Behind Palace Walls Read online

  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 the only person at the counter, but I am evidently invisible. I don’t interrupt them. I notice a young man, no older than 18, with a store badge pinned to his shirt, stand­ing alone to the side. I ask for his help. He looks around in a panic.

  He is a trainee 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?

  Day three

  SETTLING IN during the first week is challenging. I blow two electric sockets because the plug of my hairdryer is too loose. I use Mona’s hairdryer, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t like it. Most of the instructions on my new laptop are in Arabic. My new mobile phone is much more difficult to oper­ate than the simple one I have at home – and much of these instructions are in Arabic too. Trying to figure out everything is time consuming and fraught with frustration.

  I am at work at two in the afternoon on day three. I start my first inventory in the kitchens as foodstuffs are perishable – the linen can wait. There are kitchens on four of the five floors of the villa, the main one in the basement where most of the princess’s food is prepared. On the first floor – the entrance level – a designer kitchen contains every up-to-date appliance you can imagine, though most of these are still in boxes. This kitchen is untouched. It awaits a husband.

  In all the kitchens, the cupboards are brimming with groceries bought on the royals’ most recent trip to Paris. Twice a year they travel to France and Italy to shop for groceries and other luxuries. During these trips, our job entails box­ing every­thing to send back to Saudi. I listen to Mona’s stories of the last trip to Paris and, frankly, it sounds like a nightmare.

  The previous year, the Filipino servants were taken along. But that was the last time, as the royals fear that they could escape to their embassy, to be sent home. All the work now falls on the butlers and PAs. They are on standby 24 hours a day, covering everything from hand washing clothing right down to cleaning toilets because hotel staff are not allowed over the threshold to the royals’ rooms. So much for the romance of Paris.

  On a previous trip, Mona had a free moment at the pool while the royals were out for the day. She ordered a glass of wine, for her own account, but there was a mistake with the billing. When Princess Arabella found that it had been added to the royals’ account, she shouted at her in front of her own and the hotel staff in the reception hall. “You are disrespectful and a disgrace!” Mona retreated to her room in tears.

  I rope in the two women I think will be best suited to help­ing with the inventory and we tackle the first cupboard. This takes me on a culinary trip of foodstuffs I never knew existed. It is an efficient operation; one of the women unpacks the shelves and calls out the dates, the other cleans and I document and categorise.

  I fill 18 boxes with expired goods from the last couple of months. I am appalled at the waste. The women tell me that serving a food item that has expired, even by one day, brings on a wrath in the princess that I have yet to experience. The following month will see further boxes filled, as will the month thereafter. Tins and jars of sauces, pestos and curry mixes – it is not so much the variety that is fascinating, but the quantity for one person.

  The basement kitchen has 34 large cupboards so the kitchen inventory will take a whole week to complete.

  After that, I’ll make my way through five large boxes stacked in the lounge area in the basement. These contain expired French cosmetics – eye creams, skin toners and moisturisers dating back as far as six years. And not just one of each – I count 29 bottles of toners. The same goes for the creams and lotions. The two last boxes are filled with expired medications – boxes and bottles of pills in every form for any ailment imaginable. Lilly, who is in charge of replenishing the cosmetics and med­ications, points out what each is used for. At least half the medication is for the treatment of depression.

  The princess calls me up to her room. I have to wear a uniform, so she shows me several designs she has stored on her flash drive, each uglier than the one before. I eventually choose one, only for her to change it to something she prefers. I just go with the design she favours, consoling myself with the thought that no one will see me anyway.

  I will have six uniforms, one for each work day. She chooses awful colour schemes, mixing colours that really don’t belong together. The khaki with olive green resembles the colours worn by prisoners at home; I dub the navy blue and maroon combination my nurse’s uniform. It is out of my hands.

  Mona pops into our villa in the early evening. I am glad to see her. She is about to go upstairs to the princess’s quarters, when I ask her to give me a minute – the princess has instruct­ed me to announce the arrival of any visitors.

  Mona is incensed but doesn’t show it yet.

  The same evening, an elderly Indian man comes to take my measurements. The princess speaks to him at length in Arabic, smiling often. She is in a jovial mood and the presence of the tailor seems to enhance this. Eventually she returns to her room.

  The tailor shows me how to stand, legs apart and arms spread, in line with my shoulders. When he measures from my waist down to my crotch, I am shocked as his hand lingers too long while he writes down the measurements with his other hand. This is repeated at the back. Then he indicates that I should open my legs wider by slapping both of my inner thighs. He lodges his hand firmly between my legs and draws the tape measure down to my ankles.

  Am I mistaken in thinking he is out of line? As he meas­ures across my chest, there is no doubt about it – this tailor is too thorough. Why does his hand rest on my breast? I don’t know how many lashes or years in jail I could get for slapping a man albeit an Indian man, not highly regarded by locals – so I resist. The experience leaves me pretty irritated.

  I push his hand off and scowl at him. He backs off and this gives me the opportunity to call Lilly. He doesn’t speak English, so I tell her to ask him if he has finished.

  After I explain what has happened, Lilly is
as annoyed as I am. The others have had the same experience.

  On my way to the gate that evening, I look around to make sure no one is around before I remove the container from my bag and fling the pellets into the bushes.

  Feeding the palace cats is risky, but later, during my second month there, the problem is solved.

  Eli, the palace gatekeeper, lives in a tiny room right next to the gate. The drivers congregate here while waiting for their orders. I have such a soft spot for Eli but he is unaware of this.

  I notice that the palace cats look healthier, and that they often hang around Eli’s room. Late one evening, I announce my presence at Eli’s door as he is sometimes required to phone the drivers to summon them from their accommodation when we are ready to be taken home. I spot one of the wild cats ly­ing on Eli’s bed.

  On the way home, Sultan tells me that Eli shares his dinner with the cats. He never leaves the small room at the gate, and never has a day off, so I imagine that befriending the cats alleviates an otherwise very lonely existence. I ask Sultan to stop at the shop, so that I can buy a big bag of pellets to give to Eli. He might be the catalyst but I intend to make it as easy for him as I can.

  As we arrive at the palace the following afternoon, I ask Sultan to stop at the gate for two seconds. I jump out of the car as quickly as I can, hiding the bag of pellets in the voluminous folds of my abaya. When I hand Eli the cat food wrapped in several bags to hide its contents, he frowns.

  Curtly, in broken English, he tells me that he cannot keep it in his room. I nod, and immediately get back into the car. Sultan explains that Eli’s room is searched from time to time. He doesn’t say this but I understand that getting caught feed­ing the cats will lead to a beating.

  Every night from then on, I hand Eli the plastic container with just enough pellets for one meal for all the cats. When­ever there are too many drivers around, I give the bowl to Sul­tan, who passes it on to Eli. It is a happy arrangement, a conspiracy that forges a friendly bond between the three of us. With Eli, though, it doesn’t go beyond the knowing looks of kindred souls.

  Back at the compound, at the end of the third day, music is blaring from the poolside. The mood is happy.

  Mona is home. She states (in capital letters) that there was no need for me to announce her arrival at the villa – she comes and goes freely. “I am just following protocol,” I respond. Her nose is out of joint but at this early stage I don’t know how to fix it. She continues to sulk at the perceived affront, so I say goodnight early just to get away from her. My closed bedroom door allows no further conversation.

  I try to fall asleep but the noise coming from Mona’s room is deafening. Our headboards are head to head on each side of the plasterboard wall and Mona snores like a Massey Ferguson. Sleep takes a long time to come.

  The next morning, when I come back from the pool, Mona is sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. The greeting is strained. I rearrange my bedroom so that my headboard is against the opposite wall. I don’t think this will help much but after a couple of sleepless nights, I am willing to try any­thing.

  First visit to Tamimi’s

  TODAY I am going grocery shopping for the first time. Ta­mimi stores are everywhere. Sultan finds a shady spot under an awning and even before I am out of the car, he is already moving his seat back. It’s an opportunity for him to catch some shut eye. The drivers survive on these brief naps.

  As there is no rush, I take my time walking through the aisles. They are spacious and well marked, filled with black cloaked figures moving slowly, sedately around. I blend in well. The Saudi women shoppers I approach for directions are help­ful and gracious.

  I am blown away by the variety but even more so by the prices. Compared to home, everything is so inexpensive. A can of Coke, not the silly airline ones, is about a third of the price at home. There is a staggering choice of yoghurt, also a fraction of the price I expect. I stand in awe at the confectionery counter.

  The fresh produce section is chilled and the fruit and vegetables look fresh and appetising.

  I walk past the magazine section and stand for a moment to take it all in. On all the magazines, exposed parts of the body, like arms, have been blacked out. Many people wonder how this happens, It’s a well-kept secret, but I have heard that the covert “Black Hand” society is responsible.

  Armed with black marker pens, the Black Hand vowed to erase all haraam pictures from the land. They formed squads that roam the streets at night, entering warehouses, post offices, and malls. The Black Hand has duplicate keys to any building they need to enter. These are obtained by force, or provided by their members.

  The Black Hand members carry small rucksacks, contain­ing extra markers, and all photos of anything construed as haraam, are blacked out. Some members even black out words like “pork”.

  They work hard, but sometimes miss an arm or a leg. Previously, punishments for these omissions were severe. Miss a whole woman or a pig? A finger was chopped off. Miss a woman in lingerie? That’s your hand. Miss a naked woman? Chop! There goes that male member!

  Friday off

  AFTER A week of intense duties, I am so looking forward to our first Friday off. Mona suggests we take a taxi to some of the ultra-modern malls. As she has been here months longer, I let her take charge – and it’s a role she seems to relish.

  Three of us, Mona, myself and a fellow South African expat, Tracy, squeeze into the taxi. The cluttered interior makes me laugh. You need to keep your elbows and knees in to avoid dislodging the bags of miniature chocolates hanging off the front seats, the eight boxes of strategically placed tissues or the fake flowers that adorn the roof.

  We arrive at the mall during prayer time so all the stores are closed.

  One designer shop follows another. After walking around for about 30 minutes, I feel deflated and down. I have never been much of a shopper – I find it somehow lonely and a little pathetic. Walking from one closed shop window to another, on the only day we get off in a week, is not my idea of recreation.

  We end our excursion with a coffee at Starbucks, in the family section.

  Though there are many restaurants and hundreds of coffee shops in the city, I can’t even go for a coffee. A woman who enters a restaurant alone is seen as immoral and could be chased out like a stray dog.

  Segregation is particularly strict in restaurants, as eating requires removal of the veil. Most restaurants in Saudi Arabia have “family” and “mens” sections. In the family section, diners are usually seated in separate rooms or behind screens and curtains.

  Waiters are expected to allow women time to cover up before they enter, although they don’t always stick to this practice. The mutawa particularly favour restaurants. They go from table to table, inspecting the iqamas of the diners. Valentine’s Day is one of the most fruitful days for arrests.

  Sexual segregation, which keeps wives, sisters and daughters from contact with male strangers, follows from concern for female purity and family honour. At social events, men and women don’t usually mix.

  Most Saudi homes have one entrance for men and an­oth­er for women. If a male who is not a relative enters the female section of a Saudi home, this is a violation of family honour. This section is “haram” which means “forbidden” and “sacred”.

  Private space is associated with women while public space, like the living room, is reserved for men. Traditional house de­signs incorporate high walls, compartmentalised inner rooms, and curtains to protect women.

  As public life is very much the domain of men, women are expected to veil themselves outside their homes. Although Sharia laws are not applied as strictly to expats, I keep my head covered with a hijab when I’m out, or risk a public chas­t­ising. If you’re seen without it, the mutawa storm over, tell­ing you, loudly and aggressively, to cover up. Blondes especially are targeted, and subjected to regular confrontations.

  Public transport is segregated, as are beaches and amusement parks, so some hav
e different hours for men and women. “Khalwa” is the term for violation of the principles of sexual segregation.

  I learn a little about these rules when I open a bank account. As I walk in, I stand at the back of the only queue, of 34 men, as I know no better. I ignore the stares – I am becoming slightly immune to them. These men are mostly expats sending their wages home.

  A bank official walks over to me and kindly tells me that I am in the wrong queue. He directs me to the non-existent women’s queue. I now understand the stares. I am served immediately. I can’t help feeling a little smug as sexual segregation has worked in my favour for once. I am out of the bank in 15 minutes. As I leave, I glance over my shoulder. The men’s queue has hardly moved.

  We arrive back at the compound after my first off day and I feel sad. I miss home. I work to the best of my ability but I also need down-time to function properly. It seems to be all work and no play so far.

  Cats

  MY IMPRESSION of Saudi Arabia is of a land of rich sheikhs who live lavishly in extravagant palaces, their unbelievable riches stemming from the black gold.

  This may be true for a minority of Saudis, but I soon see another side to the coin, and it’s not all that shiny. Poverty, unemployment, hunger, beggars, shack villages – these all exist in Saudi-Arabia.

  Some Saudis live in mud houses, often without running water, plumbing or electricity. The goatherds build straw huts. And others have no option but to live in shacks or even on the streets. Their struggles are unseen; they’re the forgotten ones, the “dirty” secrets. Many of them are widowed or divorced women with no source of income, no way to find work, no way to get to work.