Behind Palace Walls Page 3
Be well informed
The palace
WE PULL up to gates easily six metres high. Ornate brass and stainless steel make up the elaborate and intricate design. The doorman swings the gates open. He looks like Moses in a kiddies’ Bible – a messy beard hangs down to his chest. His name is Eli.
The palace grounds look spectacular as skilfully placed lights highlight the trees and shrubs and garden beds glow in the dark. The driveway curves around a Gothic fountain then splits into two around the majestic building straight ahead – the main palace. We walk the rest of the way over immaculate cobbled walkways adorned with tranquil water features. There is a strange but pleasant scent in the hot evening air that I can’t quite identify.
The main palace guards the foreground of the vast property while four five-storey villas, one for each child, form a half moon behind it. The gardens are beautiful but I am surprised that so many of the shrubs and flowers are plastic. They are clustered in places where shrubs struggle to grow. Two pools, one heated, dominate the centre of the garden, a favourite area in spring and autumn for dinners.
Halfway through the property, a high wall separates the quarters where the drivers and other male staff live. Sixteen garages for the royal car collection cover the left perimeter of the property and a mosque is situated to the right. Five times a day my princess’s father, the Amir, makes his way to this area, which is forbidden to women.
I will only meet the Amir once during my time at the palace. During my second week, while checking on the princess’s newly planted herb garden, he catches me unawares on his way to the mosque.
I am in casual clothes, with bare shoulders and not yet aware that when the Amir is present a woman’s head is required to be covered by the hijab. Now I understand why all the servants from the main palace always have their hijabs draped around their necks.
Still, he is polite. He simply asks me who I am. I put my hands behind my back and reply that I am new to princess Arabella’s staff. He gives a slight smile, nods and resumes his journey.
He is a handsome and dignified man in his early fifties who carries himself well. Even though he doesn’t introduce himself, I know that this is the royal patriarch. He has presence. I will come to learn that most of the staff are terrified of him.
I hear a strange noise coming from some shrubs at the side of the villa. A tiny kitten peeks out at me; its eyes are watery and speak of such suffering. I go over to pet the poor little thing but it runs away. I am shocked to see how thin and mangy it looks.
Mona explains that there are about seven cats on the palace grounds but feeding them is forbidden as they are there to catch rats. This kitten can’t be more than a couple of weeks old! I make a mental note to bring some cat pellets with me; if it is at all possible, no animal will be starved while I’m around.
We are met at the double wooden doors by a Filipino woman, her small frame emphasised by the enormity of the entrance. She offers us something to drink and shows us into the lounge. The furniture is garish. Glitzy, Liberace-style frilly cushions in different shades of yellow and purple crowd the couches, so that we are only able to sit on the edge of our seats. We are on time so we wait.
Murals of sunsets in yellow tones fill the walls from floor to ceiling. A little radio in the corner blasts out prayers – nonstop, monotonous, tuneless. Mona reminds me again that we are paid to wait.
Almost an hour passes. Keeping my eyes open is a fight without any distraction – conversation between Mona and I has long since dried up. Eventually we are summoned upstairs to the princess’s salon. We stand and wait for another 15 minutes. The yellow and purple is much more evident here. Six large lavender chandeliers that look like candy floss adorn the ceiling. The salon is a suited to a teenage girl.
The princess steps out of her room.
The princess
SHE IS BEAUTIFUL. She has the innocence of a little girl about her even though she has just celebrated her 27th birthday. She is wearing no make-up, only an eager smile. Her long black hair is pinned back with hair clips decorated with the word princess written in a gaudy pink.
She is elegant in casual sweats. Inviting me to sit, she exclaims with girlish delight, “Mrs C, you look so much younger than in your photos.” So much for Photoshop. I tell her to call me Cay but she shakes her head and tells me that as I am older than her mother, she will call me “Mrs C” as a mark of respect. We are served fresh orange juice. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I give her the yoga DVD I got her as a gift and she looks at me as if buying her a gift is unheard of. At least she is still smiling.
I ask her what she would prefer me to call her – Amira, Princess or Your Highness – as my protocol list says any of the three. This princess has firm ideas. She likes the sound of “Your Highness” although “Princess” is acceptable as well.
She tells me that she found a very good yoga instructor in Riyadh and the “coach”, as the princess calls her, comes three times a week. Does this mean my services as a yogi will no longer be required? I don’t ask.
As my contract states, I am to be a companion and shoulder to cry on. She immediately begins to confide parts of her troubled intimate life that seem inappropriate for a first encounter. I detect a neediness that I’m not sure I can fill. She tells me of the many people who have wronged her. I can only listen.
My princess, although the second oldest of four children, was the first of the children to marry so it was a lavish affair. Top international designers were flown in to Riyadh to take measurements and the Amira’s favourite hairdresser was flown in from France.
After only four months , her husband, without the princess knowing it, uttered the three lines, “I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee” – all it takes for a man to annul his marriage. The princess moved back home, this time to her own villa.
This was not an arranged marriage. Her ex-husband is a cousin and, according to her, turned out to be abusive.
Forced marriages happen to this day and females are not involved in making decisions about their own marriages. The marriage contract is between the husband-to-be and the father of the bride.
Polygyny is legal in Saudi Arabia. Saudi men may take as many as four wives, provided that they can support each of their wives equally. Women are allowed only one husband and cannot marry non-Muslim men unless they are granted official permission.
After the breakdown of her marriage, the princess retreated to her bed where she has been hiding out for five years. She rises only for regular weekly family dinners and for appointments with her psychiatrist three times a week. And sometimes – not always – for the desert dinners.
She sits on her bed with three laptops around her and updates her four Facebook profiles daily. On one of the sites, she is a 21-year-old girl who likes champagne and partying. She spends most of her life on different forums in cyberspace as there is not much else for her to do.
After two hours, I’m dismissed. I head to the gate. There seems to be a lot of fussing as I stand to one side waiting for the driver. “Madam, is this your purse?” asks one of the drivers. He hands me my purse. Somehow, while searching for hand cream in my too-big bag on my way to the palace it must have fallen out and onto the back seat. The driver insists that I check the contents.
All the money I arrived with in Saudi earlier in the day is gone. I converted ten thousand rand into dollars only the previous day at the airport. The driver had only one passenger after dropping us, the royal hairdresser. She handed the purse to the driver – but clearly not before emptying it. In a land where you can get your hand chopped off for theft, I am at a loss for words.
Mona tells me that when the woman entered the palace, she was flustered and avoided eye contact, disappearing upstairs without greeting anyone. She added that there is just no way that the drivers would even be tempted to steal as their jobs mean too much to them. They support large families back home.
That night, lying in bed in the dark, I
yearn for home and for contact with loved ones but I still don’t have any means of communication.
The medical
MY FIRST work day starts at four in the afternoon when most of the shops open for the day’s trading. I am fetched at the gate by the driver who was on duty the night before. His name is Sultan.
My eyes are still bloodshot. The fine sand particles in the air cause this and it will be about a month before my eyes become used to it and clear completely.
I am introduced to the team of two Filipino and two Malawian girls I am to manage.
Mami is the housekeeper and outside cleaner. She is a rotund 56-year-old lady with a laugh that matches her girth. She is a married mother of four – two boys in their late teens and two girls in their early twenties. They live with Mami’s younger sister on the outskirts of Lilongwe in Malawi. Her husband works on the mines in South Africa and although they are in contact telephonically, she has not seen him in 18 months. They are doing what they have to do to make sure all their children are able to attend university. The two older children are enrolled at the nursing campus of the University of Malawi in Lilongwe.
Mami’s fellow Malawian, Maria, is the most reserved of the maids. She is responsible for general housekeeping, and though she is tiny, her size shouldn’t fool you – she has the energy of 10 people. She is 28, soft-spoken and respectful. She seems to relish Mami’s leading role in the basement, shadowing her every move.
Lilly, an intelligent 25-year-old Filipino woman is the princess’s maid. She is responsible for handling all the princess’s clothes, including washing it all by hand. Lilly is the only cleaner allowed to clean the princess’s room. I am responsible for supervising this, and watching her work is a pleasure as she is meticulous.
The fourth member of my team is 35-year-old Sunny. She is Filipino and is a general cleaner, an endearing girl whose smile lights up a room. Her tiny frame hides formidable strength. She has the delightful habit of coming up behind me when I least expect it to give me a hug. I love her spontaneity as hugs are pretty scarce in Saudi.
Since her contract began, she has met a fellow Filipino online and their cyber-romance is now in its second year. Any contact with a man who is not a relative is forbidden while in the employ of the princess so this is done in utmost secrecy.
He lives and works in the States and they plan to marry once she gets out. I turn a blind eye as these girls have so little interaction with the outside world and they are young, after all. Sunny is chomping at the bit to get home, as her contract ended eight months ago but she is being held against her will.
Two of the girls in our villa are desperate to go home. Their contracts expired months ago, but the princess realises that once they leave, they will never return, despite any assurances, so she has decided that no one may leave until she finds replacements. To find servants she is happy with can take over a year.
The princess summons me. A majestic bed dominates her room. Purple drapes hang from the ceiling, 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 everyth
ing 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.