Teacher’s Life in Riyadh

After a party at Berny’s apartment (I arrived on time, 7 pm, and the party continued without me until 2:30 a.m.) where I met dozens of expats from the US, Pakistan, African countries, Great Britain, and India, I was invited back for a meal cooked by Nasir, who works at the ministry in IT. We ate chicken and tomatoes with incredible spices, picked up (India-style) with torn pieces of flat bread. Delicious! The egg dish was like scrambled eggs and tomatoes, eaten the same way. No need for forks until we tore into Berny’s salad! Topped off with Pakistani tea: 3 parts milk/ one part water/six tea bags/generous portion of sugar brought to a boil. It reminded me of strong English tea and more than satisfied as dessert. Nasir kept his constant narrative of Things Saudi begun at the earlier party; he had information on everything that Wickipedia covered. We mostly listened, except when he told us what “they” said from America. He asked what my son did and was strangely silent when he heard “winemaker”–then he said he had never tasted wine and would not, “because I won’t be able to control myself if I have only one sip.”  More talk, and it came out that wine drunk in this world keeps you from having all the wine you wish–even lakes of it–in the next. Berny and I laughed, and he did too, but explained, “It’s a what-you-say–a belief?”  Berny and I agreed that we’d go with the “Dessert first” approach and enjoy sipping a glass of wine now and then. He didn’t argue, but looked puzzled. When he went back to Wickipedia information on Saudi Arabia and America’s presence in neighboring countries, I told him I believed about 50% of what the internet said. “Incredible!I’m an IT guy!” Later, he translated that to “You believe 50% of what I teach you about Saudi Arabia?” Maybe that’s about right. Nasir found a taxi to King Fahd Cultural Center, where I had gotten tickets to a jazz quartet. The king, the future king (his remaining brother), and King Fahd greeted us from the canapy below a fantastic mosaic tile wall.  It was a new concept for Saudi Arabia, it seemed; the opera house was sparsely filled with abaya-clad women, people in Western dress, and a plethora of guys with cameras to flash in your face and blind you to the stage performance. We were late, but they didn’t start until almost an hour. “In the Mood” and “String of Pearls” weren’t familiar to the house as a whole, but I had plenty of memories as the clarinet took off, the bass thumped, one guitar kept rhythm and the other answered the clarinet in a delicate dance. Sometimes, the audience clapped in rhythm; they came to their feet for an encore. Livistonia was a quartet I’d listen to over and overo–but there were no CD sales! We enjoyed the opulent Cultural Center furnishings almost as much as the excellent performance. Next morning was a difficult one for waking up; the driver rang my gate buzzer when I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes. As we drove past the prince’s walled palace, a new sight: carpets were laid out for either sewing or disassembling around the open square. The royal friends had been to the desert and needed protection under their feet–I’m told of scorpions and snakes, but haven’t seen any. I wondered how big the tents must have been. Abas dropped me in front our the school sign, I greeted the two young traffic directors, stepped through the door and said “Good morning” to the staff who greets every child as they come with nannies, moms, and a few days. Abaya off, I got some cold water from the cooler and started upstairs to the office I share with Selwaan, Curriculum Coordinator and Conscious Discipline implementer. My calendar looked full: evaluate (informally, I’ve no formal materials here) a boy for math and reading difficulties, work with Arabic teachers on forming correct sounds so kids can understand them, conference with two teachers about a very bright kid who’s causing problems, talk with parents about a child they’re determined should be put ahead a year, settle a tearful problem between two boys who are obsessing about whether one of them is Saudi or American or Russian (actually, he claims all three), roll balls with the toddles who say “b…b..b” and scream delightedly, give advice on the pre-k stage rehearsal for parents, eat a salad ordered from outside for lunch, and observe another child in art. I got paint from the balloon-covered pinatas on my tan slacks, but it was worth it. The boy delightedly engaged in art; we went to his class and he remained busy with independent reading. Behavior problems are probably from boredom and excess energy. The teacher did tell me he usually made the connections on phonics pages before she gave directions. Another naughty kid changed to an achieving one in his three teachers’ minds. Back to my office, I took a deep breath and relaxed (a Conscious Discipline trick we teach kids) as kids wheeled their backpacks down to after-school soccer or waiting drivers to take them home. One boy came for phonemic awareness training, and I got a big smile when he saw he had blended four sounds after just three hours with me. He spoke Arabic as his driver took me, then him home. It seemed a pretty typical day as I entered my gate.