MONA SPEAKS of going to the farm with much excitement. Although my family own a farm, the Amir and his entourage make more use of it than the women – they go to a farm belonging to the Amira’s best friend, Princess Stephanie.
It is late Thursday afternoon. I phone switchboard, the mystery voice I deal with daily but never meet. He assures me that Sultan is ready and waiting outside.
The princess is having the finishing touches done to her braids so I go outside to check the car. The water bottles wrapped in serviettes are at the ready in the back pockets of the front seats. After spraying perfume onto her abaya at the last minute, we make our way downstairs. The walk to the car is strenuous as I am carrying the princess’s many bags. I try hard to disguise my ragged breath as I settle next to her in the back seat.
It is dark outside as we leave the palace grounds. Eli swiftly closes the huge gates behind us. The princess is in a good mood.
Half an hour later, we pull up to tall gates. The staff jump into action – they are expecting us. The farm is not quite what I had expected. Extensive gardens, only half-planted, are surrounded by a high wall. A magnificent double-storey mansion is set towards the back of the grounds. Lights blaze from each room.
To the left, seven three-bedroom chalets house overnight guests. Sultan drives up to the five steps leading to the elevated patio of the main building. About 40 women are seated on large comfortable couches arranged in a square. The focal point is a large Persian carpet that covers the tiling. The princess joins her family on the patio while I am directed to one of the chalets that the princess will be using for the evening. I hang her abaya in the wardrobe and turn down her bed. After switching on a couple of side lamps, I make my way over to Mona.
It is a beautiful balmy evening and everyone seems relaxed. Soft Arabian music is playing in the background. I take the seat next to Mona and ask her about our roles on the farm. We just have to be visible, she explains; a butler is a status symbol within the Royal House of Saud. Well, visible we are. So we sit.
Dinner is served at 10. The hierarchy among staff is clearly evident. We are called to the buffet table after the royal family have dished up for themselves. As we make our way down the long line of tables, I marvel at the variety of dishes. The prawns are the size of baby crayfish. Only after we are seated do the nannies and teachers dish up, then last, the Filipino maids.
After dessert, the royals move inside to the largest lounge I have ever seen. Four chandeliers the size of king-sized beds adorn the vast ceiling. As Mona has been here before, I follow behind her, trying not to make eye contact with any of the women on the many couches. We are seated on the side of the lounge at a distance from the nearest royal but in full sight. This is ladies’ night; for once the stiff formality is abandoned.
Mona and I can’t really talk but we whisper to one another as I have many questions. Without making it obvious, I keep an eye on my princess because a subtle nod is all the warning I will have if she needs something. She is relaxed and it is a pleasure watching her interact with her many cousins.
After three hours of sitting, fighting to stay awake, tea, Arabian coffee and cake is served. This is one of the highlights of any dinner with the royals. Saudi cakes are out of this world, and there are at least 50 on the long table. This is not just for the 40 royals present, but for the staff as well – perhaps 60 of us.
I go for my favourite first, a fluffy concoction with lemon-flavoured candy floss between the layers. It is heavenly. The bitter taste of the Arabic coffee complements the sweetness of the cake.
It is now four in the morning and I catch my princess’s eye as she beckons me. “You look exhausted. You can go if you like,” she says with a smile. My eyes are still bloodshot and this often gives the impression that I am tired when I am not. Tonight I am. I thank her, wish her a pleasant evening and walk backwards for about 10 steps before turning. Mona is not at all impressed with what she sees as preferential treatment but then again she is employed by the Amira, not my princess.
As I go outside to the patio to collect my handbag and put on my abaya, I see another driver from our palace waiting at the edge of the expansive lawn. He speaks no English so the two previous times he collected us at the compound, we nodded in greeting. He is in the market van. At least it is bound to smell better at night when it is cooler; the heat only exacerbates the stench of fish.
Walking towards the steps, looking down and leaning slightly forward to get to the bottom buttons of my abaya, I stand on the front hem and feel myself falling forward. Instinctively I know I have the choice of throwing myself to the left into the newly turned flower bed with neat rows of little seedlings or to hit the concrete tiling, straight ahead, five steps down. I twist sideways, abaya billowing behind me, and land on all fours, sinking deeply into the fresh earth.
I hear an explosion coming from the waiting van. The driver thinks my undignified fall is hilarious. Still on all-fours I turn to see how many of the royals noticed. Fortunately I am out of their line of vision, the five steps towering above me, sheltering me. I collect the bits and pieces from my handbag that are scattered across the little seedlings. God forbid I miss a tampon (think pool noodle!). I stand up to dust myself off. Loud guffaws are still coming from the van.
The drive home is punctuated by the driver’s sporadic bursts of laughter. I am glad it is dark in the car.