Behind Palace Walls Read online

  Lilly and Sultan chat in Arabic. They seem to have a good relationship, bordering on flirtatious. I think back to another snippet of information imparted by Mona – that the two of them are having an affair. How in God’s name is this possible? But whatever there is between them, good for them. Lilly’s life is miserable enough; if she finds anything that will make her life a little easier after two years and nine months, she is welcome to it. The princess has, however, instructed me to not let her out of my sight.

  We arrive at the mall as prayer time starts. Sultan drops us off as he goes off to prayers too. We walk up and down, look­ing into the closed shops. I turn to speak to Lilly; she is not there.

  I stand in one spot, scanning the crowd – mostly women waiting for the supermarket to open its grid door. It is difficult to spot Lilly in a sea of black. Everyone looks the same in their abayas and as Lilly is a devout Muslim, she wears the head scarf as well, so trying to pick her out is even more difficult. I try to phone her but she does not hear her phone.

  About 10 minutes later, as the grid slides up, Lilly appears beside me. I am a little harsher with her than I intend to be but I am responsible for her when we are out, so she should know better than to put me in a situation like this. She takes it in her stride – just smiles and says, “Yes, Madam.”

  Up to now I have only been inside a Tamimi’s, so I find the rows and rows of imported goods fascinating. Lilly is a font of information on items I haven’t seen before. The prices again surprise me – everything is so inexpensive. This is home, 20 years ago. It takes about an hour to get everything on the list. Finally, I slip a bag of cat pellets into the trolley – for my own account, of course.

  We are now into the second prayer time for the afternoon. Although shoppers are locked in during prayer time and can continue to do their shopping, there are no tellers. All the staff are on their knees in the fresh produce section, facing Mecca. But in between Mecca and where they are kneeling is a ceiling to floor fridge unit packed with meat and advertising lamb at today’s specials in huge neon letters.

  Prayer times

  Salat al-fajr: dawn, before sunrise

  Salat al-zuhr: midday, after the sun passes its highest point

  Salat al-’asr: the late part of the afternoon

  Salat al-maghrib: just after sunset

  Salat al-’isha: between sunset and midnight

  ONE OF the more challenging aspects of adapting to life in Saudi Arabia is getting used to the working hours and days off. Many businesses work split days, and the prayer ritual is repeated five times a day by millions of people around the world.

  Even shopping malls operate on split hours, so shops are closed for several hours during an afternoon. In fact, all shops, businesses and restaurants close four times a day for 30 min­utes for prayer – most are not open at the time of the first prayer, which is why there are typically four closures rather than five. As a result, you try to run errands between prayers, hoping you don’t get caught with your errand unfinished at prayer time. Many a time, I stood outside a store waiting for them to reopen.

  Before 2013, the official weekend days were Thursday and Friday. However, Saudi was shut down for two days while businesses and financial markets in the rest of the world remained active. His­tory was made in April of that year, when the Saudi weekend was changed to Friday and Saturday.

  Back at the palace, I leave the girls to unpack as the princess is calling for me. She is furious. In our absence, Sunny served the princess her usual morning fruit and yoghurt but the yoghurt had expired that day. I make sure the fridges are checked daily but our excursion to the mall meant we had not yet done this.

  I am learning that when the princess is on the rampage, it is best to stand still and say nothing but “Yes, Your Highness”.

  “What are the staff doing?!” she yells. “I will not eat old food!” I know that she does not want an answer; she needs to vent. “You must punish them Mrs C!” I ask her what punishment she has in mind. “We are going to Europe soon; make them clean all my suitcases.” That seems reasonable so I excuse myself and help the girls as they start dismantling the towering pile of 36 large suitcases taking up half the living area in the basement.

  The maids’ quarters are in the basement, two to a spacious room, each with its own bathroom. The maids may not leave the villa even to dump the rubbish without the princess’s per­mission. During my time there, two of them never left the premises – not once. They endure two years of this and in most cases they are kept long after their two-year contracts are up.

  Cleaning the suitcases turns into a fun experience as every­one climbs in. I cut off all the old labels, Sunny, the culprit, soaks off the remnants of the stickers stuck to the cases in a solution of warm soapy water. Lilly wipes them on the inside and Maria, on the outside. Two hours later the cases are clean and back in place. Everyone feels a sense of accomplishment as we put the kettle on for tea.

  I go up to the princess’s room. As she has calmed down by now, I ask her if she would like something to drink. We have a kind of game going on; whenever I make her tea, I surprise her with a flavour I have chosen from her “tea cupboard”, which must hold over a hundred different teas from different countries. Some are for stress, others for relaxation, for sleep, to wake up, to induce an appetite, to reduce appetite, for premenstrual tension, for bloating – the list is endless.

  There is a collection of mugs in her upstairs kitchen, some with the word “princess” written on them in different colours. I choose the mug as carefully as I choose which tea would be best for her at the time.

  As I serve her the tea, in rubber gloves, she takes a sip then tries to guess which tea I used. She shrieks in delight when she gets it right but then always wants to know why I have chosen that particular tea. If it is late at night, obviously I brew a cup that will induce sleep. I am careful how I explain it, though. “Princess, this tea is to make you sleep well and have sweet dreams.” She delights in my answers so I play along.

  Wet compound

  THIS FRIDAY we are hitting the nightlife in Riyadh, not that there is much of it, especially for women. Lea has contacted one of her expat friends. She has been working in Riyadh for years, and suggests we visit a wet compound – one that has a restaurant that serves alcohol. Smartly dressed under our abayas, and with much excitement at our first night out, we bun­dle into the waiting taxi. The buildings are lit up in a myriad colours. As drab as the city can seem in the day, it is beautiful at night.

  We have a problem; my iqama, without which I cannot visit another compound, has not yet been issued. My passport, which would also be accepted, is being withheld. I ask the cab driver to take us to an internet cafe. We pull up to one that is completely empty. As I walk in, Lea following closely, two men walk hastily towards us. “No! You go!” says the younger one, closest to us. The older man seems more tolerant, but says, “You are not allowed in here. It is a men’s only establishment, please go.”

  We are forced to retreat. I am determined, though. If I don’t get a copy of my passport, which I have in an old email to the princess, I am going nowhere tonight. We are ushered out, but I ask the younger man whether I could print one page off an email, as the place is empty. He seems insulted as he slams the door behind me.

  Regardless of age or marital status, a woman is required to have a male guardian. He may be her father, husband, uncle, brother – or even her own son. A woman cannot travel, attend university, work, or marry without her guardian’s permission. In some cases, a woman cannot receive major medical treatment without the permission of her guardian.

  The quality of life of a Saudi woman depends entirely on the male members of her family. If a woman is lucky enough to come from an open family, she will enjoy a free education, be encouraged to work if she chooses, have a say in who she marries, travel the world, and come and go as she pleases. If she comes from a more conservative family, she may not be allowed to do any of those things.

  Nex
t, we inquire at the international hotel on the corner. Friendly staff at reception lead me into their back office after I explain my urgency. Within two minutes, I have a copy of my passport.

  We eventually reach the compound gates. It looks like a war zone. Since the compound bombings a decade before, most compounds have a heavy military presence and this one is no different. Every part of the taxi gets searched.

  After passing through an office, we are thoroughly screened and our iqamas and the copy of my passport are held back. With permission, and after our visit is documented in two different large books, we are free to go. We walk out the other side of the small office, through a dark car park towards the lights.

  The place is small and cosy with candles creating a magical ambience. Trellises with fake greenery afford some privacy between the tables. An Italian balladeer belts out tragic love songs from the speakers mounted on the ceiling. Small groups talk animatedly amid bursts of laughter. The only table avail­able is situated in the centre of the restaurant. Not one man there fails to notice Lea’s blonde hair. As most of the expats are from Middle Eastern countries, blonde hair is unusual and is leered at openly.

  The taste of a gin and tonic is heaven on my tongue but heavy on the wallet. At SR40, it works out to R85 a drink. This doesn’t deter us though. The Italian music creates a feel­ing of nostalgia that increases exponentially with each gin. Suddenly I feel invincible. I will make it in this crazy place!

  As we are about to leave, a portly chef scuttles over to our table and suggests to Lea that we try the home made wine. At SR30 for half a glass, it does not come cheap but we all think, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  We arrive back at the compound, lighter in mood and in pocket and feeling much more positive than after the Starbucks experience of the previous week. Now I feel ready for the week ahead.

  I knew it was coming

  THE FOLLOWING day I arrive at work to much activity. Over months the Filipino staff gather groceries, bought for them when Lilly goes out shopping for the princess. When their boxes are full, they ship them home to their families in the Philippines.

  Each box is searched thoroughly by someone designated by the princess before it is sealed. The wizened old lady who accompanied me for my iqama medical sits on a chair lean­ing on a cane. She watches the girls like a hawk as every item is taken out of the boxes then repacked. There is hardly any talking. It is like a military operation. I escape into the kitchen to set up my laptop to continue the inventory.

  I need to clarify something with the princess and as we are not allowed to phone her, I go up to her room. The door is closed and I knock softly in case she is sleeping. I hear her say “Mien” which I take for “Come in” and I open her bed­room door. She is dressed in tracksuit pants and a sleeveless vest. She looks furious and shouts “Get out!” For a moment I am confused and before I can move towards the open door, she shouts again, “Get out!” Her arm is stretched out with her finger pointing towards the door.

  I don’t wait for her to repeat herself a third time. The bed­room door slams as I make my way downstairs. Not sure what just happened, I call Lilly aside. She explains that although, in Arabic “Mien” sounds very much like “Come in” it actually means “Who is there?”

  I’d witnessed the way she treats her other staff, so I knew it was just a matter of time before she started on me. Although I was expecting it, I thought it would be over something a lot more serious than seeing her in a sleeveless T-shirt and sweat pants.

  An hour later she calls me up. “Mrs C, you cannot come into my bedroom when I am naked!” she shouts. Naked? Only her arms were exposed. Think Black Hand. I apologise and briefly explain my mistake. It seems I have a lot to learn. She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. The encounter leaves me feeling slightly disgruntled as the outburst is completely out of proportion to the supposed offence.

  Tonight the princess is expecting the manicurist, who waits downstairs. She asks me where South Africa is, which leads to an interesting conversation. I assure her there are no lions roaming in the streets. The princess calls me up first.

  I knock softly and enter. The scowl has not left her face. “Mrs C, you are too friendly with the manicurist. She is here to do a job!” She says it so loudly I am sure the manicurist can hear her. I know better by now to say anything, so I retreat with “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The following day I start the library inventory. I have been looking forward to this. Although it’s a back-breaking task as most of the work is done on a ladder, the variety of books keeps me going. The library is in the salon adjoining the princess’ bedroom so I work quietly. I marvel at how clean all the books are and make a mental note to tell Sunny.

  I categorise the books in more ways than one. I number the shelves, note the books as they appear and then document them by genre. It takes a long time as I cannot help reading bits or peeking into the many interesting books. Many self help books fill the tightly packed shelves.

  The wardrobe inventory will be a huge challenge. If you take all the clothing in stock at the average store and multiply that by at least five, it might come close to what the princess has. Her clothes are spread over four floors.

  Part of the basement is taken up by a room the size of a bas­ketball court, which is for clothing. It is locked at all times. The floor to ceiling cupboards, as well as another set in the centre of the room, are packed to the brim. The clothes hang so tightly together that it is almost impossible to remove an item without disturbing the whole cupboard.

  On the first floor, another large room holds 20 two-metre-long rails lined up close together, covered by pristine white sheets that are changed weekly. There must be a couple of thousand garments.

  The idea is to take a photo of each garment, front and back, and categorise it. I go upstairs to ask the princess if I may start the inventory – I need permission to enter these rooms. She is on a call but ends it as I knock. “Your Highness, I have finished the library. I’d like to start with the clothing inventory.” She frowns terribly and chases me out. “I will tell you when to start!”

  Farm visit

  MONA SPEAKS of going to the farm with much excitement. Although my family own a farm, the Amir and his entourage make more use of it than the women – they go to a farm belonging to the Amira’s best friend, Princess Stephanie.

  It is late Thursday afternoon. I phone switchboard, the mys­tery voice I deal with daily but never meet. He assures me that Sultan is ready and waiting outside.

  The princess is having the finishing touches done to her braids so I go outside to check the car. The water bottles wrapped in serviettes are at the ready in the back pockets of the front seats. After spraying perfume onto her abaya at the last minute, we make our way downstairs. The walk to the car is strenuous as I am carrying the princess’s many bags. I try hard to disguise my ragged breath as I settle next to her in the back seat.

  It is dark outside as we leave the palace grounds. Eli swiftly closes the huge gates behind us. The princess is in a good mood.

  Half an hour later, we pull up to tall gates. The staff jump into action – they are expecting us. The farm is not quite what I had expected. Extensive gardens, only half-planted, are surrounded by a high wall. A magnificent double-storey mansion is set towards the back of the grounds. Lights blaze from each room.

  To the left, seven three-bedroom chalets house overnight guests. Sultan drives up to the five steps leading to the elevat­ed patio of the main building. About 40 women are seated on large comfortable couches arranged in a square. The focal point is a large Persian carpet that covers the tiling. The princess joins her family on the patio while I am directed to one of the chalets that the princess will be using for the evening. I hang her abaya in the wardrobe and turn down her bed. After switching on a couple of side lamps, I make my way over to Mona.

  It is a beautiful balmy evening and everyone seems relaxed. Soft Arabian music is playing in the background. I take the seat
next to Mona and ask her about our roles on the farm. We just have to be visible, she explains; a butler is a status sym­bol within the Royal House of Saud. Well, visible we are. So we sit.

  Dinner is served at 10. The hierarchy among staff is clearly evident. We are called to the buffet table after the royal family have dished up for themselves. As we make our way down the long line of tables, I marvel at the variety of dishes. The prawns are the size of baby crayfish. Only after we are seated do the nannies and teachers dish up, then last, the Filipino maids.

  After dessert, the royals move inside to the largest lounge I have ever seen. Four chandeliers the size of king-sized beds adorn the vast ceiling. As Mona has been here before, I follow behind her, trying not to make eye contact with any of the women on the many couches. We are seated on the side of the lounge at a distance from the nearest royal but in full sight. This is ladies’ night; for once the stiff formality is abandoned.

  Mona and I can’t really talk but we whisper to one another as I have many questions. Without making it obvious, I keep an eye on my princess because a subtle nod is all the warning I will have if she needs something. She is relaxed and it is a pleasure watching her interact with her many cousins.

  After three hours of sitting, fighting to stay awake, tea, Ara­bian coffee and cake is served. This is one of the highlights of any dinner with the royals. Saudi cakes are out of this world, and there are at least 50 on the long table. This is not just for the 40 royals present, but for the staff as well – perhaps 60 of us.

  I go for my favourite first, a fluffy concoction with lemon-flavoured candy floss between the layers. It is heavenly. The bitter taste of the Arabic coffee complements the sweetness of the cake.