Happy Feet in the Desert

Even though in the Capitol things like dancing are frowned upon (especially in public), I have been attending more dance lessons than I ever have in my life. Before coming here, the closest I'd ever come to a dance class was watching Center Stage over and over again for a year in University.

But here, I have four dance classes a week. Four.

On Monday, the middle of the week, we start off with Tango. This is a small class held in a room in the basement of what I guess is a compound rec center. This is taught by Hamdi who is known for shouting things like "Give her gancho!" ('gancho' apparently being the little leg flick you do in tango) and "Control the Women!"

The last time he shouted this, my partner, an Australian man who was new, shouted back: "I can't, I think this one's American!" 

The American Bashing never really stops over here, but it's mostly good-natured. It's because Kingdomites like us better. And we're just plain cooler.

A wide variety of people attend, and friend Shelly and I gossip about the people and their dancing abilities. The one we talk about most is this guy who is terrible at dancing, but thinks he's awesome. In fact, he's so sure he's awesome, if he makes a mistake; it's obviously your fault.

Just to be clear, it's never the woman's fault in tango. Tango is all male directed. All the woman has to do is follow what the man does. This dude will stop dancing just to tell you sorrowfully: "you really don't get it, do you?" He'll ask the instructor to come and observe his partner, just to make sure she's doing it right, and Hamdi will inevitably tell him something harsh in Arabic and dude will say nothing else to you about it.

On Tuesday, there's Salsa. Salsa was the first class I took in Riyadh and it got me to thinking I wasn't as bad at dancing as I thought I was. For anyone who has always wanted to try a dance class, but thinks they will make a fool of themselves, I tell you this: It is not as hard as you think it is. For women especially, it's easier than it looks. The first day I was doing twirls and whirls that made it look like I knew what I was doing. Like in Tango, it's all in the partner.

This is a big class with about sixty, seventy people, held in an aerobics room on another compound farther away. There are several teachers there: a severe New Zealander (I didn't know they came in severe), a large Lebanese fellow, and some other various people – most of whom come to Tango.

A couple weeks ago we had a visit from a Lebanese woman who was a professional salsa dancer. She gave some lessons that were fantastic - she made us look like professionals. Even though I am still a beginner, it was easy to follow.

As an interesting side note, that weekend, we went camping with the Hash House Harriers (more on them later) and all of the people who were in charge of salsa showed up with strobe lights and Lebanese music, turning our camp into a raving party spot.

It made me think there was about three foreigners in the Kingdom and I knew them all.

Finally, on Friday and Wednesday I have Belly Dancing, taught by one of my co-workers, Natalie, in the play room at our accommodation. (Yes, we have a playroom).

This is a lot of fun in general even when Mary – who was barred from the class because she is what us teachers call a 'behavior problem' – comes into the back of the class and starts hip thrusting wildly in every direction.

Going to and from these classes requires being secretive about our destination when it comes to our doorman and I occasionally feel like I live in Footloose. Maybe we should find somewhere to play chicken with some tractors. Except that women on tractors would be HARAM.

Dealing with Grief in the Kingdom

For those of you who don't know, my grandmother recently passed away. I was very close to my grandmother and it was a really hard time for me, especially because I was constantly doing battle with the administration to get leave to go see her.

When I first heard she was sick, I wasn't too worried, because she's been in the hospital before and, to me, my grandmother has an iron-clad will. In my mind, nothing short of a volcano could alter the fact of her existence on this earth.

When I first understood her condition to be serious, I had a seriously terrible time dealing with it. The first night, after getting the news I went out on the roof of my hotel and sat under the desert moon. I guess I figured if it was my grandmother's last night on earth I would like to see something she could see too.

I wrote a list of everything I was going to miss about her – which was a long list, to be honest – and I ended up sleeping out there because there was a beautiful desert breeze going.

Here is a little excerpt from my ruminations of my Yiayia:

Things I will miss about Yiayia:

- The way she always says 'dearheart', like she had to mash together two different endearments in order to adequately express her true affection

- The way she would forget I don't speak Greek and would tell me things in asides that I'm sure were hilarious.

- The way she had such a tender heart and the suffering of even the most removed person affected her so deeply.

- The way I had to cross out the 'effected' I wrote first instead of 'affected' in the last one because she was an English teacher and she would be appalled at the bad grammar.

- How she used to carry a box of Dunkin' Donuts on her lap, on the plane, all the way to Africa, just because my brother and I were missing them.

- How she kept everything in tiny jars and tins in her pantry and never wasted a scrap of anything useful.

- The way she acted every time I showed her how to use Facebook, like I was the best teacher in the WORLD and she finally understood everything.

- How her love was unconditional and usually came with food.

- The way she loved to read

- The way she loved to paint

- The way she loved everyone.

At about 5am, the sun rose and the call to prayer made it more or less impossible to sleep.

The next couple of days were not easy. I kept on getting updates on my grandmother, nothing good, and I kept on slamming my head against the brick wall of administration to try to get the leave in time to see her. I made regular trips to the prayer room in order to cry in the corner.

Finally, I got the email. The one that said she had taken her leave less than two hours ago.

My first instinct was to go someplace quiet – typically I head for the bathroom. But in general the bathrooms here are too busy to really be a place of solace. So, I headed for the prayer room.

After having a muffled cry in there, I deemed myself fit for the public so I went to the bathroom to wash my face. The second I step out, I run into my friend Mary who asks me, casually, "Are you all right?"

People have taken to asking me that, because everyone on campus seems to know about my grandmother from one avenue or another.

My response, of course, was to burst into tears.

Mary insisted I come to her office for some tea (she's British, it's genetic) and for a talk. But her office, like mine, is also the office of about a dozen other people. So, I found myself in the middle of a room of people, crying my eyes out.

When I first came here, the gender separation thing bothered me. But since then, I've been working in a building with all women and it does something to a person. It's honestly a pleasant atmosphere… most of the time.

So, me, crying in the middle of a group of co-workers not only broke my streak of only crying at work when I work at camp, but also didn't feel so weird. I got a back massage and a lot of candy. I got prayers for my family in three different languages and a lot of dire threats aimed at the administration for keeping me here when I clearly needed to go.

Nancy, a woman from Somalia, told me that in Islam they had a saying – Truly we belong to Allah and to Him we shall always return.

That night, people were constantly coming and going from my room. Everyone wanted to know if I was okay and when my flight home was.

This job is worth doing, I decided, for several reasons. But the most important of which is the people I work with. Or really, the ones I live with. Let's not get too crazy with including the Savanna girls in there.

The Magda girls made me feel like I was with my family and I can't thank them enough for that.

My Precarious Position as a Cover Teacher

            The door to my office, which I share with several other teachers, says 'no students allowed'. I always pause there and I'm like, oh yeah, I'm not in college anymore. It's a weird feeling to be teaching at a University when those years are not that far behind me. Or not teaching, as the case may be.

            My typical day goes like this:

            I get up at about 4:30 am because the bus leaves at about 6:15 and I'm paranoid about being late/missing something. I have to make sure I've got everything I need for the whole day (breakfast, lunch), because the bus arrives back at my 'hotel' at around 5pm. I spend about 11 hours at work. Soon I will have to get on the bus at 5:50 am because I'm supposed to be on the morning shift.

            We spend anywhere from an hour and a half to two hours on a cramped bus, basically waiting in traffic, to get to work.

            When we finally arrive, I sit at my desk. And wait.

            I don't do anything else. Because there are too many teachers, not everyone has classes. We are permanently on cover duty – or “substitute teaching” as we Americans say. This is fine except that people are not often absent. At least not to the point that they require me to teach.

            I've been working here a week and a half and I've only taught one class. I haven't even seen inside any of the course books. I am so very useless.

            There is a rumor circulating that they have over-hired (which is obvious to anyone with general skills of observation) and they are making up a list if people who they will fire (which is obvious to anyone with general skills of deduction). I am, unfortunately, not that secure in my job because, though I was told I only needed one year of teaching experience, since I have arrived, people have made it clear that I actually need two. I have about one and a half years English teaching experience, and two and a half general teaching experience. This may or may not be a problem for me. It’s too soon to tell.

            Either way, it's a great source of anxiety. I'm avoiding doing anything too permanent because I'm pretty much convinced I'll be deported at any second.

            And to think, I could have been at IH Moscow right now.

            Some people are jumping ship, some people (like me) are trying to be useful while just nervously fretting about their jobs. No one is entirely happy.

            So what do I fill my days up with? Well, I chat in the resource room with some of the other teachers, who are a lot of fun. I go for two hour coffee breaks and three hour lunches. We go for walks in the sunshine to get our daily dose of Vitamin D (contrary to popular belief, I am not getting a tan here, because I am always covered. Lack of sun is becoming a real problem). And we plan parties on the roof of our building or shopping trips to a nearby mall. But most of the time, I just sit at my desk and write.

            Even if I did have a class, that would be for about three hours a day. The other five hours would be devoted to sitting. But I would at least have something to work on instead of hoping no one is looking over my shoulder and reading my blog.

            At the end of the day, I get on the bus (4pm sharp or they will drive away without me) and take the one and a half hour drive home.

            When I get back to my apartment, I usually hook my computer up and watch something, or paint, or read, or cook dinner, etc. During the day I am all talked out so I don't really seek the company of my neighbors. But sometimes they come and get me and socializing is unavoidable. In fact, for most of the time I've been here, I've been over at someone's house or another to eat/talk/drink tea.

            My apartment, when I got there, was pretty bare. I had four tables in the living room but nowhere to sit. I thought this was a Kingdom thing and was prepared to accept it. But then the residence coordinator came in and shouted 'Where is all your furniture?!' after which, there was a sofa brought to my room.

            Yesterday, I got a microwave, and there are rumors of them building a gym in one of the empty rooms. Dare I believe we will one day have a washer?

            The other day, I was electrocuted by my own stove top. I had a pot on one of the burners and when I went to take it off, I got a shock. Thinking it was just rather strong static electricity, I touched it again and it was like those joke pens people make you use that give you an electric shock when you try and click it. I turned the stove off and called the doorman (his job has many descriptions) who suggested, quite seriously, that I invest in some rubber shoes.

            EDIT: Since I wrote this, I have been given a class and I definitely feel more secure in my job. This was written in a very dark period. Things are better now! Apparently, there is a list of people to be sent home, but I'm not on it. I am not, in fact, the most unqualified person here for a change. More positive posts to come.