It was the last night of Ramadan when Salman and I passed by Al Nakheel beach. We hung out by the corniche. While Salman remained inside, listening to fun.’s album Some Nights on the stereo, I decided to step out.
I went near the rocks that were stacked on top of each other as the sea waves gently crashed against them. I looked at the stretch of Al Nakheel’s coastline. Some migrant Filipino workers were there. Their respective company buses were parked nearby. A few had set up small tents while the others were busy preparing their banquet along the row of cottages.
Some of them were fishing. I saw a man guiding his fishing rod not far from where I was standing. He was pulling something out of the waters so I was tempted to approach him. Past six in the evening and it was already dark, but I knew he had caught a fish.
“Wow! You’re very good, po!” I exclaimed.
He smiled. “It’s just patience, kabayan.”
I sat down next to him. Entranced, I stared at the waters as his line explored the waves.
“We were just passing by, me and my friend. I’m happy to see people having their picnic here.”
“Yes, every Thursday night, especially now that it’s Eid,” he replied. “Fishing is also a hobby for some of us. We get to have fun; we also get to have food.”
He pulled again at the fishing rod that he was holding. He caught another fish and carefully placed it in the adjacent bucket. He retrieved the bait that was wrapped in a small plastic bag. Clipped it to the line. Twisted the rope. He rotated and released it again into the waters.
Watching the sea in silence, he eyed the movement of the fishing float attached to the line. He patiently waited for the fish to take the bait. He knew they could be so elusive. His hands patiently guided the fishing rod. It was as if he was estimating the movement of the fish underwater and the relentless waves on the surface.
“Maybe, even if I don’t have a job here, I can make a living with this. For my five children in the Philippines, this is already enough for a dinner,” he said while looking at the bucket.
“How is your family in the Philippines, po? Last week, there was no typhoon, but some parts of the country were flooded,” I said.
“By the mercy of God, they are safe.”
“How many years have you been here in Saudi?”
“I have been here as a bus driver for ten years. And I have been fishing for ten years,” he joked.
Then I heard his companion calling him.
“Let’s eat! Let’s go!” A man called from behind us.
“Kabayan, let’s eat,” he invited me.
“Thank you, po, but I just had my dinner.”
“Life is hard in our country, not only because of the storms but also because of the lack of jobs. There, you also can’t find a sea like this where you just sit and wait while holding the fishing rod and before you know it, you already have food,” he told me as he put away his belongings. “It’s hard to fish in there. If there are no sharks, there will be crocodiles,” he said jokingly, before he bid his farewell.
I stepped onto the rocks again. I realized that for those who think of it only as a hobby, it’s indeed very tempting to go fishing here. It’s a different story in the Philippines, though. And that’s why some of us learned how to catch fish in the desert.
Heat
I woke up from the searing heat of my bedroom. I checked the air conditioning. It wasn’t working. On the desk clock, 11:30 a.m. and 39 degrees Celsius.
Katrina, my pet cat, was moving with unease. She snarled sharply. She also felt the heat. So I put her inside her cage and then into the hallway.
I tried to fix the air conditioner but to no avail. I flicked on the thermostat but nothing happened, not even the compressor was functioning. It let off a feverish steam.
I dialed a friend’s number to ask for help. But no one picked up.
I left my unit. I lingered in the hallway. Then I caught sight of the sliding windows left ajar in the other building. An Arab man. Smoking a cigarette.
I went down the building. Minutes later, the Arab man was standing by the entrance of the building opposite.
We leered at each other. The heat there in my unit and outside were the same kind of burning.
I lugged Katrina’s cage inside into a cool apartment unit.
“Come inside,” said the Arab man as he fondled Katrina.
“Beautiful cat.” My cat meowed. Purred and purred. Maybe because she’s not used to being in here. Maybe some bestial instinct.
And like Katrina, I meowed and meowed all night.
Pancake
I no longer told Salman in detail about me getting fired from the SABIC head office. The issue of losing my job was not new to him. His response was also expected. “Do not mind it. You will always be a sexytary,” he joked.
It took a month of handover before I officially became Service Management Secretary of the General Services. Throughout the month of Ramadan, I was there being trained by an outgoing colleague. But when the management decided to remove me from the position, I chose not to report the day after. It only took me an hour to hand over the job and its responsibilities to an Indian secretary from another department. I would leave the responsibility to him in the meantime because it would take another week before my replacement arrived. I listed all the documents and those that needed to be followed up. I also gave him my log-in username and password. If he needed to make transactions, he could open my account.
When I spoke to the person from my agency on the phone, he didn’t seem surprised either at the news of my dismissal. I was lucky that he was on my side. “No problem, Jack. We can find you a new job,” he assured me.
The next day, Salman invited me to Fanateer. We ordered a takeout for breakfast at Kudu, a food chain open almost twenty-four hours.
“What’s this? A No Job celebration?” I asked.
“This is a family day,” he replied in jest while carrying Salma’s cage, as she quietly lay on her box.
We ordered the Kudu breakfast. One styro box comes with chicken strips, a loaf of sliced bread, two sunny-side up eggs, and butter with strawberry jam, and includes a cup of black coffee. That was for me. Meanwhile, Salman had pancakes and tea. We then headed straight to Al Nakheel beach. Staying in a small cottage, we laid breakfast on the table.
Smelling the food, Salma meowed from inside her cage. Salman sliced a small piece from the pancake and gave it to her. It was as if my pet was a child who had calmed down after munching on food.
I coated Salman’s pancakes with honey and butter. That was his favorite. He also ate a few strips of chicken.
We both looked at the sea. We didn’t talk about losing my job. That moment, it was a distant nightmare.
A man passed by, a street cleaner. Salman immediately confirmed that he was Bangladeshi. The strands of his hair were a mixture of white and gray. Skinny. Burnt skin in the scorching heat of the sun. Obviously a middle-aged man. Maybe in his late fifties. He was wearing blue overalls. The company name and logo were noticeable at the back. And the blue also seemed to have faded over the years. He carried a sack while patiently picking up empty plastic bottles and cans on the side of the corniche.
Salman approached him and handed him the remaining untouched pancakes, along with fifty riyals he had grabbed from his wallet.
“Saudi Arabia is a country of humanity . . . ” I said.
He smiled. “Life is very hard. This old man should not work like this.”
“But he needs a job.”
“But not good for him.”
“Just as I need a job, too.”
He smiled again. “But you’re beautiful.”
And that was followed by our laughter.
Salman had already started the car. I got in, too. He waved at the old man who was now sitting on the bench while eating his pancakes. I just stared at the side mirror.
“May Allah bless him,” he whispered.
“And bless you, too . . . ” I whispered back at him.
We heard Salma purr again.
“Aha, you need more pancakes!” Salman said.
“No. She needs a job.”
