Inshallah, we will not die.

When I was going to high-school I lived with my family in Saudi Arabia and commuted across the King Fahd Causeway everyday to my school in Bahrain. I had to have a driver take me back and forth because, of course, women are not allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia. So, me and 3 friends would be picked up at 6am every morning and spend the next 1 1/2 hours on the causeway, filling out immigration cards, having our passports scrutinized and our car and belongings searched by customs officials. And then, 9 hours later, when the schoolday was over, we did it all over again in reverse. 5 days a week, 9 months a year, for 2 years. And I loved every minute of it.

Except the parts where I was completely convinced I was going to die.

My driver's name was Rashid, he was from Pakistan and he wore his pants pulled up to precisely one inch below his nipples. His thick black hair was always immaculately sculpted into a glorious pompadour and neither his eyes nor his voice ever betrayed any emotion other than supreme boredom.

Rashid had been driving back and forth across the causeway everyday for the past 15 years and he knew everything there was to know about it. He knew which immigration officers to go to when we were in a real hurry and he knew which ones to go to when one of us kids had annoyed him and he wanted us to sit through a 2 hour car inspection in 120 degree heat.

Rashid, with his dull whisper and heavy lidded eyes had a classic case of passive-agressive behaviour, which, as you can imagine, always made for an interesting commute.

Every so often when the schoolday was over we would beg Rashid to take us to a fast food restaurant so we could get some snacks to eat on the way home. Sometimes he would drop us off and we would hop out, telling him that we would be ready to leave in half an hour. No sooner were the words out of our mouths than he would have floored the accelorator and tires squealing and exhaust billowing he would peel out of the parking lot and race off into the distance. Four hours later, us kids would be slumped over in our booth, greasy fleuorescent lights flickering overhead, the remnants of our meal, now cold and congealed, scattered around us as we waited....and waited.....for Rashid to return.

Other times we would tell him we would be ready to leave in half an hour and no sooner would we step into the restaurant than Rashid would lean on the horn, not letting up until we were all back in the car headed back to across the causeway, dreams of fast food abandoned.

Now back to the fearing for my life part.

Rashid, who barely ever spoke, and never spoke above a mumble, who sat perfectly still and never smiled and barely opened his heavy eyes, drove like a suicidal bat out of hell.

He didn't just drive so fast that my eyeballs rolled back in my skull but he was also very innovative in his creation of alternative roadways. For example, the causeay, a towering bridge yawning over the glittering ocean, has two lanes going each way and is girded by the flimsiest white fence I have ever seen. Whenever Rashid would roar up behind two cars, instead of waiting to pass, he would force our car, racing along at about 100mph, between the outside car and the tiny fence, transforming the narrow breakdown lane into his own personal Autoban. I can't even imagine what we must have looked like to the driver we were passing. In the driver seat, he would have seen a Pakistani man on the verge of a coma, passively staring straight ahead, eyes drooping, facial muscles slack, and four white kids in the back, eyes wide with terror mouthing the words 'help me!' to every passing motorist.

Oh, who am I kidding? We were going to fast he couldn't have seen anything but the gleam of a giant pompadour.

Every so often, when our will to live asserted itself, one of us kids would mention to Rashid maybe possibly sort of considering slowing down.

Inevitably, without taking his glazed eyes off the road, Rashid would spitefully urge the car even faster and murmur "Inshallah (God willing), we will not die."

We would then sit back in our seats, eyes squeezed shut to block out the images of cars nearly clipped, walls nearly smashed and people nearly flattened, and clutched each other's hands, fervently praying that we would live to see another day.

Rashid wasn't just a devout Muslim with faith in God's will, he seemed to actively taunt fate and flaunt his disregard for his own personal safety. Not to mention the safety of the four petrified children he had been entrusted to care for.

Not only did Rashid routinely travel at more than 4 times the speed limit and brazenly create 'alternative' roads for himself, he also never wore his seatbelt or deigned to put more than one finger on the steering wheel.

But the only words he would ever say when we would plead with him to 'slow down, we didn't want to meet our Maker' were "Inshallah, we will not die."

For anyone who has ever spent anytime in the Middle East, 'Inshallah' will be a familiar refrain. Inshallah means 'God Willing' and it is the most commonly uttered phrase in the entire country of Bahrain and it covers everything and anything.

If someone invites you to attend a party you don't really want to go to, just shrug and say 'Inshallah, I will be there.'

Not sure if you can finish that last minute request from your client? Just nod and tell them 'Inshallah, it will be done on time.'

Not really sure if you ever want to do anything, go anywhere, or be a responsible adult ever again? Just smile and say 'Inshallah....."