Jewaira's Boudoir

It is a curious relationship that Kuwaiti housewives have with their drivers.

Early Thursday morning when I walk into the fruits and vegetable shop in Rawdah, there is a hub of activity. Workers are stacking cartons and crates of produce in every available corner. It is not only delivery time but the mahrajan, or the weekly  fruits and vegetable festival where the prices are just right and the time to stock up the house refrigerator.

I see Indian women in long cotton floral dresses stand around the crates of bright red plump tomatoes, squeezing and testing each one before plopping it into a plastic bag. All around, Bangladeshi, Philipino, and Egyptian workers shout out to each other as more produce is unloaded from the trucks or carried out to the front.
Upon entering the shop, there is a flurry of activity. At this early hour, it is mainly domestic helpers or women in black abayas doing the grocery shopping. I decide against taking a shopping cart (but there aren’t any anyway). I head towards the green leaves section and hoards of Asian men are busy picking through the bundles and stashing them into plastic bags. The men dispense a strong, earthy body odor which I feel slightly offensive and I feel somewhat annoyed that I might be jostled between them so I wait for a place to clear.

As I stand, I notice that the men before me are mainly drivers, shopping with other female domestic helpers or with abaya clad Kuwaiti women. I am struck by the companionship between the two. The woman selects, or points at the produce and the driver bags it. There is a smugness, a certain loyalty, a closeness perhaps not even shared with her husband. He holds up the selection for her to examine, or opens the bag for her to take a look. It is all very gratifying. He will push the shopping cart. She will select, approve, and buy. She is indirectly nurturing and he is happy to comply. He is pleased when she approves his recommendation or takes his opinion. He is proud to push her shopping cart, laden with well-chosen ingredients for lunch that day.

The queues are long at the cash register. I stand in between two Asian drivers. Suddenly, an older Kuwaiti woman cuts through the long queue. I keep my eyes steadily ahead of me but she tries to butt in anyway. The front of her shopping cart is digging against my side but I say nothing. She is an older woman and I would not be able to refuse her cutting into the queue that way so I ignored her. The Asian driver behind me , however, is not quiet.

“Mama!” he admonishes her. In Arabic he told her the end of the queue was the other way.

But she rudely points to her cart and said she only had a few things.

The man does not relent. He very loudly and angrily tells her that we have all been standing in line for a good ten minutes and she has to take her turn. She ignores him. I ignore her too and push my way through, standing close up to the person in front of me, finally placing my bags on the cash register belt. I am reminded of the fuss everyone makes when driving: everyone is in a hurry to get somewhere and if you leave one meter space between you and the car in front of you they will move in. The woman manages to push her cart in after me and the man behind me looked resigned.

Outside I meet an older family friend and her driver, as they shop for more fresh produce. We have a little chat and she winks as she says, “I come all the way from my area to shop here. They have the best prices and everything is so fresh and plentiful.”

I had not been in Al-Rawdah Co-Operative for a long time. I used to go there to shop and run errands on Thursday mornings when Thursdays were part of the weekend; not because I lived in that area but because out of all the neighbourhood Co-Ops, it used to be my favourite.  Now Thursdays are normal working days since Saturday was made part of our weekend and I don’t haunt Al-Rawdah Co-Op for a variety of reasons that are mainly functional.
Early Thursday morning however, I had an errand to run and it was in Al-Rawdah. I couldn’t believe that even at that early hour, there were cars queuing and I had to go around the parking lot three times at least until I found myself a space. The first time I drove around, a young woman in a black abaya, and a veil over her face that only revealed her eyes, stood on the curb, sipping some juice and waited expectantly.  Her hijab style was quite high and cone-shaped, and her stance was deer-like, somewhat hesitant yet eager.  Ahead of my car, a dapper looking man in an older Lexus drove slowly heading towards her. Something about them suggested a date. When I drove past some barriers that blocked my view, I was certain she would get into the car with him and as I stretched my neck to look, she did just that.

As I drove around, looking for an empty parking space, I remonstrated with myself for being presumptuous, for assuming something negative about someone I didn’t know. What if it was her brother picking her up? Or indeed her husband after she had finished some work at the bank there? Why was it any of my business who this woman was and who she got into the car with?

Hadn’t something like that happened to me once? One morning, my husband and I were both parked outside the bank in one of the Co-Operatives, standing by our cars and chatting before we went out separate ways to finish our errands. We were discussing what to cook for lunch when a man passed us, scowled disapprovingly, and muttered something barely audible. While one part of me was tickled that he presumed us to be having a rendezvous, another part was somewhat annoyed with the way in which this stranger had expressed his disapproval of our very legal, and normal relationship.

And here was I doing the same thing! I halted my insipid thoughts and focused on more positive matters like finding a parking space which I did very soon after.