It's been raining. I haven't seen cumulus clouds since our trip to Jordan in October. As a passenger of Braxton's Buick Rendezvous on the drive from Dallas to San Angelo, Texas I can watch the patches of clouds and light. Boring Texas has never been so beautiful. Reality truly is the current perspective.
I remember my first drive to San Angelo, June 30th, 1997. Compared to the rain forest-like summers in northern Wisconsin, I found this part of the country to be lacking in color and character. Who would live here? I asked myself. Bryan Douglas Fore, Jr. had not yet entered my reality. Eight hours later a twiggy Ralf Macchio look-alike in a bright yellow shirt and scuffed blue Doc Martins altered my existence forever.
Here I am again, nearly a full 12 years later, on the same road. Wind mill farms have now replaced some of the cattle ranches and pastures. I have changed as well. I spy an old wind mill in the foreground of a field of the new, slick, alien-like power producing variety. I can relate. It's my 3rd day back in Texas after leaving Kuwait "for good" and I feel that a pair of wind mills really get me.
Two wind mills. Two eras. Two realities... I've been thinking about Chihiro in Miyazaki's Spirited Away. I relate most to Chihiro. "Moving to a new place is an adventure," says her mother in the car on the way to their new home.
The adventure starts when the family takes a detour and Chihiro reluctantly follows her family into a strange city of gluttony and decadence inhabited by spirits after the lamps are lit at night. Her parents become trapped and to stay she has to get a job at the bathhouse working for Ubaba. She's awkward and in the way. The characters she encounters are odd; like the Radish Spirit who fills up the entire elevator and the stingy toads supervising the bathhouse and running the kitchen. She doesn't understand their world and misses home, but by the end of the story she's tamed the jealous rage of a lonely spirit, won the hearts of some unlikely allies, made friends, inspired change and outgrown her fears. She reunites with her family and they return to their car parked at the edge of the real world to find it covered in dust, but otherwise un-aged.
Outside of that city no one would comprehend her adventure if she were to tell them the story.
I can relate. My reality has glitch, an animated short spliced into the feature film. I was there. I saw it and it was real. It was real and now it is obsolete; like an old rusted wind mill in a field of new, slick, alien-like power producing ones.
This is my room. This is where I've been hiding out for the past two years. Before this I hid in a different room (not pictured). Now that it is time to pack it up I realize just how much I'm going to miss it. I'll make a new hiding spot. Sure. But this one was special.
While living here I discovered Neil Gaiman novels and ordained him my new favorite author.
While living here I conquered the Friday Market, Kuwait's haggling megadome. I bought that rug on the floor for KD13 ($45). Trish Harris and I chipped down the price from KD20.
My friend Zahra asked "What's an Appa?" when she sat on our little couch one day and I introduced her to Avatar: The Last Airbender.
The orange scarf hanging under the cowboy hat was a gift from Silvia and Nino after sharing salmon, wine and chocolates in her tiny Paris flat.
Optimus Prime, who stands resolute on the corner of our IKEA bookshelf made surprise appearances in all sorts of places around our place. One day he'd remind me to take my probiotics or stand in my dresser drawer holding his suggestion of which panties I should wear for the day.
My art easel was remained, "Arch Weasel" when I told my husband I was giving it to Yusra and the static-ridden phone lines in Kuwait distorted my words.
We were living here when we decided to become helicopter pilots and move to Arizona. In the evenings after work we'd stretch out on the bed and talk about flying, listening to The Eagles of Death Metal.
We had celebratory bootlegged date rum cocktails when we paid off the last of our debt. Four years in Kuwait and we were able to accomplish what would have taken twenty in the US.
On my laptop in this room we sat scanning our 100-page mortgage document, trying to email our lending company during the Great Internet Outage of 2008.
In this room we planned our trip to Jordan to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary where we would spend six hours on The King's Highway from Jerash to Petra where we encountered jinn and reminisced on the mistakes and triumphs of our twenties.
I spent hours, a few moments at a time, perched on this balcony, thinking about what to do next.
When it comes to planning there are two kinds of people: The "What-timers" and the "Wheneverists." At some point I migrated from the former to the latter group. This realization came when I analyzed my annoyance with the repetition of the question, "What time?" Most often, my answer is simply, "I don't know yet," or maybe a guess, "...around this time-ish." Most of the time I'm good with that. I have to be.
True, there are times when time is vitally important. Like, for example, when trying to squeeze in one more beer at Irish Village in the Dubai airport before your flight to Kuwait, or when dealing with Americans. We Americans have got to know what time. It's the knee-jerk response to any invitation. In Kuwait, and in many other countries I suspect, time is as inconsequential as the weather. It comes, it goes, it doesn't matter what you have planned.
Take this spring/summer for example: My flight leaves Kuwait on April 24th at 8:15am. Doug does not have his ticket yet. We are planning to be in Beaumont, TX on June 6th and in St. Cloud, MN on June 13th. Everything before, after, and in between is a big question mark. Along with all the other details in life.
Where are we going to live? In either a house, condo or apartment; somewhere in Chandler, or Mesa, or Gilbert, AZ. When will we get there? Sometime in July, mid-August at the latest. School starts sometime in August and we should be there for that. When are you going here? When are you going to make it there? When will you stay with us? When will you see them?
The answer is: I don't know. Even if I did know, it would probably change before the actual when actually happens. I know it's hard for all you What-timers, but try to relax... not knowing is fun. Not needing to know is even more fun.
Becoming a Wheneverist is sort of like becoming a nudist; only less embarrassing for your friends and neighbors. Sure, you may need to carry a towel to sit on and have your cats declawed, and, sure, you might irritate less liberated individuals, but you don't give a damn. Cares to the wind, quite literally.
In truth, I'm just guessing - I've never tried nudism, but Wheneverism is quite nice.
"Too much beeg heer," said the tailor, making parenthesis-like motions around my hips. "Very smoll heer." He added, gesturing to my waist. He tsk-tsked and tugged on the hem at the back of the dress.
"Too much beeg. Make too much problems for me." This was round-two of verbal abuse and adjustments to a simple, satin, red, strapless dress I'd hired Abdulhaq, the tailor, to make.
My friend Mai brought me to his tiny shop, littered with stray threads, scraps of fabric and a mound of yellowing magazines and catalogues with random pages torn out of them. I brought my fabric and a few sketches of the dress I imagined. Back and forth, in English and Arabic, the three of us argued over the number of seams and whether or not there would be enough material to even make a dress. I said it could be as short as it needed to be and we finally settled on a design.
"Anyting you not happy; I am heer. I make feex." He handed me a business card as I made my exit and said to call to see if the dress was ready.
"Don't you need to know my name - for when I call?" I asked. We had covered the standard questions: Where are you from? When did you move to Kuwait? Why did you move to Kuwait? How do you like Obama as president? Etc. etc. But, we skipped over the name-exchange and hand-shake part... Straight to commenting on the size of my bodacious backside. I guess lady's tailors can't be an overly formal bunch. No need for names even. Apparently, I am Abdulhaq's only American customer and one of only 3 White women to ever visit his shop.
The first fitting session of "too much beeg" was sort of funny. I laughed. This happens a lot; people think I'm smaller, lighter, weaker than I actually am. The first two are sort of flattering and the last one doesn't bother me either - I know how to wear clothes at compliment and I prefer to be underestimated. However, after the second fitting session when the dress was still rolling up into creases at the small of my back, just above the "pa-pow!" as my husband calls it, the "beeg" comments started hit a nerve. I mean really, man... Why do you think I went to a tailor for a dress? I know my long distance runner proportions of yesteryear have, well, shifted some. Now, please make me a dress that fits, kay? I tell this story much better in person. I've perfected my Arabenglish accent and the hand gestures make it so much funnier. As I relayed the tale to friends, most did, actually, LOL at my BOB (laugh out loud at my big ol' booty). This was usually followed by a "Yeah, but it's not that big." I have to agree; we're in Kuwait, the land of Kuwaiti women. Speaking generally, Arab women aren't known for their lithe figures and tight, athletic tummies. Have you ever seen a real belly dancing show? It ain't like Shakira. Maybe it's just that Caucasians have the reputation of a somewhat "uneventful" figure...? The answer is unclear.
So, I ask every man's most-dreaded question: Does this make my ass look big?
My man's response: "Yes. A bit. Don't change a thing."
Well, there you have it, Ladies; big is in the eye of the butt-holder. Here's to breaking the mold.
I struggled to come up with an interesting commentary on this post. I uploaded the photos about 5 days ago and each day I started to write a snidely clever something about them and each day I saved it as a draft and gave up. Maybe I should change the post title to: "Umm... Excuse me, G4? I Think You've Lived in Kuwait Too Long."
If you're wondering what exactly you're looking at, yes, that's a construction crane turned on its side. Nevermind that parking such equipment in the middle of a busy city street, without "under construction" signs or even a beat up old orange cone, is standard operation - yeah don't worry about that, just drive around it and watch out for falling building materials. My guess is that the operator over-estimated his load/reach ratio and toppled like a 6'3" junior high kid whose shoe size hasn't caught up with his last growth spurt trying to lift a backpack over his head. Did you see that little soccer shop? It now has a nice, dusty skylight.
I cruise down this street everyday to and from work dodging alley cats, kids on bikes, guys crossing the street while texting on their mobiles, other cars unconcerned with right-of-way, guys with wheelbarrows, guys who stop in the middle of the road to stare at me and, oh yeah, bigass construction cranes. On this day I turned the corner, almost to my apartment, and saw this. I went home, grabbed my good camera and snapped these photos. Just for you.
You know... When you reach the point where an overthrown crane is an event is so typical, so situation-normal, that it scarcely causes a flutter on the interest scale, what do you think, maybe it's time for a change in scenery?
All teachers need a teacher and all teachers need to be students of someone or something. It’s the only way we stay fresh. Someone once said that you must “return to the well” or your knowledge will run dry. That makes sense. And being humbled by our ignorance can only make us more compassionate to the struggles of our students. I stopped teaching because I am without a “well” and my bucket done run dry. So, I search for a teacher… in Kuwait.
That's me, to the left, back when I was yoga-awesome. Vain as it may be, I liked being able to float my entire body weight on my hands. I felt like, if I could do that, then I could definitely haul my own over-packed suitcase from trunk of the car to third-floor bedroom without pulling a hamy or something. I'd like to be yoga-awesome once again. Help me Joshy P. Joseph; you are my only hope.
Joshy P. Joseph is a yoga teacher in Kuwait. Even better; he’s Indian. That origin is distinct a plus if you ask a lot of yogis in the biz – let’s face it, learning from a guy with an accent feels more authentic, right? According to Joshy’s website, yogaq8.com, he has “completed YIC [Yoga Instructors Course] from SVYASA Deemed University, Bangalore,India, and has substantial scholarship and handiness in Yoga and Meditation.” All nit-picky grammatical blunders aside, I like a yoga teacher with handiness in yoga. This could be good.
How Course Planned ?
Just make a call for fixing date and time . Deliver classes upto learners caliber . Usually single session contains 8 postures. Recommended one session weekly.
Where course conducting?
Learners have two options, you can come to salmiya studio or class will be conducted at your home/villa .
God bless the internet; everything I need to find a yoga teacher is right there on yogaq8.com. I made the call. No answer. No worries. I’ll start with email; less miscommunications anyway. I explained that I was a former yoga teacher and now work for a popular local magazine. My message received an excited response and he asked me to call later this week for to make fix the time.
Later that week I called and must have woke him up. At 11:00 am. Maybe he was meditating? He sounded groggy and disturbed and asked that I call him later that day. I called back at 3:30 pm. His bright greeting became perturbed annoyance as soon as I announced my name. He said he was very busy and couldn’t talk just then. I told him: “No rush, you have my number – take your time and call back when you’re free.” That was the last I heard from him. I called once more, emailed once more - nothing - and then, like the enlightened being I am, I took it personally.
I couldn’t let it go. How "yoga" is that? He led me on and then blew me off! I can sympathyze with not wanting to add anymore classes or not wanting to take on anymore students, but who turns down free, positive magazine coverage? There must be more to it and was determined to find out it was.
I involved a friend, an accomplice for my yoga teacher espionage. She called Joshy and scheduled a class for the following Saturday for her and a “friend.” I had it all planned out. We’d go and I’d bring the latest issue of the magazine with me, as if I’d just picked up for some casual reading, and bait him into commenting on it. Or that silly girl that works there… I would be cool and composed, of course, nonchalant and forgiving of the swami-wrapped yogi who just dogged someone he’d never met – a karmic faux pas much bigger than any website typos. We’d laugh it off and then I’d have a yoga teacher. I waited for Saturday.
Saturday came and went without a yoga class. The last conversation between my friend and the elusive teach was that they’d talk on Friday to confirm the class time and get directions, but Joshy didn’t answer his phone or return any calls or messages. Rascally P. Rabbit made the slip a second time.
I give. You can’t make someone like you, you can't do favors for someone who doesn't want them and you can’t make a teacher give you a class. Joshy, if you’re out there reading this, don't make me send C3PO after you too (he's really bad at yoga), please call back. Until then…
*All quotations from yogaq8.com were taken as-is. In my research I discovered that Joshy P. Joseph is a very common name, especially among the computer programmer crowd. According to what I found, the teacher in question could be one of these two handsome fellas:
“So, those are pictures of your fingers?” I put on my practiced “impressed face” and nodded enthusiastically.
“And all the photos were taken with my mobile phone.” The artist added with equal enthusiasm.
He went on to explain how inspiration struck one afternoon while painting the interior of his house. Playing around with different concrete stains, architect Bassem Al Mansour dipped his fingers in red, then yellow paint and when he looked as his hand saw that his digits resembled the forms of people. He ran from one window to the next trying to find the best light that would bring his finger family’s stories to life.
The result was a duet exhibition, called Familiar Matters (his fingers and the print work of a friend/artistic partner), showing unframed photos with such titles as “Grandmother – grandchildren,” “Engagement blessings,” “Grandmother kisses the bride,” “We agree on the marriage,” and “The Visit.” Each role in the saga played by Bassem’s paint-covered keyboard tappers.
As an editorialist, amateur art critic and sometimes cynic, I’m not sure how to feel about this exhibit. For my magazine review I will, no doubt, spin it positively, noting the unusual whit of a story told, literally, with finger paint. It takes a curious and unaffected mind to see painted fingers and look for a story rather than the nearest sink and bar of soap. The repetitive simplicity of a blue background with red and yellow objects in the foreground reassures my comfort with primary colors and his descriptive titles cause a quick snort of a smile.
All these things are much appreciated in Kuwait, a somewhat sober and irritated place. Goofy humor and adult playfulness without illicit underpinnings are rare. Maybe too rare to entertain the funny bone of the local art socialites. The overall low attendance and rapid exit of those visitors might suggest non-interest, confusion, distaste or just disappointment that so few other gallery snobs will get to see them in their new Luis Vuitton shoes.
On the cynical side, I wonder if Kuwait is so parched for humor that pictures of someone’s fingers, taken with a mobile phone, enlarged, printed and hung with Scotch tape can get an audience in one of the country’s premier fine art galleries – a gallery that also holds an original Warhol. I wonder if this is another example of the small-pond-syndrome that surrounds this tiny, filthy, rich country. We say it all the time: You can be average anywhere, but in Kuwait you’ll be exceptional and my skepticism raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the “art” exhibit of which I am professionally obligated to give a positive review. In the end I'll appease myself with the fact that I like the artist personally and the praise is going to a well-deserving person.
Would Familiar Matters make it into an art gallery in London or New York? I wouldn’t know – what do you think?
It’s about time I talk about Kitten-Shirt-Guy. He and I have never actually met, but we see each other most mornings in the weight room of the gym at the Holiday Inn. I’ve not met him on purpose. I like my name for him and I don’t want to feel obligated to call him by his real name, if only in my head and to those lucky enough to hear my tattles of his exploits.
Kitten-Shirt wears sunglasses. All the time. They are the black, biker-style, wrap-around kind and I wonder if he wears them brushing his teeth in the morning. I wonder if he does brush his teeth in the morning. I’ve deciphered from his Arabic slang (he spends half his gym time on the phone) that he is Kuwait and Kuwaitis aren’t known for their dental regimen.
Kitten-Shirt is bald – shaved head – so he’s fierce, not follicle-y challenged. The extra-thick mustache is added proof of that. Kitten-Shirt is shorter than me and wears Zumbas pants. Remember those? MC Hammer’s version of chef pants. He also wears black Converse with white laces, his only redeeming fashion quality. But, as you would guess, Kitten-Shirt is so named because of his choice of torso coverings. He favors the muscle-baring, low-cut "nipple shirts," as I like to call them; the weightlifter's answer to the spaghetti strap girly-tank.
There I was, doing my usual routine of lunges and twists when I saw it: A brilliant white, cut-at-home nipple-shirt tied in little knots at the shoulders (to give just the right amount of peek-a-boo cleavage) and decorated with an adorable iron-on tiger kitten front and center. I think he made it himself. Biker sunglasses, mean face, inflated muscles with bulging veins and a tiger kitten – cute as a button – on his skimpy shirt.
Sadly, Kitten-Shirt-Guy is the most entertaining anecdote of my mornings. I wonder what he will do tomorrow… Must work-out to find out. And that's turning a frown upside-down.
“Hello Jordan, you were always my favorite New Kid,"said my derisive husband as we turned off the highway, heading from Queen Alia Airport to our first hostel destination in Madaba, Jordan. I punched the #1 button on our rental car’s preset radio stations and Fergie’s voice came crashing through the airwaves, “When I’m in Jordan I listen to 97.1, Jordan’s No. 1 hit Radio station!” No way, Fergie has been to Jordan before me? I thought to myself. Natasha Bedingfield’s latest jingle, a duet with the comeback Backstreet douche-bags, kicked in as we drove past a well-lit advertisement for a new suburban development featuring the smiling faces of White couples and happy parents swinging their red-haired youngling between them. Our tourist-level-deep Jordan experience was yet to come, but the first initial splash with the cool spray of Western white-wash sort of stuck with me.
It got me thinking of all the other advertisements and White people imagery I’d noticed in my limited travels through the Arab world. It would appear that when the message is fun, relaxation, convenience or fulfilment, the preferred spoke models are of the more pasty variety. Stroll past any “Coming Soon” boarded storefront of any mall in Kuwait, Bahrain and the Emirates, or skim the brochure of any health spa, hotel, restaurant or shopping center and the gleaming, naturally pink complexions of attractive Crackers staring back at you with placid blue and green eyes. It’s like they’re saying, “Look, look, live here and live like White people.” “Drink this and you’ll laugh like White people.” “Don’t you want your banking experience to be like the White people? They never have to wait in line – see how they’re smiling?”
I wonder how many smiling White people the proprietors of such ads have actually encountered in the Middle East. I’m certainly not one of them. I've got a well-practiced angry face that I wear everyday in Kuwait. I forget to turn it off, sometimes, after I've left the country. I still remember reactions from beach goers with vacation buzzes when I was in Thailand. Someone actually stopped me to ask what was wrong... "Did something bad happen to you?" they wanted to know. The look is one of defiant indifference and slightly hateful complacency. It takes about as much work to perfect as Zoolander's "Blue Steel." It's my only armor in an amorous and sexually repressed world where men assume a woman solo is a woman soliciting.
I'm not the only one with a Blue Steel, everyone around here, talking about Kuwait now, looks slightly hateful and indifferent. Eye contact is either a personal insult or a personal invitation and a smile, my God, a smile is practically a public display of orgasm. I'd venture to say that both genuine smiles and orgasms are rare for women in the Middle East. An increase in one would probably lead to an increase in the other and so far, I haven’t seen it. In fact, I can count on one hand, using only three fingers, the number of times I've seen people with the look of bliss about them. I'm talking about just random occasions when a person looked happy for no reason at all; everyone beams when the first bottle of real Johnny Walker Red comes out.
Occasion One: Marina Mall, the local cruise spot for adolescent boys of all ages and gaggles of girls whose layers of skin-tight clothing are surpassed only by the layers of make-up they're wearing. The husband and I were at the food court, waiting for a movie to start and I couldn't stop myself from noticing a young-middle-aged woman with her family seated near by. Trying to figure out why my gaze was so drawn to a very normal-looking woman in a very normal situation, I realized that she was smiling. She smiled at her kids and her husband. She looked bright and happy. It was the first time I'd seen this since moving to Kuwait.
Occasion Two: Stuck in traffic on Arabian Gulf Street, I looked toward the seaside, as I often do when traffic is slow, to see if I could separate the color of the sea from the sky. The coast to horizon of Kuwait is like one big yawn of faded blue-gray, but today I saw something that made me laugh out loud. Not in an “I laugh because I need to find humor so that I don’t cry” kind of way, no, it really gave me the giggles. A large-ish woman, wearing a black abiya and hijab, had turned out of the morning rush hour, parked her car in front of a small playground and was vigorously pumping her feet back and forth, swinging gleefully on a yellow, dinosaur-headed swing-set. Occasion Three: At a "beach party" hosted by a friend's event management company I was coerced into being their photographer for the day. The day’s activities were many of the typical picnic games I remember playing as a kid: dodge ball, volleyball, tug-of-war, potato sack races, and others. People in their early twenties in America would not have paid $50 for boys and $35 for girls to attend such an event, especially without free alcohol and definitely not if alcohol was prohibited. But these kids ate it up. There were around 150 young people, running around like 5-year-olds on a pint of ice-cream and pound of cake frosting. One guy in particular, had an overload of good feelings and stopped mid-bolt to scream. Eyes wide, fists clenched, he dropped to his knees still screaming joyfully, not knowing what else to do with the foreign emotion.
Which brings me back to my observation of White people representing fun; is happiness really a foreign emotion to some people? A day outside on the beach, playing games with a mixed (“mixed,” meaning boys and girls together) group of friends seems pretty normal to me. Exchange the beach setting for a wooded park or sunny field and you’ve covered the leisure activities of most American youths. We think nothing of talking and laughing in the presence of girls and boys we know and don’t know – it’s not even really classified as “fun;” it’s just normal. Compare to the three marked occasions of happiness in three years of living in Kuwait.
Maybe it just looks unnatural to have smiling Arabs on advertisements and “fun like White people” is just more believable. I don't know, but can anyone tell me where they at?
A story of my first Kuwait wisdom tooth extraction
"Baining Madam?" He asks for what must be the seventh time, bloodied drill in one hand, dental pick in the other. He heaves over me, out of breath, dropping sweat beads onto the inside of the scarlet spattered acrylic face shield that separates our two bio-hazardous fluids.
"You have bain?" He asks again. Hells yes, I have freakin' PAIN! You’re dismantling my skull one tooth fragment at a time!
"Uh-huh." I answer, without moving my tongue. I taste pennies and calcium; the warm, gritty, iron flavor of flesh and bone.
"Iza, okay?" He gestures with the drill. "I zink I almost zere." Well have at it, there man, no need to hold back now. I close my eyes as the drill starts. I smell burning, there's more splattering, more gauze, and the drill is exchanged for chisels and picks. Cracking, breaking sounds, pulling, yanking, pulling, prying. The dentist sits down with a harrumph.
"Iza stuck." He sounds defeated.
It's been hours. I'm tired. The muscles of my neck and back and even my glutius maximus ache from pulling back against the pulling on my jaw, the effort to free a wisdom tooth from its tight socket. The Novocain started to wear off about 15 minutes ago and I steady my breath into 5-count inhales and exhales. I think about the possibility of ancient peoples giving birth and having their teeth removed without painkillers and decide that generations of medical advancements have made us all soft. I will survive this. It’s just a tooth. All I have to do is wait, it will be over –sometime. Breathe.
He's back, leaning over me, peering into my mouth, bushy eyebrows fierce. The light is adjusted, tools are exchanged – he has a plan. I close my eyes. Inhale-2-3-4-5. Exhale-2-3-4-5. Drill. Water. Drill. Inhale-2-3-4-5. Exhale-2-3-4-5. Water. Suction. Searing, wincing pain.
"Baining Madam?" A pause in action.
"Uh-huh!" I look for his eyes to communicate my extreme contempt for him at this moment.
"You need more Novocain?" I can't tell if he's annoyed at the interruption or relieved for the break.
"Uh-huh. Yagh." Screw reviving my forefather’s toughness in a single dental visit; find a section of gum that's still intact and stab me with more of that sweet numb-juice.
"Okay, I zink you need oral surgeon." He says after 2 hours and 45 minutes of sadistic torture. "We take you for more x-ray now, I zink zere is one bieces still inside. Ze oral surgeon will cut it out for you."
"Uh-gkay." Why argue, really?
While we wait for the x-rays to be inspected and the additional shots of Novocain to take effect, let me fill in some details from the beginning of the story. After the extensive dental work of my teen years I was left with only the two bottom wisdom teeth. Previous dentists had warned that the day would come when they would have to be pulled, but no need to rush it they said, when they hurt, go to the dentist. Easy enough. Those two teeth began to hurt. My co-worker recommended a dentist, I made an appointment and on a Wednesday evening, right after work, I went to see Dr. Bain… er, make that Hussein or something. He looked in my mouth, asked which one hurt the most and announced that we would start there. It will take only 45 minutes or so, he estimated, to remove both.
For this procedure in the States, if you want them to, they'll knock you clean out; you wake up with ice-packs, a prescription for Vicodin and you're on your way to enjoying chocolate milkshakes, movies in bed, and a few days off of work, oh yeah, and a little swelling. In Kuwait, however, things are a somewhat different; forget the good drugs, forget the knockout surgery, you're wide awake the whole time and get a measly Tylenol substitute for comfort afterward. And, just to add humor to the situation, the Arab/English accent replaces a "p" sound with a "b" sound since there is no "p" in the Arabic alphabet, hence the question of "bain." Why they insist that something is "baining," with the i-n-g, remains a mystery.
As a side note: prior to making this appointment, I had just heard a story, a friend of a friend, who went to the ER at an international clinic in Kuwait with a deep cut on her thumb. She'd been packing dishes, sliced her thumb when she broke a glass and went to the hospital for stitches. The anesthesiologist miscalculated the dose of local anesthetic and sent her into cardiac arrest. They had to revive her with the "Clear!" – ZAP! paddles, for Christ's sake.
With this story still fresh in my mind, I apprehensively eyed Dr. Hussein's framed university credentials and tried to recall the "What to do if You're Having a Heart Attack" instructions that I saw in a chain email once. Something about raising your left arm while hitting your chest and forceful coughing… Or maybe you raise your left arm and then hit your chest with it…? It didn’t seem like valuable information at the time.
Back to the dentist chair now; I've been moved to the oral surgeon's room where I wait with a mouthful of gauze. I'm remember a snippet of the TV show Scrubs when the actor Zach Braff tries to entertain an old cranky patient by stuffing cotton balls in his mouth and imitating an Italian mobster's accent and I wonder why it's never as funny when I do it. Maybe it's because I'm a nasal-voiced, white girl with awkward comedic timing, but really, you'd think that would only make it funnier. Huh, another mystery.
With the call to prayer sounding faintly from the street, my savior surgeon enters the room. She stands about my height with my butt in the chair and her feet in comfortable cross-trainers. She's covered in white fabric from head to toe; white hijab, white doctoral coat, white butcher's apron, white linen pants and white gloves. One normal sized eye looks at me with all the compassion of Mother Theresa and the other blinked from behind a telescopic magnifying lens. The monochromatic layering gave her the appearance of a dense feather pillow, add the head apparatus with rotatable, interchangeable lneses and visions of anthropomorphic mole-nuns come to mind.
"Shhh... Habibti, shhh..." She whispers from behind the dental mask as the chair is reclined to its lowest setting, my head now lower than my knees. "You're very strong," she says. It sounds like she means it. One hand rests on my forehead or gently squeezes my shoulder during exchanges of dental instruments; that constant contact a gesture of reassurance.
"Alright, Habibti, we're almost there." I believe her. When the masked face leans close I can hear her muffled Arabic, reciting the evening maghrib prayers. I pretend that she is praying just for me. I makes me feel better. She completed the ordeal with eight stitches.
"Okay, that one's finished." She leans back and clicks one of the lenses up, it perches outside of her line of sight.
"Would you like me to get the other one while you're here? Or maybe you'd like to go home now?"
"Yahg. Ohm," I try to sound as casually desperate as I can manage.
And so concludes the tale of my first wisdom tooth extraction in Kuwait. The saga continues with part two, later, after I get a chocolate freakin' milkshake.
In a land that is free, I girl should be able to go down to the beach at 6:30am on a Friday (which is like Sunday in the states: aka church day) without recourse.
But, Free Kuwait is not such a free land.
There is a small group of kung fu'ers that meet at the beach on Friday mornings to practice and train. Doug and I went one morning two weeks ago and came home bruised and sandy. Good times had by all. There was another girl there too, so I figured that it would be safe for me to go back on my own when Doug is at work on Fridays. So, that's what I did today. I went down to the beach at 6:30am.
The beach at this hour is on a Friday is very busy. It seems that everyone who gets up for dawn-prayers takes their family out for a picnic afterward. And then there's the roving bands of dudes that just seem to show up in every public gathering spot. Knowing this, I never where "beach clothing," instead I where a huge t-shirt, long board-shorts, a baseball hat and sunglasses. Remember that it is a constant 120 degrees Fahrenheit in Kuwait at this time... it's bloody sweating hot!
Arriving at the parking lot, I am scoped out by an early twenties local in a Jeep with animango hair (see my post on The Mango for a better description). This is not alarming. Being stared at is status-normal in my life. I get to the spot where the kung fu takes place and no one is there. So, I wait. Animango-boy, who has followed me from the parking lot, waits with me. After a few minutes I am satisfied that the martial arts group is not coming, so I head back to the car. I didn't notice anyone behind me this time, probably 'cuz I was focused on avoiding the 3 mountain bikers posted up at the truck parked next to my car. I got into my car and locked the doors; standard procedure (other girls have warned me about dudes trying to get into their cars while they are stopped at traffic lights).
It's a short drive from the beach to home, and I noticed a Jeep behind me most of the way. Now, I'm freaked out. It this the same Jeep from the beach? The animango hair profile is hard to miss. I have to decide; do I go straight home where it's safe, or do I drive around and try to loose him - not showing him where I live? Having just moved to a new neighborhood where lots of the streets are blocked at random times due to construction, I opted for the first. Go straight home.
At our new residence, I have assigned parking for my bright red Peugeot outside the building; not in a secure underground garage like our last place. I parked with a vengeance nearly taking off the passenger side-mirror. Animango takes an unlucky turn onto a deadend street and has to turn around. By the time he got back to my car I was just getting out, hoping, dear God, let the front door of the building be unlocked. Animango drove past me and around the corner in front of the building entrance, but again, had to turn around a large SUV in a small street. This gave me just enough time to duck behind a palm tree with low-hanging branches and pop out at the front door. I took the stairs in two leaps and blew through the door like 132lb line-backer. Luckily, it was unlocked.
I slamed the door, locking it behind me. Our night "security officer," a 50-something 5'6" Indian man who weighs less than me, bobbled his head and mouthed a barely audible "Morning Madam." Good morning indeed, security guy. Thanks for the backup.
In Free Kuwait, you are free to do what you want. Women can drive their own cars, go to the beach in a bikini if they want, go to the grocery store un-chaperoned, and even vote (as of 2006). None of these things are illegal. If they were, how else would the men of this country entertain themselves without the show that women are putting on for their sole benefit. Why else would a girl go to the beach at 6:30am other than to whore herself out to the first taker? I mean, what is a man in Kuwait supposed to think. All women unaccompanied are prostitutes, right... Isn't what being "free" is all about?
Upon entry to any "serviced" establishment in Kuwait, I am greeted by no less than 2, but no greater than 5 Fillipino employees chiding in chorus, "Hello Mamser!" or "Good evening Mamser!" or any of the other common salutations followed by Mamser (pronounced like mom-sir or on a rare occasion, mom-sher). Apparently, there has been an addition to the English language. Mamser, the bastardized interbreeding of the titles Ma'am and Sir has been shortened into one world for the sake of ESL convenience.
Any group of all male patrons will be referred to with "Good evening Ser" (singular) with a focus on the "rrrr." Add one female and the entire group becomes Mamser. For instance if I am in the back of the group and we walk into a restaurant, I will hear the round of "Hello Serrrr" and then, when they see me, "Oh! Hello Mamser! I'm sorry Mamser!" As if a smart slap across the face is in order for any service person who forgets my Mamser.
What's most incredible is that the tone and pronunciation is exactly the same across the city. No matter where you go, all restaurants that expect to serve Westerners employ Fillipino workers and everyone you meet knows the Mamser.
I've heard theories of gene migration; when after a great enough number of a particular species learns a new trait the entire species group then knows the trait without having to learn it. Like the little monkey who lived on an island and learned to wash his yams in the sea before eating them. He taught the other monkeys on his island to do the same and when 100 monkeys all knew to wash their yams in the sea, the monkeys on another island who had never witnessed yam washing started the practice as well. I'm not comparing Filipinos to monkeys; that would be racist. I'm just saying, gene migration man; it's the only possible explanation for the recurrence of Mamser.
Its 6:30am and your favorite crazy white lady is out running the Gulf Road seaside walking path that passes in front of her Salmiya, Kuwait apartment. This brick sidewalk follows the beach front and is home to some of the few living trees in the country. It sounds lovely, right? Jealous much?
Well, let me fill in a few more details that flesh out the complete picture. The beach is covered with trash: broken bottles, fast food debris, grocery bags and picnic left-overs, old rugs (that I assume were used for the picnicking), shoes, dead fish that perhaps choked in the raw sewage contaminated waters, and other random junk.
From time to time the elementary schools will organize a clean-up mission, but their efforts are quickly thwarted by the next round of irresponsible weekenders. The high-dollar beach front property that should be home to 5-star restaurants and grossly overpriced apartments is occupied instead by Burger King, Pizza Hut, McDonalds, and one hip Hollywood themed restaurant/sheesha bar named Divas. Alas, it is a run/walk trail and I am a runner.
Back to my story; it's now 6:37am and I'm out for a jog with my new and first ever iPod. I'm rocking out to some Rob Zombie wearing Doug's huge workout pants, and XL long sleeve Robotech t-shirt and mirrored shades. This is not a sexy image. If the guys here had long hair I could have easily been mistaken for a dude.
Rounding the corner at the Pizza Hut outdoor seating area, I see a man in matching sweatshirt and pants walking towards me. As soon as he notices me he reaches for his junk. And I don't mean the shit that's scattered on the beach. No, this guy is definitely man handling himself for me to witness. As we cross paths I give my best "you're f*cking pathetic" scowl and keep moving. I'm thinking it's a bit early to be prowling for play, but I suppose the Desprate House Wives re-runs don't air on KTV until after noon prayers.
I reach the end of the trail and double back. About half way down I see Mr. Gray Sweatshirt Grabby Pants. Again, I spot him before he spots me and as soon as he does, there he goes... hand to crotch. This time it is serious, and I think I am supposed to be flattered or impressed. I make a long loop to give myself time to grab the pepper spray in my pocket and make sure the nozzle is pointed in the right direction, take note of the wind, and catch my breath in case I need to spray and sprint.
Now, I see like 5 gray sweat suit dudes. Which one is the cock jockey? Although I would love the chance to finally use my pepper spray, I figure it would be best to avoid confrontation. I headed for home zig-zagging and dodging, Frogger-style, across the sand, through parking lots, scaling the sea wall and jumping fastfood restaurant drive-through barriers.
Avoiding early morning perverts is such a great workout.
Introducing Kuwait's finest contribution to the world of fashion hair styling... The Mango.
What exactly is a "Mango"? This very distinct and all too popular male "up-do" is the result of too much free time, an unhealthy dose of vanity, and the complete lack of bitch-slap-your-dumb-assness going on in this spoiled country. Mangos are the over styled Fred Durstified knockoff of Hollywood's outdated bedhead look.
Typically seen engulfing the heads of cocky pre-teens, full on teen angsters, and post teen prime I'm not 25 yet dudes; this hair style is usually accompanied by two or three of the following fashion accessories:
1) Huge Beckham style mirrored sun glasses 2) Prayer beads. Not for praying, mind you, these are twirled and twisted to look coolly unamused or possibly impatient with whatever service person is currently ruining your day. 3) The latest model mobile communiqué gadget complete with dangly charm. 4) Enough clothing layers to outfit an extra person or two, 5) A bedazzled belt to match your bedazzled jacket, and/or a bedazzled, name-brand fanny pack (yeah, I guess Sean Jean finally found a niche market for his overstock of man purses).
In America these walking clichés would be a rare jewel roaming suburban malls and high school partying lots, but here in the land of zero fashion consequences, the Mango reigns supreme.
Upon closer inspection we began to decipher separate species of hair styles and it was decided that like the icon of hairstyle anomalies, The Mullet, we needed to organize The Mango into categories. The following list is a work in progress. We hope to be adding real live photo examples of Mangos in their natural habitat for your viewing entertainment. This is what we have so far:
Mohango : mohawk mango. Growing in popularity among the emo bands as well. Fanmango : fan mango. The front fans straight off the forehead in a glorious crown. Mullango : mullet mango. This is real beaut! The fusion of two legendary hair styles on one head. Frango : afro mango. Reserved for Afro-Arabs and those rare but lucky redheaded afros. Animango : animae mango. This guys is ready to Dragon Ball Z fire ball you - any time, any place. Porcupango : porcupine mango. Self explanatory, although points are lost (no pun intended) for neglecting the lower hairs just above the neck line. If you're going to Porcupango, you have to commit. Stillango : stilletto mango. These guys deserve their own category just because of the amount of time and care that goes into arranging their hair into perfect spikes somewhere between Animangos and Porcupangos. Hurricango : hurricane mango. One of my favorites; this specimen looks like the result of 120 mph cross winds preserved by flash freezing. Badabango : Bada Bing Baby! Picture Elvis after a turbo blow-dryer and a round brush. Pompadango : pompador mango. More old school than the Mohango, and more Fonzerelli than the Badabango... this guy could be the upright bass player in a gay Mango Mash airport lounge band with Badabango on keys. And a Mango Gango : any group of two or more Mangos traveling together. Mangos are a pack animal; forming tight social bonds grooming rituals.
Stay tuned for updates and photo evidence of the life and habits of the Kuwaiti Mango.
It's been raining. I haven't seen cumulus clouds since our trip to Jordan in October. As a passenger of Braxton's Buick Rendezvous on the drive from Dallas to San Angelo, Texas I can watch the patches of clouds and light. Boring Texas has never been so beautiful. Reality truly is the current perspective.
Two wind mills. Two eras. Two realities... I've been thinking about Chihiro in Miyazaki's Spirited Away. I relate most to Chihiro. "Moving to a new place is an adventure," says her mother in the car on the way to their new home.
