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."