Pre-Pakistan
9 MONTHS EARLIER
2001
Kuwait City, Kuwait
Kuwait is a small nipple - some would say sphincter - of land wedged between Saddam Hussein’s Iraq to the north and King Al-Saud’s Saudi Arabia to the west and south. East, across the sparkling Arabian Gulf, sat Iran.
While Saddam was licking his wounds from the First Gulf War, Kuwait surged on with it’s reliance on immigrant workers and production of oil, a valuable resource that was a blessing from Allah himself.
Al-humdulah (Praise to Allah).
I arrived as an immigrant worker in 1999. With a university education and white skin, I was valued yet tolerated - a strange way to subsist.
Kuwaitis desired an American university education so they paid for their children to attend private, international schools. Once their children graduated from these schools, they could apply to any school in the world. Boston seemed to be a very popular destination.
I relished living in Kuwait, and I enjoyed my school, The American Creativity Academy. The students kept me laughing, and my colleagues entertained me in good, bad, and weird ways.
The Arabic culture and language were otherworldly. The landscape was grungy, the wind gritty, and the buildings grey. The only welcome splashes of colour to break up the grunginess were the odd patch of grass, the leaves of a palm tree, the Arabian Sea, or the neon lights of the shops. And it was hot; 60 degrees Celsius hot in the summer.
I returned for my second year and soon started to date a Canadian prairie girl. Sensing that this relationship was going to be a long-term one, we started to look for teaching opportunities beyond the borders of Kuwait. I had developed a sense of wanderlust and added teaching in every country on the planet to my bucket list. Dana felt the need to move almost immediately upon arrival. Kuwait was a different world for a woman.
January 26, 2001
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Our plane started its descent into shiny Dubai. Despite the fact that Dubai was teeming with shopping, attractions, and nightlife, we flew there for a singular purpose: to obtain teaching positions in an international school, somewhere on the planet.
Months prior, Dana, the Canadian Prairie Girl, and I started our application for the Search Associates job fair.
As I was filling out the application in my apartment one evening, I came across the section that simply asked a previously un-talked-about question. Were Dana and I applying as Single, Engaged, or Married? Dating was not an option on the form.
I phoned Dana at her apartment.
“Hey, babe, what are we checking for Marriage Status?” I asked.
“I don’t know. What do you think?” she replied. I was unable to sense which way she was leaning.
After a short discussion, we both checked Engaged and then hung up.
“Holy Crap”, I thought. Just like that, I was engaged.
So, we landed at the Dubai International Airport/Shopping Mall, engaged and prepared.
I had ironed my clothes for the first time in years. I had trimmed my bald head and goatee as close to perfection as possible. I busted out a new stick of deodorant. I brought only my serious ties, leaving the fish-head and Mickey Mouse ties in my armoire in Kuwait.
Our research about the schools attending the job fair found a home in our carry-on luggage. This vital intelligence included contract details, student population, extra-curricular activities, nationalities of students and staff, and much, much more. These binders became our “Bible” during the fair.
We researched weather, pollution levels, crime rates, price of living, attractions, transportation, and travel opportunities of each country.
Conducting the research was exhilarating. We had as complete a picture as possible about each school and country.
I had no hesitation in attending the job fair. In fact, it was hard to contain my excitement. Dana and I could be starting our lives together in some exotic locale. Moscow? Istanbul? Manila? Riyadh?
There were Directors from twenty schools, which made the menu of schools appetizing. There were also eighty teachers who settled into the Ramada Hotel Dubai for the fair.
Dana, however, was nervous. Those 80 teachers were competition, and the fact that we could leave the fair without getting a job left her anxious.
Search Associates (SA) operated this fair. SA and the European Council of International Schools (ECIS) were the big operators in connecting prospective teachers with international schools.
After we registered and paid Search Associates, we gained access to their database. There, they listed school information and teaching positions available.
As teachers, we entered personal information such as teaching experience, teachable subjects, references, extra-curricular activities, letters of recommendation, and an essay on our teaching style and philosophy. Boring stuff, but we hoped our credentials would attract at least one Director.
The Directors of the international schools submitted information about their school, contract details, and the positions that they were looking to fill.
The whole process was akin to dating sites for teachers and schools.
We were appointed a personal consultant while at the fair. Harry was an experienced overseas teacher and administrator who worked for Search Associates. He was a vital link between the schools and his roster of teachers.
Harry, with his British accent, interviewed both Dana and I. He made copious notes with only a pencil and a simple pad of yellow paper. While he may have been old school, he was well respected.
The interview assisted in giving Harry a better feel of who we were and what we brought to the table. If schools were still looking to fill a position, they would go to Harry. He was a matchmaker.
While I felt confident going in, we knew that our engagement was both positive and negative. If there were jobs for both Dana and me, it worked in our favour. The school hired two teachers for the price of one. This decreased their expenses.
We were out of luck, however, if there was a position for only one of us. If we took a job at that school, one of us would be unemployed. The engagement worked both for and against us.
That night, everyone prepared themselves for some hobnobbing and mingling. The stakes were high. The teacher’s livelihood depended on getting a job. Since we all had to hand in our letters of resignation long before the fair, we were all unemployed for the upcoming school year. Desperation, excitement, and nervousness hung in the air.
For the Directors, the quality of their school and their reputation were at stake. As a teacher, if you signed with a bad school, you had to deal with two years in purgatory. Sign a bad teacher and the Directors faced two years in hell.
Dana and I finalized our Top Ten lists and shared them with each other again that night. Our rankings were almost identical. We both wanted to interview at schools in Riyadh (Saudi Arabia), Manila (Philippines), Lahore (Pakistan), Colombo (Sri Lanka), and Moscow (Russia).
We reviewed our information packet that we picked up in a conference room designated only for teachers. Prior to the fair, the Directors were allowed to scatter glossy yearbooks, colourful maps, and other pertinent information about their schools and the host country around the room; propaganda at its best.
The Directors also placed notes into the mailboxes of teachers whom they had an interest in interviewing. We were fortunate as six schools left notes for us. Other mailboxes were empty.
Those notes caused the adrenaline to flow. We felt relieved that someone had a passing interest in us. Still, a few notes did not guarantee a job.
The next morning, we had a nervous breakfast. We reviewed our papers again and our plan of attack. As the Directors headed to the conference room, the teachers dropped their forks and shuffled along with the crowd like sheep we were.
From 7:30-10:00 A. M., the Directors introduced themselves and then reviewed their openings. From 10:30-12:00, the Directors stood behind tables with a large sheet of paper taped behind them on the wall. Clipboards with interview schedules sat at the ready.
Teachers patrolled the room, gawking at the available positions that filled up the sheets on the walls. A few positions were crossed off already as they had been filled prior to the fair. Then suddenly, a stampede ensued as if a lioness had attacked. Teachers rushed to line up and request interviews with their chosen schools.
We queued up to request interviews with the schools that we were interested in. A few lines stretched out snake-like, while others were short or non-existent. It soon became obvious who the popular girls were at the dance.
Representatives from Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Qatar, Bahrain, Tanzania, Turkey, Russia, Germany, Malaysia, the Philippines, and Pakistan had flown to Dubai for the fair.
We approached a school from Malaysia, whose Director was shocked that we had an interest in their school. It was a small, island school with an even smaller salary. A lot of teachers near retirement age taught there for the lifestyle and enough money to live on without dipping into their life savings. The fact that a young couple might be interested in their school shocked them. Still, we were new to the international teaching scene, and we did not feel like we were in a position to say ‘no’ to any possible interview.
We approached the Director of a school in Tashkent. When we mentioned our names, she snorted and stuck her nose in the air.
“You do not have enough experience to work for us,” she said.
That was insulting. It was not the fact that she was not interested in hiring us. It was how she said it.
We moved on, realizing that there were other schools that showed interest in us. If that is how she talked to people, we may have dodged a bullet even though the school had a good reputation.
The rest of the day alternated between interviews, attending presentations, and waiting impatiently for the next event. We checked the teacher’s conference room repeatedly, hoping to see new notes in our mailbox. There were a few.
The tension in the air was palpable. A few teachers were aggressive in approaching the Directors. Some took the butt-kissing approach. Others would pathetically wait near elevators or in hallways hoping to pounce like some jungle cat on a Director. This was their attempt at gaining an “impromptu” chat.
Those who tried this approach always acted as if it was a one in a million chance that they ran into the Director.
“Oh, WOW, amazing to see you in the hallway next your room. I had no idea you would be here! What are the chances of you being close to your own room? But since we ran into each other, I’m very interested in your school and I have a quick question.”
Dana and I preferred to hang back and relax as much as possible - it was not easy. Desperate or overly aggressive were styles we avoided.
The interviews were held in the Director’s hotel rooms. The Directors divided the interview in two parts. The first half was a typical interview. The second half was an opportunity for the Director to sell the merits of their school and host country.
Each school was also allotted time in a separate, smaller conference room. During that time, they showed a presentation with pictures of the school, staff, and students. They discussed the beauty of working at their school and living in the host country. It was a chance for the Directors to field questions. Safety concerns and contract details took the highest priority.
We were very impressed with the admin team from the school in Riyadh, which had a very good reputation. There was no direct fit for us but they were looking at the possibility of shuffling some staff around to accommodate us. We did not expect other teachers to have their teaching assignments changed on our behalf.
The Director from the Koc School in Istanbul was equally impressive. We talked for a long time but my university degree is in Psychology and that eliminated me from contention. Turkish law states that I legally was able to teach only Psychology and that position was filled with a locally hired, Turkish teacher. I received an After-Degree in Education but that was not enough. We were disappointed. Istanbul and the school sounded exotically appealing.
We interviewed with the Director from the Lahore American School for 45 minutes. It seemed like a natural fit. He impressed us with his honesty when discussing Lahore and the school’s positive and negative aspects. He was professional and personal; kind and engaging. Not only had he sold us on life in Lahore but we could tell that LAS was a solid school.
“When is the wedding?” the Director asked at the end, eyebrows raised.
That was the million dollar question for we could not move to Lahore as two single people yet be dating.
With the interviews over, we faced a momentous decision. We considered all of the factors but in the end we chose LAS. The comfort level with the Director played a large part in the decision. Word on the international street was that LAS was a very good school.
Before returning to Kuwait, we connected with Harry to let him know of our decision. The schools paid a fee to Search Associates for each teacher that they signed. He needed to know who signed where in order to get paid.
We returned to Kuwait in good spirits, relieved, and ecstatic.
Unfortunately, not every teacher faired as well. Many teachers left Dubai without a contract offer. We hoped other offers would come their way.
A week later, emails from LAS staff flooded our Inboxes and welcomed us. They validated everything that the Director had told us about life in Lahore and at LAS. They made us feel welcomed.
We felt that we had signed with a diamond in the rough. Now, we just had to break the news to our parents.
January 30, 2001
My Apartment, Hawalli, Kuwait City, Kuwait
The phone stared at me. It begged me to call my parents. The phone knew I had news to share.
Instead, I avoided eye contact with the phone and alternated between staring at the white ceiling and the beige carpet. Tiring of that, I paced between the living room and the balcony. Perhaps there would be another street fight. Those fights were always entertaining. Suddenly, the hum of the air conditioner was interesting.
I knew that I needed to phone my parents. Procrastination and trepidation, however, were winning the battle.
At that point, my family knew I was dating a girl named Dana. They had never met her although they had seen pictures. None of my family had yet to talk to her on the phone, either.
With a sigh, I sat down next to the phone who smugly said “dial me.” I took out my pre-paid phone card and punched in the code. Twenty Canadian dollars bought me a five minute window to tell my parents about the engagement and Pakistan.
I decided on breaking the engagement news first. This would be the big shock. I had already moved to Kuwait. How was Pakistan that different?
Now, news that someone actually wanted to marry me would be harder to believe.
The phone line clicked and beeped. After a few more squawks and squeaks, the phone started to ring. There was no turning back now.
“Hello,” said Mum. Dad picked up the other phone.
“Mum, Dad. I’m getting married,” I said.
“Ohhhh.”
They went quiet.
I tried to imagine their faces but could not. How do you handle news like that after a courtship of less than half a year?
“Oh, and we got a job teaching in Pakistan. We’ll be moving there in August!”
“Oh…”
More silence.
But my parents are cool. They recovered and promised to visit us in Lahore.
The phone chimed “wuss” as I hung up. It knew I had no need to be nervous. I knew my parents would be trusting and supportive, but it was still a difficult call to make.
So, Dana and I had agreed that we would get married. But we were not officially engaged yet. We had focused so much time on the job fair that I had not proposed yet. The whole affair was all ass-backwards but it makes for a good story.
And to make the story even better, I planned to propose on a Mediterranean beach in Tunisia.
February 25, 2001
Mahdia, Tunisia
With the ancient harbour of Carthage behind us, we sped south through towns of white washed buildings, cobbled streets, and blue, studded doors. Shepherds herded sheep past cacti hedges. Roman ruins sprouted conspicuously amongst traditional Tunisian architecture. And the new, black highway led us through the cities of Enfidha, Sidi Bou Ali, and Sousse before we arrived at Mahdia.
My original plan was to propose in the northern city of Tabarka. But the sleepy Mediterranean beach to the north of the city of Mahdia seemed perfect.
The ancient medina and Skifa el-Kahla, a massive fortified gate, looked on impotent and unable to protect it’s citizens like it once did. Tunisians walked the beach as the Phoenicians, Romans, and Arabs did centuries prior. The sun sank low and the waves lapped the white sand beach.
My eyes glazed over as I asked Dana if she would do me the honour. I vaguely remember holding her hands and looking into her eyes. I trembled and was weak in the knees.
“Yes,” Dana replied.
I marvelled at how nervous I was and wondered how bad my nerves would be if I did not know that she would say ‘yes’.
We walked back to our hotel on the beach, hand in hand - officially engaged.
Our next step was to get married in Kuwait.
May 16, 2001
Kuwait City, Kuwait
Upon returning from Tunisia, Dana and I had work to do to prepare for our civil wedding ceremony.
The Kuwaiti ministry required a lot of paperwork. Form after form was signed and translated and stamped and translated again from English to Arabic and Arabic to English.
According to Kuwaiti law, we needed two male witnesses for the ceremony. Omar and Shaun, two friends, agreed to be our witnesses. We all left during a spare period during the school day and hurriedly drove to a sterile government office.
After finding the office, we presented our paperwork to the secretary. She ensured that our paperwork was in order and ushered us in to the office where two women greeted us.
In Kuwait, either two women or one man are able perform the civil marriage ceremony. Two women are essential because women are not as trustworthy as men in business affairs. Thus, two women are needed to corroborate the business deal.
We exchanged greetings and presented our paperwork.
“No touching and no kissing,” one woman said abruptly.
They reviewed the paperwork and said it was in order. The ceremony started.
“I offer myself to you as your wife,” Dana said.
“I accept you as my wife,” I said.
Dana, Shaun, Omar, and I signed four papers and shook hands. Dana and I were officially married according to the state of Kuwait. We snuck a wedding kiss in the parking lot before driving back to school in time for our next class.
We sent a copy of the paperwork to LAS. They could now process the work visas for a married couple.
While it was an unromantic ceremony, being married in Kuwait did bring several benefits. I can marry three more wives. Also, I can divorce Dana by saying “I divorce you” three times. We would then be divorced. Dana would have to go through the courts in order to divorce me.
Many times during our marriage, I would jokingly say “I divorce you, I divorce you…ahh, ahh, ahh, don’t make me say ‘I divorce you’ a third time.” I still think it is funny. Dana just shakes her head.
With the wedding over, we finished the year at ACA strong and flew home for the summer. During July and August, we met our in-laws for the first time and enjoyed a green, cooler Canadian summer.
But time flew, and so did we - to Lahore.
August 4, 2001
Lahore, Pakistan
“It is no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase ‘As pretty as an Airport’ appear.” Douglas Adams
Our House: Part Hobbit, part Pakistani Door
Our plane’s shadow flitted over the barren hills of central Pakistan. No vegetation or water in sight. Just a rolling corduroy pattern of sand and rock. The view was a far cry from London, where we just spent three days exploring. The contrast between metropolitan London and this barren view of our soon-to-be homeland left me unsettled.
As time passed, the hills smoothed into plains and the plains sprouted into jungle. I felt relieved at the site of the new terrain.
As our plane descended, Dana and I looked at each other and smiled. Our new adventure in Lahore, the jewel of the Punjab, was about to begin.
The plane landed on a lonely runway, surrounded by trees and with no airport in sight. Suddenly, men appeared out of nowhere pushing stairs so we could climb down and wait on the tarmac.
We stood sweating profusely in the humidity, sun, and heat. Finally, buses rolled towards us with black smoke spewing from their rear ends.
Lahore’s (they have a new airport now) international airport had all of the comforts of a North Korean solitary prison cell. It was a cement bunker set amongst a jungle. Arrivals were nothing more than one large room for the passengers, a security section, and several booths set up for taxis and lost luggage. Two small wall-mounted fans waved ineffectively against the Punjabi heat and humidity. Everyone was covered in sweat.
We queued up and made our way to the front of the customs line when the gentleman behind me vomited all over the back of my leg. Apparently, he had too much alcohol on the flight.
“Oh man, are you kidding me?” I thought. I breathed deep and waited for a word of apology from the drunk. He scurried away without a confession or a word of any kind.
I was jet-lagged but I was not about to let this man’s vomit damper my enthusiasm. Besides, there was nothing we could do but continue on.
Having cleared customs, we waited for our luggage. Gradually, our co-passengers departed to loved ones or taxis. We waited for our fourth piece of luggage. And waited. And waited.
Through a window, we could see representatives from the school waiting patiently for us.
It was clear our luggage had other travel plans so we went to the Lost Luggage booth. The attendant, a midget, took all of our details and promised to phone when - or if - the luggage arrived.
Never would I pack all of my clothes in one suitcase again. That was a rookie mistake. I knew better.
Outside, we shook hands with the Middle School Principal and a school van driver. They seemed very nice but after Kuwait, I learned to withhold judgement. They loaded us up in a van and we headed for our new home.
A chowkidar opened the gate to our driveway and gave a quick salute. We climbed out and quickly eyeballed a small, neatly manicured lawn, a carport, and a rounded wooden door. Apparently, we moved to Hobbiton.
Two Pakistani men rushed out to help with our luggage while the Middle School Principal gave us a tour.
“We’re living large,” I said after the tour.
The Middle School Principal raised his eyebrows in surprise. Apparently, we got the crappy house but we were more than fine with it.
As we visited, I started to feel ill. Waves of burning knives pierced my intestines. The pain slowly but surely intensified. My belly was an inferno.
After the welcoming party left, I curled up in a fetal position on our bed. It appeared that, while the airline forgot our luggage, they remembered the E. Coli in my chicken supper.
The Middle School Principal returned with vomit-free clothing and, seeing me in agony, took me to a nearby clinic.
The clinic was in a small colonial house. A pharmacist peered out from behind a little, barred window just inside the front door. A petite nurse approached us and asked what was wrong. Her dark, bronze skin and jet black hair stood in stark contrast to her white uniform, perfectly pressed.
She led us to a large, spotless room. The bed looked tiny sitting in the corner underneath the high ceilings.
She professionally took my vitals and wrote the figures on a clipboard. A few wheeled carts and a cabinet were carefully placed around the room.
Soon, the doctor appeared. Whoever cleaned and pressed their uniforms was outstanding.
He quickly and quietly did his own examination. His English was perfect but accented. He conferred with the nurse and after a few parting comments, he and the nurse left. Five minutes later, the nurse returned with an IV and two bottles.
I felt no needle, only the pain melting away. It was remarkable the speed at which the pain disappeared.
The doctor returned to check on me and, confident I was OK, said his goodbye. The nurse brought in a bill and a prescription for medication. The doctor visit, two sets of pills, and two IV bottles totalled $10.00 USD.
Later, we were told that you can buy any drug that you wanted in Lahore. Prozzac? No problem. Buy as much as you want. Keep in mind that the Prozzac may be sugar pills in a legit looking bottle. But, who cares if the effects are the same?
That evening, I recuperated while Dana went out to a meet-n-greet with the Lahore American School staff. I laid in bed, jet-lagged and wiped.
Not a great day - vomit, food poisoning, and lost luggage - but we were safe and happy to be in Lahore.
Now, we looked forward to settling into our house.
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