Monday, November 29, 2010

Zamzam

I drank some Zamzam water. It comes from the well next to the ka’bah. My Arab teacher brought me some. (She went to Hajj.) Suppose to have healing powers. Depends on your own faith I believe, but I loved her gesture and though it was so awesome. Holy water. Wow!

“When Abraham migrated with his wife Hagar and son Ishmael to a valley without plants or water, known today as Makkah, he left them there with only one bag containing dates and an old water-skin filled with water. When the water ran out and Hagar became worried about her son, she climbed up the rocky hillock of As-Safaa to see if she could see anyone. As she didn’t see anyone, she went down the hillock and quickly made her way to the hillock of Al-Marwah which she also climbed up to see if there was anyone in sight. She ran between these two hillocks seven times. (They still to that to this day at Hajj) When she stood on Al-Marwah for the last time, she heard a voice and then she saw an angel standing on the site of Zamzam digging the earth with his heel until water flowed from that place.”

… The best water on the face of the earth is the water of Zamzam …
          … The water of Zamzam serves the purpose for which it is drunk …

Taken from A Concise Children’s Encyclopedia of Islam. “Concise” and “Children’s” is about as much as I can handle and understand. There’s a lot I still don’t understand. I sometimes find it just so outrageous and archaic. Not to mention the extremism and abuse towards women. What I do understand, however, is that Islam, in its intent, is not evil. I have been exposed to its good side, and have come to understand, there is a good side too.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Tony


“You are a character yourself, and I will remember you.” – Tony, on his last night in Saudi. The one who got kicked out of the kingdom. The lad from Dublin. When he said Dublin, the travel agency heard Durban and said: “You don’t mind flying via Joburg?” Imagine flying to Dublin via Joburg!

Tony was not the most popular guy around. He even got mé annoyed at one point. I referred to him as a liability. He forgets where he’s going. Forgets what he wanted to say or why he was saying something. Gets lost – all the time. I once had to sub for him whilst he quickly popped over to the hospital. He wandered out the wrong gate without his gate pass and couldn’t get back in. The 10 minutes turned into an hour.

Another time we were standing in the shop during our lunch break. He was meant to be on duty during the second half of it. At the cashier he kept being Mr Nice Guy and letting people push in. I shouted to him from the back, “Tony, these people write from the wrong side, they also queue from the wrong side!” He told me to see the humour in it. “Tony, I’m not going to think it’s bloody funny if I’m the one you’re meant to relieve!”

But Tony was a character. He certainly was that. For medical reasons, cause of his epilepsy, they didn’t want him to stay. He’s over his anger now. He is resigned to his fate. Saji, William and me gave him a farewell. We entertained each other and laughed and joked and had such a great evening together. He will remember it with fondness. We will too.

He will be leaving at 5 o’clock tomorrow morning.

Friday, November 26, 2010

What I Miss

A friend got me started on this. Look and see how many on my list do you take for granted. You may swop the venues, food, brands and look-alikes with your own favourites.

50 Things I miss about Home
(Actually it’s 51)

Rusks with my coffee
Choices
My own transport
Wearing jeans to school
Extra-mural activities
Cricket at Supersport Park
Watching Rugby at the Dros
Smirnoff Spin on a hot day
Dry white wine, filled with ice
Friendly people
Female cashiers (they don’t exist here, not at all!)
People walking their dogs (no dogs here either)
Dogs barking
Dogs (and I’m not even a dog person)
My beautiful, lovable, adorable cat – she was special
The lovely, lively, outrageous Grade Sevens (it’s the naughty ones I miss the most)
Green lawns (I am going to lie down and kiss the grass)
Huge trees
Red sand
Waves (a sea that is alive)
Woollies food!!!
Pork
TV’s Morning Live and Vuyo (saying hello in all our languages)
Pedestrian crossings
Shopping malls – open all (reasonable) hours
Running water
Hot water from the hot water tap and cold water from the coldwater tap (is that so difficult?)
Plumbing that can deal with loo-paper
Lateral thinking (although it’s not freely available anywhere)
Women’s faces (veils are de-humanising and they can argue this point till hell freezes over!)
Sleeveless tops
African rhythms
Die vlaktes van die Bo-Karoo  (a precious landscape)
Pizza – Romans, Debonairs, anything
Seafood that looks as if it’s been in the sea
The smell of lamb chops on an open fire
The Blue Bulls (when they’re on a winning streak)
Victor Mattfield and other look-alikes
Fastfood outlets (where the food is good and women don’t have separate entrances)
Long walks on sandy beaches
Over the counter medication – sinutabs and disprins (has Panado ever helped anyone?)
The Milky Way and the Southern Cross
Seashells (and sea-urchins) – rock pools!
Newspapers (front page, back page and everything in between)
Sunday lunches with family (friends count as family)
Sundays on a Sunday (this Friday thing doesn’t work for me)
“Hole in the Wall” (good company and a glass of red)
Recycling
Book Club
People I love
Humour (other than my own)

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thanksgiving

Thursday 25 November 2010

"Look at these jagged rocks. Over time as people walk over it and the sea smashes against it, it becomes smooth. Life’s like that. You can endure hardship. Your life will also smooth out."
- Japanese suicide preventor

50 Reasons to be thankful:
(in no particular order but as they come to mind)

Life goes on.
My parents are still alive.
I haven’t had to bury a child.
I’m in good health.
I lack no food.
I sleep warm.
I’m safe.
I have a job.
I love my job.
I have a loving family.
I have great nieces and nephews.
I have a daughter. We remain connected.
I also have a son. His mother shared him with me.
My husband has not committed suicide.
He has not set our (my) house alight.
He has also not killed me.
I can still travel.
I still have contact with so many wonderful kids whom I’ve taught.
I have great friends.
I belonged to the best book club ever. (Trust I still do.)
I’m not an alcoholic.
I have TV – news channels and Oprah, bless her soul.
I have internet!
I’m discovering and meeting good people.
I can read. And I do.
I have compassion.
I experience kindness.
I’ve lost 6 kg without exercising!
I still find reasons to laugh.
Jonas Desai – discovering new musicians.
I have a garden.
I have a yellow hibiscus tree, and a pink one and red.
I have roses – white and pink (and more to come).
I have a bougainvillea that survived the gardener.
I have a room that faces East.
I still dream.
I still have hope for the future.
I love life.
I haven’t lost faith.
I can joke about adversity (sometimes).
I have two shocking pink cushions.
And a blue vase.
I don’t have to cook.
I can swear in Afrikaans without being offensive.
I don’t have to hide behind a veil.
Guy Manoukian – jazz fusion – another great musician.
I was born in Africa.
I survived history.
I’m still welcome in my own country.
I am able to meet my debts.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

A Garden Revealed...

I am so content with being alone right now. I sit in my “room with a view” and type. I am only visited by cats who leisurely stroll around the courtyard. Earlier on I shared my food with them. I had tuna salad. They had the oil and half the tuna flakes. We look at each other through the glass door. Sometimes I can see the surprise in their eyes when they suddenly notice me.

I have a thing about standing on the highest mountain, dipping my feet in the sea, having a room that faces East… and the Year of the Tiger has not disappointed me. I stood on the highest mountain in Saudi, I dipped my feet in the Red Sea, and I am sitting here, writing this, in a room that faces East!

A secret garden revealed…

My bedroom faces East. In the mornings when I open my curtains, the sun reaches across the room and touches the furthest wall. On my days off, I like to sit on the floor, legs outstretched, leaning against the bed. 


Not a landscaped view to feast my eyes upon - I look at my little courtyard with its begging-to-be-replaced furniture. On my right is the bougainvillea – violet purple. It was massive when I moved in. Before I could enjoy it and before I could stop him, the gardener had gotten to it and had trimmed it down to a neat shrub. For fucks sake: Don’t they know I love overgrown bougainvilleas that have Mediterranean written all over it! Now I stare at it, willing it to grow back to its original, unkept size. I also water it and shower it with adoration.

In the furthest corner to the right, I have planted eight red geraniums. I know they are red because they were cuttings I collected when my neighbour’s bush got trimmed to smithereens. Indian gardeners, it seems, LOVE trimming. They also know how to open taps and how to transplant. They transplant rosebushes, palm trees, and anything that looks good as is. No need for nurseries then. The neighbourhood’s shrubs and bushes do the rounds as the owners come and go.


Then I have a narrow stretch about 1 x 3m that has a cactus, two grapevines, two geraniums, two rose bushes, a daisy bush, a marigold and some groundcover. To add to this mixture, there’s a wild jasmine rambling over the wooden fence. I did not like the cactus, but it was too huge to remove. Then one day, it surprised me with a flower, and all was forgiven. The cactus may stay. One of the rose bushes has white roses. Another one in the front is a gorgeous pink. One by one they reveal their splendour to me.

I have an odd collection of pots and plant anything that would grow, in it. Geraniums give the best returns on investment. 


Against the wall I planted rosemary. I planted several cuttings in the optimistic belief and hope that at least one will take. I also discovered that soup strainers have more than one use. (Hello, Nicola!)


I do not get to see the sunrise. By the time it becomes visible, it has already lifted from the horizon. Beyond my retaining wall, is the 5m perimeter wall. I don’t know what’s on the outside, and “they” don’t know what’s on the inside. Fair enough. My garden can remain my secret, my joy, my comfort.


Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Red Sea

Destination: The Red Sea. Back to Abha, and from there, downhill all the way to the sea. The road is in good condition. Three lanes. One going down and two coming up. It is the middle lane that concerns me. No one gives a damn. They all consider it to be the fast lane, irrespective of whether you’re going up or down! They overtake around blind corners. They drive like crazy. They believe that everything is the will of Allah. If they die (and whomever else gets taken out with them), it is the will of Allah. If they stay alive, it means they got away with it and they’ll do it again. Sheer madness. I had my seatbelt on in the back and just about prayed all the way down. On our return, my prayer became even more fervent because we were now in the outside lane (left-hand drive, right side of the road) All the seatbelts in the world won’t help you when you get bumped over the edge! Hectic, hectic, hectic.


As you should know by now, we started at close to 3000m and the long and winding road with all its hairpin bends went on for about 50 kms. It was a relief to reach the lowlands. The mountains are barren rock and when it rains, the water rushes down it forming valleys and taking down everything in its way. All the different gulleys flow together and the dry river bed suddenly becomes a fast-flowing river. The valleys are also know as wadis and each wadi has its own clan.


 I had a notebook with me and tried to keep track of all the wadis. I’m sure not even Google Earth is going to help us with this: Wadi Karadah, Wadi Tha Masrab, Wadi Bakhman, Watadah, Rahab, Al Butyra, Al Hayad, Zalam, Dank, Al Esha Al Sufti, Lanek, Al Madr Al Ala … am I doing okay so far?  And this is just along one stretch of one road. There are many more.

We finally reached the coast without me noticing it. Drove for about 100kms with me looking at a barren landscape interspersed with palm trees (not the tropical kind). Eventually I realised that the sea was on my left. It didn’t smell like the sea. Hell, it hardly looked like the sea. No waves either. No sandy beaches. No seagulls. No life?


We past through many little villages, but not the quaint kind. Check stops and speed-bumps throughout. Not a pleasant Sunday afternoon drive then. I kept thinking we were going to reach some place special until I finally realised: This is as good as it’s going to get. We stopped off somewhere. God knows where. At least it was the Red Sea. At last! I dipped my feet in. The waters did not part. Surprise!!! No bathing suits. No nothing. Stood there like an idiot in my black abayah.


Had a picnic of sorts. Ignored all the pollution. Litter scattered all over the place. It was a relief to leave. 


 I know a sea that is better. A place I call home. Where waves come crashing down. Where the wind smells of salt and the seagulls call out your name. But I was there. Saw the Red Sea and left.


 We stopped at a market along the road. There were more men from the Tuhama tribe. They looked less friendly and wore their daggers more visibly. I did not dare take photo’s, at least not of them. 



I did try my luck at another roadside stall. They were not tribesman but peasant-looking. I joked around but quickly hopped back in the car before they could offer any camels in exchange for me. You never know what can happen next and the men in our group were either too small or too old to pose any threat or offer their protection. Next time I would like to take some Front Row player along with me. Preferably one that looks aggressive. (Don’t they all!)


            I was glad to see Abha again. Sweet home. Almost. And the day was done.


Saturday, November 20, 2010

The Highest Mountain

We’re off to see the Wild West show,
The elephant and the kangaroo oohooo
Never mind the weather
We’re off to something better
We’re off to see the Wild West show

It’s astounding
Time is flying
Madness
Takes control

Getting out of the city. Out of the compound. Out of the villa. Out of my room! Enough to set the mind in motion: Oh happy day…

Out of Khamis, through Abha. The beautiful Abha, so close and yet so far. Don’t they need teachers there? Abha is the main town of the Asir Province. It has the best climate – delightfully cool. It is situated high in the Sarawat mountains that climb towards Yemen. It is a gracious town. 

                        Small villages with terraced farms cluster on the hill tops. 



                          Watchtowers that dot the horizon tell of a troubled past. 



The most distinctive of the local tribes are the Tuhama. They are of short wiry build with gaunt, striking faces and long curly hair, oiled with butter. They wear an izar (skirt) and carry short swords. They normally won’t allow photographs unless they have been touched by Western civilization and if they believe it is going to help sell their produce.


 

To the east of Abha we travel down an insignificant dirt road. The remains of an ancient Turkish fort (Ottoman Empire) are where we stop. 



We look across the valley to a modern road far below. It winds along the mountain and stretches to eternity. Upon closer inspection, a camel track is noticeable above the new road. Caravans use to pass along it carrying incense and spices from the East to Egypt and the Roman Empire – referred to in history as the Frankinsence Route. (I resolve to read more about it.) 



A young local appears from nowhere and perches himself on the very edge. He pretends not to notice us although he is very aware of our presence. He tilts his head slightly and I can see his profile. I pretend not to notice him either, but find myself staring in fascination. This is not a tourist destination and we are the only people around. He just sits there, claiming his territory.

 

We continue the drive around the outskirts of Abha till we reach the highest peak – Al Souda. It is hard to imagine that we are still in Saudi. At 3000m it is the highest point in the Kingdom. We can see the mist rolling in from the coast. 


 
 It is also known as Green Mountain. Not the green you’d find in Europe, but green in comparison to the surrounding dessert. At the top there is a cable car that passes along part of the mountain and across Abha. I think I will have to save this for another day. 

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Anne Mustoe and Me

In 1982 I bought a book in Brussels, Children’s Letters to CS Lewis, a limited edition, printed on hand-made paper with black and white photographs  imitating the real thing. I had to borrow money to buy it. Subsequently repaid the loan and still have the book as one of my most prized possessions. I can even picture the little shop, dim lit, tucked away in one of the quiet passages  off the Grand Place.
I had another book experience shortly before I left home. There was a book sale at the shopping mall and I fancied two books. Although it had been marked down considerably, I still couldn’t really afford it. I sat down for a coffee whilst pondering the choice. It was Caribbean Coffee and the taste of coconut carried me off to far away places. I bought both. The one was “Stones into Schools” by Gregg Mortimer. The other:  “Che Guevara and the Mountain of Silver” by Anne Mustoe. They travelled with me.
Every evening I would read one passage from Anne’s book to end my day. It was like joining her on her journey through South America. I like the way she writes and the way she travels. I was excited as I anticipated where the next leg of the journey would take us. And as with any journey, I was sad when it ended and I had to say goodbye.
 
I decided to Google her name to find out more. Wanted to start planning my next trip! And then I saw the word: Obituary. This is what I found out:
It is an exceptional author who can supply a book with three appendices so varied as a technical specification of a bicycle, a timeline of the life of Cleopatra and an ichthyological listing.
Admirers of the intrepid former headmistress turned round-the-world cyclist Anne Mustoe were well accustomed to such precise, detailed and charming information in the books in which she chronicled what she termed her “new career”. When she resolved to cycle round the world, Mustoe was 54, somewhat overweight and unfit, and without any idea of how to mend a puncture. She had not ridden a bike for 30 years, wobbled when she tried again, and she hated camping, picnics and discomfort.
Yet, inspired by the chance sighting of a solitary European man pedalling across the Great Thar Desert while she was riding a bus through Rajasthan on a holiday in India, she “traded in the Kurt Geiger shoes and the Alfa Romeo” for a pair of trainers and cycle clips.
The glimpse of the lone cyclist which inspired her own ambition to cycle round the world came in January 1983. She said it took her four years from that defining moment to screw up her courage, resign her job and cycle into the sunrise, but she calculated that she had no ties, her stepsons were married off, and she could just afford it if she lived modestly until her pension came through.
She set out from London to ride round the world from west to east in 1987 and completed the circumnavigation 12,000 miles and 15 months later. In A Bike Ride (1992) she recorded that she had cycled 11,552 miles in 14 countries over 439 days, in which £4,898 had been spent on food, accommodation and sundries and £1,127 on fares. She had lost 23lb in weight.
The extra dimension with which Mustoe sustained her travels was that she followed historical routes: Roman roads across Europe; Alexander the Great’s route from Greece to the Indus Valley; Pakistan and India with the Moghuls and the Raj; and so on. Across the United States she followed the great pioneer trails, and undeterred by downpours, heat, political turmoil or amorous waiters, she promptly decided to do it all over again, in reverse direction.
For the second ride, and subsequent book, Lone Traveller, she went from Rome, following Roman roads to Lisbon, the Conquistadors across South America, Captain Cook over the Pacific, and the Silk Route from China back to Rome. Special chapters dealt with the day-to-day difficulties of the voyage up the Amazon in small cargo boats, and cycling the Australian Outback, the Gobi Desert and the Karakoram Highway.
Two Wheels in the Dust, encapsulating five winters on the Indian sub-continent riding down from the mountains of Nepal, through India to the highlands of Sri Lanka, was itself a bicycle of a book, really two books in one — marrying incidents from the ancient Hindu epic of The Ramayana (printed in one typeface) to the account of Mustoe’s own travels in the same landscape (printed in another).
For Cleopatra’s Needle the indefatigable cyclist set off from the obelisk of that name on the Thames Embankment to ride back to its original location, Heliopolis in Egypt, hugging the waterways of rivers, canals, and coasts, and mountain streams for her route across the Alps, while Amber, Furs and Cockleshells dealt with what were, by her standards, three short rides, the longest a mere 2,000 miles, in the paths of merchants in amber (the Amber route from the Baltic to the Mediterranean), furs (the Santa Fe Trail), and pilgrims (the pilgrims’ way from Le Puy to Santiago de Compostela).
Finally came Che Guevara and the Mountain of Silver in which she cycled from Buenos Aires in the wheeltracks of the 500cc Norton as ridden by Che and his friend Alberto Granado in early life, and recalled in the film The Motorcycle Diaries. On her return route Mustoe rode back to Buenos Aires by the Spanish Silver Road from the Bolivian Altiplano.
Anne Mustoe set off on what was to be her last ride in May 2009, still riding her trusty Condor, and was in Aleppo, Syria, when she fell ill and died in hospital on November 10. Sadly we can no longer plot her progress around the globe.  We can however salute her as a great headmistress and admire her determination and resolve to break with her old career and launch herself into something entirely new but deeply challenging and immensely rewarding.
Most of it From
November 28, 2009

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

HAJJ


AROUND two million white-robed Muslims converged Monday at Mount Arafat as the hajj, the world's largest annual pilgrimage, peaked at the site of the Prophet Mohammed's last sermon. Chanting the Talbiyah, 'O God, here we come, answering your call,' pilgrims set off before dawn in a bid to reach the top of the hill that dominates the plain of Arafat.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Equal Value

So many radical things have happened lately, all of which has had a profound affect upon me. Aung San Suu Kyi was released. Then a British couple in Somalia. Then an Afghan army officer in Pakistan. At the same time, two of my colleagues got kicked out of the kingdom – as unceremoniously and bluntly as I have just put it. The one guy suffers from epilepsy and the powers that be have decided that this condition is too risky for them to handle. Unfortunately he is a strange fellow and his oddness has in the past pissed me off too. He doesn’t get fits, he gets bizarre behaviour. He refers to it as “episodes”. He’ll cross a busy road without looking. He’ll get off the bus when he feels the urge to. He’ll start talking about flowers when it relates to absolutely nothing. He’s Irish and he whispers, so half the time I am clueless as to what he’s on about. The fact is that he has been living with this condition and it has never been a problem before. They also told him that he could finish this term which ends in December. And then, in the blink of an eye, they suspend his contract with immediate effect. It’s Hajj. Everything is closed. But he has to up and leave. The other lady had a blood test done of which the HIV status proved to be inconclusive. She has only just arrived. Been here one week, and now has to leave – immediately. They won’t discuss it, they won’t allow independent tests – she’s out. Simple as that. She’s 40 and has never been married. She is not even remotely promiscuous and is a good teacher. And a very nice person. The headmistress was close to tears when she informed us of these drastic decisions. The spirit of Hajj has certainly not touched the hearts of any of these persons of power. We are just pawns on a chessboard. Can be disposed of without a second thought. I was in the shop and waiting to pay. The Indian cashier served the Arab behind me first. I loudly informed him (and anyone who wanted to listen) that it is customary to serve the person in front first and that in my country people are born equal. He was embarrassed and kept saying: “Sorry sister, sorry sister” as the arrogant Arab strode out of the shop.

It was Trevor Manuel who once said during a budget speech: “People’s lives should be of equal value.” Unfortunately his message still has to reach the kingdom.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Religious Affairs




Hebrews 11:1 To have faith is to be sure of the things we hope for, to be certain of the things we cannot see.

Counting my blessings. Having recently been reminded by a friend of what it’s like to lose a child, I consider myself blessed. I have a roof over my head, food in the fridge, a job that I enjoy, kids whom I love (my own and those I teach), clothes to wear, people to talk to…. I even sometimes have a computer that’s connected! Despite winter approaching and mornings and nights being chilly, I still have flowers blooming and surprising me every day. Today I discovered I had a white rose. I also went to church.

It’s on the American compound. They send a taxi as transport. He parks discreetly off the main road from our compound. I meet up with the other ladies. Three Blacks, one Indian and one White (me) – all South Africans. It takes us an hour to get there. Another half an hour to get in. At the outer perimeter, we exchange our resident permits for passes. At the inside perimeter, we exchange the passes for other passes. Someone on the inside has to sponsor your visit and may only sponsor two people at a time. Since we are five, they have to send three people to sign us in. Church is a small gathering. No more than twenty. I’m still the only one with Arian features. They do the normal singing, praising, worshipping, offering, preaching, announcing, blessing. They are all very sincere. They pray for Christians in Iraq who are being persecuted (killed). This congregation is helping to build a church in India, they are feeding the poor and they will contribute towards the repatriation of these Christians in Iraq who want to leave. I feel uplifted and comforted.

Hajj is upon us. The pilgrims have already started arriving. Those with communicable diseases are not allowed to enter. You should have a vaccination certificate to prove that you had been vaccinated for melingitis and flu. They are so shit scared of diseases which to me means that they are actually more likely to contract it. One of our new teachers who arrived a week ago, has been told to leave the country within the week. One of her blood tests came back inconclusive. Inconclusive!!! It means they could have made a mistake. They are now sending this lady home without proof of anything. And they won’t consider or discuss it. They have made a judgement call on her character. Yet in other countries there are advertising campaigns to encourage people: Know your status! She has to go home with that verdict hanging over her head and for her own consolation, have the tests redone. I am willing to put money on it being negative, but hey, who cares! We’re not in the land of the living.

The Arabic department at the school have put a presentation together about Hajj and the pilgrims and the brotherhood of mankind. It was very touching. Each child had to introduce himself by stating his name and where his from. We had about eight different countries represented: Britain, India, Pakistan, Sudan, Egypt, Syria, Jordan and Palestine. When the little boy in my class stood up and said: My name is Ibrahim Nasserallah, I am a Muslim and I come from Palestine, I felt like crying. Living closer to the region, one becomes more sensitised to the plight of the people living there. I respect the Israelis, and have always admired Golda Meir in particular, but what they are doing to the Palestinians, is atrocious. My little Ibrahim comes from the West Bank. During holidays he goes back to his grandmother who still lives there. His father is one of five. Every single one of his uncles has bullet wound scars. His dad is a doctor. They are not terrorists. The presentation was also repeated at the Islamic centre. Since most of the boys in my class participated, I asked if I could accompany them. We were meant to give our presentation and leave, but the cleric gave us no time to leave and started his sermon straight away – we had to sit through his terrible English, his loud voice, and his non-sensical justifications about the son of the slave-girl Hagar and so on and so forth. I’m not sure what his point was and who he was trying to convince (or convert). I could sit quietly through it, but was extremely proud of my boys who managed to behave throughout the ordeal. I couldn’t sit with them because I had to sit in the female section. Mohammed (not the prophet), who is the liveliest of them all, by divine intervention got isolated and ended up between two adults. My boys were bored out of their minds and were appalled at the man’s accent. They would have probably done a better job themselves. And he didn’t have the decency to thank them or even mention them. I though they were wonderful!


Saturday, November 6, 2010

Friday, November 5, 2010

Caution and Kindness

Ibrahim was absent yesterday. He was previously ill. I asked his mother, a teacher, about his absence. This is the story: His brother in matric (A-levels) is at home studying. The maid comes on a Wednesday. The mother doesn’t want to leave her grown son at home alone with the maid, so the 10-year old has to stay too. (as a chaperone!!! ) Man, I’ve seen fathers worry about their daughters, but it is the first time ever that I’ve seen a mother worry about her son in the same way. I still want to ask her whether it is the maid or the son or the situation that’s the worry. She did not tell Ibrahim why she wanted him to stay at home, and I’m sure he did not ask! I have had kids stay at home to take care of younger siblings. Having the roles reversed, is new to me.
Went out shopping today – browsing through Khamsa. It is a busy shop and the isles are narrow. An old Arab man (wife in tow) stepped back and allowed me to pass first. He had kindness in his eyes. In two months I have never seen anything other than blank stares or contempt. To find an Arab who can look at a woman without either lust or contempt, just kindness – I was deeply touched. I bought a crystal-blue glass bowl – also a rare find. When I unpacked my precious bowl, I was overcome by emotion. The old man’s kindness has had a profound effect on me…

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Village Gossip

Oh my goodness!!! No matter where you go on earth, the gossip mentality will follow you. I look at it from a distance and shake my head. Here’s the story: The staff is invited to a social. First proper get together that would have included everyone. (Ha Ha Ha.) The hostess is concerned that she won’t be able to accommodate/entertain kids. The kids’ mother calls the teacher a bitch on facebook. The teacher cancels the invitation. That’s the short and tall of it. The mother who acted in bad faith, is not even a member of staff (though her husband is). However, the members of staff are now the ones being punished. What can I say: Fuck it.  I was so looking forward to a social. In my world, being called a bitch is merely a drop in the ocean that will go unnoticed. Not so here. Small issues become BIG ISSUES. The lady who got bad-mouthed, is not a Muslim, but the Muslims’ reaction was what surprised me the most. They are deeply offended and say it is an insult to all of us. You can say “fuck” a hundred times, but you do not call someone a dog.
Between Tom killing a cat (previous post) and the dog’s mistaken identity, life in the Kingdom remains decidedly interesting.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

A Good Day

Today was a good day. Not an ordinary good day, which would mean the absence of bad moments. Actually a good Good Day. I laughed. Laughed with abandonment – and not just once. The South Africans have decided to braai on Thursday (Saturday). It will be some chicken, coz I can’t bear the idea of their meat. Nothing compares to the real thing that I’ve been spoilt with at home. We are three middle-aged ladies (Afrikaans-speaking), one Coloured man and one Indian lady. We joked about Bill and Saji being sweet on each other (purely a joke). They are both very short. So I say to the Filipino girl, “they go well together coz they’re the same size”. She added, more seriously, “and the same colour” (pronounced caller). I don’t know why I thought it was so funny, but I did. Colour of the skin, shades of darkness, is certainly still an issue elsewhere in the world. Not an issue as such, but a point of discussion, worthy of mentioning when describing someone. You get dark-skinned Egyptians and light-skinned Egyptians. And that goes for most ethnic groupings and nationalities. It’s only in South Africa where we try our level-best not to comment on it.
Then there was my eleven-year-olds with their silly banter. Tom left the class and everyone wanted to know: “Where’s Tom going?” My answer: “Curiosity killed the cat.” Having never heard the expression, the class erupted into chaos: “Tom’s cat died ?” “Did Tom kill a cat ?” “Are we going to have a funeral ?” I tried to explain the expression but gave up in the end. “Forget about the cat that got killed, let’s get back to our work, now.”
We take shuttles from work to home. But they go to different places and don’t have anything to indicate the destination. You have to shout and ask. We are at “Ishkan 2” so you just put up two fingers, the peace-sign, to find out whether to get on or not. If it’s the Faisal-bus, it’s going to the hospital, and then there’s also the Air Force one. They shout “Air Force” and I shout “Air Base”, mine being the more accurate description of the two. We can hop onto the “Air base” one coz it passes by our compound. He won’t turn in, but drop us off on the main road so we have to almost crawl through a fense. We still do it anyway. Today, almost the entire bus was meant for Ishkan. And it was packed with South Africans. It made for a jolly ride. I chatted to Dawn who is from KwaZulu and has been here for 6 years. I also met Gladys who called me “Darling” but in the African way “Dâ-ling” – I loved it. Love all the big African mama’s here. It is the closest reminder of home.
And last but not least, the gardener had upended the bed of “Afrikanertjies” further up the road and I went and collected all the dead heads to sow next spring.
So that was my good Good Day!