Behind Palace Walls Read online

  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 into the back seat, still not a word is uttered. The tint on the back windows is so dark that I can barely see out.

  We leave the airport building and join the nightmarishly congested traffic. I’d read that 19 people die as a result of car accidents here every day. The reason Saudi has one of the highest accident rates in the world is immediately apparent – cars weave in and out of lanes at breakneck speed, passing with only a thumb’s-width between side mirrors. Most drivers keep one hand on the hooter, the noise is grinding.

  Reckless driving is part of the national identity. Wealthier men drag race high-end cars and the lower-classes “drift” their cars through traffic. These youngsters weave in and out be­tween other cars while they intentionally over-steer, some­times missing other drivers by a very small margin.

  Saudi women are not allowed to drive – even though thousands own motor vehicles. The thinking is that they’d increase car accidents, they’d overcrowd the streets, they’d leave the house more often, their faces would be uncovered, and they’d interact with males, which would contribute to the erosion of traditional values. A leading Saudi cleric has even argued that women run the risk of damaging their ovaries and pelvises if they drive.

  But not all Saudi women accept the ban on driving. A couple of years ago, a handful drove through Riyadh in protest. They were arrested and released only after their male guardians signed statements that they would not drive again.

  The women were suspended from their jobs, their passports were confiscated and they were forbidden from speaking to the press. About a year after the protest, they were permitted to return to work and their passports were returned. But they were kept under surveillance and passed over for promotions.

  More recently, a few women used social media to publicise their cause. They got behind the wheel, filmed themselves, and uploaded the videos to YouTube.

  Despite the alarming drive and dark windows, I manage to take in some of the surroundings.

  The buildings thin and we seem to be heading straight into the desert. Doubt f
lares, my thoughts run wild. I’d expected the secretary to be a woman, accompanied by a male driver. Am I hanging with the right crowd? They speak in hushed tones, the older man in the passenger seat turning often to stare at me. I feel as if I’m being assessed for something.

  We reach what appears to be the edge of the city. I have my face plastered to the opaque window – I’m straining to see out, but it’s also an attempt to avoid the old man’s scrutiny. I am surprised at the ultra-modern buildings. The traffic does not let up.

  At each green light, drivers further back honk at the cars up front to hurry – each turning lane has only 40 seconds to make it through. Above each set of lights, a large digital screen counts down the seconds till the lights change. Red is allotted 160 seconds. I would often see one of our drivers nod off during the wait. They work long hours.

  Home from home

  FORTY MINUTES later, to my relief, we pull up outside a three-storey flat complex with very high walls. I am to share an apartment with Mona. She works for the same family – and was my interrogator during the telephonic interview. The driver helps me to the gate with my luggage, and shares one snippet of information with me as he wipes his face with a drenched hanky: ‘Madam, is 45 degrees.”

  Three of Saudi Arabia’s largest and most barren deserts border Riyadh. Summers are intensely hot, especially in the city where daytime temperatures sometimes reach over 49°C. The heat is constant. The only thing that makes it half bear­able is that it is a dry heat.

  He hands me a white box. The abaya.

  I ring for Mona on the panel of numbers on the side of the gate. The heat beats down – and I’m still overdressed in my boots and winter gear. As we wait, I look round my new suburb. Cats lie under cars with their tongues swollen and protruding. They are listless and in terrible condition. I love cats, so I foresee a serious problem.

  A full thirty five minutes later Mona opens the gate. I am melting in the heat. I ask her if she was sleeping. She wasn’t. Thirty five minutes? Even the driver is clucking as he has had to wait with me.

  Through the majestic wrought iron gate, there’s a cluster of sand-coloured buildings. Most suburban buildings are painted shades of yellow to minimise cleaning – sand clings to every­thing. There is a sparkling pool with tables and chairs round it, and an undercover coffee station.

  I later discover that at night this area is alive with music, animated chatter and laughter as residents drink coffee and smoke shisha pipes. In most compounds, there is a corner where people socialise until the early hours. At midday during the week, though, it is forlorn.

  Lebanese bankers, interior designers, architects, American medics and English teachers make up this expat compound. Downtown housing tends to be taken by lower-salaried employees, both Saudi and expat. The compounds, depending on the owners and the cultural make-up of their residents, are much more liberal.

  The bigger ones have restaurants, supermarkets, gyms, hairdressers and, of course, very active social clubs. Here, life is Western; you can walk around in shorts and a tank top if you wish. Some compounds are for Westerners only, with no Arabs allowed.

  The flat is basic, nicely furnished and spacious. Cool air blasts off the walls. A couple of pictures and a pot plant or two will make it more homely. The fridge is stocked for my arrival and my flat mate is welcoming. I would soon find that sharing accommodation with a stranger for the first time since boarding school will stretch my creativity in keeping the peace. I excuse myself to take a quick shower.

  Afterwards, I hang up my damp towels. Mona comes into the bathroom after me and straightens them so that they all meet point to point. Though I feel slightly disgruntled, I decide to let it go for now.

  Mona is waiting with coffee as I join her at the kitchen table. She briefs me on protocol and hands me a four-page list of instructions to remember. I’m not taking in much – I’m exhausted and hot. Even though the interior is cool, it takes a while to shake the heat from outside. With a proud, smug smile, Mona confesses to being obsessive-compulsive. So that explains her need to straighten my towels.

  The princess wants to meet me at six this evening. I need sleep to string a sentence together. I eventually crash for two hours.

  My eyes are bloodshot. I shower again. Even in the coolness of my bedroom, the abaya feels stifling and far too long. Only the tips of my fingers stick out and so much fabric is gathered round my feet, it is sure to invite a fall.

  The driver who collected me at the airport meets us at the compound gate. Mona has been instructed to accompany me. It is dusk, and Riyadh looks almost magical. Most of the buildings are lit with coloured lights. I feel as if I am looking in on someone else’s life, like I’ve shaken a kaleidoscope to find new sounds, sights and smells.

  The landscape is completely flat. At home, mountains or hills help with one’s bearings. Here, the drivers take different routes to and from work each day, so it takes weeks before some areas become familiar. Mona tells me it is done delib­erately for security reasons. I still can’t fathom why they feel this is necessary.

  On the way to the palace, Mona gives me last-minute instructions on how to stand when addressing royalty. I am not to sit before the princess does and when I walk out, I am not to turn my back on her. I make a mental note to lift my abaya off the floor and wish I’d had time to practice walking backwards.

  I scan the protocol list again in the hope of remembering at least half of it before meeting the Princess.

  Protocol

  IN THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY

  Whenever any member of the royal family approaches, even children, you must rise if sitting down or move out of the way if you are standing up.

  When you are busy and a Member of the Royal family approaches, stop and stand still and wait for permission to continue.

  Address the Royals as following, Male – Your Highness or Prince or Amir. Female – Your Highness or Princess or Amira.

  Do not walk in front of any Member of the Royal family. Either wait for them to pass or walk beside them ONLY if you are in a conversation with them.

  If any Royalty comes down or goes up the stairs and you are already on the stairs, stand still greet them and wait for them to pass then proceed.

  If a Royal approaches a closed door, open the door, let them pass and disappear from sight before closing the door behind them.

  If more than one Royal is walking together, there is a hierarchy from the most senior to the youngest. Greet the most senior first.

  Never show your back to a Royal.

  Knock before entering and wait for permission to enter.

  EXPECTATIONS

  Respect the Royals’ space, do not crowd them.

  Do special things for your Employer.

  Make things pretty and attractive for your Employer.

  Do not take things personally.

  You are allowed to eat on invitation from a Royal or when the Royal has finished their meals.

  BEHAVIOUR

  Do not chew gum when talking to a Royal.

  Do not bring anything to eat or drink when accompanying a Royal.

  NOTE – “Never put lip-ice on in front of royalty” should be added.

  Be meticulous in everything you do.

  Respect the rules and laws of the country.

  Be polite at all times.

  Be discreet at all times.

  Maintain a fine line between friendship and professionalism.

  When speaking to a Royal on the phone, wait for the Royal to hang up first.

  Do not interrupt a Royal member.

  Never give instructions to a Royal.

  Do not gossip.

  Do not lie.

  Do not talk unless spoken to.

  Do not yap nonstop.

  Do not raise your voice to a Royal in anger or discontent even if they are wrong. Wait for them to calm down before talk­ing to them.

  Do not answer back or be rude.

  Do not nag or complain.

  Do not show
obsessive behaviour.

  You are not allowed to have a buddy buddy relationship with the other employees.

  You are not allowed to have a relationship with a driver.

  You are not allowed any intimate relationships whilst on contract in Saudi Arabia.

  WHEN ACCOMPANYING A ROYAL

  Be ready first wearing your Abaya and be on standby, hold­ing the Princess’s Abaya for when she is ready.

  When accompanying a Royal, make sure the driver is in­formed and that the car is ready and waiting at the departure point.

  Check with the gate that the driver is ready and waiting beside the car.

  Ensure there is water in the car.

  If the driver is not there, open and close the car door for the Royal.

  Do not get into the car before the Royal is seated.

  When alone with a Royal in the car, you sit in the back on the left hand side. Should there be another person with the Royal, you will sit in front with your head covered by your hijab.

  Do not make frivolous and unnecessary conversation.

  Make sure you smell good being in such close proximity of a Royal.

  THE FOLLOWING TRAITS ARE DESIRED

  Positive Attitude

  Understanding

  Empathetic

  Gentle

  Caring

  Loving

  Compassionate

  Contained

  Patient

  Stable

  Balanced

  Calm and Relaxed

  Not temperamental

  Not moody

  Fun

  Sense of humour

  Know your place

  Not arrogant

  Not snobbish

  Organised

  Modern

  Stylish

  Class

  Creative