Читать книгу Behind Palace Walls - Cay Garcia - Страница 14

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.