CHAPTER I CONTINUATION from THE BORDER JAIL[for those interested, this part http://howtolivelikeanomaniprincess.blogspot.com/2010/03/book-chapter-1.html came before the following:]
Part before missing but available via linkage above.......
Nothing to do with his arrest and subsequent overnight jail stay was elaborated on. So we politely chatted with Mohamed about life, Oman, and ourselves.
And my mother phoned Mohamed then, asking: Where the hell are you and where are my girls?!
Mohamed handed the phone off to me. As high as I was on caffeine I attempted to describe to my mother that we had entered the country illegally accidently and had to drive over the UAE border twice, and that we were now trying to bail Mohamed out of jail. I guess what I said didn’t make sense, because she asked to speak to someone who didn’t sound like they were high on drugs.
I gave the phone to Audrey, who just shook her head wordlessly and handed the phone out in the direction of the ROP Captain and Khaleel.
Khaleel took it and glared at us.
He and my mother had a long conversation where he promised to drive safely and not over a certain speed, and that he’d get us home by 3 o’clock. He also said we were a lot closer to Muscat than we were. He didn’t go into us entering the country without exit stamps from UAE or that Mohamed was sitting in a jail while we made small talk. Khaleel was always one for the omission of insignificant details that could get him into trouble.
Key points of a man’s character to remember are such.
They hung up, with my mother warning him she was a bear protecting her cubs. She had always liked Khaleel though.
Mohamed chatted with us and somehow mentioned that women expire at age twenty-five, i.e are no good for marriage then, because they get too fat. I just scoffed. Audrey was righteously offended, nearing the “doomed age” herself. Since I was already married, it didn’t sting because I would never be labeled an old maid. So Mohamed tried to dig himself out of the hole he was shoveling, exclaiming he meant only Arab women.
“So much better!” Audrey had exclaimed, and then lectured him on women getting fat because they had babies and weren’t allowed to walk anywhere by themselves.
Somewhere along the line on the discussion involving marriage, and our subsequent ages, and marrying in Canada and the average age for that, I made an obvious mention of my husband, Faisal, and how he’d taken care of me when I’d first converted to Islam. At the mention of my marriage, Mohamed turned to Khalil, and gave him a ‘You are an IDIOT’ look that was apparent to us all.
Mohamed almost put his head in his hands and started laughing but instead kicked his knee out and sat back, shaking his head at Khaleel with a smirk, like ‘I spent the night in jail so that you could pick up a married chick’ but it all seemed surpassingly ironic to him, and the ROP had by then brought us some hot dogs for our lunch, and with food Khaleel and I escaped from having delve any further into the misconceptions fostered by my mother.
Realizing it was lunchtime already, Khaleel pulled out his mobile, checked the time, and freaked. But he waited until we finished eating, and then he said something to Mohamed in Arabic, shook hands with the social Captain, and we got up to leave, the two cousins bidding each other adieu with a hug.
“We’re just leaving Mohamed here?” I asked as we got into the 4x4.
“Don’t worry,” Khaleel assured us, “they are just waiting from some paperwork from Bank Muscat. The bank is on a break right now, but in the evening Mohamed will be out.”
I felt bad for Mohamed. We drove away and left him in the border jail because Khalil was already late for work and my mother was freaking.
And my mother phoned Mohamed then, asking: Where the hell are you and where are my girls?!
Mohamed handed the phone off to me. As high as I was on caffeine I attempted to describe to my mother that we had entered the country illegally accidently and had to drive over the UAE border twice, and that we were now trying to bail Mohamed out of jail. I guess what I said didn’t make sense, because she asked to speak to someone who didn’t sound like they were high on drugs.
I gave the phone to Audrey, who just shook her head wordlessly and handed the phone out in the direction of the ROP Captain and Khaleel.
Khaleel took it and glared at us.
He and my mother had a long conversation where he promised to drive safely and not over a certain speed, and that he’d get us home by 3 o’clock. He also said we were a lot closer to Muscat than we were. He didn’t go into us entering the country without exit stamps from UAE or that Mohamed was sitting in a jail while we made small talk. Khaleel was always one for the omission of insignificant details that could get him into trouble.
Key points of a man’s character to remember are such.
They hung up, with my mother warning him she was a bear protecting her cubs. She had always liked Khaleel though.
Mohamed chatted with us and somehow mentioned that women expire at age twenty-five, i.e are no good for marriage then, because they get too fat. I just scoffed. Audrey was righteously offended, nearing the “doomed age” herself. Since I was already married, it didn’t sting because I would never be labeled an old maid. So Mohamed tried to dig himself out of the hole he was shoveling, exclaiming he meant only Arab women.
“So much better!” Audrey had exclaimed, and then lectured him on women getting fat because they had babies and weren’t allowed to walk anywhere by themselves.
Somewhere along the line on the discussion involving marriage, and our subsequent ages, and marrying in Canada and the average age for that, I made an obvious mention of my husband, Faisal, and how he’d taken care of me when I’d first converted to Islam. At the mention of my marriage, Mohamed turned to Khalil, and gave him a ‘You are an IDIOT’ look that was apparent to us all.
Mohamed almost put his head in his hands and started laughing but instead kicked his knee out and sat back, shaking his head at Khaleel with a smirk, like ‘I spent the night in jail so that you could pick up a married chick’ but it all seemed surpassingly ironic to him, and the ROP had by then brought us some hot dogs for our lunch, and with food Khaleel and I escaped from having delve any further into the misconceptions fostered by my mother.
Realizing it was lunchtime already, Khaleel pulled out his mobile, checked the time, and freaked. But he waited until we finished eating, and then he said something to Mohamed in Arabic, shook hands with the social Captain, and we got up to leave, the two cousins bidding each other adieu with a hug.
“We’re just leaving Mohamed here?” I asked as we got into the 4x4.
“Don’t worry,” Khaleel assured us, “they are just waiting from some paperwork from Bank Muscat. The bank is on a break right now, but in the evening Mohamed will be out.”
I felt bad for Mohamed. We drove away and left him in the border jail because Khalil was already late for work and my mother was freaking.
[to be continued]
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