The Oilfield Palace Part 2: Beautiful Prison

Schlumberger Middle East Learning Center, Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates: Dormitory Entrance

For some reason, the layout made no sense. Doors lead to other doors that lead to stairs that snaked back to the previous doors. The center of the building was spacious and well lit, yet the hallways to the rooms were labyrinthian, with dimly lit narrow pathways and sequestered rooms that evoked feelings of loneliness, and the sheer monotony and isolation added to the air of cold confinement. The staff called it the beautiful prison.

My room, like all the others, was well-furnished, spacious, and immaculately maintained—until I got there, that is. The chairs were comfortable, and the bed felt like a cloud. The white bathroom had one of those high-pressure water hoses that I’ve, unashamedly, used far more often for juvenile amusement than its intended purpose. Outside the labyrinthian hallways and towards the center, the floors and walls of the building were pristine, perfectly white, and glistening, with random furniture and decorations scattered about.

The least gloomy and ominous picture I could find.

This room is cleaner than usual.

At first, a cloud of gloom hung over the new inhabitants of this beautiful prison. Some were homesick, and many initially felt the luxuries existed to compensate for the lack of freedom. We were essentially confined to the campus and were required to attend 8 hours of class per day and allocate additional hours for projects. Sixteen-hour work days were the norm. Alcohol or any dubious substances were not allowed anywhere, and, regardless of reason (and especially for the best reason), members of the opposite sex were not allowed in each other’s rooms. All violators were to be punished accordingly.

As time went on, life progressed normally. In spite of some difficult initial weeks, strict curfews, schedules, and rules, life in this beautiful prison soon became as effervescent and bright as the lights that adorned its central halls. Not only was the building center elegant in design, entertainment options were diverse and there was something for everyone—pool tables, ping pong tables, game rooms, video game rooms, lounges, libraries, among others. Should the indoor entertainment not suffice, there were courts and fields outside for virtually every sport.

Beautiful Prison

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The staff also catered to all needs. Every room was cleaned daily and the toiletries were replaced every other day. And no one had to do their own laundry. I only did my laundry once—mostly because I ended up breaking the machine for holding my clothes hostage.

When it came to food, I had buffet options in an elegant cafeteria. The meals themselves were exquisite, inspired by the many regions of the world in which its inhabitants hailed. Hungarian food would be here one day, replaced by Indian food the next, followed by Indonesian food, then American, and so on.

I had many amusing and enlightening conversations in this cafeteria. I recall one conversation about a rather savory topic. It started with Ivan, a friendly Russian colleague I had met. As he spoke, he carefully enunciated all the syllables and pronounced all w’s as v’s—like a stereotypical Russian would. The topic of conversation was a delightfully attractive Russian classmate.

“Did you see vhat she vas vearing?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah, she likes yoga. Those are yoga pants,” I replied, stabbing away at the buttered chicken on my plate.

Rahul, the comical Indian friend I had met in class, joined in. His accent reminded me of Apu from the Simpsons. “Oh my god! It’s so…tight!”

“What’s the big deal? White girls wear it all the time in America,” I said, “and this one actually does yoga.”

“Dude! Like, nothing is there!” Apu Rahul said. Yoga pants were uncommon in a conservative country like India, so his fascination was amusingly understandable.

Ivan laughed his Russian laugh. “No vonder she gets avay vith trouble.”

To put things into context, both she and I were cheating on a test (to be fair, I needed answers to only 10% of the questions). She was caught and I was not—mostly because I was a better cheater. Rahul and Ivan believed that the punishment—termination of employment—would have been applied to me had I been caught, because I was not an attractive female.

This common topic of discussion—unfair advantages conferred upon the physically attractive—surfaces frequently during my travels around the world. I understand the frustration, but, in my mind, blaming people for taking advantage of their looks isn’t the best course of action. People naturally pursue the path of least resistance. And, if that path involves taking advantage of their luck in the gene pool, then they’re going to do it. The problem stems from society and its reaction to physical attractiveness. Nobody forces anyone to treat attractive people differently. So, ironically, the cause of the problem is from within. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the problems around it run much deeper.

I finished my Middle Eastern mango yogurt drink. “I don’t really care. Can’t blame her for—”

“I vould blame the yoga pants.” Ivan flashed a mischievous smile.

“Those damn yoga pants! How dare they be so skintight,” I deadpanned.

Rahul’s eyes opened in shock. “But, it’s not fair. Don’t you—”

“Personally, I’m glad she still sits next to me. Besides, she’s really cute, and that accent is sexy as hell,” I said.

Ivan gave a puzzled look. “I don’t find it secksy.”

“Are you seriously [sic]?” Rahul said.

“Vat?”

“You’re Russian, too! Of course, you don’t! Just enjoy the yoga and the pants, man!” Rahul raised both hands in bewilderment.

“How does somevone even get into such tight pants?” Ivan asked.

I stared at Ivan, simultaneously raising my right eyebrow and crossing my arms. “With a little alcohol and a lot charm.”

Read The Oilfield Palace Part 1 or continue with The Oilfield Palace Part 3: Energy Crisis.