Saudi Border

Saudi Border ©by Nitsa Anastasiades © From the collection 'Our Foreign Borders'

As we drove over the King Fahad Causeway, the familiar Bahrain Tower gleamed in the distance through the yellow haze. At this point I knew, officially, that my holiday—my precious freedom—was over. At least until the next half term break when we could get out of this barren land again. Reluctantly, I stretched into the back for my black abaya and could hear George shuffling for the insurance papers.

‘Shit.’

‘What?’ My husband turned to me.

‘The wine. I think I accidentally packed the wine.’

‘What wine?’

‘The Kokkinelli. The one we used for the stifado last night.’

‘No, you didn’t. You didn’t pack any wine.’

‘I did, Geo. I remember, clearly. When we were cleaning out the apartment—last thing—I went into the kitchen, took the bottle from the cupboard and packed it in the suitcase with the herbs.’

George adjusted the rear-view mirror, turned up the air-con a couple more notches.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Just act normal. They never check our suitcases. When have they ever checked our suitcases?’

I slid my arms through the long, silky abaya material and quickly fastened the buttons at the front. This time, I pulled the hoodie part over my head as well. Would not do well to draw unnecessary attention to my hair this time, I decided.

As we approached the first checkpoint, the six lanes across swiftly narrowed into three, and from either side, the noses of a Land Cruiser and a white Pajero forced their way in front of our Rav 4. Great. It must be prayer time: the three other cubicles were empty. What time was it?

‘Do you think I can jump in the back and grab it in time?’

‘No, Lena. We’re nearly there.’

‘I’m gonna get it.’

‘We haven’t time, and anyway, where would you put it if you did find it?’

‘Under my abaya, between my legs. Janey from school does it all the time with Mick. Loads of people do when they go over to Bahrain for the weekend. Gin, whiskey, vodka—everything. No one ever checks under a lady’s abaya; they wouldn’t dare.’

‘Well, I don’t want to risk it. Remember what happened to Danny?’

‘Yeah, fifty lashes. That was funny.’

My husband flashed me that disapproving look.

‘Oh, you know … when he came back, and everybody was laughing at him in school for being such a drunk. His stupid fault, idiot. I mean, who, with any sense in their brain, would—’

‘He’s getting deported.’

‘I know. Imagine they caught us: Principal of the British InternationalSchool of Riyadh—found illegally in his possession … I’ve always fancied going to one of those women’s prisons.’

‘Lena!’

‘Well let me get it, then.’

‘We’ll be fine. Just act cool. I’ve got our British passports anyway. They’ll wave us through.’

The cars edged slowly forward, and our lane began to pick up pace. From the right side of the passenger’s seat, where I was sitting, I could make out about five cars in front of us, maybe six. I was on the official’s box side and could see him in his cubicle: white keffiye cloth on head, black agal rope on top, stamping papers—vehemently.

To our right, two rows at the back of a gleaming black Toyota were lined with women in burqas. Two pairs of eyes stared at me intently through slits. In the front, a boy of about two-and-a-half bounced on his father’s knee in the driver’s position and hung periodically out of the window.

Overhead, a huge screen flashing Mecca with millions of people bowing down in prayer flashed between ads of a smiling fair skinned mother holding Nestle Nido baby milk powder, scarf tucked around her smiling face and large almond eyes. A flowing line of red Arabic script moved from right to left at the bottom. Fused with it, I saw my sea … my Aphrodite Cyprus Sea— the sea I had just been wallowing in, drink in hand …

‘They’re quite fast today,’ George said suddenly, passing me the insurance papers.

I sat upright and realised we were next. My breathing quickened, as it always did when it was from my side we had to pass over the papers. Depending on who you got, it could be me, or only my husband they’d accept them from.

I wound down the window and a pillow of heat landed in the car. I stretched out my hand and the official, careful not to touch it, or make eye contact, took the papers. I listened to him punch our details into the computer.

‘Passport,’ he blurted out.

‘He wants our passports.’

George leaned across and gave him our British ones. Open, close, flick—back, front— fingers thumbing here, there. Feminine hands. Manicured. Light almond face, well sculptured goatee, and tache. Waxed eyebrows. Eyes, watery— but focused.

‘The multi-entry visa’s stuck in the back,’ George called out, leaning over me.

The official quickly located it, opened it out and scanned it from top to bottom. He shot us a glance, then scrunched everything together and handed it back to my husband’s waiting hand.

‘Halas,’ he said with finality.

‘Told you,’ George smirked. ‘Shukran!’ he waved to the official as the banner rose and let us through. ‘Now for the last bit. At this rate we’ll be back in time for a workout and—’

‘A glass of Kokkinelli.’

‘Stop it, Lena!’

‘No—you shut up.’

A guard in khaki uniform with a generous belly and cap, appeared from behind the official’s box. He gestured for us to park in the lane immediately to the right.

George got out, as was the usual custom, and handed over the appropriate papers: a quick token check in the back seats, and we’d be off.

I opened my make-up purse and put on some lip gloss … a nice cool shower when we got back … and through the mirror I could see my husband’s golden legs from our holiday—him leaning towards the guard: gesturing, mouthing, articulating; his jolly stance. He soon, however, turned serious as the guard raised his arm, and another—one with a machete gun this time—joined them. They nodded towards our car and George came over to my side.

‘They want you to get out, Lena.’

‘Why?’

‘They’re doing thorough checks, apparently. It’s not just us. Look, they’re searching everyone.’

‘And you showed them our British passports??’

I glanced around. Groups of Indian men in blue jumpsuits were lifting carpets out of cars, shaking them vigorously and putting them back again. To the left, a slight Arab man—eighteen? —in Western dress: black leather trousers, white unbuttoned shirt, stood back, hand on forehead, as two Alsatian dogs sniffed around his Mercedes convertible.

‘They don’t normally ask us ladies to step out. You should have told them, Geo, insisted.’

‘Just stay calm,’ George stressed. ‘Say nothing.’

We made our way to the boot of the car where Machete’s gun was poised on top. The air, stifling, reeked of oil, sour waste.

‘My garments,’ I said to the guards, ‘My underclothes are in there.’

‘Err … yes,’ George added, ‘Lady’s case.’

The guard mumbled something in Arabic to Machete, who all the while had his eyes on one of my exposed ankles, wiping his moustache in agreement. The main guard, however, did his best to avoid looking at me head on.

‘What inside?’ he snapped, suddenly.

‘The cases? Oh, you know …’ George laughed, ‘Ladies’ clothes ... shoes, from our holiday.’

‘Open. Please.’

My suitcase—a brand-new burgundy Samsonite I’d bought for the overflow in transit from Crete—the one with the wine in, lay above George’s. George held my gaze for a heartbeat.

‘Open!’ the guard ordered.

‘Oh, just do it,’ I said to George.

George stepped forward and pressed the boot button which sprang open with ease. He leaned in, fumbled for a few seconds to locate the zip, then came round with it, lifting the lid.

My knickers, bras, thongs, an array of multi-neon shades—like a happy garden in springtime—decorated the case. And there, in the centre, the burgundy Kokkinelli wine bottle shone gloriously, deliciously on top. The herbs: the oregano, sage, the mountain thyme and chamomile flowers, were scattered all over, like confetti, from where some of the packets had popped.

There was a cough. Some shifts to the left, right.

‘Bring,’ ordered the guard.

George fetched the bottle and handed it to him, then pushed his hands back in his pockets. I leaned against the boot and watched them. My abaya tickled at my chin.

‘You, you drink this wine bottle?’

The guard studied it carefully. Machete moved in to get a closer look.

‘Me? Oh no, ' said George. ‘It's for cooking. Just cooking.’

‘Mmh.’ He unscrewed the bottle’s top and sniffed inside. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘here,’ stabbing a fat finger down towards the sand, ‘this is not allowed. Forbidden. You understand?’

‘Of course,’ George swallowed. ‘Absolutely, yes. I understand, totally. It was a mistake. My wife …’ George searched me, ‘She packed it by accident, didn’t you, honey? She forgot.’

In the distance, about fifteen metres or so beyond the cars and on a bare stretch of rubble, I could make out the words on a sign: Women Only. And below, another —with a black, thick arrow pointing to an obscure building opposite—read simply: Men.

I could see handcuffs … fingerprints, blackout—a corner, with only the executioner’s sword chomps from outside for company.

‘Lena??’ My husband’s hair had curled into delicious little tendrils around his glistening face. He came and stood by me.

‘Oh!’ I said, contemplating a pair of purple panties I’d just picked up from the case. ‘You can drink it as well, if you want—’

My husband froze as the guard screwed the lid back on the bottle; I continued twirling the panties around my finger: they were made of silk. I let an electric blue one drop to the sand.

‘Oops,’ I said, ‘Sorry,’ bending to retrieve them, and I could sense a sea breeze rippling in the horizon … quickening. It was circling around the jebel nearby, and snaking its way across the road’s hot surface towards my gold-sandaled feet.

I lifted the panties, undid the stud buttons from the bottom of the abaya and slowly rose—the black silken cloak flowing lovingly open—exposing my juicy legs.

Machete giggled like a girl.

The main guard, Kokkinelli bottle still in hand, turned towards George.

‘How much,’ he said, tossing his head upwards, ‘did you pay for this? Expensive?’

Saudi Border ©by Nitsa Anastasiades © From the collection 'Our Foreign Borders' nitsawrite.com for more stories