From the teacher file: beauty and diamonds

Sometimes after Parent-Teacher conferences I am stuck with two thoughts.

How do they manage to lift up that hand, let alone drive here with that enormous diamond sitting on that finger? I wanted to offer to take it off her when she reached for a pen to write some note, but in the end she managed to lift her hand and throw the glint of the diamond straight into my eye.

Arab women, on the whole, do not age well. The daughter is gorgeous, thin, sparking eyes and a full head of carefully blow dried shiny hair. Skin glows, teeth are white and they walk with the lightness of angels. Then I meet the mothers. It is hard to imagine that these women were once as light, carefree and delightful to look at as their teen daughters. Now they have pockmarked bloated skin, a head scarf pulled too tight under the chin and the weight of 4 pregnancies hanging around under their Abayas. Where did that lovely girl go?

No wonder they need the diamonds to shine.

Gaps in knowledge: Moving Fast

They don’t move quickly the Arabs. They are known for taking their own sweet good time, whether it be walking from class to class, around the mall or paying for their Shawarma in the cafeteria. In fact they barely move beyond a strolling pace at any time other than in the car, when they are practising for the next F1 or driving close enough to catch a glimpse of the label of my shirt through their windscreen. One of my comrades at work told me that after a recent school trip oversees his trip through Dubai airport with a group of slow walking teens left him dazed and confused. There is never any need for hurry. After all if they should miss that plane then certainly there will be another waiting to take them on their merry way. And when they walk through the airport with the same gait as one on a leisurely stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries, pausing to glance at flowers and sniff warm croissants, they walk eight abreast so that no one with an actual fear of missing a flight has a chance to squeeze past.

When I tell my students to hurry up, and quick now, they might be late for their next class, they look at me as if I am quite mad. For why should they risk raising their heart beat just to be in time for a class? Again, I brought this up with my lovely students who are often amazed by my lack of comprehension over matters Bahraini and are more than happy to oblige with answers. Miss, one gorgeous girl said, as she swept back her mane of black locks, we don’t need to hurry because we are Arab.

Is it really as simple as that?

Yes, because there is no problem. It will all be okay and we are never late because everyone else is also taking their time.

And how, pray tell, will they survive when they hit Sheffield, Leeds, Kent or Manchester next year?

The answer, my friends, is very simple. They will find other Arabs to befriend who move at the same pace.

There is something to be envied in this attitude. Here we are in the West, rushing madly to catch buses and trains, meet deadlines and hurtle ourselves through life, stopping occasionally to gulp wine with friends before dashing to bed only to zip quickly through another day tomorrow. This way, the slow moving way, might be frustrating for those of us operating on a different speed, but for them it works. But somehow it doesn’t have the same ring as the laid back Jamaican “no problem, mon” attitude of a guy sitting on the beach with all the time in the world.  Here we are meant to be getting things done, moving at a clip, operating at First World Speed. Perhaps the whole reason lies in their dress. It is quite impossible to move at any impressive speed in a Thob. One would have to raise it above the knee and give it what for, risking limb, head scarf and dignity.

If you were to picture my life in a time lapse film, I would be a beige blur running out of frame, and there, sharply in focus would be the Arabs, still and glossy in their splendour, smiling and shaking their heads at my madness

Gaps in knowledge: Driving

There are times when I feel as though the roof is falling in, or the rope I am clutching has finally broken free and I am tumbling feet first, falling through the air frantically trying to grab onto ledges, rocks, books, faces, anything.

There are other times when I just have to laugh. For when I am facing a huge tidal wave of culture and difference that is larger and taller than I, where the chance to push and resist seems futile, the only choice is to laugh.

There are certain gaps in knowledge here. Knowing how to drive and how to park is one such gaping hole of knowledge. They ought to erect huge billboards shouting at people in a tidy bold font to “KEEP BACK” “MAINTAIN DISTANCE” “KEEP THE FUCK AWAY FROM THE BACK OF MY CAR” all over the highways. Would it change a thing? Probably not, people are too busy texting and driving to look up and read a billboard. It is common practice here to drive as close as possible without actually climbing onto the back of a car, in some grotesque form of mechanical doggy style, while driving at 120km and simultaneously texting, drinking tea and talking to your toddler who is bouncing around the front seat without a seatbelt. In Africa it was a family of four and their goat astride a Boda boda bike, the wife breastfeeding, the goat looking nonplussed. Here it is children rattling around the car, playing with furry dice, juggling the multiple iphones and Blackberries, adjusting the veil that covers the glossy hair, just so, and seeing how far up my but you can actually drive. Everyday there are multiple accidents, most of them minor and almost all are cases of rear ending. Often you will spot a woman, black Abaya flailing in the wind, scrabbling by the side of the car for one of the phones that got tossed to the ground when she got out to “apologize”.

I think when you go to Bahraini driving school- but why stop there, I hear the entire Gulf teaches this trick,-they tell you to drive super close to the person in front so they will shift lanes and let you pass. This will go on and on and on until you reach a traffic light. This is not necessarily a problem. Red lights don’t mean stop. They mean go faster. Didn’t you know? I think it is apt that the F1 is held here, (come hell, high-water or tear gas) since the entire population seems to be practicing for it all year long. There is a speed limit, but as far as I can see, and I see a lot of people taking over police cars, it must be suggestive.

Cars are little microcosms of oneself; whether it is you or your personal Sri Lankan driver hopping over lanes, cutting people off or changing lanes half way around a round-about (also known as a Chicane) you are cocooned in your own little world, often with internet, DVD players, McDonalds and makeup mirrors without a care or thought for anyone else in the world.

It’s a little desert island all to yourself.