Soul Pics

Last night our new friend, Ben, spoke of Sara in a way I felt but hadn't articulated before. He said it doesn't have a soul. I see what he means, what with all of the ornate gardens and immaculately swept streets lined with pruned trees and sidewalks and villa after villa that looks exactly the same except for the minor efforts to individualize them, plants, welcome mats, wind chimes and bikes parked out front. Indian men washing vehicles under the carport canopies, Indian men trimming the gardens in the back ("Hi, Boss"), Indian men selling me my milk at the grocery store ("Thanks, Boss"), Indian men (Sanjay, to be specific) cooking lambchops or salmon on the grill for all the hungry people unwinding at the end of the work week, Indian men driving three wheel bicycles with baskets full of supplies around the compound heading to or from jobs that need to be accomplished, just like Dave Rom drives his plumbing truck back and forth around Aitkin county. There are plenty of pickups, too. Yep, white Toyotas, everywhere, with the Saudi Catering Company Logo on the side that makes me think of the Dharma Project from the TV show Lost, every time, other apt comparisons: The Truman Show, The Stepford Wives, Groundhog Day. Occasionally I see a calico house cat on the hunt walking through the garden out the back window or sliding between the villas and running across the road under the street lamp at night. The cat is a like a an exclamation point at the end of a run-on sentence.

Ben is right to an extent, although a place is also about what you bring to it. We create our own reality, especially here, where everything is secure (seeming) and gated, at least the two institutions that will come to define our life in Saudi Arabia.

Yesterday afternoon there was a celebration at school. The social committee, about six women, organized a potluck (I brought potato salad) for the staff that was also a baby shower for Niha, who is about to give birth any day. There were a pile of gifts. But that is not the only thing it was. It was also a welcome to the new staff members in the high school along with a small gift for each of us, a celebration of the July - September birthdays and a best dressed contest judged by the principal and the vice principal as everyone was asked to wear pink or blue in honor of Niha's baby.

The high school vice principal and Niha

Then, there were the pictures--lots and lots of pictures, small group pictures, large group pictures, pictures of the food, pictures of departments, pictures of receiving the welcome gifts, pictures of the birthday people. It was joyous. The women (there are only three male teachers) were ebullient in their colorful clothing and they danced around and laughed and so many were just overcome with joy.

The High School Staff 

Some of us more reserved types, hung back and observed but it was filled with energy and goodwill. They had done this before and loved it. It was the first time since I've been here that I had a real sense of being welcomed to the staff and saw how excited they were about us as evidenced by the steady stream of selfies. I have a great picture with my adopted English department home away from home. There has been enough time now sitting through the interminable, mind-numbing meetings and we are coming to know each other and getting comfortable, slowly forming a bond that's going to naturally develop in a small group of people working toward a common purpose in the face of an educational bureaucracy that is even more of an alphabet soup of acronyms than back home--IPGP, KUD, UBD, PLC, ad infinitum.

Nishat, Sadaaf, Humaira, Me, Asmaa

This is the reality.  I think it's the recognition of the insanity (or inanity) of a administration that keeps those they administer sane (or enraged, dumbfounded,  punchdrunk, etc.). There are problems everywhere, but here, just like there, it's the people, my people, and my students that matter. Take care, friends.