Two Old Fools on a Camel: From Spain to Bahrain and Back Again

  Two Old Fools on a Camel

  From Spain to Bahrain and back again

  Victoria Twead

  Recipes by Nadia Sawalha

  Although it stands alone, Two Old Fools on a Camel is the third book in The Old Fools Trilogy.

  Dedication

  For Jake and Colton, without whom Joe and I would never have lasted. Thank you for sharing that year of your lives with us, and making us laugh every day of it.

  Table of Contents

  1.Footprints in the Sand

  2. A Party

  3. Sand, Sand Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

  4. ASS

  5. Friends

  6. The Worm

  7. Giving Up

  8. Adjusting

  9. Crazy Teachers

  10. Bennigan’s

  11. Children and Chickens

  12. Brent

  13. A Horrible Day and Shopping

  14. Basketball

  15. Parents’ Conference

  16. The Tree of Life

  17. Winter Break

  18. Confrontations

  19. Field Trips and Terrapins

  20. Birthdays and Valentine’s Day

  21. Funerals and Attacks

  22. Upheavals

  23. Crazy Teachers and a Parrot

  24. Get Out!

  25. Pictures

  26. Letters

  27. Exams and Cheating

  28. Bad Behaviour

  29. Brent and Camels

  30. Home

  31. Epilogue

  Contact the Author and Links

  Video Links

  Recipes

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Victoria Twead

  1. Footprints in the Sand

  ‘Shawarma’

  “Do you think we’ll see camels wandering the streets, like those elephants we saw when we went to Bangkok?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Joe was lost in his own thoughts.

  “Perhaps some of the kids will come to school on camels?”

  “Maybe.”

  We were on the last leg of our journey from Spain to Bahrain. I peered out of the plane’s porthole. Far below us, the sea stretched endlessly, the early morning sun transforming the blue into gold. The Persian Gulf. How exotic!

  We were stopped at Madrid airport and nearly refused permission to board because without the correct visas, we couldn’t enter Bahrain. Deep down I’d willed the authorities to send us home to our little Spanish village of El Hoyo. But the airport staff had phoned our Bahraini employers, the American Specialist School, or ASS, and, somehow, the problem melted away. Our journey to the Middle East continued.

  “That’s it!” I squeaked. “I think that’s Bahrain!”

  Joe leaned over me to share my view. As our plane descended, the map-like view of the island below sprang into detail. Skyscrapers, metallic and gleaming, multi-lane highways, snaking sand roads, flat-roofed buildings and houses, glimpses of tempting-looking swimming pools, all in miniature, but growing larger. The land was flat, dusty and yellow. Everything looked baked, even though it was barely 7 a.m. Then the runway opened up in front of us and we landed with a bump.

  “That’s it,” I said again. “We’re here.”

  We passed smoothly through Customs and purchased temporary visas. Reunited with our luggage, we made our way to the exit doors. Both of us were silent, drinking in the foreign sights and smells. I tried not to stare at the white-robed Arabs with their expensive leather luggage, trailed by wives in black, flowing abayas, only their eyes visible behind burkas. In stark contrast, Indian workers milled about, dressed in simple robes or tattered, Western clothes. I was pleased to see a few Europeans and Americans, and felt a little calmer.

  Once through the doors, the heat hit us like a giant fist. My body instantly broke out into a most unladylike sweat. Droplets poured down my scalp, through my hair and ran down my neck. We had only just emerged from the air-conditioned coolness of the airport building and already my clothes stuck damply to me.

  “My word,” Joe breathed, “I’ve never felt heat like this before. Not in Spain, not in Thailand, not even Australia.” Perspiration ran down his face unchecked.

  “I agree. And it’s still early morning! Daryna did warn us.” Daryna was the new Principal of the High School, Joe’s future boss, and we’d formed an online friendship. She’d arrived in Bahrain a week earlier and had frequently emailed us.

  “So,” said Joe, scratching his nethers irritably, “wasn’t somebody supposed to meet us here?”

  We searched the thinning crowds. Nobody appeared to be looking for us.

  “Never mind,” I said. “We’ve got the address. We’ll just take a taxi.” Secretly, I was quite relieved. I needed a shower and change of clothes before meeting anybody.

  We approached the line of taxis and I couldn’t resist searching for tethered camels. Sadly, I didn’t see a single one. A white-robed Arab, with white headdress, detached himself from a group and ushered us into his taxi. The car was modern, clean and air-conditioned. Gratefully, we sank into the comfortable seats.

  “Look,” I whispered to Joe. “He’s even got a feather duster to keep his cab clean.” I didn’t know then that the feather duster on the dashboard served another purpose.

  The journey to our hotel took nearly an hour, which surprised me. Previously, I had located both hotel and airport on a map, and they hadn’t seemed so far apart. Our driver never spoke as we drove along wide, well-maintained avenues lined with palm trees, and crossed modern bridges. Joe and I occasionally nudged each other, pointing out sights of interest.

  As we approached the city of Manama, the buildings became skyscrapers, stretching up to the empty blue sky. Vast white-stone sculptures adorned the highway, including one that looked familiar from my Internet research. This one had massive curved legs and supported a huge stone ball. Beneath it, a water fountain played. It stood in the centre of a large roundabout, the intersection of many motorways.

  The Pearl monument

  “Joe! Look! That’s quite a famous statue, the Pearl monument! The ball on the top represents a pearl and reminds people of what Bahrain used to trade.”

  “Yes, I see it. Vicky, are you sure you gave the driver the right address? We seem to have been in this taxi for hours.”

  “Quite sure.”

  Daryna had already told me that the teachers would be accommodated in a hotel before being moved into brand-new apartments that the school was building for us.

  “Daryna told me the new apartments will be ready in a week or so. This hotel is just a temporary measure.”

  Signposts were written in English and Arabic. Traffic was heavy and every car seemed to be more expensive, larger and cleaner than the last. How do they keep their cars so clean in this dust? I wondered. And what are those round, doughnut shapes burnt into the road?

  We passed shops and restaurants, all closed. We passed many shopping malls advertising familiar brands: Marks and Spencer, Virgin, Starbucks, Kentucky Fried Chicken. I wondered what time they opened.

  At last the taxi stopped in front of a tall building with dark-tinted windows. The driver helped Joe pile up the luggage on the roadside. There was no pavement and sweat poured from Joe’s brow, dripping down his nose and into the soft desert sand.

  “How much is that?” Joe asked, opening his wallet.

  “That’ll be 17BD,” said the driver, avoiding eye contact.

  “That sounds very reasonable,” said Joe, handing the driver one of our crisp new 20BD (Bahraini Dinar) notes, decorated with a smiling K
ing Hamad on one side and a splendid mosque on the other. “Keep the change.”

  While Joe and the driver had been manhandling the luggage, I’d been reading the stickers inside the cab. One said something like, ‘By law, all taxi fares depend on the meter reading. If the driver does not use the meter, you should not pay.’ I looked for the meter and discovered it, obscured by the feather duster on the dashboard.

  “That taxi was a bargain, wasn’t it?” said Joe as the taxi roared away, throwing up clouds of sand. “I only paid him 20BD.”

  I wasn’t so sure. I said nothing then, but checked later. My suspicions were correct. At the very most, the trip should have lasted 20 minutes. And 20BD translated to about £34 or $53. We had been taken for a ride. Literally. The fare should have been between 3 and 5BD.

  The sun beat down without mercy. I stared at my feet as I stood in the sand, my shoes already covered in a layer of dust. Perhaps it was the long journey and tiredness, but I was transfixed by my footprints in the sand. First impressions.

  ۺۺۺ

  I blamed Joe, of course. It was August 2010, and our lives had just been spun upside-down. It was Joe who wanted to work with children for one last time, before retiring for good. It was Joe who’d surfed the Internet and found us jobs in the Middle East. It was Joe who’d pointed out that, thanks to the ‘credit crisis’, our funds were low and unless we earned some serious money, we’d be unable to pay our bills.

  Technology is a wonderful thing. Everything was arranged online. We’d applied for teaching jobs, been accepted, and our flight e-tickets had arrived in our email inbox. And everything we knew about Bahrain was what we’d gleaned from the Internet.

  We knew that it was a fabulously wealthy country, with a Royal family, and were happy to read that it was peaceful. It was described as ‘tolerant’, unlike its closest neighbour, Saudi Arabia, connected to Bahrain by a causeway. There was no Ministry of Virtue (the infamous Religious Police) in Bahrain, and women were permitted to drive cars and work. Women were not forced to wear the all-covering abayas or burkas, although most did. Even alcohol was legal and available, for non-Muslims, if one knew where to look.

  We knew that expats accounted for a large proportion of the population of Bahrain, attracted by the high earnings. Bahrain’s fortunes had originally come from pearl fishing, then oil, but now it had become one of the major financial hubs of the world. Also, we knew that the USA Navy kept their Fifth Fleet in Bahrain.

  We knew that we wouldn’t have to pay taxes. That our accommodation, transport to school, health care and flights would all be paid for by our employers.

  All this knowledge was comforting and we felt sure we’d made the right decision. Perhaps we’d enjoy our new life so much that we’d stay longer than the one year we’d agreed to?

  How could we guess that we were catapulting ourselves into events that would soon dominate world news?

  But no words could describe the wrench of leaving our crazy little Spanish mountain village behind. Waving goodbye to our villager friends was excruciatingly painful. Turning our backs on our home, friends, chickens, animals and the rolling, ever-changing Spanish mountains was heartbreaking, but necessary if we were to survive financially. Perhaps it was a good thing that the whole process, from application to arrival in Bahrain, had taken just two weeks. Two short, frantic weeks hadn’t allowed us enough time to brood over our decision, to get cold feet or change our minds.

  ۺۺۺ

  So here we were, in August, the hottest month of the year, standing outside a strange hotel in Bahrain. A smiling Indian hotel porter burst from the reception area to claim our luggage. The receptionist took our details and consulted a computer. Joe and I stood waiting, more than a little shell-shocked and exhausted after our journey halfway around the world.

  “Ah yes,” said the male receptionist, looking up. “Miss Daryna asked for you to have the suite opposite her. Your room number is 748.”

  We whooshed up seven floors in the lift with the porter.

  “American?” he asked, revealing a single, yellow tooth that pointed up like a tombstone.

  “No, British.”

  He unlocked our door with a flourish and ushered us inside. The suite was nice, if a little old-fashioned. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a spacious living room and a decent kitchen. The furniture was bulky and dark, the curtains thick and heavy, doing a grand job of blocking the outside glare and heat.

  Toothy fussed with the curtains, tested the lights, opened and shut every door, and finally stood still, hand outstretched, face frozen into what he may have thought an attractive smile.

  “He wants a tip,” I hissed to Joe.

  Joe fumbled out 5BD and Toothy backed out of the suite, bowing at regular intervals. Joe had given him £8.50 and Toothy probably thought Christmas (or Diwali) had come early.

  We were exhausted. Joe used the bathroom (he calls it ‘marking his territory’), we washed, then collapsed into bed, despite it being just 10 a.m. We laid our heads on Egyptian cotton pillows and instantly fell asleep. But not for long.

  I was roused by a knocking noise. Somebody was tapping urgently on our door. I forced my eyes open and wondered where I was. This bedroom, with its huge bed, many wardrobes, marble floors and en suite bathroom, looked nothing like our familiar cave bedroom in Spain. Of course! We were in Bahrain! I sat up and poked Joe.

  “Joe! There’s somebody at the door.”

  “Probably Toothy. Go back to sleep.”

  “Whoever it is, he’s knocking again, I’ll have to go.”

  2. A Party

  ‘Mussakhan’

  I pulled on a bathrobe and staggered to the door. The knocking had become more insistent. I tried peering through the peep-hole but saw nothing but a blur. I pulled the door open, and the visitor fell in with a startled squeak, landing in a crumpled heap at my feet.

  It definitely wasn’t Toothy.

  “Vicky! It’s me, Daryna!”

  “Oh!”

  I reached out a hand and helped her to her feet, not easy as she was wearing heels high enough to require a step-ladder. So this was the headmistress of the High School, Joe’s new boss? As she dusted herself off, I had the chance to look at the lady I’d been communicating with for the past couple of weeks. We were the same age and I liked her immediately.

  Daryna was an attractive lady, blonde and beautifully dressed. Her emails, arriving in quick succession, warm and unedited, had already given me a hint of her personality. In real life, she was the same; full of energy, with a breathless way of speaking. I was to discover that Daryna was almost childlike, bubbling with enthusiasm, always cheerful, generous and thoughtful, but, unfortunately, a little inclined to make rash decisions. However, her giddiness hid a fine brain. Her dedication to her job was often misinterpreted and I was to find myself caught in the middle of awkward situations many times in the months to come.

  Daryna

  We embraced. Joe and I had much for which to thank Daryna. She had helped us with our applications, insisting that our ages were an asset, not a hurdle. The school had agreed, but it was the Ministry of Education, the overriding authority, that needed convincing. Luckily, permission was granted.

  “The staff at the desk told me you’d arrived. How was your journey? Have you explored yet? What do you think of your rooms? Where’s Joe?”

  I filled her in on all the details.

  “Right!” she said. “It’s Ramadan, so everything is closed at the moment, but the stores will open at sundown. I’ll show you our nearest supermarket, it’s pretty good. It’s just a shame that it’s Ramadan. Then the school is taking all the newbies on a night-tour of Manama. I’ve done it already, so I won’t go. Tomorrow, there’s another tour of Bahrain, and, the next day, there’s a big meeting at school. You’ll be able to take a good look around.”

  Just listening to that agenda exhausted me. And, although I knew that we’d arrived during Ramadan, I hadn’t understood how that would affect us. I was to find ou
t later.

  Daryna left and I was about to head for the bedroom and resume my nap when a note was pushed under our door. I picked it up and read it. Joe and I had been invited to a ‘Meet and Greet’ later, hosted by someone called Dr. Cecily, at her apartment across the sand lot. But for now, all I could think about was sleep.

  ۺۺۺ

  Joe and I are not party-goers by choice, but we felt that we should make an appearance, and it would be a good opportunity to meet our fellow teachers. Reluctantly, we trudged across the sand lot and entered the apartment block.

  We tapped on the door and a buzz of noise from the ‘Meet and Greet’ escaped as the door opened. We were shown into a spacious lounge which, by now, only had standing room. A table was laden with party food and, to my surprise, plenty of alcohol was on offer. Most people were drinking beer or wine.

  “And your name is?” drawled our hostess, Dr. Cecily, her eyes firmly focused on a point somewhere on the ceiling. She was a stout, imposing figure. She had no neck, and her head and body moved as a single unit. I wasn’t exactly sure who she was, but she possessed an air of authority.

  “I’m Vicky, and this is Joe.”

  Dr. Cecily’s head and body turned to face Joe, her eyes fixed on a different part of the ceiling.

  “Joe’s teaching Maths and Physics in the High School, and I’m in the Middle School teaching English.”

  “Well, I sure am pleased to meet you both,” said Dr. Cecily, addressing the light fitting, and walked away before she’d even finished her sentence.

  “I’m going to mingle,” I whispered to Joe. “See you later.”

  I searched for Daryna, but she wasn’t there.

  “Come and sit with us,” said a voice. “There’s space here.” The owner of the voice was a large lady, even larger than Dr. Cecily, and she was patting a tiny vacancy on the sofa between herself and another plump lady. “I’m Dawn, and this is Rita.”

  Rita was even larger than Dawn. With difficulty, I squeezed myself into the hot gap and looked around. All these new teachers! Apart from Dr. Cecily, Dawn and Rita, I calculated their average age must have been about 24. I felt very old. These young things were on the brink of their careers, while Joe and I were finishing ours.