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.

Be Aware

 You know what really bothers me? People who come to other countries – especially to work – and complain when they find out it's not like their own country. Why would you come to another country if you thought it would be the same as America? Or the UK? Or wherever?

Of course, it's going to be different here. You should have known that going in. I hear people complaining about the way things are done here – the Inshallah Attitude. I've heard people complain about the way people act – this is a country that really has a 'saving face' tradition, and therefor, people will tell you what you want to hear, even if it's incorrect. This isn't the same thing as lying. It's an aspect of the culture that you need to be aware of. That you should have been aware of before you got here.

It's one thing going to a country without doing any research on the place – that's fine. As long as you can adapt to whatever comes your way. But if you are a very inflexible person, set in your ways, then don't sign up for an English teaching job abroad without having a serious soul-searching discussion with yourself. If the way they do things in a country just stands your hair on end and you can't handle it, then don't come.

It's fine to visit such a place, just to see what it's like, but living there is a totally different ball game.

If you have a problem with the way they do things but are willing to adapt, to do things their way for a while, then it will be a growing experience. If you aren't willing to adapt, then of course you are going to have problems.

Another pet peeve of mine is when people aren't aware that they are representing their country when abroad. I am always majorly embarrassed by Americans who act up abroad. I had an encounter with a bunch of drunk Americans in a Jjimjilbang (Korean Spa) once that ended with me leaving in disgust because I didn't want to be associated with them. Do they seriously not understand that they are leaving the worst impression of Americans? Now, everyone who has come into contact with them that night will not only think all Americans are loud, rude, and obnoxious (not to mention drunks), but they will tell their friends and co-workers.

Living in another country is difficult (some more so than others). You have to be aware of so many things at once – political atmosphere, cultural norms, language, local laws, local scams, and most especially, your surroundings. You have to keep these things in your head at all times or run the risk of making a serious mistake that can cost you friends, contacts, money, jobs, or emotional and physical well-being.

But if you can't take the heat, folks, stay out of the kitchen.

No Crying in the Prayer Room

Since this is a theocracy we live in, we have, in our university, a number of prayer rooms scattered around campus. There is at least one on each floor and there are two on our floor – one specifically for staff.

There are a number of things you can't do in the prayer room. Slowly, but surely, we are figuring this out.

You cannot, for example, sleep in the prayer room. Even if you don't snore.

You can't do yoga in the prayer room. This is especially sacrilegious because of the implications that you are praying in a polytheistic religion.

And today, I found out that you can't cry in the prayer room, either, unless you want some really dirty looks. But really, I wasn't about to do it in the bathroom like a 12 year old.

National Day

 It's National Day in the Kingdom and everyone is decked out in green and white, the national colors. The cafes all have strobing green light-saber like devices in all the windows and on all the shelves. Everyone is in their festive finest and I am wearing a heart-shaped pin with the face of a very happy looking King on it.

This weekend we had four days off – Thursday through Sunday. Thursday and Friday being the regular weekend, Sunday being National Day and Saturday being the day we got off at the last minute because it was too much work to come into school on the day.

Spending four days off made me long for work. To tell you the truth, there is NOTHING to do here. I sat in my room and painted, and wrote, and watched TV and I was bored out of my mind. Really, having a holiday is not the best thing here because it means you have nothing to do.

Now, in the future, if I know I have these kinds of holidays, and I have been paid, and I have enough notice, then I would make the trip to a nearby county. There are some lovely ruins in the north I would like to see, and I've heard City 2 is a happenin' town. But I didn't have time to plan, I didn't have money, and all I did was sit around.

We did, however, have a barbeque on the roof. Complete with music, belly-dancing, and lounging area done Arabian Style. We all donated our rugs and couch pillows and invited some girls from work to hang. It was a little bit tense at first, because we ended up inviting the women from HR who are more of less in charge of our jobs and we were worried about doing something to get us all fired.

But the second the ladies of HR took off their abayas, we could see this wasn't going to be a problem. They were all dressed to the nines complete with mini dresses and high heels. Since it was on the roof with no men allowed, no one bothered that we were all being crazy western females.

After stressing for days about how we weren't going to have enough meat for everyone, we ended up with enough to feed a village. We had to have a barbeque part 2 the next day just so the food wouldn't go to waste.

I made my famous chili (which is really Hard Times Chili) and got many compliments on it – as I always do. I bought some Budweiser non-alcoholic beer to put in the chili, but after just one sip of it (required) I couldn't subject anyone to it. I am not a beer fanatic (obviously, since I bought Budweiser) but it tasted like... I don't know. Nastiness. Typically it's just like beer flavored water, but this was actively offensive to my taste buds.

Today, I will have my first class with actual people in it. Probably. Maybe. Inshallah.

I've been productive this morning and only gone for one half-an-hour coffee break and talked to various people about how I don't have: A) a book for class; B) pages in my passport; C) information on the DELTA which I, unfortunately, can't take.

The DELTA is like getting your masters in teaching ESOL and I was excited about being able to take it. I am going to try and take it anyway, but typically you have to have two years post-certification teaching to apply. Maybe they won't notice? If it was run by Kingdomites, I would say it's a possibility. But it's run by IH London and they aren't likely to overlook something so obvious.

Le sigh.  

Magda and Savanna

            In the Kingdom, foreign workers typically live in compounds. This was a tradition started by the first generation of American oil workers who came to the Kingdom in the 1930s. They built their accommodations the way they liked it – including the 110 voltage outlets – and basically lived in a Little America. Everyone in the Kingdom was perfectly happy with this arrangement and the practice is still around to this day.

            We are one of the few batches of foreign workers who don't live in a compound. Probably because the company we work for doesn't want to spend the money to build us one.

            On the other hand, the CEO seems very concerned with keeping us happy. Probably because he wants to sleep nights. So, he's been asking us what he can do to make the hotel we live in more suitable. We told him we needed a gym. He said okay. We told him we needed lawn furniture for the roof. He said okay. We told him we needed a lounge. He said okay. We asked for a computer room. He said okay. We asked him for a swimming pool. He said absolutely not.

            But, come on! We had to try.

            I really like where I live, even though I got electrocuted by my own kitchen (see previous post “My Precarious Position as a Cover Teacher”). I love it because the people who live with me are just a blast. There are two accommodations, one called Magda, and one called (let's say) Savanna. In Magda, together, we selected out our gym equipment carefully, we asked for rubber flooring in the gym to do yoga on, and mirrors on the walls. In Savanna, no one is taking responsibility for the gym and so they just have a couple ellipticals in an empty apartment.

            The girls of Magda are all nice and friendly, we band together in the face of adversity. In Savanna, which seems to be made up mostly of older women who complain a lot (note that we have people of all ages in Magda but we have the cool ones). And it's not the kind of 'squeaky wheel' complaining that is more or less necessary in this country, it's the grating, soul-crushing bitching that makes you want to jump out of a moving vehicle just so you don't have to listen to them anymore. Things that no one can do anything about – the weather, the abaya, the hijab, etc.

            We have dinner over at each other's apartments almost every night, and Savana girls go home and don't socialize.

            When I was having the trouble with being electrocuted – and I was complaining about it, like you do – it was suggested that I move to Savanna because they have much nicer apartments that don't have faulty wiring. This was an absolutely repugnant idea and made me think they were just saying that the way you would say 'would you rather jump off a bridge?'. Of course, that wasn't how they meant it, but it made me feel like they thought I was just being difficult. In the end, I got the electric component of my stove replaced – which was what was electrifying my entire kitchen (metal counters, you see).

            In Magda, we've been planning many events (including a Skype party with our cats. Not a joke.) and inshallah, we will have a barbeque on the national holiday coming up on Sunday (we get a four day weekend!) Savanna, well, I don't know what they do with their time. Complain by themselves in their empty rooms?

            Hey, I'm being really culturally accepting here, I have to hate on someone.

The Squeaky Wheel

            I think the motto of this month has got to be 'the squeaky wheel gets the grease'. That's the only way things get done here.

            I got a taste of that before I even got here when I was hired by the recruitment agency (which is different than the teaching agency and the University) and then I never heard from them again.

            This was why I didn't update the blog for a while, it was because I was just so frustrated, I didn't even want to write about.

            Basically, I waited about a month before I started getting fed up; I emailed everyone whose email I had, and still no response. I knew it was Ramadan, but the least that professional courtesy demands is a simple email saying something along the lines of 'It's Ramadan, get back to you in a month'. But no. Silence.

            Finally, a day after I was supposed to be there, I contacted the American who I had talked to and who also worked as a teacher for the same school. She gave me other emails to try. I finally got a response from them. But it still took another two weeks of constant emailing and telephone calls to get my plane ticket to the Kingdom. Which didn't have my name on it.

            You can read about all the snafus that went on when I got here in my other posts, but the number of things I didn't get that I was supposed to – that I had to complain for – is astounding. My desk, a class, books for class (which I still haven't received) – the list goes on.

            We've been having an issue with the buses that take us to and from school – they're too small. We have 56 teachers, and only 52 seats on the bus. This is a clear, mathematical problem. But it's been going on for some time now and the ladies in my accommodation (we'll call it Magda) banded together to put a stop to it.

            We called the CEO of the company and complained – basically every day. But every day, two to four people were being left behind because there weren't enough seats. Fortunately, the teachers who have been here for a long time have been volunteering to take a cab so that the new teachers don't have to navigate home on their own.

            The end of the story is that the CEO got us two buses. Probably just to make us stop calling him. One time he was at the hospital because his African Grey was sick - we just had no mercy. I mean, I feel for him, but we need to get home safely.

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.