on his very tight jeans, thus failing to get the foam just right.
A master sommelier, one of only four in South Africa, teaches us the fine art of pouring, and pairing wine with food. To this day it irks me when a waiter pours wine without the label facing the diner – and this happens even in top restaurants. Perfection is part of the game. The wine tasting sessions cement the bonds between us students.
We write lengthy exams on food terminology, and words like puttanesca roll easily off our tongues.
During our mixology lessons, I’m delighted to find out how to fix a Manhattan iced tea.
We set tea trays and spectacular tables. We arrange flowers and learn about cigars and cognac. We learn to serve vodka or champagne with caviar and its many accompanying dishes.
A security specialist alerts us to safety precautions. We became adept at operating automated security systems.
We are taught how to go green and made aware of how many ways there are to recycle.
There is not much this course does not cover.
Although we write tests that count towards our final grade every morning, there’s a week-long series of exams.
After a gruelling 10 weeks we graduate and my darling sister flies down from Johannesburg. After listenin
g, many a day, to my exhausted ramblings as I suffered from information overload. My joy at seeing her walk the red carpet that night knows no bounds.
I receive my merit certificate for achieving above 80 percent! My brain feels foggy – on graduation night I come down with a cold that soon turns into a monster. It amazes me that my body has carried me through the last week of exams; I wouldn’t have had the focus I needed to do well if the cold had hit earlier in the week. I am man-down for three days.
Now I’m in the hands of Mr Lewis, the recruitment agent who specialises in placing new graduates. Before long, I’m offered a job as PA and palace manager to a princess in the Royal House of Saud, in Riyadh, capital city of Saudi Arabia.
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, lying round the pool with friends, glass of Chardonnay within reach, I read over the terms of the offer. A year-long contract in Saudi Arabia sounds magical to a brain stuck deeply in a rut. The recruitment agent tells me to expect a call from the prospective employer.
My phone is never far from my side.
Two days later, the phone shrills – and the number is foreign. I take a deep breath and answer. The conversation goes extremely well. I have been warned to address the princess by another name, one that she has provided, as she wishes to hide the fact that she is royalty. I play along.
“The climate is very dry. Do you feel you could live here for a year?” she asks. I assure her that I love a dry climate – I prefer it to intense humidity. I am tempted to add that in a dry climate every day is a good hair day. But I don’t.
Next, she asks if I would have a problem disciplining staff. I measure my words, telling her in a nice way that if you treat your staff with respect, I believe you get more out of them. She doesn’t much like my answer.
“I would have to discipline you from time to time as well, Mrs C.”
I don’t much like her tone either but assure her that I’m not against constructive criticism. Though I do add: “As long as it is not in front of the staff I have to manage.”
“Sometimes that cannot be helped, Mrs C,” she replies.
At this point, warning bells should have rung.
I find it hard to believe that she has already made up her mind that she would have to discipline me “from time to time” even though she hasn’t met me yet but I reassure myself that whatever happens, I will handle it then. It is not enough of a deterrent to taking up the position.
Two hours later, Mr Lewis calls.
I have been accepted.
Imagination soars
I START researching the Magic Kingdom – anything I can get my hands on. I even hire Lawrence of Arabia – the movie and the documentary – from my local library to try to get the gist of what to expect in this fascinating country.
Riyadh is shrouded in mystery as no tourists are allowed in this holy city. There’s no such thing as a tourist visa. “Infidels” (non-believers) are not allowed in unless they have a sponsor in the form of an employer. Expats can get special permits for their spouses. Although I find the restrictions alarming, I am deeply intrigued.
Expats are drawn here in spite of the austere lifestyle by the tax free salaries that are way above what can be earned at home, wherever home may be. Millions of expats from all over the world work in Saudi Arabia and embassy stats are that men outnumber women 50 to one.
It is an adventure one cannot buy.
After I accept the offer, a German butler already in the employ of the princess phones me on her behalf. She fires questions at me in a gruff, abrasive voice. I fend them off with simple answers.
“Do you drink?!” she asks.
“I live in one of the most enchanting wine regions in the world and grew up with wine, so yes, I do enjoy a glass of wine.”
I assure her that I could live without it for a while, though. In time, it would become apparent that she likes a tipple herself. After an hour, the arrogant cross-examination, verging on verbal assault, abates. I’m exhausted.
Unbeknownst to me, I’d been on speaker phone.
The princess and I speak regularly on the phone. She has a slight American accent yet has never set foot in America. For the most part, she sounds utterly charming. There is no indication that she is bipolar.
Parts of my contract reflect the harsh regulations of the country. It states that I am not permitted any intimate relations during my time there. The irony of that favourable ratio doesn’t escape me.
During one of our many telephonic conversations, I ask Princess Arabella exactly what that clause means. She is quick to tell me that I may not become romantically involved while in her employ. One of her previous PAs met and married someone there and, for whatever reason, it did not work for the princess. I assure her it is the last thing on my mind.
Saudi Arabia is still under Sharia law, and Riyadh, the most conservative of the Saudi cities, doesn‘t much favour self-expression. The feared religious police, the mutawa, who are also known as the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, lurk where you least expect them so it’s wise to remain modest at all times.
The mutawa patrol streets and malls, and administer punishment to anyone accused of breaking the strict religious laws that subjugate women in particular – and nowhere as zealously as in Riyadh.
If the Mutawa catch you having a conversation with a man who is not your husband or a relative, you will land in jail for prostitution.
If a man is linked with a Muslim woman who is not a family connection, rape charges are not uncommon and are punishable by death. Implications for the woman involved are severe. She is first taken to hospital to check whether her virginity is intact, then to jail. Should her virginity be in question, her male relatives decide on a punishment not always befitting the crime. By the hand of her father, brother or any other male relative, the woman can be stoned to death – an honour killing.
Proof of marital status as well as any move you make during your contract – opening a bank account, buying a computer, registering a cell phone, incurring any traffic fines – comes in the form of an iqama, a credit card sized ID card. Smile for your iqama photo; you want a pleasant, harmless looking image smiling back at the authorities. When your contract ends, your iqama is thoroughly checked for any wrong doing and monies owed. Your employer will not grant you an exit visa – without which you cannot leave – unless your iqama is clear. That visa is much coveted by workers tired of abuse and yearning for home.
Saudi Arabia applies the death penalty for a wide range of crimes including adultery, armed robbery, rejection of Islam, drug smuggling, kidnapping, rape, witchcraft and sorcery.
Previously, executions took place only on a Friday, the holy day, in public at what has become known as “Chop Chop Square” or Justice Square. People travel from far and wide to witness this. However, nowadays they happen any morning of the week.
I’d hear later from a fellow South African and her American boyfriend, that they’d seen this for themselves. As a local man accused of drug trafficking was beheaded, they happened to pass the square. Locals brayed for justice as they fought for a better view. My friend was highly traumatised for weeks.
Saudi authorities make it clear to expats that if arrested, they are under no obligation to let their respective embassies know about the arrest, they are not entitled to a defence and they do not owe the alleged perpetrator a reason for the arrest. They may be convicted solely on the basis of “confessions” obtained under torture or other ill-treatment. By his own admission, Saudi’s star executioner beheads over 2 500 people per year.
So don’t rattle ribs in Saudi.
Preparations
I EXPLODE into action, enthusiastically getting my preparations underway.
One week before my departure, the princess has a request. Would I be prepared to stay on in Cape Town for an extra month to take a yoga course so that I can give her lessons? Although a request, I cannot say no. Anyhow, I am secretly delighted as it affords me an extra month in C
ape 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.