Moving Out... and In Again

I had finally given up hope of being moved to a new room anytime soon, and was starting to unpack when I heard a knock on my door.  I opened it to find the Egyptian Guy telling me that I should come look at his room, and that if it was okay and I liked it, he would move downstairs and I could move into his room.  I told him I really didn't mind waiting for Rachel to move out and it wasn't a problem, but he insisted, ushering me across the hallway to enter his apartment, it was dark, and the long florescent light bulbs that were white in my room had been changed out for creepy blue ones.  The apartment smelled like smoke, and he had made no attempts to clean up before the grand tour.  I briefly glanced at the bedroom long enough to see clothes scattered about and hanging from every available service.  I didn't want to turn my head to look at the kitchen.  "I'll change the lights and clean everything up, of course." he said, possibly seeing my expression that I thought the dim blue lights had hidden. "It's no problem, it will be fine." I said, "But are you sure you want to move?  I don't mind waiting until Rachel goes."  He insisted, saying there was a room downstairs he could move into and not to worry, that it was all part of his job, and telling me that I could move in the next day after work.  I reassured him again that his apartment was very nice, as I quickly backed out of it and dashed back across the hall into my room, which suddenly seemed cozy and warm.

The next day I came home from work and began packing up the few things I had unpacked, and the various kitchen and food supplies I had acquired since arriving.  It didn't take more than 10 minutes.  I sat down to wait for the Egyptian to let me know the room was ready.  I thought about knocking on the door, but decided to give him time, after all, I wasn't sure what he did all day.  He might just stay around the apartment, or he might have an actual job like us teachers, and only arrive home in the afternoon.  In that case he would obviously need more time than I did to pack up and clean the room. I got out my book, started reading, and promptly fell asleep.  At about 11 o'clock pm, I was woken up by loud knocking.  It was the Egyptian guy.  He told me he was very sorry, but he had seen the room downstairs and it was very dirty and he tried at first to clean it, but it was just too awful, and he wasn't going to be moving after all, and could I please just wait until Rachel had moved out and take her room.  I told him it was no problem at all, and thanked him.  He apologized again, and I said not to worry, and I really didn't mind, and he thanked me and said he was really sorry, and I told him again it was absolutely not a problem, and he nodded and and gave me a look that said he was about to apologize for a fourth time, so I cut him off and thanked him and said goodnight and slowly shut the door to the sounds of him saying he was sorry and thanking me once again.

After another 2 or 3 days with no sign that the passport was going to arrive in time for Rachel to make the second flight they had booked for her (they had already had to cancel one because the passport hadn't arrived), I decided to go ahead and unpack a little more, just to make life a little easier. The very next day, her passport arrived in the mail.  Go figure.  The flight was scheduled for the early morning on May 5th, a Monday, but I had thought Rachel told me she was leaving on Sunday morning, so I went up Saturday evening to her room to say goodbye because I wouldn't be awake yet when she left in the morning.  When I arrived she was working on an email to the company because she still hadn't been payed (it was supposed to come on the 25th of April) and she didn't want to leave Dammam until she had been payed because a) she needed to pay back the people she had borrowed money from here, and b) she needed money once she arrived in Jouf, and c) she wanted to send money home to her mother -  who had a bad fall the day before  and so needed money to get to a relative in another state who could take care of her  - which she can't do as a woman, so she needs to ask a man she trusts to send the money for her, and she trusts people here, but will not know anyone in Jouf, so she won't be able to send the money from there.  This was actually her fifth or sixth email to them, requesting payment and explaining how difficult it would be to arrive in a new place with absolutely no money to live on, and no guarantee that payment would arrive anytime soon, since they would probably send the payment to Dammam first, then need to send it back to Riyadh and then finally to Jouf, making the wait even longer.  It seemed like a legitimate request, after all, she wasn't asking to be paid early, just that she would be paid within 10 days of the date she and everyone else was supposed to receive their salary in the first place. The email she got in response the following morning was that if she did not get on the plane, they would begin deducting payment from her salary.  She was clearly upset and distressed, but there was nothing anyone could do.  The other teachers who had been in the country longer didn't seem to find the situation unusual, and while they complained a lot about the company, how disorganized it was, and how they control the teachers by keeping everyone's passport and withholding payment as threats, they didn't seem to see any point in trying to fight or change the system and seemed resigned to it as the price of working in Saudi Arabia.

That evening Rachel asked to switch rooms with me, even though she was leaving the next morning.  She felt she needed to pack up and leave her old room just to be doing something she could take control of.  She didn't want to stay in her room even a moment longer.  So, even though it would make more sense to wait until she had actually left to change rooms, we switched rooms for the last night.  I hastily repacked everything I had unpacked and made a few trips in the tiny elevator to my new home on the 4th (3rd) floor, and then made a few more trips down in the tiny elevator to help Rachel bring her stuff down, including swapping out all the sheets and bedding.  It was sad to say goodbye to her, especially knowing she was leaving in such a desperate way, but I was glad to be able to finally, and for good, unpack my suitcase.

The first night, I was too tired to do to much unpacking, and contented myself with cleaning out the refrigerator so I could at least put my groceries away.  The next day after work, I tackled the rest of the kitchen.  It was clear it hadn't had a thorough cleaning in years.  I scrubbed every surface, but did not have any soap, so it was tough going with only elbow grease.  I rinsed the rag I had found on the top of the cabinet as best I could and got to work.  The water here is all desalinated seawater.  Which is great, because after all, we live in a desert, so where else would we get it.  But actually, the process is not as completely purifying as many would have you believe.  When you shower or brush your teeth, you can taste the residual salt in the water.

Salt Crystals on Door of Bathroom

There is a whole layer of salt crystals left behind when the water from the shower dries up that have built up in the recesses of the bathroom door and corners of the floor.  If you try to drink the water, it just makes you thirstier.  And things never quite get clean because there is always a slight film left behind.  On the plus side, it makes cooking easier, as you never have to add a pinch of salt to the pot when you make pasta or oatmeal, since it's already there.  By the end of three hours of scrubbing, my tiny kitchen area looked practically new, but my hands were dry as a bone.  I had already added lotion to the list of things I would buy when I eventually got paid, but crossed it off and added it to the essential items list of things to buy right away despite my limited budget.

The next day I tackled the bedroom and living room.  First, I wanted to sweep the floors. I knew that Rachel had never managed to sweep, because she didn't have a broom, and since she knew she was leaving, didn't bother to buy one.  I remembered tripping over a broom when I went on the roof to see the sandstorm, so I decided to go see if it was still there.  Not only was it still there, there was also a whole pile of slightly broken furniture just sitting in this semi covered room I hadn't noticed before in the dark.  Rachel had been using the vanity from the bedroom as a kitchen counter since there really was no counter space to speak of in the kitchen.  I wanted to keep the extra counter space in the kitchen, but also wanted to be able to have a desk in the bedroom.  I saw that there was an extra vanity that happened to be missing its mirror in the corner next to a cracked toilet and a presumably broken microwave.  Perfect!, I thought.  I didn't want a mirror in the kitchen anyway.  The vanity was upside down and covered in dust and clearly not doing anyone any good on the roof, so I figured it wouldn't be a problem if I borrowed it.  I set the broom aside, and hoisted the vanity up and moved it a few feet.  It was a lot heavier than I thought it would be.  I realized if I was going to get the vanity anywhere, I would need to put it on my back since there were no good handholds any other way. It's one thing to carry a heavy piece of furniture.  It's another thing to do it in an abaya.  Since I was crouched over with the table on my back, the front of my abaya, which I occasionally trip on anyway, was now in a piled up in front of my feet, just begging me to take even one step and fall flat on my face.  I struggled to balance the table with just one hand and used my now free hand to hold up the abaya.  I made my way to the elevator and set the table down, relieved to have made it.  It would be a piece of cake from here on out.  I pushed the elevator button and waited for it to come up.  I opened the door, and then pushed in the old fashioned folding doors, and lifted the vanity up once again.  Did I mention that the elevators here are tiny?  I started forward, but was stopped by the ends of the vanity coming up against the elevator door.  I backed up, and tried again from another angle, and then another.  I was clearly not going to be able to fit this piece of furniture into the elevator.  Luckily, I only live one floor down, so I took a deep breath, lifted the vanity onto my back, pulled up my abaya, and braved my way downstairs and finally into the apartment.  By now I was dripping with sweat, and I couldn't wait to get my abaya off.  I whipped it off and then discovered the entire back was covered in dust.  I tried my best to brush it out, but it still looked pretty awful.  Let me tell you though, after I whipped down the vanity and set it up between the sink and the fridge, it was completely worth every drop of sweat, and smear of dust.  Even if everyone looked at me funny the next day when I had to go to work in a slightly less dusty, but still clearly dirty abaya the next day.

The living room in my new apartment and my hard earned vanity/kitchen counter.

I went back to the roof to retrieve the broom and swept the floors.   I shook out the curtains and the rugs as best I could.  By the time I had moved all the furniture, swept under everything, and rearranged the furniture into my prefered layout, I had collected a pile of dust and sand that had to weigh at least two pounds.  I know that Rachel had never swept, and there was just a sandstorm, but still, there was so much sand I could have filled a sandbox for my niece!  Finally, I took the two area rugs up to the roof to beat the dust out of them.  There happened to be a driver and one of the guys the Egyptian had working for him up on the roof, and they both pretended not to notice me beating away at the rugs, while simultaneously staring at me.  It's really quite a unique skill.  I haven't mastered the art of seeing without staring yet myself, but I'm working on it.  Then again, I have been working on it since I was old enough to know you aren't supposed to stare without much luck, so I won't hold my breath.  The smacking and banging also drew the attention of two of the male teachers who came out to see what all the noise was about (where were they when I was making all that noise banging the vanity around trying to get it in the elevator?). They asked me what I was doing and seemed utterly confused.  Either they don't beat rugs in the UK, or the guys specifically don't beat rugs.  In any case, I know they have just added another bit of strangeness to their growing list of evidence that the new American teacher is a little crazy.  I don't mind.  I finally have my own place to unpack, relax, and be eccentric in.