The Test

On my third day at work, Leila mysteriously appeared. She also arrived by train on Saturday, on the final evening train after mine.  So I guess if worst had come to worst, I would have been picked up from the train station eventually later that evening. Anyway, no one had told her when the bus left for the University, or that the work week starts on Sunday here, and no one had told any of the staff that she was coming, so no one expected her.   She just hung out in her room for a few days waiting for someone to tell her something. Add communication to the list of things Saudi's aren't particularly good at.  In any case, I was glad to see her again.

Also on my third day at work, the students had an English test. Which I didn't think was a big deal, but soon found out that it was, in fact, a very big deal.  They have two tests and an exam each quarter.  The tests and exams are written by the male teachers on the men's side, and delivered in secrecy the morning of the test in large white envelopes.  These envelopes are then signed out by each teacher, who is assigned to a classroom of students they do not normally teach, along with someone from the administration (or an extra teacher) to monitor the exam.  After the tests, students return the test booklets, which are counted, returned to the envelope and signed.  This is a process that happens three times each quarter, or a dozen times each year.  This is the 10th test this year, so I expected the process to go somewhat smoothly.  As I have been told before, and am sure will be told again, I need to learn to let go of my expectations.

For once, all the students had arrived on time, early even, and were tracking down any teacher they could find to beg them to tell them what was going to be on the exam.  Others were frantically skimming the pages of their books.  The teacher's were no less disturbed.  Everyone paced up and down the narrow corridors between the cubicles waiting for the tests to arrive.  There was a schedule of what teacher was being sent to which room, that had been changed or updated at least 6 times since our arrival that morning.  When the tests finally did arrive, there was pandamonium.  Suddenly people were being handed packets, then packets were taken away and reassigned.  Room assignments were being changed, again.  Scantron score sheets were passed out, then some went missing, and runners were sent from teacher to teacher to collect any spares.  I hunkered down on the couch with Leila and Sara, the other two new teachers, just trying to stay out of the way of this chaos.  Eventually, I was told to go to room 309 to help proctor an exam.  I waded out into the hallway, which was swarming with students trying to figure out what room they were supposed to be in and teachers looking for students that were supposed to be in their testing group.

I finally found room 309, but when I opened the door, I found nothing.  Well, not exactly nothing, there were two chairs and a broken desk, but otherwise, there was no one.  I began looking for the teacher I was supposed to be proctoring with instead.  I tried three rooms in various stages of test preparation before I saw her herding a group of girls in the hallway toward an available room, hopefully with desks.  Halfway down the hall, an administrator caught up with us and told us to go to room 318 instead, to switch with another teacher who had accidentally been assigned her own class.  Abandoning our group of lost girls, we swam upstream through the hallway to the other classroom.  This one had both students and desks, but now we needed to wait for a different set of test booklets, since these girls were at a different level then our original group.  In the meantime, we had to convince the girls to bring their bags to the front of the room.  The girls acted as if we were separating them from their first born child.  "No Miss please, just let us put them under our desks, please Miss?"  Ten or fifteen minutes later, we had finally got all the bags to the front (a university policy that has been in place for all 9 of their previous exams).  It was now almost 9:10, and the test was supposed to start at 8:30.  As I was handing out scantron sheets, an administrator came in and asked me to go to room 327 instead, so once more I shifted rooms.

I looked on every door and found 300 to 335, but no 327.  I was so confused.  Finally, I asked one of the Filipino janitors, who by now was the only one left in the hallway.  She told me it was downstairs.  Downstairs?  Why on earth would 327 be downstairs when 326, 328, and all the other 300 numbers were upstairs?  I wondered if maybe she hadn't understood the room number I had asked for, or that I had misunderstood her.  But I went downstairs anyway, and sure enough, nestled between 225 and 257 was 327. Bizarre.   The testing in this room was already in full swing.  One of the other teachers was pacing the room, reading an extra test.  When she saw me she came over and whispered that I should just walk around and keep my eyes open for any cheating or anything.  I put my own bag at the front and started toward the back of the room when she called me back to look at a question.  The test wasn't particularly well written, and she was pointing out a particularly tricky question in which the question reversed the wording of the original passage.  I nodded my agreement that it wasn't a good question, and started walking back through the rows of desks.  I didn't get very far before she called me back to look at another question, in which every one of the multiple choice answers could have been correct, if not for the word "recent" which tipped the scales to the answer referenced in the passage as "now".  Again I commiserated that it was a very tricky tactic, and started back toward the rows.  This time she waited until I got all the way to the back before calling me forward to look at an "odd one out" question.  It's kind of like that segment of sesame street, where they show you four things and sing that song "one of these things is not like the other....".  Anyway, none of them seemed related in any way at all, and every connection I could think of, left two out.  I'm still not sure what they intended the answer to be for that one.  She and I whispered our outrage conspiratorially, while the students bubbled away at their scantrons.  There was nothing we could do.

About three quarters of the way through the test, my fellow proctor finally got so frustrated with one of the questions that she made an announcement to the class to "clarify the instructions" in a section of the test.  Not long after that, hands began to shoot up.  "Miss, what's this word?"  "Miss, I don't understand this question?" "Miss is this right?"  There was a barrage of questions.   She answered a few of the more obscure vocabulary questions, even  going so far as to translate a few words in Arabic on the board before swiftly erasing it.  "They will kill me," she said, "if they find out I helped them."  Before saying sternly, no more.  So they moved on to me, trying to get me to crack and help them out.  There were times I wanted to, but I saw what had happened when she helped just one.  I relied on the clock to get me out of it.  There was only five minutes left in the test.  My fellow proctor added 5 minutes to the clock - ostensibly so they could bubble in their names and ID numbers on the scantron.  When those five minutes were over, there were suddenly two minutes left in the test.  Finally, those two minutes came and went, and there was one minute left, and then "Miss Jennie is going to take your papers."  I like how she threw me under the bus to be the mean one to take their papers away.  Most had already turned theirs in and gone, but about four students still clung to their papers.  This was no small job.  Those ladies used there whole upper bodies to cover the paper while they wrote one last thing so I couldn't take them away.  One girl was so intent, I had to enlist her friend in a small skirmish to get the test and her answer sheet back.

When all the students were gone, we counted the tests, and luckily, had the correct amount.  She put them in the envelope, sealed it, signed it, had me sign it, and then we were on our way back upstairs.  I asked her how long it usually took for the students to get their results.  "Oh, this one is scantron," she said, "So it should go pretty quick.  I would think in a month or two."  I looked at her to see if she was being sarcastic, but it was frustration I saw in her eyes, not humor.  "You see, the scantron machine is at the men's campus, and they are the one's who record all the grades.  But they always do the men's tests first, and just get around to the women's whenever they get around to it.  Last time, the men had their results within two weeks, and the women waited six months."  She just shook her head and shrugged.  It is what it is.

The English classes for the rest of the day were cancelled, as they are after every test, just to give students and teachers a break after the big event.  But we aren't allowed to leave, even though there are no classes.  We have to sit and wait for 4:00pm to roll around.  Since the test was only an hour, we had a lot of time to kill.  Most of the teachers crowded around the couches and talked.  Some took naps, others were watching youtube videos or surfing the web.  A few were grading papers.  I did a little of all four.  Then around 2:30, someone announced; "A male is coming!  Quick everyone put on your abayas!"  Everyone scrambled to throw on their abayas and head scarves.  It was the vice dean from the men's side coming to collect the tests.  We all stood around in our abayas for about 30 or 40 minutes before someone finally asked if he had gone. "Oh, yeah, he's been gone for ages.  He wasn't here more than five minutes.  He just came in, got the tests and left."  I had been in the back with most of the other teachers and hadn't even seen him.  A sigh of relief spread through the group of teachers who shrugged off their abayas the instant they got the all clear.  Strange how sometimes you forget where you are when you're sitting around in what seems like a very normal office setting with all the outward appearances of any developed country.  Then suddenly, you get an unsettling reminder of where you are, and just how different it really is.

First Day on the Job

Getting ready for my first day felt an awfully lot like getting ready for the first day of school.  Curiously, I thought a lot about what I was going to wear (even though it would be covered by my abaya), and how to do my hair (it too is covered by the hijab).  Once at the University, enclosed behind the safe doors of the woman's campus I would be free to take these things off, provided I was wearing a long skirt and long sleeved shirt.  Unfortunately, no pants are allowed. Extra unfortunate since I only packed one skirt - the only long one I owned.  Dressed and covered, I made my way downstairs 15 minutes early (just to be safe) to wait for the bus.
I was nervous, but quickly befriended by Rachel, who would be transferring soon to Jouf, presumably to fill the position I was supposed to take.  We sat toward the back of the bus, even though no one else was on the bus yet, and again, I felt a little like I was in elementary school, lucky to sit in the back.  I assumed this was just Rachel's preferred spot, but found out as the bus began to fill up that actually, it was required.  Guys sit in front, girls sit in the back.  Even here, on a bus full of expats from various western countries, Saudi rules prevailed.
It just so happens that on this particular day, there was a bit of drama on the bus.  Apparently, the men's side of the campus (exactly the same as ours) hadn't performed well on the last exams.  The administration wanted to extend the men's hours, in the hopes that it would allow the students more opportunities to seek help from the teachers.  The men refused.  So, the administration forced the women to stay late instead. Though this makes no sense, since the women's side had above average scores on the exam, it did fit in nicely with what I have come to call "Saudi Logic", which isn't the absence of logic so much as the stubborn defiance of it. Normally, we would have left school at 3pm.  Now, the men would leave at 3pm as usual, and the bus would come back for the women at 4:30pm.
In a gallant show of solidarity, one British gentleman gave a rousing speech about equal rights, fairness, the degradation of women, and how we 'oughten to stand for it, and that the men should refuse to board the bus at 3pm unless the women were on the bus with them.  The bus went quite.  No one wanted to extend their day, but how could they not, without seeming misogynistic after a speech like that?
We got off the bus and made our way to the faculty offices, a typical maze of cubicles.  Currently, there are more teachers than their are cubicles; so I am wondering why they sent me, and another new girl, Sara, here.  We spent the day being shuffled around and introduced to various members of the staff and administration. I remembered almost none of their names.  From what I can tell, we have at least three "bosses".  There is an American named Chris, short for Christina, who is our HR coordinator.  She has almost no power, and is basically an intermediary between the Riyadh office and the local office. Her advice to us was, get rid of your expectations now, or you will be miserable.  She also told us we needed to have a tangible measurable goal for our time here, whether it was saving up a certain amount of money, or reading all the works of Shakespeare, or some tangible goal we could check off each day.  Without this, we would likely not make it.  None of the examples she gave us about personal goals involved teaching, or gaining an understanding of Saudi Culture.  I asked her why, and she laughed.  The teaching here is not teaching in the way you are used to.  It's not a place to expect that you will grow professionally, or that the students will greatly improve their English.  Here, the most we can hope for is that they may gain some small measure of independence and responsibility.  And as for Saudi culture, it would be very hard.  We basically need to stick to the expat areas for our own safety.  And we can't talk about culture, or religion, or politics, or relationships, or entertainment, or driving with the girls.  These are all  potentially offensive and therefore off-limits topic for teachers.    I wondered if there was anything left we could talk about with our students.
Then we have Jasia, another boss, who is Saudi, and employed by the University of Dammam rather than the company that hired us.  She is the Academic Advisor and has more control, including deciding who will get which class.  She asked us both to handwrite an essay on what teaching means to us.  It needs to be handwritten, she said, to avoid plagiarism.  I was surprised, first that anyone hired at this level of profession would need to, let alone consider "cheating", especially on a personal opinion, and secondly, that she said it so matter of factly, as if she expected plagiarism.  I suspect it is because it must be a rampant problem with the students.
Finally, we had Nada.  Also Saudi, her office is separate from our teachers lounge with all the cubicles, and she is mostly unseen.  She has final say over any disputes, including  hiring and firing. Our meeting with her was a sort of informal interview.  I felt lucky to be in the interview along with Sara, to diffuse some of the pressure.  Nada asked a lot of personal and probably inappropriate questions.  She was very curious about our religions and our marital status.  She asked one or two questions about our teaching backgrounds, but then spent the rest of the time asking us about all the topics Chris had said were taboo.  She asked about our social lives in America, and wanting to know what we thought of Saudi Arabia.  I wasn't sure what she wanted to hear, but was sure she was looking for certain answers.  I could tell by the way she addressed her questions to Sara first, and then only briefly nodded at me for my answer, that she disliked me right away.  Sara is both Muslim and married, and Nada clearly preferred her. It made me wish I had taken a ring with me and pretended to be married as I had in Liberia.
The rest of the day we were able to observe classes.  The first class I watched was a "beginner" class.  I was surprised to find the beginners peer editing a cause and effect essay on why more women in Saudi Arabia were chemical engineers than civil engineers.  The girls were way more advanced than the beginners that I am used to teaching.  I helped a few of the girls with their papers, and was surprised to find that one common cause the girls cited for fewer civil engineers was that women are delicate and sensitive, making it very difficult for them to do the job of a civil engineer, which is usually outdoors, and requires supervising laborers - who are men.  They seemed to believe this as earnestly as they believed in other factual causes, such as, no programs for civil engineering in the women's university, the inability to drive between work sites and to travel freely around the country to each new work site making securing a job with these responsibilities unlikely, and the fact that chemical engineering usually pays more. It was difficult not to question them further on this belief, but luckily, the grammar was usually bad enough to provide plenty of distraction.  The other class I observed was a vocabulary lesson on color theory.  Though these girls are in the "engineering" track, currently the only major open to them is interior design, so they are learning color theory.  I began to understand why some of them felt women could not be engineers.
In both classes, girls wandered in 10, 20, even 30 minutes late for class.  Many had not done their homework, or did not bring their books.  Often they talked over the teacher.  Neither teacher addressed either problem, aside from mildly asking the girls to please remember to be on time and to please not talk in class.  After classes (which end at 2:45) and while waiting for the bus, Rachel explained why.  The students here have a lot of power and control.  They have been brought up expecting to get their way, and for things to be spoon fed to them, and for exceptions and compromises to be made.  Rachel had wanted them to understand that the real world would not tolerate lateness, or not turning in projects.  She followed the rules in the University handbook, and marked students late, and if they showed up more than halfway through the class, she marked them absent.  She took marks off for late work, and demanded students not talk in class.  The students didn't like this "strict" teacher.  Rather, a noisy 1/3 of the students did not like it.  They wrote a petition, and had their fathers call the school.  Rather than risk the wrath of the people who pay them, Nada decided to transfer Rachel and appease the students.  This is not an uncommon occurrence.   She is the third or fourth teacher to be "petitioned" this year.  All teachers live in perpetual fear of their students, walking a thin line between rules and compromise, trying, in small ways to help the girls realize their behavior won't get them far, but letting them get away with it anyway, just to avoid being fired.
We arrived at a compromise with the bus as well.  We would only have to work until 4pm, and the men would have to wait for us, since the bus couldn't come at three, take the men home, and be back by 4:30.  We would also be allowed to leave at 7am instead of 6:30 in the morning.  Interestingly, the only one not on the bus ride home was the British man who had made the speech. Absent from his own revolution. I don't expect the other guys will ever let him hear the end of it.

The Train to Dammam

Why is it that whenever you need sleep the most, you find you can’t fall asleep?  I wasn't yet readjusted to the time zones, finding myself suddenly wide awake at 1 or 2am and sleeping until noon.  This was fine while I had nowhere to be, and frankly, nowhere to go even if I wanted to.  But tomorrow, I was finally taking the train to Dammam.  I needed to be in the Lobby at 8:30am, so I resolved to go to bed early.  I tried everything, counting backwards from 300 by 3s, reading, lullabies, even a glass of warm milk.  Nothing helped.  I finally gave up all together and hoped that lying in bed staring at the ceiling would be restful enough for the day ahead, and hoped I could sleep on the train.

The driver was in the Lobby waiting for me at 8:20 when I came down with my bag.  We loaded up, and I sat in the second row of seats, knowing we would pick up Leila on the way, since she and I were both heading to Dammam.  Only we didn’t.  The driver took a ring road to the highway instead of going through town, and I realized I would be alone on the train after all.  I wondered what had happened.  Had something opened up for her in Riyadh?  Had she decided to go home instead?  Was she coming later on a different train?  I sincerely hoped I would see her again. (another choose your own ending?)

The drive to the train station seemed to take forever, and I began noticing strange things about the roads and driving.  For one thing, there is the main road, and then there is an equally wide side road, separated by a concrete barrier with occasional breaks for switching over.  I thought perhaps this was to separate through traffic from local traffic, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to when my driver chose to use these side roads, so it was hard to tell.  He (and all the other driver’s as well) also seemed to have a hard time understanding the idea of lanes.  Often people drove in the middle of two lanes, or several feet over the line in either direction.  Sometimes this seemed to be for the purposes of cutting over to another lane, but just as often it seemed to  be merely for pleasure.  We passed a sign for ”Industrial City #2” and there were tall buildings in the distance with a beautifully manicured terraced hill of half dead palm trees with what would likely soon be a statue or a fountain in the middle.   There was even green, green, grass, freshly planted, looking so strange in this otherwise beige world.  We took an exit, a turn down a back alley, another turn into a construction zone, and a U-turn, and I was beginning to wonder about just where exactly the driver was taking me, when suddenly we were there.  The train station was a huge building with immense guilded chandeliers hanging overhead and shiny marble underfoot.

 Chandelier in the Riyadh Rail Station

The driver helped me with my bag and took me inside.  Then he pointed to a tiny rectangular shaped trashcan.  He said, “Bag, inside” and pointed to the container.  Sure enough, the outside of it showed pictures of small bags with check marks, and then larger bags with enormous “X”s over them.  I wondered just how long the driver had known that the train did not allow large bags.  When he was loading mine into the back of the van?  I wondered too, if the men in the office who had enthusiastically recommended the train over air travel in the office had known.  He told me to wait and went to the counter with my ticket.  There was much discussion and pointing. Finally, he came back and said, “change, 1:30pm.”  I pointed to my back and asked, “Can I take my bag at 1:30?” knowing it would not magically shrink on its own between now and then.  He shook his head, then called for a Filipino looking man to come over and help translate.  “Yes,” he said, “luggage ok.”  Reassured, my driver led me to the ladies waiting room.  “Wait here?” he asked, “or go home.”  I asked what time it was.  It was 9am.  Four hours seemed like a long time, still, it seemed silly to leave, knowing we should be back at least 2 hours before the train departed, and given that it was at least a half hour drive both ways… I told him I would stay.  He said okay.  He slowly walked away around the corner.  A few seconds later he came back, and asked again.  I took this as a sign he did not feel comfortable leaving me here, so I agreed to “go home.” 

When we got to the hotel, the driver made a copy of my new ticket and I assumed he would pass on the change to them men in the office.  They gave me the key to my old room back, and I settled in to take a two hour nap before we would have to leave again. 

Once again on the road to the airport, I sat on the opposite window side, hoping for a different view.  I was lucky.  I saw not one, but two brightly painted campy looking theme parks, right next to each other.  I thought how strange it would be to be surrounded by rainbow painted rides and candy, with all the women still in black.  None of the roller-coasters were working as I drove past, but I imagined a car full of black clad figures white arms sticking up awkwardly as hijabs flew behind them in the rush of wind as they raced down a steep incline.  I made a mental note to try to go to Al Hassan’s Theme Park before I left the country.

This time, the train station was full of people, many with children, and reassuringly, lots of large bags.  The driver deposited me once again in the Ladies waiting area and pointed to the boarding gate, saying “1:30”.  I thanked him, and settled in to wait the hour and a half before boarding.  I was worried about food.  I had no food left, other than a tin of Quaker Oats, and half of a red onion, but those were in my large suitcase, which was now “checked” and waiting to be loaded onto the train.  I wish I had thought to dig them out while I was waiting for my two hours at the hotel and cook some, but at the time, sleeping had been my priority.  A shop opened up in the lobby area, and I walked over to see if there was any food available for purchase.  It was full of dolls and toys for children, and a few newspapers.  There was no food.  Not even any gum. 

When it was time to board, everyone rushed the gate, headless of lines, in typical Saudi Fashion.  There were two lines, one for women and children, and one for men.  After we passed our bags through an X-ray machine, we walked through a secluded little maze where a woman with a wand casually waved it in front of each woman as she passed by.  Finally cleared, we were now in yet another waiting area, this one marked, singles only.  I started to sit down here, then realized that there were only males sitting down, and proceeded to the Family waiting room instead, where all the women were.  I remembered then that Saudi women were not free to travel without the permission of their husband or another male relative, most often this consent was in the form of his escorting presence. The company would be acting as my “male relative” and all travelling I wish to do while I am here, either domestically, or internationally, must be first approved by them.

Two Camels, can you find both?

I chose a seat by the window and settled in.  At first, I was glued to the scenery, but found quickly there was not much to see.  The windows were clouded with a dusty film to begin with, and as we traveled the wind blew more sand past, often causing a complete white out, so that I could see nothing out the window.  There were occasionally rock formations and low cliffs, but mostly it was sand.  I saw camels several times in the distance, and was surprised to find that they were black.  I have never seen black camels before.  I slept off and on, and luckily woke as a snack cart passed and bought a “hamburger”, which I imagined would be hot in its tin foil wrapper, but was actually cold, nearly frozen in fact, and actually not a hamburger at all but a chicken patty with cheese on a bun.  I ate around the outside, avoiding the coldest part in the middle, then wrapped up the rest to eat later and dozed off again.

Dammam at Sunset

When we finally reached Dammam, the sun was low on the horizon, and looked beautiful against the outlines of the city that would be my home.  The station here was similar to the one in Riyadh, but with an interesting modern looking block design on the outside.  I was getting a little braver about taking pictures, and grabbed a quick one of everyone getting off the train, since everyone was turned the other way and no one was looking at me.  I went outside and looked for my company’s van.  I didn’t see it, but the train was about 10 minutes early so I wasn’t worried and went to collect my luggage from the carousel.  I waited

Dammam  Rail Station

outside for another 20 minutes before realizing that probably no one knew I was coming, since I was meant to be on the morning train.  I cursed myself for assuming the driver would pass this news on, wishing I had thought to send an email when we returned to the hotel.   I had no phone, but I did have a phone number.  I asked a woman next to me if I could borrow her phone to call, but she shook her head and moved away.  I tried someone else, and they too looked confused.  Finally, a third person allowed me to call, but there was no answer.  I was beginning to get worried.  I didn’t know where I was supposed to be staying, so I could not get a taxi.  Finally, I thought on a whim, to try the internet.  I pulled out my tablet and hoped for a Wi-Fi signal.  I was in luck.  I sent an email explaining what had happened and that I was at the Dammam train station with no phone.   Within 5 minutes, they sent an email reply, saying a driver would arrive in 30 minutes.  Relieved, I sat down to wait.  Never had I been more appreciative of technology in my life.  Thank you, Saudi Arabian Railways.

Shopping

I needed food for the next three or four days while I waited for the train to Dammam.  So I made my first venture out into the real Saudi Arabia.  Every night,  a shuttle comes to pick up any teachers who want to go shopping.  Each night, the destination is a different mall.  This is good because I need both food, and also a real abaya, and a plug for my tablet, since the plug I had stopped working (my fault, I didn't use a proper converter.)  I figured I would be able to find all of these things easily at a mall.  So I put on the abaya, and headed to the lobby at 7:15 to wait for the 7:30 shuttle.  There was no one else around and no sign of the bus, so I sat down in the lobby and started to read.  The man at the receptionist looked at me, and the two men who had been watching soccer on TV, now watched me.  I take it that women generally did not just wait around in the lobby.  Time passes, and I started to wonder if I had read the shuttle wrong.  Finally another woman came down and I could tell she was waiting on the bus because she checked the schedule too.  When a third woman appeared, the two of them headed for the bus and I followed them.  I wasn't sure if they were Saudi or other foreign teachers. When all you can see is a person's eyes, it's kind of hard to tell.  In some ways, it's a great equalizer.

As we got on, I heard one of them say something in a distinctly British accent and I took the opportunity to introduce myself.  For the entire forty-five minute ride to the mall, I peppered them with questions about Saudi Arabia, their students, and life here in general.  Both girls were born and raised in Britain and were muslims. One's parents were from Pakistan, and the other was a mix, with a Pakistani father and Indian mother. They both spoke some Arabic and also Urdu.  They had been here for eight months.  One of the girls couldn't wait to leave.  The other hadn't decided if she would renew her contract or not, but both encouraged me to keep and open mind and not let other people's negativity influence my opinions.  They then immediately began to pour out their negative opinions.  The students were spoiled brats.  They were paid to attend classes, some sort of government program to encourage women's education, paid for with oil money. They weren't interested in learning English, spent the whole class on their cell phones, and had no respect for authority other than that of their own parents, whom they respected very much.  Most of the girls felt the classes were a complete waste of time.  "We are only going to get married anyway, and then what's the point?"  If the teachers were strict or demanded too much of them, the students complained and the administration always took the part of the students, particularly the students of influential parents.  Both teachers felt like babysitters of middle school students, not university teachers. 

We arrived at the mall, and anxious to not be alone on my first real encounter of public life, I asked if I could tag along and shop with them.  We made our way through the mall, which looked no different than a standard American mall, aside from the fact that everyone in it was either wearing black robes, or white ones, depending on their sex.  As we walked, shops began closing down their doors and shutting down.  I was surprised.  Why would they schedule a bus to take us shopping as the mall was closing?  I asked my new friends and they said, oh yes, the evening prayer.  Many of the shops will close now for 20-40 minutes for prayer, but they will re-open.  They were making a bee-line for the giant grocery/department store that reminded my of an upscale Walmart.  The girls made their way through housewares, picking out glasses and looking at knickknacks.  "There is literally nothing to do here but shop." One of my new friends told me.  "Women stay home all day, and the only place that's really acceptable for them to be in public, is shopping.  So they shop."  Indeed, the store was crowded with women, all just browsing leisurely, attracted by shiney gilded diamond covered things. Indeed, it seemed like they covered everything they could with diamonds or gold.  We passed the small electronics corner, and I stopped to find a new plug.  I didn't find exactly what I was looking for, but I found something that seemed like it might work.  I flagged down a worker to have a closer look at the plug, which was locked behind a glass display case.  He shook his head and explained he didn't have a key.  I would have to wait for his Saudi boss to return from prayer.  This man was Filipino and as I looked around I noticed almost all of the shops employed non-native workers.  I mentioned this to one of the girls who said, "Oh yes, Saudi's feel it is beneath them to work retail.  They would rather be unemployed and take money from the king."

We made our way to the grocery section of the store where the aisles were at least 10 feet, maybe 12 feet high.  Food was stacked even on the highest shelves, and I wondered what the point of having products no one could reach could be.  I imagined a store full of people on stilts, then just as quickly, imagined the religious police arresting the women for having exposed themselves to me from below.  How quickly the paranoia and obsession with propriety is sinking in, it's even invading my crazy day dreams.  You could find everything in this store, including American brand names.  I passed a freezer shelf full of Blue Bell ice-cream from Texas, only recently available in Virginia.  I pointed out my surprise to one of my new friends who seemed unimpressed.  "You can get anything here.  People have money and nothing to do but spend it.  So if you want it, you can buy it.  You will just probably pay three times as much to cover the import costs."  

A bell sounded somewhere and one of the girls told me it meant that prayer was over, and that I could probably go back and get my plug.  Sure enough, the man had returned and he got the plug out for me.  I wanted to add it to my basket of food items, but he wouldn't let me and walked me up to the register himself.  I was a little surprised at the added security, since the plug was only worth about $15.  He sat the plug down on the register, and told the cashier to help me, even though there were at least three women waiting to cash out ahead of me.  I was forgetting that lines are meaningless here.  He bagged my plug, and the few grocery items for me.  He told me the price, and I handed over the cash, and then he stuck a small pack of gum into my sack and gave me a little nod.  I hadn't asked for gum, at least I didn't think I had.   Maybe I had accidently flashed the secret sign for gum.  Or maybe, my breath was just that bad.  Confused, I rushed away to find my new friends and see if they could explain.  "Oh, that's just the rounding." one told me, "There are no coins here, so they just round up, and if it's more than 30 cents, they give you a little something to make up for the difference."  A nice gesture, I thought.  They had rounding in New Zealand too, but I never got any free gum out of it.

Grocery shopping over, we now had about an hour left before the bus returned.  The girls led me to store after store of women's clothing.  Most seemed geared toward teenagers, and were quite revealing. I asked if there were any abaya shops here.  Both girls shook their heads.  "Not here," they said.  "It seems so strange to me that there would be such a market for Fashionable clothing when no one will ever see it?  I mean, wouldn't you just wear the most comfortable thing you could under your abaya all the time?"  Both girls laughed at my naivete. " Just wait until you get on campus.  Since there are no men allowed, you can take off the abaya.  The girls come through the gates like black ghosts, but the minute they pass through the security guards (male) they throw their abayas in their bags and wear the most outrageous things. You will feel like you are in a seedy club downtown at midnight, I swear."  "It's actually a huge problem," said the other girl, "there's always a big announcement if a male is coming on campus and the girls get all panicked.  Not at our school, but at one nearby, a girl actually died recently because she needed medical attention and they wouldn't let the male paramedics through because not all the girls were covered yet.  By the time they let them in, it was too late."  I didn't know what to say.  We were all quite for a while.  Then we headed into a clothing store with a buy one get one free sale and the girls were off again, skimming the racks, for who knows what.  

The shorter of the two held a shirt up against her abaya in front of a mirror.  "I never liked shopping." she told me.  "I used to hate it.  But now look at me.  There just isn't anything else to do.  Oh, we go out now and again.  Sometimes we will go to someone's house, and there will be mixed company, mostly foreigners.  Sometimes we drink even.  But not often.  You can eat in a restaurant, and I do, with guys that are my friends that I have known for a while here.  But you have to pretend you are married.  You have to have your story straight ahead of time.  When you got married, how long it's been....  You just have to be prepared."  I had read that sometimes the mutaween (religious police) will stop couples in public and ask to see their marriage licenses.  I asked, "Weren't you worried they would ask to see your marriage license?"  "No one has ever asked me." she said.  We headed into a ladies only section that sold jewelry, and underwear.   I had noticed that most women here wore a lot of bracelets.  "It's the only thing you can see." pointed out one of the girls.  "It's also expensive." I pointed out.  "Oh that doesn't matter," said the other.  "They are all rich.  It's the oil.  Everyone gets a piece of it. Why do you think they pay us so well?"  I watched all the women lifting things off racks, holding up scarfs and bangles.  "They are really quite lucky, I said, "to have all of this wealth." "Oh yeah," said the short one.  "It's the life of luxury.  In a prison."

The taller one paid for her final purchases, and I watched as three separate security tags were removed from one item.  "Isn't that a bit obsessive given that the punishment for stealing is losing a hand?" I asked when we were out of earshot of the clerk.  "It's paranoia.  They are all paranoid. Everyone watches everyone else with such suspicion.  Nothing is ever innocent.  You have to be careful even not to smile, or someone might be watching and take it the wrong way.  It shows in the way they are so protective of their women, sometimes it's sweet, but mostly it's suffocating."  While we waited for the bus, I watched a little girl and her brother dragging along helium filled character balloons of Dora the explorer and Spongebob.  She looked so happy, and for now, she could do everything her brother could do.  I wondered what it was like growing up here. I wondered at what age she would put on an abaya, and if it was a moment of excitement, like graduation, or getting the keys to your first car, or if it was sad, like giving away your childhood toys.  When they wear it for the first time, do they feel their world opening up to the possibilities of adulthood? or closing in around them? 

I'm not sure yet how I feel about my own abaya.  For one thing, I haven't even got a real one yet.  But it does make me feel safer somehow.  It's like a costume, dressing for the part.  I'm a stranger here, but wearing it, I blend in somewhat.  It's like a black badge of honor.  In it, my virtue must be guarded and protected by Saudi Men.  Though it is also a symbol of my weakness as a woman and my dependence on men, for now, that's okay with me.  Because I do feel helpless.  I do feel dependant.  I'm sure my feelings will change.  Probably daily.  But for now, it feels more like a friend than an enemy.

The Medical Exam

As part of the visa process to come to Saudi, I had to have a complete physical along with blood, stool, and pregnancy tests.  Upon arrival in the country, those applying for an Iqama or work visa must have a second physical and more tests.  Mine was scheduled for 7pm.  I thought it was odd to be showing up for a medical appointment so late in the evening, but apparently Saudi's only come alive after the evening prayers.  It's so hot during the day, they prefer to do everything after the sun goes down, whenever possible.

My driver arrived promptly at 7 (the time my appointment was scheduled for) and we headed out into the night.  He "parked" behind two other parked cars in front of a large two story strip mall.  In bright neon lights, I matched the arabic logo to my appointment receipt.  The driver nodded to me to get out.  I hesitated.  I wasn't sure what to do.  Did I just walk in and hand them the sheet?  The driver motioned to himself and pointed to the door.  I nodded gratefully, and he got out to accompany me inside.  Inside, there were several people crowded around a counter, and attempting to wait in line, I stood just behind them.  The driver pushed himself right up to the counter and thrust my paper at the man behind the counter.  He looked at it and looked at me, and then said something in arabic.  The driver turned to me and repeated it.  I just shrugged.  Why, oh, why did I think it was smart to begin learning arabic by learning to read it? I can very easily name every arabic letter, and draw it's shape, but that is as far as I got.  Why didn't I start by learning to say things?  Important things like, "I don't speak Arabic.", "Do you speak English?", "I don't understand.", and "What on earth do you want from me?"  Instead, I shrugged helplessly.  The two men looked at each other and began drawing squares in the air.  I had already given him the paper for my appointment.  What else was square?  I took out my passport, but they shook their heads, no, that wasn't what they wanted.  The appointment was prepaid, so they couldn't want money.  What?  What could they possibly mean?  Finally a third man made the motion of taking a picture and I finally understood. They needed some passport photos to print the Iqama.  I pulled them out and handed over two of them to the man behind the counter.  He then asked for something else.  Again, I shook my head.  He banged his hand onto his fist.  Well, this was new and possible terrifying.  The other men joined in pounding their fists onto their open palms.  Yikes.  Stamp I thought, they must want a stamp or something.  I don't have anything with a stamp other than the paper I already gave him and my passport, but I had already showed them my passport and they didn't want it.  I shook my head again and looked confused.  They looked at each other again, and finally the driver pointed at my bag.  All I had in it was my passport.  I took that out to show him the bag was empty, and he smiled triumphantly.  They wanted the passport after all.  The hard part being over, he instructed me to wait in the chairs against one wall, and returned to his parked van.  Even though I didn't know him at all, and we could communicate no better than I could with any of the employees here, a little piece of me was sad to see him go.   Even a little piece of familiarity goes a long way when everything around you is strange.

Shortly, a woman came to take me to the women's waiting room.  There were two women ahead of me, and one of them was chastising her young son, who wouldn't sit still.  I smiled.  At least some things are Universal.  I was taken by a Filipino nurse who very efficiently sat me down, stuck me with a needle, and drew blood, all without saying a word. Then she handed me a small container and pointed me toward a restroom, saying "make it urine."  I made my way to the bathroom, and stopped when I saw the turkish toilet.  Now, I'm no stranger to the turkish toilet, having used one for two years in Albania, but I had never had to use one while holding up the folds of an abaya and a headscarf aiming carefully for the inch wide opening of a container.  Skill and luck helped me out, and I soon returned to her proudly bearing my hard earned liquid gold.

Next I was sent to the radiologist for an x-ray.  She showed me into the room, then quickly disappeared behind the open door for what seemed like an eternity.  When she finally closed the door, I saw that she had been behind it adjusting the equipment.  She inserted a piece of film into a metal case, and slid it into place, then motioned for me to come over.  She pointed to my headscarf and I started to remove it, but she just nodded and shook her head.  She must have been asking about any metal pins.  Luckily, I didn't have any.  She positioned me facing the plate, then moved my arms up along my sides until my elbows were sticking way out like the obligatory chicken dance we always do at the roller skating rink.  She ran back to push the button and do the x-ray and then called out to me in arabic, I wasn't sure what she was saying, or if they x-ray was already over, or if she was telling me not to breath, or what, so I just stood there, like an idiot with my arms like chicken wings.  Finally, she said, "Finished." and I relaxed.  She looked at me again and said "English?" and I said, yes.   She said, "oh, I thought you were an Arab."  I smiled.  Somehow I felt really proud.  My fake abaya was doing it's job.  Or at least this Filipino nurse thought so.

And then it was over.  The whole thing took about 30 minutes.  I went outside to find my driver.  He made a slash through the air with his hand and raised an eyebrow.  Finished? he was asking.  I nodded and he beamed at me in secret congratulations.  On the way home he said, "Arabic, No?"  I nodded. I wasn't sure if it was okay to talk to the driver, usually there were two of them, but tonight it was only one.  I figured he had started talking, so it must be okay. I pointed to the van and said "English? van.  Arabic?"
He said, "Shahena.  English?"
"Van", I said.
"Van," he repeated.
 I said, "Shahena."  Or thought I did, but he corrected me and said it again.  I repeated it a few more times. He pointed to his hand and said: "yote" and I repeated.   He pointed to himself and said,"Almed."  Then he pointed to the rearview mirror.
"Mirror" I said.
"Mirror?" he said.
"Yes, Mirror." I said.
We played the game of pointing and repeating in English and Arabic, everything that was in sight.  He even pointed out the window at one of the crazy drivers weaving recklessly in and out of traffic.  "Mezhnoon" he said,  "English - crazy."  I laughed, yes it was certainly crazy.   He did know some English. We pointed out a few more mezhnoon drivers. Then he said, "Oh my God." imitating the voice of a teenage girl, "Ya ilhaly".  I laughed again.  Where on earth was he learning his English?  When we arrived back at the hotel, I asked him how to say thank you, and he told me, "Shakera".
"Shakera," I told him.
"Shakera, Mirror." he said.  I was confused for a moment, and then realized that when he had been pointing to the mirror in the van, he had actually been pointing at me.  He was asking my name. Oops. I thought about explaining, but then realized how hard that might be. I didn't think my new Arabic skills were up to it just yet, so I smiled instead and said,  "Shakera, Almed, shakera."

Welcome to the Kingdom

The Doha airport is huge, and inside is like a giant shopping mall. You have to walk through a gauntlet of duty free perfume shops to get to the gates. I felt like they should have issued us all gas masks and taught us how to duck and roll to escape the zealous salespeople rushing to spray us with the scent of the month. It was probably 30 minutes or so before I could breath without being overwhelmed by the combination of perfumes lingering on my clothes. 

Before I settled down to wait for four hours at the gate, I made my way to the bathroom. I sat down, did my business, and then, looked around for the TP. I realize that I did this in the wrong order, and that you should always look for toilet paper before you sit down, but sometimes you just don't think. In this case, it wouldn't have helped anyway because there is no TP anywhere here. All bathrooms come equipped with a tiny shower head you can use to clean yourself right over the toilet. Having used bidets before, I was excited. I think they get you cleaner than TP and as a bonus, they are better for the environment. So I grabbed the shower head, positioned it, and gave it a good squeeze. It was a good thing I was sitting down, because I was not prepared for the sheer force of the water pressure coming out of this tiny little shower head. Gradually, I figured out you can adjust the water pressure, by adjusting how hard you squeeze, but I still think they should come with a warning. I wasn't exactly prepared for a self enema. 

I also wasn't prepared for what happened next. Noticing a dark bump on my knee, and thinking it was a scab from hasty shaving, I went to pick it. I know you should never pick at your scabs, but it's a compulsion. This time, I'm glad I did. It wasn't a scab. It was a tick. A tick I must have picked up 2 days before at my farewell bonfire, and carried with me 6,609 miles. Luckily, I had tweezers in the toiletry kit of my carry-on, although, a good blast from the bidet might have just as easily done the trick. Tick removed and flushed, I returned somewhat unsettled to wait for my final flight.

The best thing about the Doha airport is free Internet. A PlayStation 4 free gaming room might be a close second for some, but I was content with Internet and more people watching. The ratios were suddenly reversed. Boarding the plane in Chicago I had seen a few people wearing thobes (men's robes) and abayas (women's robes) but mostly people had on western dress. Here, I saw a few westerners, and some Arabs wearing western clothes, but for the most part everyone was covered. Two or three flights left from my gate before my own flight and I watched families line up for Dubai, or Bahrain, and disappear down a staircase to the shuttle buses that take you on a half hour ride to your plane parked on the runway. Aside from the clothing, it all seemed fairly normal. 

Finally, they called the flight to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I began gathering up my things, and stood to get in line. When I looked up, I was shocked. There was not a single woman in the whole line. It was all men. A long, long, line, of men. To buy time, and because I suddenly felt I needed to, I went to the bathroom. I'm not sure what I thought would happen when I came out, but I guess I hoped the line would be shorter, or that the women were just slower to stand up and get in line. But nope, nothing had changed, though the line was slightly shorter. I stood at the back of the line, and tried to avoid the stares of the men in front of me. I wish I had decided to put my make-shift abaya on in the bathroom, but I figured I would wait and put it on on the plane before we landed. (I read in a book once that Saudi women often changed in the bathrooms just before landing when flying home from abroad, and figured that was the way it was done). I shouldn't have worried though, a man stepped in front of me to join the line as if I wasn't there, so I guess he didn't notice my clothing, or me, anyway. I finally got aggressive after the second guy cut in. The thing is, you can't leave any personal space, or they think you aren't actually in line. I was awkwardly close to the man in front of me, counting the hairs on his neck, which were about eye level to me, when one of the flight attendants pulled me from the line. He asked to see my ticket and looked surprised that it was the right flight number. He sent me to the front of the line, and downstairs to wait for the bus where I joined the five other women who would be with me on this 400 seat plane. Three were Saudi women, dressed in black abayas with head scarves to match. The other two were from the Philippines, most likely coming to work as house maids or nurses. Like me, they were dressed in western clothing, and I was thankful to not be the only one.

Warning: Death for Drug Trafficker

My seat was in the very back row next to the toilet and a man who had clearly managed to avoid the perfume onslaught. Luckily, the flight was just under an hour long. After take-off the flight attendants handed out landing cards to everyone. The first thing I saw was was the red letter warning. Welcome to the Kingdom....

About 15 minutes before landing, I gathered my make-shift abaya, (Thank you $20 Kohls long black dress and my black sweater) and changed in the bathroom. I forgot to bring my head scarf in with me, so I threw it on blind when I got back to my seat. I'm sure it looked all askew. When the man next to me woke up after we landed, he looked surprised. When we boarded, I was a blue-jean wearing American. Now I was a blue-eyed abaya wearing woman. I noticed that the Saudi women I had boarded with had changed too, adding a veil to their hijabs to cover everything but their eyes.

I was nervous going through immigration, I didn't do anything wrong, and I had all the correct visas and entry permits, but it didn't stop me from worrying.  I had  my fingerprints scanned and when I nervously attempted a smile when they took my photo, the immigration officer laughed.  I'm not sure if it was because no one usually smiles, or if it was because he had just read a hilarious text on one of the two cell phones he was constantly checking through the whole process.  Just like that, I was done.  I gathered my bags loaded them on a cart, and headed out of the airport.  A man holding a sign for the company who hired me was waiting for me at the exit, and I felt so relieved. He pointed to my name and I said yes, that's me.  I asked him if I could first change some money before we left the airport, and I quickly realized that he spoke no English, and I had not gotten passed the alphabet in my attempts to learn Arabic.  Luckily, money talks, so he knew what I wanted and led me to the Western Union.  He had a friend with him, and instructed the man to wait with me outside while he brought the car around.  It was 1:45 in the morning and dark, but I was sweating under my long dark clothes and heavy headscarf.  Once again, I saw only men outside, lined up, waiting for taxis, or maybe taxi drivers themselves.  All were wearing white thobes, and the distinct checkered red and white cloth over their heads.  It was like being in a field of bobbing picnic blankets, fluttering from time to time in a slight breeze or the passing of a car.  I don't understand how those things stay on.  They seem to be held down with just two loose loops of black rope.  It isn't tight on the head at all, just resting like a crown on the top of the head.  I wonder how heavy it is?

Finally, the man came around with the van, and we loaded my bags.  I sat in the back, and tried to see out of the windows, but they had been tinted so no one could see in, with the added bonus that it was very hard to see out.  He drove recklessly fast, but there was almost no traffic. At one point he said something and pointed out the window.  I looked and could just make out an archway in a long fence with the words in English below the beautifully scripted Arabic: 

جامعة الأميرة نورة بنت عبد الرحمن

 Princess Nora Bint Abdul Rahman University.  We drove for another 10 or 15 minutes alongside this walled fence before it finally ended in another entrance to the University. For the first time, I realized just how large the University where I would be working really was. 

After another 30 minutes or so we arrived.  I wasn't sure where we were arriving to.  By this time it was almost 2:30 in the morning, so I doubted we would be going to the office, but It didn't look much like a hotel either.  There was a guard out front, and the two men in the van helped me bring my stuff into the hotel, then promptly left.  I stared at the man at the reception desk, who was juggling two phones.  Finally, he put one down, and I was relieved to see that he spoke some English.  He checked me in, then helped me put my bag into a tiny elevator.  He indicated that I should squeeze in too.  He pushed a few buttons, closed the door, and sent me up alone.  He was waiting for me at the top and led me to my room.  It was actually two rooms, a bedroom and then a living room area with a TV and a little fridge, stove top and microwave.  He asked me if I needed anything else, and suddenly, I felt very tired.  I realized I had no idea what to do when I woke up in the morning.  I asked the man, and he said he would call them and have them send a driver to pick me up at 9am.  I asked about Internet, so I could also send them an email, and luckily, there was wifi, which he helped me sign into.  I thanked him, locked the door behind him, took off my headscarf and abaya, and took a deep breath.  I had finally arrived.

Standard Arabian Business

Me in my fake abaya

I didn't sleep well.  I kept getting up to check the time, worried that my alarm wouldn’t go off for some reason.  Wouldn't it figure that when I finally did drift into my first deep sleep in 48 hours, my alarm went off.  The first thing I did was check my email to see if the company had responded to me.  They had.  My instructions were to be in the Lobby at 10am, and not to take the 9am bus, because that bus was to take the teachers to school, and I needed to come to the office instead.  Relieved, I decided to try to get a little more sleep.  At 9:05, I heard a knocking sound, I sat up in bed.  Is someone knocking on my door? I heard it again.  This time I was sure it was my door. I got out of bed and started to make my way to the door, but stopped short half way there.  I was in shorts and a tank top.  I needed my abaya.  The knock came again louder, and I hurried to throw on my makeshift abaya. By the time I had frantically thrown on my abaya and grabbed a scarf to throw over my head, there was no one at the door anymore. The phone rang.  It took me a minute to locate it on the wall by the TV... But finally I found it. Hello? I said. Someone answered and said something in Arabic, and then the word, "downstairs". I said, 10am? Or now? And the man responded now. I said please wait 5 minutes, but am not sure if I was understood or not. Properly covered with all important documents in tow, I made my way downstairs and was ushered into a van.  I was the only one in the van besides the driver and his buddy.  I wondered if there would always be two men escorting me around or if last night and tonight were just special occasions. 

I’m sure you will all be relieved to know that not only have the golden arches made their way over here, but also the Red Lobster (though I doubt I will be partaking in a Lobster fest anytime soon, as  women can only eat in restaurants with their husbands or another male relative). In the light of day, I could see a lot more out the window of the van.  Unfortunately, most of what I saw wasn’t worth looking at.  Everywhere there was new construction, surrounded by mounds of excavated dirt and left over construction rubble.  Everything was shades of tan and brown and no plants anywhere.  The only color being the neon signs on some of the newer buildings.

Eventually we pulled up in front of one of these strip buildings.  I can’t exactly say we parked, as parking, like forming lines, seems to be one of those things that Saudi’s just don’t do well.  Once the spaces in front of a building were taken, the next vehicle to come along would just stop anywhere along the store front.  Sometimes directly behind a parked car, other times perpendicular to several cars.  I sincerely hoped none of the previous parkers needed to get out. The driver and his friend got out, but motioned for me to wait.  I waited.  Eventually they came out again.  As far as I could tell, they had gone in with nothing and come out again with nothing.  I couldn’t read the Arabic sign, or see into the shop, so I have no idea what it is they did. 

We left that shop, and shortly pulled up in front of another building.  Again they motioned for me to wait in the car, which was sticking out at least ¾ into the road.  There were no markings or sign in front, but there was inexplicably a number taped to the glass door. The driver and his lackey went in, came out, and went in again. Finally they came out again, waited a while outside, and went in yet again.  They did this about half a dozen times, sometimes together, sometimes alone.  I couldn’t figure it out, but they seemed very serious about it.   The driver wiped his brow and looking concerned, though I doubt it was for me. I think I was just brought along on the morning errand run. Finally, a woman came out and got into the van with me.  She sat in the very back and did not say anything to me.  I thought she might be one of the teachers too, but she looked Arabic, and unfriendly, so I didn’t say anything.

We finally arrived at the company headquarters.  It was large, well kept, and there was even a small patch of grass with a palm tree out front.  And by small, I mean, the very definition of a postage stamp lawn.  If you were to have a picnic on it, all that would fit would be the basket.  We went inside, and it was just like any large office building in the US.  There was a reception desk, and two staircases going up on either side.  I looked around for some clue about where to go.  I asked the man at the reception desk, but he just looked at me with confusion.  The woman who had come with me in the van said, oh, are you new?  I’ll take you up.  I thanked her and followed her up to the third floor where we were ushered into an office and told to have a seat and wait.  There were two desks, one was empty, and the man at the other desk was standing up shouting into a phone.  A door on the far wall led into a third office. Presumably for the big boss, as he turned several people away from going in.  Apparently, he was in a very important meeting. 

After about 45 minutes of watching the guy at the desk shuffle papers, make more calls, and in general handle more business, all while standing up, he handed me a folder with my contract and paperwork and asked me to look it over.  I reread the contract, and noticed, that instead of the contract ending August 2014, as my copy of the contract that I had signed before coming read, this one said August 2015.  He had left the room and so I couldn't ask him about it.  After another 45 minutes or so, he returned and said he was finally ready for me.  I asked about the end date of the contract, and he said that we had signed the first contract in February, and had I come in February, it would have stayed the same.  But they have a mandatory rollover in the third month, because it is too close to the end of the school year.  He told me that actually it was better for me, because I would still get a ticket home for summer (pro-rated amount of time off, won’t be the normal 30 days since I have not been here long enough) and a return ticket at the end of the year as well, If I had only the August 2014 contract, I would not get the summer paid leave or vacation ticket.  I explained that I was planning to go to graduate school and probably wouldn't come back.  He said that was fine, too.  I can leave whenever I want, I just won’t get the return ticket. I explained that I came under the assumption based on my contract that I could leave at the end of August and get my return ticket.  He said to just use the summer vacation ticket as the return ticket then.

He then showed me the other change to my contract.  Originally, I was supposed to go to Princess Nora University in Riyadh, but they had to change, and were now going to send me to Jouf.  Jouf is in the northern part of Saudi, near Jordan.  It’s a very small place.  I was kind of pleased; I have never been one for big cities, so it was fine with me.  He got me a ticket for the 29^th of April to fly to Jouf.  While he was filling out more paperwork (still standing, even though there was a perfectly good chair behind him) the big boss came over and asked what he was going to do with me.  He said Jouf, and the big boss said Jouf? And then ensued a somewhat heated discussion in Arabic.  Finally the big boss looked up at me and said, how would you like to go to Dammam?  Dammam is on the east coast of Saudi Arabia, near Bahrain.  Now, having never been anywhere in Saudi, one place is more or less like any other as far as I’m concerned, so six of one half dozen of the other. Sure, I said.  He explained that one of their teachers father’s had died, so she was returning home for the funeral, and would not be coming back.  I would be taking her place. 

Turns out, the woman on the van with me, was also headed to Dammam.  She had arrived three weeks earlier and had wanted to stay in Riyadh since she had family here, but there were no openings, so she had finally agreed to go to Dammam, which is relatively close, only three and half or four hours away.  So they worked on getting us tickets.  First they had us flying out on the 28^th.  Then someone said, no, no, the train is better.  They should take the train.  So then they tried to get us tickets for the train on Saturday the 26^th.  There were three trains, one that left at 10am, another at 1pm, and finally a 5pm train.  I thought that the 1pm train would be best, because we would arrive by 5pm, giving us time to settle in before starting work on Sunday. The other woman, Leila, preferred leaving at 5pm, because there was nothing to do anyway and it might be cooler by then. I asked if there was anything to see from the train, and everyone laughed.  Sand, just sand and more sand, they said. Turns out the 1pm train was full anyway.  So we went for the 5pm, but the website wasn't working to book the train, so we left without getting our tickets, with the promise that they would email them to us.

Leila and I made our way back to the van shaking our heads at the new norm of disorganization we were facing.

Leaving America

I promised everyone I would write and tell them all about my life as an English Teacher in Saudi Arabia. In the past I have sent email updates of my travel adventures, but I think it's time I moved into the 21st century, so here is my first shot at a blog.

Flying and spending time in airports has always been fun for me. Mostly because the people watching is at its best in airports. So many stories begin and end here. It's like watching a thousand mini-soap operas crossed with those choose your own adventure books. Waiting in the terminal for my first flight to Chicago, I watched a couple arguing. He had gotten her a sandwich and she was mad because she told him she didn't want anything and anyway it had mustard on it and she hated mustard. He said well what do you want to do, starve? You haven't eaten since we left and you won't get anything on the plane. It will probably be another 5 or 6 hours before we can eat again. Do you just want to starve? She said, I'm not gonna starve, and I'm capable of buying my own sandwich if I want one. Okay, he said, just trying to help. Stop trying to fix everything, the woman whisper yelled. Are you gonna be like this the whole trip?, he wanted to know. She gave him the stone coldest stare I had ever seen. Where were they headed? Would they make up? Would anyone eat the mustard filled sandwich? Choose your own adventure. 

After the Chicago flight, I had about an hour to kill before my next flight took off. I was hanging around in a gate across from mine since there were no seats left in my gate area. I watched a young guy re-pack his backpack. He pulled out a ball of yarn, a pack of lightbulbs, 3 pretty hefty looking books, though I couldn't read any of the titles, a few articles of clothing (including a single sock, into which he put a bag of sunflower seeds), a smaller bag with unknown contents (probably toiletries) a pair of plastic handcuffs, and what looked like a ziplock bag full of Legos. He meticulously put everything back in the bag and settled in to wait for his flight. He had on headphones, a hoodie, and the kind of glasses that quiet guy at work you always suspect would go crazy and kill everyone one day would wear. Or maybe that's the contents of the bag talking. The gate said the flight was headed for Albany, but mine boarded before his, so I'll never be sure if he got on the plane, or if the light bulbs were still intact when he arrived, or what he was planning to do with yarn and handcuffs. Choose your own Adventure.

The woman I sat next to on the flight from Chicago to Qatar had bought her ticket only hours before take off. Her sister in law had a fairly routine operation in India, but something had gone wrong, and now she was on a ventilator and not doing well. She was on her way to join her husband and son to be there when she recovered, or to bury her if she didn't. Choose your own ending.

Another thing about flying that I enjoy is the in-flight movies. I watched American Hustle first. Before it would let me start the movie, I had to agree that I was over 18. Then it told me that the movie was edited for content and format. I didn't think much of it until every time there was a scene that looked like it might be heading toward sex, it quickly cut to another scene. The first few times I just thought, huh, interesting directing choices. But I quickly realized it must be something the airline does. Nice if there are children next to you who could lean over and see your screen, but I think it probably had more to do with respect for muslim audiences.

I've gotten pretty good at long distance flights over the years, but I must say, I never remember quite so much turbulence... I have to wonder if it is just my imagination, I've been watching Lost (I know, only about a decade too late) and then there is the whole Malaysian Air thing, so perhaps I'm feeling more nervous about slight turbulence than I used to. In any case, it was bad enough to wake me up when we were about an hour and a half from landing in Doha. I knew I wouldn't probably have time to finish another movie, but I put one on anyway just to distract me from the turbulence. I know that I'm not the first to point this out, but it's so easy to cry when watching airplane movies. Maybe it's the dry air of the pressurized cabin, maybe it's that you are usually nervous, excited, sad, anxious, scared, and just an emotional ball of nerves anyway when you fly. Whatever it is, things that are only mildly sad, are suddenly tear jerkers. So the plane lands, and the movie is nearly over, so it's at a really sad bit, and I'm practically bawling, but no one is moving yet, just standing around in the aisle, so I keep watching, and crying, hoping I have time to see the end. And its fine, because everyone is facing forward trying to rush off the plane, so no one is paying attention to me. But then, disaster. The stairs are pushed up to the back exit of the plane, and everyone turns around to exit out the back. Suddenly, everyone waiting with their carry-ons slung over their shoulders, is looking at me, the only person still sitting, tears streaming down my face. The woman whose sister-in-law in India is in critical condition reaches over to pat my shoulder. I smile and wave her away and say, it's just this movie!, but I know she must think I'm insane. If anyone should be crying it's her. The man behind her, heard me explain and laughed out loud! I didn't get to see the ending, but I bet I gave a few people the makings of a great choose your own adventure story.