Last night the earth shivered.
Only slightly. Only so my eyes shot open, searching the mint green cement.
The whole episode lasted less than a second. Just long enough for me to wonder whether I made it all up.
It's colder here than I thought it would be. I double up everything, sweats beneath jeans, leg warmers on my arms. I did just come from the Gulf. The shore is daunting and beautiful. The waves roll in, smashing against the thick grey barricade. The salt water eats it slowly, exposing pebbles and tar. At least I can walk here without feeling like I'm doing something wrong. Here it's not all my fault.
There is bread everywhere. I eat it with the avocadoes I buy from deep inside the vegetable souk. I want to taste the carrots and potatoes, drip pear juice down my forearms, bite into a huge tomato or apple and slice fresh onion onto something. But I avoid skinless produce... I follow the rules, using bottled water when I brush my teeth, sandals in the shower.
The mint tea for breakfast is wonderful. I ask the man with the incomplete hand if I can have two teas instead of juice. He tells me I have to wait. Other people might want tea.
The footwear is the most complicated. I have the socks that are only allowed inside the "clean" sheets. These can be worn with shoes but only beneath other socks (these "other socks" are not allowed in bed). The slippers are for inside the hostel. But not the bathroom. The slip-ons are for nice days. The tennis shoes are for rainy. Whatever you do, don't touch the beds beneath the sheets. Or the blankets on top of the sheets. I'm only trying to do you a favor. It isn't hell but it's not The Hilton either. You get what you pay for.
I just wish I wasn't always so cold.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Bye
Pictures posted - http://picasaweb.google.com/sarah872014591
I can tell that it is time.
I spent last night with Indiana, Kleaver, Hugh, and Scott at the Naseem, the same hotel we all stayed in upon first arriving in Oman. This time around we were significantly happier.
I'm not really thinking about Saturday. To a lesser degree it's like when I left the states, it feels like blank-ness. Like I can't possibly imagine what's coming, and so I don't try. Blank.
I've been packing for the last week. Readjusting. Taking everything out and putting it all back in, trying to find a map. Or a shirt. Stepping on the bathroom scale to turn it on, balancing the big black bags and trying not to influence their weight.
19.7 kilos
17.1
My carry-on can weight 7.
I watch my Sopranos dvds. I know them by heart now.
There is relief and hesitance. Excitement and exhaustion. Tomorrow I turn in my cell phone, my internet modem.
Tomorrow I fall off the map.
I can tell that it is time.
I spent last night with Indiana, Kleaver, Hugh, and Scott at the Naseem, the same hotel we all stayed in upon first arriving in Oman. This time around we were significantly happier.
I'm not really thinking about Saturday. To a lesser degree it's like when I left the states, it feels like blank-ness. Like I can't possibly imagine what's coming, and so I don't try. Blank.
I've been packing for the last week. Readjusting. Taking everything out and putting it all back in, trying to find a map. Or a shirt. Stepping on the bathroom scale to turn it on, balancing the big black bags and trying not to influence their weight.
19.7 kilos
17.1
My carry-on can weight 7.
I watch my Sopranos dvds. I know them by heart now.
There is relief and hesitance. Excitement and exhaustion. Tomorrow I turn in my cell phone, my internet modem.
Tomorrow I fall off the map.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Stagnant
“Tony” is getting tired. “Carmela” has been in London for over a month now with her oldest daughter and the new grandchild. His gestures are getting wider.
It was a lot of work getting to the salon and back those four days. The walk to City Center put me back at least a half-hour. Then there was the hailing down of a cab, explaining in Arabic to the driver where I needed to go, fighting over how much the ride would cost, shooing at least the first two taxis away because they would insist on two rial when I was NOT going to pay more than .5, and when all that was finally negotiated and settled, there was the taking of the LONG way because the driver in fact didn’t know the Hamid bin Hamood Mosque like they had claimed. Or Binayat al Faisal. Or, god forbid, Khamis Shoes.
Hend was pretty fabulous. Tall, 300 lbs, and absolutely in love with Spandex, the manager of Al-Mona Beauty Salon and I tried to communicate something, anything, in our broken-Arabic-French-English. I spent four days at the establishment, talking with women and passing out surveys. By day-two Hend was making me cuttlefish pasta and having me write out customer receipts.
I’m getting ready now. I’m excited to get on that plane, to touch down in some place new. December 12th-25th I’ll be spending in the Casablanca Youth Hostel. More completely and utterly independent than I have ever been in my life. And in Morocco no less. On Christmas Day Mom, Dad, and Lin fly in and stay till New Years. At this point I’ll move to the Rabat Hostel and remain there until my second semester begins on January 31st. An entire month and a half traipsing around Morocco. Mashallah, God has willed it.
But I haven’t left yet…
At the beach a few nights ago my aunt turned to me.
“I think you are understanding?” she asked, motioning toward “Tony”, his voice raised, arms churning, spit landing on the plastic table before him.
“Shwaya,” I responded.
“He is saying, I don’t know how to, uh… you know here a man can have four?”
I nodded, “Four wives? Na-em, arif.”
“He is saying, how long can a man go without his wife, or a wife without her husband.”
“Ahh.”
“‘Tony’ he is saying three months. He is asking everyone like to study, like you are doing.”
“Oh, ba-hath? Researching it?”
“Yes. And I want to know for you, how long... you are here how, three months? If you have boyfriend at home, what do you say?”
“Tony” turns toward us, the whites of his eyes strained in their sockets.
“I say that if you won’t wait, than kha-las. Goodbye.”
“Ahh…” she says, translating for the rest of the group.
“Tony’s” brother looks at me from his denim camping chair, teal tracksuit failing to hide the thick belly underneath. A cigarette in one hand, he lifts the other and gives me a thumbs-up. “Good, Sarah,” he says, laughing beneath his mustache.
I walk out to the boat ramp afterward, the air smelling like those fat, scented markers we used to have in art classes and at Candlelighter’s camps as a kid. The brown one maybe. Or the black? The young people have pulled up chairs, encircling an Arabic Monopoly board. Aunts and Uncles walk back and forth between the huts, collecting Styrofoam plates and packing up the tahini dregs, the lone cucumbers.
My feet are drying off. I resituate them to create new saltwater stains on the cement and “Tony” is still seated at the small table, back to the water. He is the only adult immobile, next to but excluded from the tight circle of board game enthusiasts. I realize he is sad.
Fighting the battle against “the world today”, against immorality, against the digression from Islam, against modern behaviors and loss of tradition is his eternal and self-inflicted cross-to-bear, no pun intended.
“Do your parents prefer how things were in the past? Or how they are now?”
“You know, I’ve never thought to ask. I think they are just happy wherever they are. You prefer the past?”
“Oh definitely. Things were better.”
He holds what can never be regained in the highest esteem. Constantly trying to revert back, to maintain a clenched grasp on what old-fashioned customs he can.
“Tony” is overbearing. He is intimidating, strict, domineering. His expectation for everyone’s undivided attention borders on arrogance. And he is so, so tired.
It was a lot of work getting to the salon and back those four days. The walk to City Center put me back at least a half-hour. Then there was the hailing down of a cab, explaining in Arabic to the driver where I needed to go, fighting over how much the ride would cost, shooing at least the first two taxis away because they would insist on two rial when I was NOT going to pay more than .5, and when all that was finally negotiated and settled, there was the taking of the LONG way because the driver in fact didn’t know the Hamid bin Hamood Mosque like they had claimed. Or Binayat al Faisal. Or, god forbid, Khamis Shoes.
Hend was pretty fabulous. Tall, 300 lbs, and absolutely in love with Spandex, the manager of Al-Mona Beauty Salon and I tried to communicate something, anything, in our broken-Arabic-French-English. I spent four days at the establishment, talking with women and passing out surveys. By day-two Hend was making me cuttlefish pasta and having me write out customer receipts.
I’m getting ready now. I’m excited to get on that plane, to touch down in some place new. December 12th-25th I’ll be spending in the Casablanca Youth Hostel. More completely and utterly independent than I have ever been in my life. And in Morocco no less. On Christmas Day Mom, Dad, and Lin fly in and stay till New Years. At this point I’ll move to the Rabat Hostel and remain there until my second semester begins on January 31st. An entire month and a half traipsing around Morocco. Mashallah, God has willed it.
But I haven’t left yet…
At the beach a few nights ago my aunt turned to me.
“I think you are understanding?” she asked, motioning toward “Tony”, his voice raised, arms churning, spit landing on the plastic table before him.
“Shwaya,” I responded.
“He is saying, I don’t know how to, uh… you know here a man can have four?”
I nodded, “Four wives? Na-em, arif.”
“He is saying, how long can a man go without his wife, or a wife without her husband.”
“Ahh.”
“‘Tony’ he is saying three months. He is asking everyone like to study, like you are doing.”
“Oh, ba-hath? Researching it?”
“Yes. And I want to know for you, how long... you are here how, three months? If you have boyfriend at home, what do you say?”
“Tony” turns toward us, the whites of his eyes strained in their sockets.
“I say that if you won’t wait, than kha-las. Goodbye.”
“Ahh…” she says, translating for the rest of the group.
“Tony’s” brother looks at me from his denim camping chair, teal tracksuit failing to hide the thick belly underneath. A cigarette in one hand, he lifts the other and gives me a thumbs-up. “Good, Sarah,” he says, laughing beneath his mustache.
I walk out to the boat ramp afterward, the air smelling like those fat, scented markers we used to have in art classes and at Candlelighter’s camps as a kid. The brown one maybe. Or the black? The young people have pulled up chairs, encircling an Arabic Monopoly board. Aunts and Uncles walk back and forth between the huts, collecting Styrofoam plates and packing up the tahini dregs, the lone cucumbers.
My feet are drying off. I resituate them to create new saltwater stains on the cement and “Tony” is still seated at the small table, back to the water. He is the only adult immobile, next to but excluded from the tight circle of board game enthusiasts. I realize he is sad.
Fighting the battle against “the world today”, against immorality, against the digression from Islam, against modern behaviors and loss of tradition is his eternal and self-inflicted cross-to-bear, no pun intended.
“Do your parents prefer how things were in the past? Or how they are now?”
“You know, I’ve never thought to ask. I think they are just happy wherever they are. You prefer the past?”
“Oh definitely. Things were better.”
He holds what can never be regained in the highest esteem. Constantly trying to revert back, to maintain a clenched grasp on what old-fashioned customs he can.
“Tony” is overbearing. He is intimidating, strict, domineering. His expectation for everyone’s undivided attention borders on arrogance. And he is so, so tired.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Turtle
Goodmorning, bebe.
You’ve got to remember the forts we had in Lynchburg. Jennie and I sat at the mouth of our stacked-triangle, collecting spores from mushrooms and rusty rings. We built the lean-to for you and Colette second, across the two-pronged bridge, the cut bank perfectly cupping a space beneath thin, warped saplings that curled down for a roof.
It was the same day as the turtle shell.
Flattening the foliage, we cleared the fort floor. Except by the shell. Because it was right-side-up, we were almost convinced at first that it must be living. But Jennie and I poked and prodded it without response so my initial interest turned to disgust.
It was dead.
It must be dead. And if we were to flip the slick shell over, out would crumble leafs of wet, rotting turtle-meat. And possibly small turtle bones right there under the bent trees. And what if it got on my shoes? Or my hands? But we wanted to know so badly, curiosity exploited our absolute longing to know what was really happening beneath. And we couldn’t. In the end we couldn’t because what was possible was just too scary so we left the shell in your fort, left it conspicuously seated on a layer of leaves surrounded by swept ground and we returned to our own hold.
And of course you flipped it. And you know what else? I bet you didn’t think twice. I bet you ducked your head beneath the saplings and reached out and grabbed the damn thing. Most likely there were broken leaves in your blonde curls and loose bark Velcroed to your socks and you just walked in and flipped it.
I woke up this morning realizing that maybe you have always been the brave one.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this door lately. I’m not sure why, but remembering home and the holidays reminds of this door at the bottom of the basement stairs in Mr. and Mrs. Warson’s house. I think it might be white, or maybe it’s wood, but it has a window, like an outside-door. Maybe so you can see if someone is racing down the stairs toward you. And I can feel what it’s like to shut that one door. I hope I’m remembering it right.
Because it wasn’t always like that.
I think it must have been about eighth grade when there was a New Years Eve party in that basement. Ashley and I were going, and once we were welcomed in and directed down the stairs she and I stood looking at one another, listening to the revelry behind the door, each trying to steel the other into opening it.
You see, it didn’t have a window then.
And in the end there was just too much fun going on behind that whiteness and we left. We convinced ourselves we didn’t REALLY want to go anyway, it wouldn’t be THAT much fun, no one we ACTUALLY wanted to see was there, the other plans we had were WAY better obviously and ran back up the stairs and out of the house.
Years later I think I painted that white door. But that’s a different story.
Am I remembering this right?
It’s like now I have all these shirts with button-up necks, you know? Like turtlenecks that have buttons down the nape. Except that for the life of me I can never remember to unbutton them before I try and pull them back over my head at the end of the day. I feel like I’m seven again. And what the hell am I going to do with all these turtlenecks anyway?
For a very long time I justified my behaviors in one way. It was easy to explain. I did things the hard way when necessary, or even just when I could BECAUSE I could. I was trying to prove something, prove this, so that you wouldn’t have to. I’ve told Kris time and time again, I was just trying to pave the way for her, trying to make things easier for when she came along behind. But I get it. I mean why would you want to walk on asphalt. Behind me is road and the tar sticks to your feet so that your flip-flops all turn black and you want grass and green and the untamed and that makes so much more sense.
I love and miss you every small, stupid breathing moment, Lin.
You’ve got to remember the forts we had in Lynchburg. Jennie and I sat at the mouth of our stacked-triangle, collecting spores from mushrooms and rusty rings. We built the lean-to for you and Colette second, across the two-pronged bridge, the cut bank perfectly cupping a space beneath thin, warped saplings that curled down for a roof.
It was the same day as the turtle shell.
Flattening the foliage, we cleared the fort floor. Except by the shell. Because it was right-side-up, we were almost convinced at first that it must be living. But Jennie and I poked and prodded it without response so my initial interest turned to disgust.
It was dead.
It must be dead. And if we were to flip the slick shell over, out would crumble leafs of wet, rotting turtle-meat. And possibly small turtle bones right there under the bent trees. And what if it got on my shoes? Or my hands? But we wanted to know so badly, curiosity exploited our absolute longing to know what was really happening beneath. And we couldn’t. In the end we couldn’t because what was possible was just too scary so we left the shell in your fort, left it conspicuously seated on a layer of leaves surrounded by swept ground and we returned to our own hold.
And of course you flipped it. And you know what else? I bet you didn’t think twice. I bet you ducked your head beneath the saplings and reached out and grabbed the damn thing. Most likely there were broken leaves in your blonde curls and loose bark Velcroed to your socks and you just walked in and flipped it.
I woke up this morning realizing that maybe you have always been the brave one.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this door lately. I’m not sure why, but remembering home and the holidays reminds of this door at the bottom of the basement stairs in Mr. and Mrs. Warson’s house. I think it might be white, or maybe it’s wood, but it has a window, like an outside-door. Maybe so you can see if someone is racing down the stairs toward you. And I can feel what it’s like to shut that one door. I hope I’m remembering it right.
Because it wasn’t always like that.
I think it must have been about eighth grade when there was a New Years Eve party in that basement. Ashley and I were going, and once we were welcomed in and directed down the stairs she and I stood looking at one another, listening to the revelry behind the door, each trying to steel the other into opening it.
You see, it didn’t have a window then.
And in the end there was just too much fun going on behind that whiteness and we left. We convinced ourselves we didn’t REALLY want to go anyway, it wouldn’t be THAT much fun, no one we ACTUALLY wanted to see was there, the other plans we had were WAY better obviously and ran back up the stairs and out of the house.
Years later I think I painted that white door. But that’s a different story.
Am I remembering this right?
It’s like now I have all these shirts with button-up necks, you know? Like turtlenecks that have buttons down the nape. Except that for the life of me I can never remember to unbutton them before I try and pull them back over my head at the end of the day. I feel like I’m seven again. And what the hell am I going to do with all these turtlenecks anyway?
For a very long time I justified my behaviors in one way. It was easy to explain. I did things the hard way when necessary, or even just when I could BECAUSE I could. I was trying to prove something, prove this, so that you wouldn’t have to. I’ve told Kris time and time again, I was just trying to pave the way for her, trying to make things easier for when she came along behind. But I get it. I mean why would you want to walk on asphalt. Behind me is road and the tar sticks to your feet so that your flip-flops all turn black and you want grass and green and the untamed and that makes so much more sense.
I love and miss you every small, stupid breathing moment, Lin.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Halwa
“AJ” greets me now.
HelloSarhowareyou.
Coming into the dining room, he sees the scattering of paper. I’m arranging my surveys; print, pile, staple. He asks me if it’s for school. “Bahath-ee”, I respond, my research. Laying his hand on the nearest pile, my 15-year-old brother says, “Beautiful.”
Classes are over now. We had our Arabic final a week ago and now focus 100% of our time on our independent study projects. The composition of my survey complete, I waited and waited for “Tony” to buy “huber” for the printer since we were long out.
After a week he did. And I used it all up in a single night.
(since I had been waiting forEVER I had a back-order of things I needed to print off. don’t look at me like I’m some ink-glutton…)
In case you are interested, below is a condensed version of my questionnaire translated from Arabic to English for your reading pleasure:
TRANSCRIBED SURVEY (#2)
[TITLE PAGE]
TITLE: Survey: What is the meaning of the word “beautiful” in Oman in your opinion?
[INTRODUCTORY PAGE]
DESCRIPTION: In the University of Denver in America, I study Political Science and Psychology. Now I am studying abroad in the School for International Training: World Learning in Muscat. Here I am studying beauty in Oman and I am researching about what women think the word “beauty” means. There is little information on beauty in Oman now, thus I am exploring this topic and I want your opinion about beauty. If you have 20 minutes free and you would like to help then you can complete this survey for me. Thank you for your help!
DISCLAIMER:
Note:
You must be a female over 18 years of age
It’s necessary to understand that your answers will be used in my research but your identity will remain confidential
My final research paper will be seen by my academic director and project advisor, will be presented before an audience, and will be public for any who would like to read it
If you don’t want to answer a question then avoid this question.
If you want to stop the survey because of any reason then stop.
If you have questions, ask me.
INFO:
Today’s date:
Age:
Birthplace:
Address:
Occupation:
Are you married?
What languages do you speak?
How many hours of television did you watch in the past week?
How many fashion magazines did you read in the past month?
How many days did you go to the salon in the past month?
[PAGE 1]
NOTE: Answer with an (x) for the choice that is relative in your opinion
HEADER: Trait - Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Thin body:
Jewelry:
Red hair:
Big eyes:
Uni-brow:
Short (height):
Hairless body and face:
Light makeup:
Dark skin:
Henna:
Black eyes:
…
NOTE: In your opinion, who is beautiful?
For example: your friends, or women in your family, or famous women…
Q/A: Who:
Why:
[PAGE 5]
PIC 1 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
PIC 2 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
[PAGE 6]
PART 1: Do you think that BLONDE HAIR is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
PART 2: Do you think that FEMALE CIRCUMCISION is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
There are a total of TWENTY-EIGHT traits on [Page 1] in the actual survey, wherein the participant is asked to judge the relative “beauty” of each.
There are a total of FOUR pages similar to [Page 5] in the actual survey, all with photographs of women on the spectrum somewhere between what would be considered “highly Western” to “highly Arab”.
There are a total of THREE pages similar to [Page 6] in the actual survey, each with two traits that the participant is asked to expand upon.
Last week I baked a pear pie. Carrefour had the glass dishes and I took over the kitchen, squeezing lemons and sprinkling cinnamon with thin scales of pear skins on my palms. And it was delicious; “Meadow” spoons out little craters from its center, tucking them into a small plastic bowl that she holds against her chest. Next time I’ll do apple.
She squeezed the dark olive paste onto her fingers, smearing it across her forehead and round cheeks. Preparation began at 5pm but we didn’t arrive at the wedding till after 9. “‘Hunter’, she speak English too much. She doesn’t speak Arabic like you.”
Every other word is still a struggle, but I am honored and so humbled. It’s like a weight has been lifted. I don’t know how to explain it but I’m at peace.
HelloSarhowareyou.
Coming into the dining room, he sees the scattering of paper. I’m arranging my surveys; print, pile, staple. He asks me if it’s for school. “Bahath-ee”, I respond, my research. Laying his hand on the nearest pile, my 15-year-old brother says, “Beautiful.”
Classes are over now. We had our Arabic final a week ago and now focus 100% of our time on our independent study projects. The composition of my survey complete, I waited and waited for “Tony” to buy “huber” for the printer since we were long out.
After a week he did. And I used it all up in a single night.
(since I had been waiting forEVER I had a back-order of things I needed to print off. don’t look at me like I’m some ink-glutton…)
In case you are interested, below is a condensed version of my questionnaire translated from Arabic to English for your reading pleasure:
TRANSCRIBED SURVEY (#2)
[TITLE PAGE]
TITLE: Survey: What is the meaning of the word “beautiful” in Oman in your opinion?
[INTRODUCTORY PAGE]
DESCRIPTION: In the University of Denver in America, I study Political Science and Psychology. Now I am studying abroad in the School for International Training: World Learning in Muscat. Here I am studying beauty in Oman and I am researching about what women think the word “beauty” means. There is little information on beauty in Oman now, thus I am exploring this topic and I want your opinion about beauty. If you have 20 minutes free and you would like to help then you can complete this survey for me. Thank you for your help!
DISCLAIMER:
Note:
You must be a female over 18 years of age
It’s necessary to understand that your answers will be used in my research but your identity will remain confidential
My final research paper will be seen by my academic director and project advisor, will be presented before an audience, and will be public for any who would like to read it
If you don’t want to answer a question then avoid this question.
If you want to stop the survey because of any reason then stop.
If you have questions, ask me.
INFO:
Today’s date:
Age:
Birthplace:
Address:
Occupation:
Are you married?
What languages do you speak?
How many hours of television did you watch in the past week?
How many fashion magazines did you read in the past month?
How many days did you go to the salon in the past month?
[PAGE 1]
NOTE: Answer with an (x) for the choice that is relative in your opinion
HEADER: Trait - Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Thin body:
Jewelry:
Red hair:
Big eyes:
Uni-brow:
Short (height):
Hairless body and face:
Light makeup:
Dark skin:
Henna:
Black eyes:
…
NOTE: In your opinion, who is beautiful?
For example: your friends, or women in your family, or famous women…
Q/A: Who:
Why:
[PAGE 5]
PIC 1 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
PIC 2 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
[PAGE 6]
PART 1: Do you think that BLONDE HAIR is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
PART 2: Do you think that FEMALE CIRCUMCISION is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
There are a total of TWENTY-EIGHT traits on [Page 1] in the actual survey, wherein the participant is asked to judge the relative “beauty” of each.
There are a total of FOUR pages similar to [Page 5] in the actual survey, all with photographs of women on the spectrum somewhere between what would be considered “highly Western” to “highly Arab”.
There are a total of THREE pages similar to [Page 6] in the actual survey, each with two traits that the participant is asked to expand upon.
Last week I baked a pear pie. Carrefour had the glass dishes and I took over the kitchen, squeezing lemons and sprinkling cinnamon with thin scales of pear skins on my palms. And it was delicious; “Meadow” spoons out little craters from its center, tucking them into a small plastic bowl that she holds against her chest. Next time I’ll do apple.
She squeezed the dark olive paste onto her fingers, smearing it across her forehead and round cheeks. Preparation began at 5pm but we didn’t arrive at the wedding till after 9. “‘Hunter’, she speak English too much. She doesn’t speak Arabic like you.”
Every other word is still a struggle, but I am honored and so humbled. It’s like a weight has been lifted. I don’t know how to explain it but I’m at peace.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sporadic
Does it count if you are in a different country? Does it count if you feel too full? Small girls chewing on broken balloons; crawling on the steps with Styrofoam on their lips. Mike Stover was the only person who could pull off lace-up Crocs.
I want to touch my mother’s face. Run my thumb along the cheekbone; trace the skin above her eye.
We visited Jebel Shams early in the week. Jebel Akhdar later on. It was beautiful, although there was little to support its title of “The Green Mountain”.
The muscle behind my shoulder has started having spasms. I try to sleep on my left side, one knee cupping the other. But I can’t.
The children in my Nizwa home stay were bountiful. And destructive. When I arrived, a small blue bike had recently been operated upon, both of its wheels removed and lying in exhibition next to the frame. By the time I left, all sides of the estate were littered with skeletal spokes, tires twisted like rubber bands, bolts here, rims there.
Piranhas.
I know that my words are becoming more and more dizzying. I am sorry. I think that if there was a single story to tell, one with a “Once upon a time”, one that could be concluded, I would tell it. Instead it’s just swatches; fraying squares.
I want to touch my mother’s face. Run my thumb along the cheekbone; trace the skin above her eye.
We visited Jebel Shams early in the week. Jebel Akhdar later on. It was beautiful, although there was little to support its title of “The Green Mountain”.
The muscle behind my shoulder has started having spasms. I try to sleep on my left side, one knee cupping the other. But I can’t.
The children in my Nizwa home stay were bountiful. And destructive. When I arrived, a small blue bike had recently been operated upon, both of its wheels removed and lying in exhibition next to the frame. By the time I left, all sides of the estate were littered with skeletal spokes, tires twisted like rubber bands, bolts here, rims there.
Piranhas.
I know that my words are becoming more and more dizzying. I am sorry. I think that if there was a single story to tell, one with a “Once upon a time”, one that could be concluded, I would tell it. Instead it’s just swatches; fraying squares.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Codified
I think the problem is that I can’t keep things separated. I get mixed up. I am messy.
Some things are permanently mistranslated. Whenever I tell my family that the plane has landed again in Muscat, both "Tony" and "Carmela" tell me something to the effect of, “You are welcome.”
I think, “I damn well better be or where the heck else am I gunna sleep?” I know that they mean welcome home, but all the same it sounds like a response to “thanks”.
Or like when the most gutsy of my three bus drivers (the jury is still out on which one exactly) texts me “I need have picnic with you any day like,” picnic means vacation. As in How you like this picnic? Or you take picnic in Salalah?
And adapted means something like “getting along with”. “How adapted your studies... Adapted Dubai?”
“Ly-esh achoo achoo?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“Heh?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“You a cat?”
“No, nevermind…”
What if I can never come home.
What if I’ve misplaced myself too far now, walked too many steps down and over. I’m not trying to sound melodramatic. What the hell are you supposed to think when the “foreign” stops feeling foreign, at least in shock-value.
Lately I have just had too much to say to speak. I roll my thoughts instead of folding them, this way they fit in my suitcase. And I just keep stuffing. And my mouth can’t articulate kul ef-kar.
Ow aye-ya ef-kar for that matter.
I’ve started to think about wood. About that green so dark it’s almost black. I’ve started to think about warm blankets and leather and being held and quiet.
Some things are permanently mistranslated. Whenever I tell my family that the plane has landed again in Muscat, both "Tony" and "Carmela" tell me something to the effect of, “You are welcome.”
I think, “I damn well better be or where the heck else am I gunna sleep?” I know that they mean welcome home, but all the same it sounds like a response to “thanks”.
Or like when the most gutsy of my three bus drivers (the jury is still out on which one exactly) texts me “I need have picnic with you any day like,” picnic means vacation. As in How you like this picnic? Or you take picnic in Salalah?
And adapted means something like “getting along with”. “How adapted your studies... Adapted Dubai?”
“Ly-esh achoo achoo?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“Heh?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“You a cat?”
“No, nevermind…”
What if I can never come home.
What if I’ve misplaced myself too far now, walked too many steps down and over. I’m not trying to sound melodramatic. What the hell are you supposed to think when the “foreign” stops feeling foreign, at least in shock-value.
Lately I have just had too much to say to speak. I roll my thoughts instead of folding them, this way they fit in my suitcase. And I just keep stuffing. And my mouth can’t articulate kul ef-kar.
Ow aye-ya ef-kar for that matter.
I’ve started to think about wood. About that green so dark it’s almost black. I’ve started to think about warm blankets and leather and being held and quiet.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Buzzing
Last night they left us in Nizwa.
Accelerating over gray dust and rutted tire creases, the white vans pulled up, threw out, and drove on. My new house is without end, like haphazard blocks piled into a single bulk. I keep meeting new inhabitants. The women cleared a place for me on the rug and we dove into seeded grapes and fat apples. They speak little to no english, thus we rely on my poor Arabic skills to guide conversation. The children run and scream, they are happy with their cropped black hair and dusty feet; peeking around corners.
"Halwa?" I ask Shayman, offering her a carmel. There is a fly on her perfect nose; her earrings are red.
Last night I was hot and then cold and then itchy as the small flies or fleas nipped at my forearm, the nape of my neck. A light on the wall, dimmed in order to be conducive for sleeping, played strobe until Bushra rose to turn it off near dawn. She asked if I would like to go to University with her today, so I am here. When the bus arrived, we stuffed five women into four-wide seats, each row a variant of the matte black abaya and hijab. Liquid black. Sitting between Muffled Coughs and Red Fingernails, the bus was silent save the static of phone keypads being tapped. The rear of their turkish toilets may be encrusted with decade-old shit but their mobiles are sleek and cared for. Sony Ericsson. Charms and zippered cases.
For a second I wonder what it would look like if the cell activity was something our eyes could view. The visual phenomena of 30 women sending and receiving texts. The bus would be sizzling white-yellow; alive with currents and lightning bolts resembling the sparks from static.
And what would be the sound?
Accelerating over gray dust and rutted tire creases, the white vans pulled up, threw out, and drove on. My new house is without end, like haphazard blocks piled into a single bulk. I keep meeting new inhabitants. The women cleared a place for me on the rug and we dove into seeded grapes and fat apples. They speak little to no english, thus we rely on my poor Arabic skills to guide conversation. The children run and scream, they are happy with their cropped black hair and dusty feet; peeking around corners.
"Halwa?" I ask Shayman, offering her a carmel. There is a fly on her perfect nose; her earrings are red.
Last night I was hot and then cold and then itchy as the small flies or fleas nipped at my forearm, the nape of my neck. A light on the wall, dimmed in order to be conducive for sleeping, played strobe until Bushra rose to turn it off near dawn. She asked if I would like to go to University with her today, so I am here. When the bus arrived, we stuffed five women into four-wide seats, each row a variant of the matte black abaya and hijab. Liquid black. Sitting between Muffled Coughs and Red Fingernails, the bus was silent save the static of phone keypads being tapped. The rear of their turkish toilets may be encrusted with decade-old shit but their mobiles are sleek and cared for. Sony Ericsson. Charms and zippered cases.
For a second I wonder what it would look like if the cell activity was something our eyes could view. The visual phenomena of 30 women sending and receiving texts. The bus would be sizzling white-yellow; alive with currents and lightning bolts resembling the sparks from static.
And what would be the sound?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Unfocus
Once we arrived at Muscat International Airport it was a mad rush to Duty Free.
Well? What did you expect?
It was Wednesday and that evening we landed in Sharjah and took a bus to our hotel in Dubai. Immediately the atmosphere changed. Things weren’t so heavy. Three nights and two days spent in the city brought us to souks and sushi. We bought fabric and food and wore clothing that fit us.
“She gets BEAT.”
The brand-new metro zipped above Maserati dealerships, humming its consumer jingle, landing us at the Mall of the Emirates complete with indoor ski-slope. Short dresses, every night we danced; jumping on couches and snaking around hotel suites.
Back alleys fringed in flowers. Jasmine and something orange; Happy Diwali. We ducked in and they rolled up our posters, “Same same coconut”, giving us bindis as we walked out the door.
Thai food, Lebanese, banana gum. We ate at all the wrong times. Three cheese lasagna? From the rooftop pool we saw the Tower in the distance, so dwarfing its compatriots that it looked like an Emerald City backdrop. Tallest building in the world. Everything constantly in some state of improvement or construction; pedestrian detours and makeshift sidewalks.
“Shau-te-eh?” Beach, I asked, bracing against the glass balcony, white waves rolling in.
He pointed his small fingers, “Mh-y. Mh-y.” Water.
He found Scott and me near the grass later. It was near midnight and his mother watched and laughed and took pictures while we pushed him on the swing set. Big eyes. Yousef.
In Abu Dhabi I remember the food. Falafel. Hommos. Honey-roasted almonds and coconut juice with onion-like slivers of pulp. Every night Mamma, Libby and I raced across the eight lane highway separating the girls’ hotel from the boys’. The suites had kitchens.
But we only every used the fridge. These nights were more trying.
“You don’t even know.”
We danced on cold tile and walked back streets. We were separated and then brought together. Unlike Dubai, the group wasn’t given assignments that led us to explore the city. Instead we spent a day in Abu Dhabi’s research center library. And it’s Women’s College. We ad hocked the Sheikh Zayed Mosque into our first day (world's largest carpet/chandelier) and managed to glimpse the Corniche one night. After seeing Dubai we couldn’t help but feel unimpressed. Pistachio shells in the grass, toothpicks in our mouths.
Monday we flew to Doha, Qatar. Sleaver, Mamma, Scott and I ate at the hotel lawn restaurant, our ankles itchy. The Shezan Hotel was a p.o.s. I could feel every single spring beneath my body, in order to lie still I situated both elbows in their own individual spring “cups” so-to-speak, while Mamma and Libby’s mattresses were absolute boards. We visited Al Jazeera’s headquarters the first morning and went on a city tour afterwards. A hundred unfinished buildings, racing toward the sky and everything is empty.
Ghost town downtown.
Ending at the city’s main souk we ate fabulous Indian cuisine served next to a man molding plastic bangles over a hot plate. We bought house dresses and sweets, strands of Qatari pearls and spread our hot bodies on cushions while the sheesha smoke coiled.
Second night, we traded beds. “The Shezan Hotel: Just Like Home”. On Wednesday we were guests at an Interfaith Solidarity Dialogue Conference downtown; talks focused on (or strayed from) cohesion between the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim faiths. The sprawling campuses of Education City came next, and we ended up at the geometric Museum of Islamic Arts. That night we returned to the labyrinth souk, having failed miserably in our attempt to get into Doha’s Intercontinental. We stood and sat. Libby and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Kofta camel sandwich. Coconut nougat with almond. Later, under the stars the five of us breathed. So tired. The whole week I felt that my brain was floating, synapses weren’t firing. It didn’t matter whether the writing was English or Arabic, everything bled. Tile and cloth, wood, smoke. Thursday we flew home.
Pictures posted.
Well? What did you expect?
It was Wednesday and that evening we landed in Sharjah and took a bus to our hotel in Dubai. Immediately the atmosphere changed. Things weren’t so heavy. Three nights and two days spent in the city brought us to souks and sushi. We bought fabric and food and wore clothing that fit us.
“She gets BEAT.”
The brand-new metro zipped above Maserati dealerships, humming its consumer jingle, landing us at the Mall of the Emirates complete with indoor ski-slope. Short dresses, every night we danced; jumping on couches and snaking around hotel suites.
Back alleys fringed in flowers. Jasmine and something orange; Happy Diwali. We ducked in and they rolled up our posters, “Same same coconut”, giving us bindis as we walked out the door.
Thai food, Lebanese, banana gum. We ate at all the wrong times. Three cheese lasagna? From the rooftop pool we saw the Tower in the distance, so dwarfing its compatriots that it looked like an Emerald City backdrop. Tallest building in the world. Everything constantly in some state of improvement or construction; pedestrian detours and makeshift sidewalks.
“Shau-te-eh?” Beach, I asked, bracing against the glass balcony, white waves rolling in.
He pointed his small fingers, “Mh-y. Mh-y.” Water.
He found Scott and me near the grass later. It was near midnight and his mother watched and laughed and took pictures while we pushed him on the swing set. Big eyes. Yousef.
In Abu Dhabi I remember the food. Falafel. Hommos. Honey-roasted almonds and coconut juice with onion-like slivers of pulp. Every night Mamma, Libby and I raced across the eight lane highway separating the girls’ hotel from the boys’. The suites had kitchens.
But we only every used the fridge. These nights were more trying.
“You don’t even know.”
We danced on cold tile and walked back streets. We were separated and then brought together. Unlike Dubai, the group wasn’t given assignments that led us to explore the city. Instead we spent a day in Abu Dhabi’s research center library. And it’s Women’s College. We ad hocked the Sheikh Zayed Mosque into our first day (world's largest carpet/chandelier) and managed to glimpse the Corniche one night. After seeing Dubai we couldn’t help but feel unimpressed. Pistachio shells in the grass, toothpicks in our mouths.
Monday we flew to Doha, Qatar. Sleaver, Mamma, Scott and I ate at the hotel lawn restaurant, our ankles itchy. The Shezan Hotel was a p.o.s. I could feel every single spring beneath my body, in order to lie still I situated both elbows in their own individual spring “cups” so-to-speak, while Mamma and Libby’s mattresses were absolute boards. We visited Al Jazeera’s headquarters the first morning and went on a city tour afterwards. A hundred unfinished buildings, racing toward the sky and everything is empty.
Ghost town downtown.
Ending at the city’s main souk we ate fabulous Indian cuisine served next to a man molding plastic bangles over a hot plate. We bought house dresses and sweets, strands of Qatari pearls and spread our hot bodies on cushions while the sheesha smoke coiled.
Second night, we traded beds. “The Shezan Hotel: Just Like Home”. On Wednesday we were guests at an Interfaith Solidarity Dialogue Conference downtown; talks focused on (or strayed from) cohesion between the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim faiths. The sprawling campuses of Education City came next, and we ended up at the geometric Museum of Islamic Arts. That night we returned to the labyrinth souk, having failed miserably in our attempt to get into Doha’s Intercontinental. We stood and sat. Libby and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Kofta camel sandwich. Coconut nougat with almond. Later, under the stars the five of us breathed. So tired. The whole week I felt that my brain was floating, synapses weren’t firing. It didn’t matter whether the writing was English or Arabic, everything bled. Tile and cloth, wood, smoke. Thursday we flew home.
Pictures posted.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Chip
He hoisted Zakeea into the air. Motioning to her and then to his other granddaughter, "Tony" turned to me and mentioned in Arabic about how his daughter-in-law has had a new baby each year. First Zakeea, then Fausia.
"Do you understand?" he asked, and I nodded.
"No you don't," and he walked away with Zakeea in his arms.
"Do you understand?" he asked, and I nodded.
"No you don't," and he walked away with Zakeea in his arms.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Salt
“You know what it is?” I said to Scott, “It’s like I’m waiting for something to happen. I need something to happen.”
The sun has long set by the time all sixteen of us are positioned starboard and port, rolling the long skiff to the water’s edge by way of logs continuously being reset beneath it. Boat meets water as waves meet pale shins and cuffed jeans. Our “captains” were meant to arrive before 6 but it is after 8 by the time our belongings and ourselves are all aboard. The skiff is white, maybe twenty feet in length; a fishing boat. Our gear and backpacks at our feet (thinking time was of the essence, we had come straight from class), the waves playfully buffet the craft, spraying us with brackish water. The two Omani boys in charge of the boat speak to each other in hurried phrases as the outboard sputters and tsssss… sputter and tssss… finally catching, the taller of the two maneuvers the boat another 50 meters out before the engine dies.
Click. Click.
With greater urgency, the two begin another intense exchange. It is so hurried that Kleaver, conveniently positioned behind everyone else, only manages to decipher a single phrase:
“ma-fee petrol”.
Nervous laughter circles around the ranks of American students. The young boys say nothing, but one manages to work his way to the bow in order to throw anchor. We watch, giddy with the novelty and risk of our adventure. The second boy jumps into the waves, after a few minutes we can see the silhouette of his ankles outlined in the slightly reflecting sand as he walks off.
We look at each other. We lean or recline where space permits. He has anchored us precisely in the coiling breakers and every wave adds inches to the saltwater working its way up our calves and stretching out our clothing. Thirty minutes go. Someone recognizes the detriment to our belongings of long-term submersion and we struggle to find our backpacks and hoist them, dripping, onto our saturated laps. Sometimes the waves just graze the skiff’s side, sending up spray, but other times they roll with perfection directly into the hollow of the craft. An hour. We talk over the waves, laugh quietly. We say over and over again “ma-fee petrol”. I rearrange the contents of my bag: camera and cell in the center, clothing and school books on the sides. The moon is high, ¾ full, so when our gasoline and its carrier return, I can see him again, moving more slowly across the shiny sand. When he reaches the tumbling craft, Wes jumps off to help him lug the tank onto the stern and beneath the panels.
Rumble rumble tssss…
Click. Click.
The boys remove the lid to the battery, employing Scott’s moderately dry turban to toggle the two connections, willing it into electric action. Water continues to flood the craft, sixteen people on a boat with a capacity of seven. The battery becomes increasingly submerged, sharing the water that mingles with our long-pruned feet. Twenty minutes later and they make a call, the taller of the two is still ringing his hands painfully from receiving current when their father arrives. “Very nice, huh? Having good time?” He laughs and adjusts his frameless glasses. He takes a look at the battery, lit from Wes’ donned headlamp, and tells everyone to get out.
Say again?
Thinking back on it now, I don’t think there was a moment of hesitation for any one of us. I mean it’s the middle of the night and you’re trying to hitch a ride on a sinking skiff to a deserted island off the coast of Oman. Of course you’re gunna jump when the man says jump.
We were all still able to touch, so we stood, pulled back and forth constantly by the relentless breakers. Wet and salty. We tripped over ourselves and our neighbors and the boat knocked us, steered us, our feet in the sand.
“Dad” pulled the battery box up from the boat’s floor, pouring out the foot of water. He too tried to maneuver the cells, but the cloth was soaked through by now and he sent one of his sons ashore to look for a rock. Scott and Rachel started bailing at this point, using a hat and empty water bottle in an attempt to decrease our chances of future capsizing. The rock was found and, once returned to the boat, taken up by the father in order to smash both rusty clips further onto their assigned cells. He would hit one side and nod to his son who would attempt to turn over the engine.
Click.
Sputter…
Click. Click. Click.
Sputter… Click. Click. Click. Click. Click…
“We are happy?” laughs the Dad.
What a sight. For thirty minutes, 14 sodden Americans clinging pathetically to the sides of their tiny broken boat, a weathered Omani man pounding pleasantly away on the craft’s battery with a frickin rock.
The engine catches.
We shout, sloshing our salty bodies back on board. The anchor is hoisted and we are wet and relieved. Back in position, with their father in tow, the boys steer us out toward the blackness of the Gulf. Scott and Kleaver are on my left, Indiana is behind me and Wes is on my right. I forget the rest. We creep through the tossing waves, even past the breakers there is no relief from the swells and our boat is heavy. Slowly slowly.
Tssss…
Click.
The line of light from Muscat is behind us, a strip of orange horizon. In front of us is nothing. Pitch-black. Water. “Dad” once again takes up his rock and returns to battery battery. Ten minutes pass and the outboard catches. I, designated holder of all things electronic for our guides, am asked to produce “the Magellan”.
Hungry, I lug the bag of communal dates from the soggy floor and pass them among the ranks. They are juicier, swollen with salt water, but we eat them anyway. An hour passes and things quiet. I try to doze, bending my neck over the backpack on my lap, wedged between the boat’s central bar and a floor panel. When we do spot land it seems all-of-a-sudden.
It wasn’t there and then it was.
The skiff slows, tiptoeing prissily around rocks that loom black even with the bright moon, evading the mass of reefs below. There are lights on the island, groups of fisherman lounge beside small fires, waiting for the early morning hours to return to the water. We unload ourselves and our supplies, cutting our soft, flat arches on a beach of dead coral fragments.
Away from the glowing lights of the fisherman, we lay out our two straw mats and set down the red cooler. My khakis are so sloppy that they are sliding off, my cardigan stretched down to my knees, thus I change, peeing in the soft white sand among the bushes that cap the island.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I hear Rachel and step solidly into the wet sand beneath me in my hurry to get to her.
“Oh my God.” I echo. “This is it. This is the one moment.”
Between the tripod made by Rachel, Hugh and I, she is stoic, adjusting her giant body in slow turns. There is sand on her gradually sloped shell and she gracefully moves her head and front flippers. From tip to tip, her shell pushes four feet. “She looks like a dinosaur,” Rachel whispers.
Sensing her awareness we backed away. Brains buzzing.
Our “captains” make sure we are settled, “hand us a cell phone”, and ask us what time we would like to be returned to civilization the following day. Chris offers up 4pm, but, making room for “Omani time”, I suggest 1. The proposed time is set between 2 and 3, or as “Dad” decides – “sometime in the afternoon”.
Wes, Kyle and Chris work to ignite damp briquettes, the rest of us huddling in a semi-circle of growling stomachs and clothing deemed “har-ram”. The shrimp and vegetable kabobs are finished in shifts and passed throughout the group, while burgers served on white bread, that Scott has managed to dry over the coals, taste like manna from heaven. It is past midnight and no dinner has ever been so deserved or so enjoyed. People walk off, come back. The heat of Muscat doesn’t reach this island and we put on more layers as the moon reaches optimum height. The haze and humidity of the city are too dissipated and we can see long lines of blinking constellations.
Some stay near the fires, roasting marshmallows. Scott takes out and focuses his binoculars, showing me the terminator’s ragged edge on the moon, bright planets and swatches of stars. Graham joins us and we lie on the splintering mat, beneath a sign posted to warn against landing, camping, or diving on the island without a permit by order of royal decree, sand on our calves and the sticky palms of our hands. One by one everyone gravitates toward us, wading up hijab for pillows or and towels for blankets. Kleaver puts the speaker on low. Bon Iver. The Lemon of Pink. We turn on the sand. Scott has volunteered himself as night watchmen and stands, hands on hips, facing the waves. I tell him I can sleep when I’m dead and we walk back to sit by the glowing coals.
Eventually the moon falls beneath the horizon. The sky is at its darkest and the stars are relentlessly innumerous. Looking at the brightest only illuminates the paler millions that act as backdrop.
Dawn breaks temperately. First there is the knowing glow, the spectrum of grey differing from west to east. The clouds look like rain, but they always look like rain in the morning. We can see shapes; see everything going from monochrome to Technicolor in lens-like layers. We walk to the eastern most beach, the clouds hanging in both orange and bruised purple. Here again the shore is veined with coral shards; white, grey, salmon. Pucca shells and smooth smooth stones.
Graham joins us, then Caitlin.
Once the sun has unquestionably risen, Scott and I try to sleep, taking our neglected places on the mat while the rest stir and sit up. I attempt it for an hour, dozing to and from sleep but never settling. When I wake up I make my way to the cooler and pull out an orange. Sitting with the water lapping my feet, I try to peel it in slow circles.
Next, I swim. My skin almost a stranger to light exposure. Free in wearing so little. The water here is cool and the waves raise you and return you to the sand. I explore the island, taking pictures of countless dead birds along the beachfront and the rich cerulean water between the rocks. It is difficult to walk in the soft sand, sore feet sinking into its white allowances, trying to avoid wide cavities carved by lady sea turtles. The island is nakedly beautiful. Raw and natural is rises from the shallow blue without discernable shape.
Time was relative, but by mid-morning the heat has reached a significant point and we decide to move camp to the far side of the island in hopes of holding on to any shade we can collect. The more innovative of the group fashion a lean-to with our straw mats and some rip-rap 2x4s against the side of a tattered ledge, beneath which we put our remaining food and our languid, saline bodies. We swim, snorkel, walk the beach. We are afraid to look at the clock, but by noon (?) the majority has established themselves beneath the overhang. We sit and talk, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches go around for takers. Before us, spread and splayed over low black crags are our notebooks, Al Kitaabs, articles of clothing. Every once and awhile someone gets up to turn a waterlogged page and flip their soggy shirt. We bat at flies, slowly but surely moving back closer and closer to the rock wall as the sun gains height. Eventually the combined square feet of shade are no longer adequate for so many bodies, and many retire to covered enclaves in the water.
It is one. And then it is two.
I listen to Andrew Bird and drink liter after liter of water mixed with pineapple Tang. The flies crawl into creases in the turban I have twisted and tucked over my hair. They land on our arms, our lips. We sweat through our eyebrows, from the folds behind our knees.
Caitlin and Hugh scoop out the molten chocolate chips with left over marshmallows.
Kleaver passes around his remaining Marie Bisquits before teaching Indiana how to tread water.
Chris and I slant the 2x4s in order to slope the mats to a greater degree, increasing the shade by at least two feet.
Katricia sits on the cooler. Hugh wears her sunglasses. I flip my khakis, readjust a notebook, kill a fly on my foot.
John turns the now-soft pages of his Jack London collection, upset as its salty spoil. Rachel and Chris return to the reefs.
It is three.
Kyle, Wes and Jacob toss a football in the shallows between the rocks. Scott moves from shore to land, eats an energy bar, returns to the water. Noses, cheekbones and shoulders are inflamed, geometric piles of salt are cupped in the crevices of our cliff, and the cooler when opened releases a smell like rum, produced by the fermentation of our warmed and water-logged date remains.
Once again, the lean-to no longer adequately shades us, and being so encompassing prevents all manner of fresh breeze from cooling the interior. We divide and convene in small batches in the shade of outcroppings along the shore, sitting delicately on the moist sand, not saying much.
Indiana manages to light a soggy cigarette.
Graham begins to search for “the cell phone” given to us the previous night, in order to call to make sure that the boat is coming, but to no avail. Slightly panicked, I and others remove ourselves from the shade to locate it. We look beneath our bags. Inside them. We check our beach from the previous night and rummage through the trash. Scott takes out his binoculars and positions himself to face the proposed direction of Muscat. No cell phone. We all have our school-phones, but these, if they aren’t out of battery, have service, and still function after total submersion, do not contain the number of our “captain”.
It is four. Most resign themselves again to the enclaves. Graham and Scott stand look-out. We are tired, hungry, hot and dirty. There is less talking and more sighing.
A boat is sighted. They encircle the island once before making port in the blue cove. Glad to not be stranded, we quickly load up the skiff, while our guides take a load off. They smoke and sit, skip stones and remove themselves to the other side of the island to pray. All the while, the 14 of us stand around the ship, everyone holding on with both hands. We let the water wet our pants again, let it soak its way up to our thighs. It doesn’t faze us, we do not let go. Eventually they work their way back to the skiff, ask us if we are ready. We scramble on with an embarrassing urgency, cradling our backpacks and stepping on the small fish caught and stowed on the floor of the boat.
Sputter tssss… Sputter tssss…
Click. Click.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The craft floats lethargically throughout the cove, turning as the men again knock at the battery. We are too exhausted to be the least bit surprised. The outboard starts. And then stops. Again it starts and the taller boy maneuvers us away from the island, out into the Gulf.
We near shore in time to hear the call to prayer, stopping only a few times throughout the return trip when the engine gives out or the men decide to go fishing…
Last night we ate lunch at Aunt "Janice's", both families being gathered into the sitting room to listen to "Tony's" lecture, which he brokenly translated to me as being entitled “I Know My Husband Why I Am a Bad Woman” (???).
I am tired again. The house is on lock-down as far as I can tell, family members coming and going, screaming and crying and slamming doors. It’s 9pm and I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Three days later and I’m still picking sand out of my hair and salt off my zippers.
The sun has long set by the time all sixteen of us are positioned starboard and port, rolling the long skiff to the water’s edge by way of logs continuously being reset beneath it. Boat meets water as waves meet pale shins and cuffed jeans. Our “captains” were meant to arrive before 6 but it is after 8 by the time our belongings and ourselves are all aboard. The skiff is white, maybe twenty feet in length; a fishing boat. Our gear and backpacks at our feet (thinking time was of the essence, we had come straight from class), the waves playfully buffet the craft, spraying us with brackish water. The two Omani boys in charge of the boat speak to each other in hurried phrases as the outboard sputters and tsssss… sputter and tssss… finally catching, the taller of the two maneuvers the boat another 50 meters out before the engine dies.
Click. Click.
With greater urgency, the two begin another intense exchange. It is so hurried that Kleaver, conveniently positioned behind everyone else, only manages to decipher a single phrase:
“ma-fee petrol”.
Nervous laughter circles around the ranks of American students. The young boys say nothing, but one manages to work his way to the bow in order to throw anchor. We watch, giddy with the novelty and risk of our adventure. The second boy jumps into the waves, after a few minutes we can see the silhouette of his ankles outlined in the slightly reflecting sand as he walks off.
We look at each other. We lean or recline where space permits. He has anchored us precisely in the coiling breakers and every wave adds inches to the saltwater working its way up our calves and stretching out our clothing. Thirty minutes go. Someone recognizes the detriment to our belongings of long-term submersion and we struggle to find our backpacks and hoist them, dripping, onto our saturated laps. Sometimes the waves just graze the skiff’s side, sending up spray, but other times they roll with perfection directly into the hollow of the craft. An hour. We talk over the waves, laugh quietly. We say over and over again “ma-fee petrol”. I rearrange the contents of my bag: camera and cell in the center, clothing and school books on the sides. The moon is high, ¾ full, so when our gasoline and its carrier return, I can see him again, moving more slowly across the shiny sand. When he reaches the tumbling craft, Wes jumps off to help him lug the tank onto the stern and beneath the panels.
Rumble rumble tssss…
Click. Click.
The boys remove the lid to the battery, employing Scott’s moderately dry turban to toggle the two connections, willing it into electric action. Water continues to flood the craft, sixteen people on a boat with a capacity of seven. The battery becomes increasingly submerged, sharing the water that mingles with our long-pruned feet. Twenty minutes later and they make a call, the taller of the two is still ringing his hands painfully from receiving current when their father arrives. “Very nice, huh? Having good time?” He laughs and adjusts his frameless glasses. He takes a look at the battery, lit from Wes’ donned headlamp, and tells everyone to get out.
Say again?
Thinking back on it now, I don’t think there was a moment of hesitation for any one of us. I mean it’s the middle of the night and you’re trying to hitch a ride on a sinking skiff to a deserted island off the coast of Oman. Of course you’re gunna jump when the man says jump.
We were all still able to touch, so we stood, pulled back and forth constantly by the relentless breakers. Wet and salty. We tripped over ourselves and our neighbors and the boat knocked us, steered us, our feet in the sand.
“Dad” pulled the battery box up from the boat’s floor, pouring out the foot of water. He too tried to maneuver the cells, but the cloth was soaked through by now and he sent one of his sons ashore to look for a rock. Scott and Rachel started bailing at this point, using a hat and empty water bottle in an attempt to decrease our chances of future capsizing. The rock was found and, once returned to the boat, taken up by the father in order to smash both rusty clips further onto their assigned cells. He would hit one side and nod to his son who would attempt to turn over the engine.
Click.
Sputter…
Click. Click. Click.
Sputter… Click. Click. Click. Click. Click…
“We are happy?” laughs the Dad.
What a sight. For thirty minutes, 14 sodden Americans clinging pathetically to the sides of their tiny broken boat, a weathered Omani man pounding pleasantly away on the craft’s battery with a frickin rock.
The engine catches.
We shout, sloshing our salty bodies back on board. The anchor is hoisted and we are wet and relieved. Back in position, with their father in tow, the boys steer us out toward the blackness of the Gulf. Scott and Kleaver are on my left, Indiana is behind me and Wes is on my right. I forget the rest. We creep through the tossing waves, even past the breakers there is no relief from the swells and our boat is heavy. Slowly slowly.
Tssss…
Click.
The line of light from Muscat is behind us, a strip of orange horizon. In front of us is nothing. Pitch-black. Water. “Dad” once again takes up his rock and returns to battery battery. Ten minutes pass and the outboard catches. I, designated holder of all things electronic for our guides, am asked to produce “the Magellan”.
Hungry, I lug the bag of communal dates from the soggy floor and pass them among the ranks. They are juicier, swollen with salt water, but we eat them anyway. An hour passes and things quiet. I try to doze, bending my neck over the backpack on my lap, wedged between the boat’s central bar and a floor panel. When we do spot land it seems all-of-a-sudden.
It wasn’t there and then it was.
The skiff slows, tiptoeing prissily around rocks that loom black even with the bright moon, evading the mass of reefs below. There are lights on the island, groups of fisherman lounge beside small fires, waiting for the early morning hours to return to the water. We unload ourselves and our supplies, cutting our soft, flat arches on a beach of dead coral fragments.
Away from the glowing lights of the fisherman, we lay out our two straw mats and set down the red cooler. My khakis are so sloppy that they are sliding off, my cardigan stretched down to my knees, thus I change, peeing in the soft white sand among the bushes that cap the island.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” I hear Rachel and step solidly into the wet sand beneath me in my hurry to get to her.
“Oh my God.” I echo. “This is it. This is the one moment.”
Between the tripod made by Rachel, Hugh and I, she is stoic, adjusting her giant body in slow turns. There is sand on her gradually sloped shell and she gracefully moves her head and front flippers. From tip to tip, her shell pushes four feet. “She looks like a dinosaur,” Rachel whispers.
Sensing her awareness we backed away. Brains buzzing.
Our “captains” make sure we are settled, “hand us a cell phone”, and ask us what time we would like to be returned to civilization the following day. Chris offers up 4pm, but, making room for “Omani time”, I suggest 1. The proposed time is set between 2 and 3, or as “Dad” decides – “sometime in the afternoon”.
Wes, Kyle and Chris work to ignite damp briquettes, the rest of us huddling in a semi-circle of growling stomachs and clothing deemed “har-ram”. The shrimp and vegetable kabobs are finished in shifts and passed throughout the group, while burgers served on white bread, that Scott has managed to dry over the coals, taste like manna from heaven. It is past midnight and no dinner has ever been so deserved or so enjoyed. People walk off, come back. The heat of Muscat doesn’t reach this island and we put on more layers as the moon reaches optimum height. The haze and humidity of the city are too dissipated and we can see long lines of blinking constellations.
Some stay near the fires, roasting marshmallows. Scott takes out and focuses his binoculars, showing me the terminator’s ragged edge on the moon, bright planets and swatches of stars. Graham joins us and we lie on the splintering mat, beneath a sign posted to warn against landing, camping, or diving on the island without a permit by order of royal decree, sand on our calves and the sticky palms of our hands. One by one everyone gravitates toward us, wading up hijab for pillows or and towels for blankets. Kleaver puts the speaker on low. Bon Iver. The Lemon of Pink. We turn on the sand. Scott has volunteered himself as night watchmen and stands, hands on hips, facing the waves. I tell him I can sleep when I’m dead and we walk back to sit by the glowing coals.
Eventually the moon falls beneath the horizon. The sky is at its darkest and the stars are relentlessly innumerous. Looking at the brightest only illuminates the paler millions that act as backdrop.
Dawn breaks temperately. First there is the knowing glow, the spectrum of grey differing from west to east. The clouds look like rain, but they always look like rain in the morning. We can see shapes; see everything going from monochrome to Technicolor in lens-like layers. We walk to the eastern most beach, the clouds hanging in both orange and bruised purple. Here again the shore is veined with coral shards; white, grey, salmon. Pucca shells and smooth smooth stones.
Graham joins us, then Caitlin.
Once the sun has unquestionably risen, Scott and I try to sleep, taking our neglected places on the mat while the rest stir and sit up. I attempt it for an hour, dozing to and from sleep but never settling. When I wake up I make my way to the cooler and pull out an orange. Sitting with the water lapping my feet, I try to peel it in slow circles.
Next, I swim. My skin almost a stranger to light exposure. Free in wearing so little. The water here is cool and the waves raise you and return you to the sand. I explore the island, taking pictures of countless dead birds along the beachfront and the rich cerulean water between the rocks. It is difficult to walk in the soft sand, sore feet sinking into its white allowances, trying to avoid wide cavities carved by lady sea turtles. The island is nakedly beautiful. Raw and natural is rises from the shallow blue without discernable shape.
Time was relative, but by mid-morning the heat has reached a significant point and we decide to move camp to the far side of the island in hopes of holding on to any shade we can collect. The more innovative of the group fashion a lean-to with our straw mats and some rip-rap 2x4s against the side of a tattered ledge, beneath which we put our remaining food and our languid, saline bodies. We swim, snorkel, walk the beach. We are afraid to look at the clock, but by noon (?) the majority has established themselves beneath the overhang. We sit and talk, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches go around for takers. Before us, spread and splayed over low black crags are our notebooks, Al Kitaabs, articles of clothing. Every once and awhile someone gets up to turn a waterlogged page and flip their soggy shirt. We bat at flies, slowly but surely moving back closer and closer to the rock wall as the sun gains height. Eventually the combined square feet of shade are no longer adequate for so many bodies, and many retire to covered enclaves in the water.
It is one. And then it is two.
I listen to Andrew Bird and drink liter after liter of water mixed with pineapple Tang. The flies crawl into creases in the turban I have twisted and tucked over my hair. They land on our arms, our lips. We sweat through our eyebrows, from the folds behind our knees.
Caitlin and Hugh scoop out the molten chocolate chips with left over marshmallows.
Kleaver passes around his remaining Marie Bisquits before teaching Indiana how to tread water.
Chris and I slant the 2x4s in order to slope the mats to a greater degree, increasing the shade by at least two feet.
Katricia sits on the cooler. Hugh wears her sunglasses. I flip my khakis, readjust a notebook, kill a fly on my foot.
John turns the now-soft pages of his Jack London collection, upset as its salty spoil. Rachel and Chris return to the reefs.
It is three.
Kyle, Wes and Jacob toss a football in the shallows between the rocks. Scott moves from shore to land, eats an energy bar, returns to the water. Noses, cheekbones and shoulders are inflamed, geometric piles of salt are cupped in the crevices of our cliff, and the cooler when opened releases a smell like rum, produced by the fermentation of our warmed and water-logged date remains.
Once again, the lean-to no longer adequately shades us, and being so encompassing prevents all manner of fresh breeze from cooling the interior. We divide and convene in small batches in the shade of outcroppings along the shore, sitting delicately on the moist sand, not saying much.
Indiana manages to light a soggy cigarette.
Graham begins to search for “the cell phone” given to us the previous night, in order to call to make sure that the boat is coming, but to no avail. Slightly panicked, I and others remove ourselves from the shade to locate it. We look beneath our bags. Inside them. We check our beach from the previous night and rummage through the trash. Scott takes out his binoculars and positions himself to face the proposed direction of Muscat. No cell phone. We all have our school-phones, but these, if they aren’t out of battery, have service, and still function after total submersion, do not contain the number of our “captain”.
It is four. Most resign themselves again to the enclaves. Graham and Scott stand look-out. We are tired, hungry, hot and dirty. There is less talking and more sighing.
A boat is sighted. They encircle the island once before making port in the blue cove. Glad to not be stranded, we quickly load up the skiff, while our guides take a load off. They smoke and sit, skip stones and remove themselves to the other side of the island to pray. All the while, the 14 of us stand around the ship, everyone holding on with both hands. We let the water wet our pants again, let it soak its way up to our thighs. It doesn’t faze us, we do not let go. Eventually they work their way back to the skiff, ask us if we are ready. We scramble on with an embarrassing urgency, cradling our backpacks and stepping on the small fish caught and stowed on the floor of the boat.
Sputter tssss… Sputter tssss…
Click. Click.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The craft floats lethargically throughout the cove, turning as the men again knock at the battery. We are too exhausted to be the least bit surprised. The outboard starts. And then stops. Again it starts and the taller boy maneuvers us away from the island, out into the Gulf.
We near shore in time to hear the call to prayer, stopping only a few times throughout the return trip when the engine gives out or the men decide to go fishing…
Last night we ate lunch at Aunt "Janice's", both families being gathered into the sitting room to listen to "Tony's" lecture, which he brokenly translated to me as being entitled “I Know My Husband Why I Am a Bad Woman” (???).
I am tired again. The house is on lock-down as far as I can tell, family members coming and going, screaming and crying and slamming doors. It’s 9pm and I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Three days later and I’m still picking sand out of my hair and salt off my zippers.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Gloria
All my whites have turned a dull pistachio. At first I figured I was seeing things, a trick of the light. Really it’s all just green.
Because of the lack of young children in my own household, I’ve decided to alter the direction of my independent study project. Instead, I will focus on the psychological effects of perceptions of beauty in Oman. As I explained it to my sponsoring professor:
“It is no secret that opinions concerning ones’ own, as well as others, appearance have a considerable affect on psychological issues such as self-esteem, goal attainment, societal acceptance, etc, and I hope to gain a better understanding of these and other concepts through my research. Not only am I interested in what these women find beautiful (hair color/length, body shape, henna) and who they feel has obtained these characteristics (celebrities, family members, themselves), but why these particular assets are desirable (does the loveliness of the abaya represent dignity and class? and in what way?), and how they are affected by these aspects of appearance (having dark enough eyes makes one feel ___ but being too short makes one feel ___).”
Now, each evening I flip through the glossy pages of Arab fashion magazines, noticing visual patterns and translating articles related to aesthetics. Two nights ago the music I quietly played from my laptop brought "Meadow" and "Hunter" into the dining room to shift passively on the neighboring couches. Free Bird came on and, as is usual with me, I couldn’t help but get up and start dancing between the rooms. The girls watched, occasionally pretending the shade-less lamp was a mic and stand as we moved through Need You Tonight, Tango de Roxanne, Cellphone’s Dead, Play that Funky Music, Ice Cream. Jumping around, racing between the sitting room and dining table, spinning and shaking and generally making an absolute fool of myself, happy to just be moving with music behind. But the girls remained stagnant. I returned to my work, figuring they must be disinterested, but "Meadow" followed with, “Sawrar, let’s go your room, to dance.”
Best idea I’ve heard all month.
At first they stuck to mimicking my ridiculousness, easing their way into the relative publicity of this dancing, but it didn’t take long for both girls to shed all inhibition. For the next hour, "Meadow", "Hunter" and I worked our way through Skynyrd and Floyd, I’m Your Venus and I’m a Hustler Baby. They would tell me to sit and avert my eyes while they put together spontaneous choreographies, hooking arms and somersaulting off beds. They slid down walls and shook their hips, watched themselves in the mirror and strutted from one side of the room to the other.
They were so happy.
You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die
Oh no not I
Haha… I can see this becoming habitual.
Because of the lack of young children in my own household, I’ve decided to alter the direction of my independent study project. Instead, I will focus on the psychological effects of perceptions of beauty in Oman. As I explained it to my sponsoring professor:
“It is no secret that opinions concerning ones’ own, as well as others, appearance have a considerable affect on psychological issues such as self-esteem, goal attainment, societal acceptance, etc, and I hope to gain a better understanding of these and other concepts through my research. Not only am I interested in what these women find beautiful (hair color/length, body shape, henna) and who they feel has obtained these characteristics (celebrities, family members, themselves), but why these particular assets are desirable (does the loveliness of the abaya represent dignity and class? and in what way?), and how they are affected by these aspects of appearance (having dark enough eyes makes one feel ___ but being too short makes one feel ___).”
Now, each evening I flip through the glossy pages of Arab fashion magazines, noticing visual patterns and translating articles related to aesthetics. Two nights ago the music I quietly played from my laptop brought "Meadow" and "Hunter" into the dining room to shift passively on the neighboring couches. Free Bird came on and, as is usual with me, I couldn’t help but get up and start dancing between the rooms. The girls watched, occasionally pretending the shade-less lamp was a mic and stand as we moved through Need You Tonight, Tango de Roxanne, Cellphone’s Dead, Play that Funky Music, Ice Cream. Jumping around, racing between the sitting room and dining table, spinning and shaking and generally making an absolute fool of myself, happy to just be moving with music behind. But the girls remained stagnant. I returned to my work, figuring they must be disinterested, but "Meadow" followed with, “Sawrar, let’s go your room, to dance.”
Best idea I’ve heard all month.
At first they stuck to mimicking my ridiculousness, easing their way into the relative publicity of this dancing, but it didn’t take long for both girls to shed all inhibition. For the next hour, "Meadow", "Hunter" and I worked our way through Skynyrd and Floyd, I’m Your Venus and I’m a Hustler Baby. They would tell me to sit and avert my eyes while they put together spontaneous choreographies, hooking arms and somersaulting off beds. They slid down walls and shook their hips, watched themselves in the mirror and strutted from one side of the room to the other.
They were so happy.
You think I’d crumble
You think I’d lay down and die
Oh no not I
Haha… I can see this becoming habitual.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Lines
Lately my dreams have been racing and vivid.
I am with an old friend, making old mistakes. Like in real life he is painfully wise. Gently he caresses my flaws and chips the layers of thick white paint off my attic window frames.
I am imprisoned in a sanatorium. Old men with knife-like fingers pace and I carry a blade to fend off owls in the central courtyard. Rocking chairs.
I am running. The neighbor’s house collapsed and burst into flame, the result of raging lava flows beneath the foundation. Trying to escape the failing homes we are chased; liquid gold at our heels.
The frankincense thickens and soon you can see it waft between your face and your book.
“Just be Muslim”, says the little girl. “Just pray.”
After dinner and seated, they ask my age. “Esher-een?? But you are small.”
“I love your mouth, it is like Avril. Do you know Avril? ‘Hey hey you you i don’t like your girlfriend…’”
“I tell my mother I want to wear shorts but she says, ‘You are Muslim, what do you want to do with that?’”
I ask them what they think of Americans, their honest opinion. The girls only say “George Bush” or “Israel”.
“I love the English ones. Let me look, do you use Olay?”
“You are twenty? You look younger. All the Americans we know are big, so much bigger than us.”
In perfect English, Rayan asks “What language do they speak in America?”
It’s late evening and word is whispered through the ranks that "Tony" wants the girls to get ready for the lecture… they tell me he is notoriously the most traditional/strict of the family and this is a common and expected occurrence during family gatherings.
Luckily he is my homestay father…
The boys play soccer or cards at a neighboring table, while we ladies are instructed, via Arabic, on the ways to stay modest and where we may be lead astray (The Marriage talk, as the girls term it). "Tony" uses his cell phone to represent girls “then” and Imam’s to stand for girls “now”, talking about differences in temptation and participation in forbidden practices. He asks the girls why they think there are so many girls “now” doing “bad” things. The main argument of the group is technology; ease of access. The discussion gets heated, "Tony" plays mediator among the harem making sure they don’t interrupt one another and the entire time I’m sitting there thinking. “we shouldn’t have to sit here.”
I try to grasp as much of the discussion as I can. In the end "Tony" asks for my opinion. I say that technology certainly plays a role in simplifying what was once more complex, but it is the fact that we live in a dynamic and evolving world that there has been a move away from TRADITION, which isn’t the same as movement toward “badness”. I tried to emphasize that it’s really less about the actual span of time when it comes to the detriment of youth between “then” and “now”. Even a hundred years ago a girl was able to smoke, obtain alcohol, get pregnant out of wedlock… we still had all the same parts…
Ok, he countered, so what are we supposed to do about it?
Education, I said. Instead of imposing rule after limitation after law on daughters, parents need to TEACH them things. TELL them the difference between good and bad choices and give them reasons WHY. By leaving it at “You can’t do ____, and you can’t do ____” you not only instill in them a harmful naivety, you cultivate a daughter’s desire to rebel! Limitations and rules do not raise a child, education does.
"Tony" obviously doesn’t agree, coming back with, “So what do I do? Tell my eight-year-old daughter that a man will harm her sexually?? Eight-years-old?”
First off I was confused about how he got on the 8-year kick seeing as how he has a daughter in fact, (who was shooed away for being too young for this “workshop”) and she happens to be 12.
Clearly we were arguing different wave lengths. I wanted to talk concepts and "Tony" wanted to talk numbers… More than anything at this point I wanted to stand up and tell him “Of course not, "Tony". Don’t educate your daughters about the dangers of the world. Instead why doesn’t everyone lock them in a cage in their basement?” Which has only stuck with me because there are no basements in Oman.
The other girls took the discussion back over and I sat looking at my hands. In my peripheral vision I could see my green hijab, loosely wrapped around my head. In front of me on the table, Bushra was absentmindedly playing with "Tony's" cell as she talked. I looked at the phone and it hit me that my real dad has the same one, my dad in America. The one who has never scolded me for showing my hair on accident or told the Indian gas station clerk that he “needs to be smart” or dominates the life of his daughter to such a degree that she won’t even dance in a room full of girls with the door locked for fear that her father would find out.
I promised "Meadow" I wouldn’t tell.
My dad thinks I am strong enough to live without hiding and he thinks I am pretty without seeing that as a commodity to be held secret and to hoard. I’m sure "Tony" is a good father. But he is not my father.
I am with an old friend, making old mistakes. Like in real life he is painfully wise. Gently he caresses my flaws and chips the layers of thick white paint off my attic window frames.
I am imprisoned in a sanatorium. Old men with knife-like fingers pace and I carry a blade to fend off owls in the central courtyard. Rocking chairs.
I am running. The neighbor’s house collapsed and burst into flame, the result of raging lava flows beneath the foundation. Trying to escape the failing homes we are chased; liquid gold at our heels.
The frankincense thickens and soon you can see it waft between your face and your book.
“Just be Muslim”, says the little girl. “Just pray.”
After dinner and seated, they ask my age. “Esher-een?? But you are small.”
“I love your mouth, it is like Avril. Do you know Avril? ‘Hey hey you you i don’t like your girlfriend…’”
“I tell my mother I want to wear shorts but she says, ‘You are Muslim, what do you want to do with that?’”
I ask them what they think of Americans, their honest opinion. The girls only say “George Bush” or “Israel”.
“I love the English ones. Let me look, do you use Olay?”
“You are twenty? You look younger. All the Americans we know are big, so much bigger than us.”
In perfect English, Rayan asks “What language do they speak in America?”
It’s late evening and word is whispered through the ranks that "Tony" wants the girls to get ready for the lecture… they tell me he is notoriously the most traditional/strict of the family and this is a common and expected occurrence during family gatherings.
Luckily he is my homestay father…
The boys play soccer or cards at a neighboring table, while we ladies are instructed, via Arabic, on the ways to stay modest and where we may be lead astray (The Marriage talk, as the girls term it). "Tony" uses his cell phone to represent girls “then” and Imam’s to stand for girls “now”, talking about differences in temptation and participation in forbidden practices. He asks the girls why they think there are so many girls “now” doing “bad” things. The main argument of the group is technology; ease of access. The discussion gets heated, "Tony" plays mediator among the harem making sure they don’t interrupt one another and the entire time I’m sitting there thinking. “we shouldn’t have to sit here.”
I try to grasp as much of the discussion as I can. In the end "Tony" asks for my opinion. I say that technology certainly plays a role in simplifying what was once more complex, but it is the fact that we live in a dynamic and evolving world that there has been a move away from TRADITION, which isn’t the same as movement toward “badness”. I tried to emphasize that it’s really less about the actual span of time when it comes to the detriment of youth between “then” and “now”. Even a hundred years ago a girl was able to smoke, obtain alcohol, get pregnant out of wedlock… we still had all the same parts…
Ok, he countered, so what are we supposed to do about it?
Education, I said. Instead of imposing rule after limitation after law on daughters, parents need to TEACH them things. TELL them the difference between good and bad choices and give them reasons WHY. By leaving it at “You can’t do ____, and you can’t do ____” you not only instill in them a harmful naivety, you cultivate a daughter’s desire to rebel! Limitations and rules do not raise a child, education does.
"Tony" obviously doesn’t agree, coming back with, “So what do I do? Tell my eight-year-old daughter that a man will harm her sexually?? Eight-years-old?”
First off I was confused about how he got on the 8-year kick seeing as how he has a daughter in fact, (who was shooed away for being too young for this “workshop”) and she happens to be 12.
Clearly we were arguing different wave lengths. I wanted to talk concepts and "Tony" wanted to talk numbers… More than anything at this point I wanted to stand up and tell him “Of course not, "Tony". Don’t educate your daughters about the dangers of the world. Instead why doesn’t everyone lock them in a cage in their basement?” Which has only stuck with me because there are no basements in Oman.
The other girls took the discussion back over and I sat looking at my hands. In my peripheral vision I could see my green hijab, loosely wrapped around my head. In front of me on the table, Bushra was absentmindedly playing with "Tony's" cell as she talked. I looked at the phone and it hit me that my real dad has the same one, my dad in America. The one who has never scolded me for showing my hair on accident or told the Indian gas station clerk that he “needs to be smart” or dominates the life of his daughter to such a degree that she won’t even dance in a room full of girls with the door locked for fear that her father would find out.
I promised "Meadow" I wouldn’t tell.
My dad thinks I am strong enough to live without hiding and he thinks I am pretty without seeing that as a commodity to be held secret and to hoard. I’m sure "Tony" is a good father. But he is not my father.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Tourist
“That is the camel he is enjoyding it the frankincense trees and the American peoples.”
When you only spend 56 hours in Salalah there is no time to sleep. In Muscat you sweat because you breath, here the air is cool and dry and there is a breeze.
Arriving mid-day Wednesday we headed straight from the airport to Salalah Port, our small white bus dwarfed by the swinging, hinged cranes along the main strip. Mainly used for trans-shipment, the port is moving thousands of crates per day, millions annually. We toured the bay by tugboat, evoking nautical longings that were difficult to bed down.
The top floor of our hotel housed a “health club” with male, female, and general hours and miracle of all miracles, there was even a pool (beach-swimming isn’t allowed during Ramadan for females). So we ladies donned our suits, covered by both swimming-shorts and t-shirt, and waded heavily in the warm water. Four o’clock approached, Haffa House’s weekly, hour-long, women’s only swim time, and the boys were ushered out. Being notoriously ill-suited for lengthy girl-only-interactions, Graham, Scott, and I rounded up Hugh, John, and DJ to head to Husn Souk. The walk was long. Very. But there were forests of banana trees and frond-roofed huts selling the local coconuts, papayas, and plantains. We found one of the Sultan’s palaces, peace be upon him, situated firmly on a walled-in stretch of forbidden beach. Here the riptide was fierce enough to deter even the most ignorant of swimmers, it smashed and rolled, beating ridges into the sand. We spent little time in the actual souk, it being so near Iftar, and decided to resign ourselves to finding a place to eat. Taking two cabs, our two groups eventually met up on July 23rd Street, half wanted to go to a conveniently close Chinese restaurant. Scott and I expressed a simple “hell no” to that plan, put off by the thought of passing on Omani food for a buffet we could find in the states next to a Walmart. We walked. And walked. And then retraced our steps in the opposite direction. And walked which was “really very less great, actually”. The tops of my feet bled and we found as authentically Salalah-an a place as we could. Because of the mixed company (me) we were required to use a private family room, but the six of us destroyed the chicken, beef, and fish they laid before us, pedestaled atop saffron rice. Hugh, John, and Graham went to check out a nearby hookah bar while DJ, Scott, and I spent the next hour walking back home.
By now it was 10pm, and desperate for some appropriate clothes, I spent the next hour in Max, which shared a building with our hotel. After scouring the busy store, the following 45 minutes I stood in line. Basically, the area before the registers was a writhing black mosh pit; abayad women pushing through, elbowing each other out of place, cutting ahead, slipping behind, throwing their piles of clothing over the counter and into the arms of employees in order to insure that they’d be taken care of next. If this had been America you better believe there would have been a throw down. “You cutting in front of ME, mammy? I don’t THINK SO!” It’s interesting how what is considered perfectly acceptable in some cultures is entirely, hands down, no doubt about it rude in another. Returning home at midnight, I had an hour left in the health club, just enough time to run out all the aggression and angst I had collected during my shopping experience.
Thursday was a whirlwind of tourist attractions. Taqah Castle and their cliffs. Samharam archeological site. Tomb of Ain Rezat. Mirbat Castle, homes, and port. Wadi Darbat and nearby falls. “Really, it’s very enjoyd-able. I am sure you will love it, actually.” We left the hotel at nine and returned by three-thirty. Trompin’ around Salalah without food or water for seven hours. We broke fast beneath a tent in the desert and visited the Frankincense Museum before ending up back at the main souk.
SO sick of many of our compatriots, Scott and I managed to slip around corners in the noisy maze of shops and lose most. While they headed back to the hotel to gather for another hookah-bout, Scott and I made our way back the beach. Being so near the water, a skin of condensation coated everything; the plastic table beneath our glasses of foggy Lipton was slick with droplets. No women out now. All the sardine fishermen had pulled in their last weighted throw long before and the beaches and restaurants were dotted with small groups of grown men, dishdasha donned. On our way back into the market’s heart, I bought some rich brown and nutty halawa to go with the frankincense I would present to my host family upon returning.
Friday morning was another maddening trip to see “all the sights”. Job’s tomb, Ziczac Road, the Mughsayl fountains… Salalah is “really so beautiful, actually”, which is VERY true, but packing so much into such little time took its toll.
When you only spend 56 hours in Salalah there is no time to sleep. In Muscat you sweat because you breath, here the air is cool and dry and there is a breeze.
Arriving mid-day Wednesday we headed straight from the airport to Salalah Port, our small white bus dwarfed by the swinging, hinged cranes along the main strip. Mainly used for trans-shipment, the port is moving thousands of crates per day, millions annually. We toured the bay by tugboat, evoking nautical longings that were difficult to bed down.
The top floor of our hotel housed a “health club” with male, female, and general hours and miracle of all miracles, there was even a pool (beach-swimming isn’t allowed during Ramadan for females). So we ladies donned our suits, covered by both swimming-shorts and t-shirt, and waded heavily in the warm water. Four o’clock approached, Haffa House’s weekly, hour-long, women’s only swim time, and the boys were ushered out. Being notoriously ill-suited for lengthy girl-only-interactions, Graham, Scott, and I rounded up Hugh, John, and DJ to head to Husn Souk. The walk was long. Very. But there were forests of banana trees and frond-roofed huts selling the local coconuts, papayas, and plantains. We found one of the Sultan’s palaces, peace be upon him, situated firmly on a walled-in stretch of forbidden beach. Here the riptide was fierce enough to deter even the most ignorant of swimmers, it smashed and rolled, beating ridges into the sand. We spent little time in the actual souk, it being so near Iftar, and decided to resign ourselves to finding a place to eat. Taking two cabs, our two groups eventually met up on July 23rd Street, half wanted to go to a conveniently close Chinese restaurant. Scott and I expressed a simple “hell no” to that plan, put off by the thought of passing on Omani food for a buffet we could find in the states next to a Walmart. We walked. And walked. And then retraced our steps in the opposite direction. And walked which was “really very less great, actually”. The tops of my feet bled and we found as authentically Salalah-an a place as we could. Because of the mixed company (me) we were required to use a private family room, but the six of us destroyed the chicken, beef, and fish they laid before us, pedestaled atop saffron rice. Hugh, John, and Graham went to check out a nearby hookah bar while DJ, Scott, and I spent the next hour walking back home.
By now it was 10pm, and desperate for some appropriate clothes, I spent the next hour in Max, which shared a building with our hotel. After scouring the busy store, the following 45 minutes I stood in line. Basically, the area before the registers was a writhing black mosh pit; abayad women pushing through, elbowing each other out of place, cutting ahead, slipping behind, throwing their piles of clothing over the counter and into the arms of employees in order to insure that they’d be taken care of next. If this had been America you better believe there would have been a throw down. “You cutting in front of ME, mammy? I don’t THINK SO!” It’s interesting how what is considered perfectly acceptable in some cultures is entirely, hands down, no doubt about it rude in another. Returning home at midnight, I had an hour left in the health club, just enough time to run out all the aggression and angst I had collected during my shopping experience.
Thursday was a whirlwind of tourist attractions. Taqah Castle and their cliffs. Samharam archeological site. Tomb of Ain Rezat. Mirbat Castle, homes, and port. Wadi Darbat and nearby falls. “Really, it’s very enjoyd-able. I am sure you will love it, actually.” We left the hotel at nine and returned by three-thirty. Trompin’ around Salalah without food or water for seven hours. We broke fast beneath a tent in the desert and visited the Frankincense Museum before ending up back at the main souk.
SO sick of many of our compatriots, Scott and I managed to slip around corners in the noisy maze of shops and lose most. While they headed back to the hotel to gather for another hookah-bout, Scott and I made our way back the beach. Being so near the water, a skin of condensation coated everything; the plastic table beneath our glasses of foggy Lipton was slick with droplets. No women out now. All the sardine fishermen had pulled in their last weighted throw long before and the beaches and restaurants were dotted with small groups of grown men, dishdasha donned. On our way back into the market’s heart, I bought some rich brown and nutty halawa to go with the frankincense I would present to my host family upon returning.
Friday morning was another maddening trip to see “all the sights”. Job’s tomb, Ziczac Road, the Mughsayl fountains… Salalah is “really so beautiful, actually”, which is VERY true, but packing so much into such little time took its toll.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Lifeblood
Scott keeps telling me that “a woman cannot live by dates alone,” but my cravings might prove him wrong.
I was so positive that I was above it. Everyone else, sure. Definitely not someone like me. But yesterday I said to Scott, “It’s like when they transplant a new organ into someone. Like a heart. You know how some bodies start to reject it? That’s what’s happening to me, it’s like my body is rejecting Arabic. It won’t take in anymore. It doesn’t WANT to work with it.” It was only funny because later that very afternoon, David Fenner, our program director used the exact same analogy to describe culture shock as a whole.
It scares me a little that I’m so much “there” already. Oh well what are you gunna do…
Raise your glasses everyone, here’s to Sarah’s descent into madness. You are going to love it.
Before classes start I always make myself a cup of tea (here in Oman it seems that they’ve even nationalized THAT industry; there is an entire half-aisle in Carrefour dedicated to Lipton Yellow Label with not a single box of chai to be found). Unfortunately, I was a tad pressed for time this morning, seeing as our driver got two flat tires and we were dropped off at school 45 minutes after class started. When I finally did get around to dealing with my rooibos vanilla it was during our first break between Arabic courses. Having learned from my mistakes the previous few days, I brought my own outlet adapter to school since the school’s electric tea pot plug doesn’t match any of the school’s outlets (???) and I was tired of borrowing Graham’s. Tea bag placed in orange mug, I plugged the “kettle” into my adapter and my adapter into the wall. Turning on the switch there was a bright flash from the “on” indicator before the whole thing went dead. I tried another outlet. And then a third (once home and ready to charge my laptop, I came to the terrific realization that this episode actually managed to BREAK my adapter, the tea pot’s fine).
So this is annoying.
I have my tea bag poised, sugar spooned, water waiting… and there is no way to warm it up (oh by the way, the stove isn’t hooked up to gas yet and there is no microware). Scott has been witnessing this frustration and suggests that I put the tea bag in a glass pitcher and let it sit out in the sun during the next class period so that it will steep into something like ice tea. Smart guy. I grab a pitcher, throw in all the necessaries, and then head for the door that leads into the back yard.
Locked.
I try the door right outside the kitchen.
Also locked.
I consider making a dash for it across the no-man’s-land of the main foyer, buy decide against it (b/c people are fasting in this building, the entire house is essentially a no-food-zone save the kitchen; problems ensue when this delicate balance is offset).
So. I’ve got my tea bag floating pointlessly in cold water, I am a prisoner in the villa’s kitchen, and there is a seriously endless supply of heat just outside the walls waiting to cook my rooibos. By this time I was basically manic, hardly able to believe what a gigantic problem such a simple task had become.
So I did what any desperate Omani gal would do.
I threw back my hijab, hiked up my skirt, and jumped out the window.
Scott handed me the pitcher once I’d gathered myself, and after I told him to look away while I crawled back in for fear of indecency, I was golden. I mean I only squatted on the tile floor and laughed like a crazy person for about three minutes afterwards, until I started crying.
Can you believe that? I don’t know which was more ridiculous now – the means that it took to secure a simple cup of tea, or the fact that I actually did it…
I was so positive that I was above it. Everyone else, sure. Definitely not someone like me. But yesterday I said to Scott, “It’s like when they transplant a new organ into someone. Like a heart. You know how some bodies start to reject it? That’s what’s happening to me, it’s like my body is rejecting Arabic. It won’t take in anymore. It doesn’t WANT to work with it.” It was only funny because later that very afternoon, David Fenner, our program director used the exact same analogy to describe culture shock as a whole.
It scares me a little that I’m so much “there” already. Oh well what are you gunna do…
Raise your glasses everyone, here’s to Sarah’s descent into madness. You are going to love it.
Before classes start I always make myself a cup of tea (here in Oman it seems that they’ve even nationalized THAT industry; there is an entire half-aisle in Carrefour dedicated to Lipton Yellow Label with not a single box of chai to be found). Unfortunately, I was a tad pressed for time this morning, seeing as our driver got two flat tires and we were dropped off at school 45 minutes after class started. When I finally did get around to dealing with my rooibos vanilla it was during our first break between Arabic courses. Having learned from my mistakes the previous few days, I brought my own outlet adapter to school since the school’s electric tea pot plug doesn’t match any of the school’s outlets (???) and I was tired of borrowing Graham’s. Tea bag placed in orange mug, I plugged the “kettle” into my adapter and my adapter into the wall. Turning on the switch there was a bright flash from the “on” indicator before the whole thing went dead. I tried another outlet. And then a third (once home and ready to charge my laptop, I came to the terrific realization that this episode actually managed to BREAK my adapter, the tea pot’s fine).
So this is annoying.
I have my tea bag poised, sugar spooned, water waiting… and there is no way to warm it up (oh by the way, the stove isn’t hooked up to gas yet and there is no microware). Scott has been witnessing this frustration and suggests that I put the tea bag in a glass pitcher and let it sit out in the sun during the next class period so that it will steep into something like ice tea. Smart guy. I grab a pitcher, throw in all the necessaries, and then head for the door that leads into the back yard.
Locked.
I try the door right outside the kitchen.
Also locked.
I consider making a dash for it across the no-man’s-land of the main foyer, buy decide against it (b/c people are fasting in this building, the entire house is essentially a no-food-zone save the kitchen; problems ensue when this delicate balance is offset).
So. I’ve got my tea bag floating pointlessly in cold water, I am a prisoner in the villa’s kitchen, and there is a seriously endless supply of heat just outside the walls waiting to cook my rooibos. By this time I was basically manic, hardly able to believe what a gigantic problem such a simple task had become.
So I did what any desperate Omani gal would do.
I threw back my hijab, hiked up my skirt, and jumped out the window.
Scott handed me the pitcher once I’d gathered myself, and after I told him to look away while I crawled back in for fear of indecency, I was golden. I mean I only squatted on the tile floor and laughed like a crazy person for about three minutes afterwards, until I started crying.
Can you believe that? I don’t know which was more ridiculous now – the means that it took to secure a simple cup of tea, or the fact that I actually did it…
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sweat
If you wake up early enough, the sun hasn’t yet baked the contents of each dented aluminum dumpster. I run by but still hold my breath before them, where the asphalt is stained dark and the air is rancid and sweet.
This morning I decided that sweating here doesn't bead and fall. It's more like going from matte to gloss.
Yesterday and today I did one thing. I don't even want to talk about it, sore subject as it is. Getting usable internet here is like building a castle on the sand or whatever that dumb saying is. Except you don't have a castle. And you definitely don't have sand.
Ok. So I have an Omani SIM card because of the phones they assigned us for the program. I needed to buy a modem then, in order to use this card to get internet access. The cheapest modem was 25OR ($65) and was 3.5g speed. Since my phone service is pay as you go, I have to buy phone cards and with my cell, text Oman Mobile whether I want 10hrs for 1OR or 60hrs for 3OR. Now when buying ten hours, this doesn't mean that you can use one or two, and then none the next day, and then three the following. When you press "1" and send, you have ten hours from that very second until your subscription expires... which seems excessive until you bring home your $65 modem and realize it takes about 3 minutes to load the google search engine page. They have to give you at least ten hours at once cause it's gunna take that long to get anything done! It was so slow that most of the pages wouldn't even load, the main problem being that it just gave up when I tried to get on Shutterfly or Picasa. So there I am, spending oodles of money every second, unable to upload a single photo, which is why I bought the whole frickin system to begin with. "Tony" was kinda with me the whole time, since I'm the guinea pig to whether or not he gets this service for his own family for their home. Seeing my 7-hour-long distress, he suggested we go back and get the next faster modem, the one that goes for the "lucky price" of 65OR ($169). Obviously I'm not thrilled about this but I NEED internet to get any pictures out. Plus, when I do my independent study project in a few months I'm definitely going to research online, thus I have to have it functional. After last night's party, my brothers, sister, ten zillion cousins and I headed to City Center again for moral support during my upgrading process. Back at the kiosk they DID NOT want to let me return the modem - apparently "return policy" is a very American thing. When they finally consented, I offered them my credit card to pay the next 40OR to cover the full 65OR. Fat chance! I have to pay this part cash since they have nothing for sale at the kiosk for 40OR or some bull so they can't run a credit card for 40OR. FINE! I'LL GO TO AN ATM! My cousin "Silvio" escorts me to one. And then when that one fails to release any funds to me, to another. Finally, I hand him the bills. Look at me right now. I am in a mood.
Long story kinda shorter - the new modem works better, if only slightly. But, mash-allah, it uploads pictures!!! Shutterfly was making me feel like burning something so I put everything on google's picasa. I'm hoping you just need to go to the link below:
http://picasaweb.google.com/sarah872014591
I may have to send out "share" emails or some such #%$@...
can you tell that I'm frustrated? hahaha
Also, special thanks to my parents who donated the money to my checking account that I decided went toward the puchase of this frickin sweet modem. You guys seriously rock - there'd be no internet without 'em, ladies and gentlemen.
See? Now I legit have a headache.
This morning I decided that sweating here doesn't bead and fall. It's more like going from matte to gloss.
Yesterday and today I did one thing. I don't even want to talk about it, sore subject as it is. Getting usable internet here is like building a castle on the sand or whatever that dumb saying is. Except you don't have a castle. And you definitely don't have sand.
Ok. So I have an Omani SIM card because of the phones they assigned us for the program. I needed to buy a modem then, in order to use this card to get internet access. The cheapest modem was 25OR ($65) and was 3.5g speed. Since my phone service is pay as you go, I have to buy phone cards and with my cell, text Oman Mobile whether I want 10hrs for 1OR or 60hrs for 3OR. Now when buying ten hours, this doesn't mean that you can use one or two, and then none the next day, and then three the following. When you press "1" and send, you have ten hours from that very second until your subscription expires... which seems excessive until you bring home your $65 modem and realize it takes about 3 minutes to load the google search engine page. They have to give you at least ten hours at once cause it's gunna take that long to get anything done! It was so slow that most of the pages wouldn't even load, the main problem being that it just gave up when I tried to get on Shutterfly or Picasa. So there I am, spending oodles of money every second, unable to upload a single photo, which is why I bought the whole frickin system to begin with. "Tony" was kinda with me the whole time, since I'm the guinea pig to whether or not he gets this service for his own family for their home. Seeing my 7-hour-long distress, he suggested we go back and get the next faster modem, the one that goes for the "lucky price" of 65OR ($169). Obviously I'm not thrilled about this but I NEED internet to get any pictures out. Plus, when I do my independent study project in a few months I'm definitely going to research online, thus I have to have it functional. After last night's party, my brothers, sister, ten zillion cousins and I headed to City Center again for moral support during my upgrading process. Back at the kiosk they DID NOT want to let me return the modem - apparently "return policy" is a very American thing. When they finally consented, I offered them my credit card to pay the next 40OR to cover the full 65OR. Fat chance! I have to pay this part cash since they have nothing for sale at the kiosk for 40OR or some bull so they can't run a credit card for 40OR. FINE! I'LL GO TO AN ATM! My cousin "Silvio" escorts me to one. And then when that one fails to release any funds to me, to another. Finally, I hand him the bills. Look at me right now. I am in a mood.
Long story kinda shorter - the new modem works better, if only slightly. But, mash-allah, it uploads pictures!!! Shutterfly was making me feel like burning something so I put everything on google's picasa. I'm hoping you just need to go to the link below:
http://picasaweb.google.com/sarah872014591
I may have to send out "share" emails or some such #%$@...
can you tell that I'm frustrated? hahaha
Also, special thanks to my parents who donated the money to my checking account that I decided went toward the puchase of this frickin sweet modem. You guys seriously rock - there'd be no internet without 'em, ladies and gentlemen.
See? Now I legit have a headache.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Facade
You might fall through.
The longer I am here the more I notice fiberboard beneath the exotic veneer. Every door knob, front gate, window frame, tasseled pillow, tiled floor, painted ceiling, curtained alcove, upholstered chaise, bejeweled abaya, shapely armoire, marble staircase, balustered balcony, crown-molded corner, inlayed table, stained glass window is a façade. Literally. There is no quality, no real substance or sustenance. Look with even the slightest curiosity and the ugliness shows. There are cracks in the tile and the slabs of marble aren’t flush, white spackle is flaking off the outer walls near swamp coolers. The fabric is running and you might fall through.
Here they gilt their garbage.
I may be in the center of the room, but I’m not in the center of the conversation. "Tony" and "Christopher" sit before me, "AJ" and their friend behind. I am not looked at, I am not addressed, there is no translation. They are deciding among themselves what internet system/service I am going to purchase. THEY are deciding. "Tony" tells us to get ready to go to City Center, but once we arrive the internet kiosk is vacant, it being so near to Iftar. They talk amongst themselves. I push my way to the counter and "Tony" hands me an Oman Mobile brochure.
If these men only knew all the billions of things I have accomplished all by my itty bitty female self. But this is the Gulf. And that is irrelevant.
A news story comes on concerning the uproar made by an Islamic Sudanese woman over the “10 lashes” she was sentenced to receive for wearing trousers. I ask "Tony" how the Sudanese government is able to justify the immodesty of pants by way of Islamic law. He explains that God calls for modesty in order for women to express respect for their own bodies, but more importantly, to quell any potential for temptation from a man toward the opposite sex. If a woman is forcibly “sought after”, "Tony" says he can tell her why. Obviously she makes herself “open to men”. “But trousers cover the same parts of the body as skirts,” I offer. In the most round-about and indecipherable phrasing possible, he replies, “No, because there, the areas that I would find tempting would be there.”
So here is the take-away point kiddo: pursuance, attacks, sexual assault, rape, etc occur because SHE ASKED FOR IT. The man is in no way to blame, I mean really, what can be expected? Self-restrain? Come on, he’s completely innocent in this, it’s those damn whoring gals swingin’ their swag all over the durn place…
I sat on that couch and watched his face and his eyes. I bit my tongue; I have to play the game. But while to me it’s just that, a game, a great exhibition of pretend, it isn’t to them.
It took 4 full days but I eventually got up the nerve to ask "Carmela" whether I would be allowed to go for jogs. I could think of few things else. When you spend every second either at home, school or being shuttled between the two, even the most menial and tawdry of free acts becomes a precious gift. The first thing she said was, “You want to run? Why?” And the second thing she said was that I could go either in the early morning or the evening. Yesterday morning when I opened the front gate, tennis shoes in tow, I felt that I had just been granted absolute pardon. I was “free”.
Last night we went to my aunt’s house to break fast, they are the family who also have a student staying with them ("Roe"). My throat is constantly sore because of the endless air conditioning. "Roe" and I flipped through an Arabian fashion magazine, the first we have seen since arrival. All the runway pieces are modest, all the advertisements fully covered, and if there were any question, the magazine editors took the liberty of essentially “filling in” skin baring areas with black censor-tape. If the dress was originally off the shoulder, it now has a gaudy make-shift black strap where there was only skin before. If it’s too low cut, too revealing in the back, too short, all errors have been corrected with a bold, black cure-all.
Does exposing the body to a ridiculous extreme invite loss of dignity for the individual? Do I, in my usual western garb, have less respect for myself and thus make myself “open to men”?
Does hiding the body to a ridiculous extreme instill a sense of shame for the individual? Will my sister "Meadow" grow up feeling that her body is embarrassing, that it is taboo?
Seeing those painstakingly designed pieces so callously converted to hide what is meant to be seen as beautiful was obnoxious.
The little girls brought us plates of flan-like cake into "Roe's" room where we were resting. Quietly, "Roe" and I wrapped up the spongy squares and threw them in the bathroom trash. I tried to sleep again, flitting in and out and not getting home till nearly midnight.
Today I stretched across a loft-sofa after lunch, air conditioner off, drowsing on my elongated arm. Wadding through the outer membrane of a dream, the phrase “foon-dook careem” assembled itself and set on repeat. When translated it means “kind hotel”.
The longer I am here the more I notice fiberboard beneath the exotic veneer. Every door knob, front gate, window frame, tasseled pillow, tiled floor, painted ceiling, curtained alcove, upholstered chaise, bejeweled abaya, shapely armoire, marble staircase, balustered balcony, crown-molded corner, inlayed table, stained glass window is a façade. Literally. There is no quality, no real substance or sustenance. Look with even the slightest curiosity and the ugliness shows. There are cracks in the tile and the slabs of marble aren’t flush, white spackle is flaking off the outer walls near swamp coolers. The fabric is running and you might fall through.
Here they gilt their garbage.
I may be in the center of the room, but I’m not in the center of the conversation. "Tony" and "Christopher" sit before me, "AJ" and their friend behind. I am not looked at, I am not addressed, there is no translation. They are deciding among themselves what internet system/service I am going to purchase. THEY are deciding. "Tony" tells us to get ready to go to City Center, but once we arrive the internet kiosk is vacant, it being so near to Iftar. They talk amongst themselves. I push my way to the counter and "Tony" hands me an Oman Mobile brochure.
If these men only knew all the billions of things I have accomplished all by my itty bitty female self. But this is the Gulf. And that is irrelevant.
A news story comes on concerning the uproar made by an Islamic Sudanese woman over the “10 lashes” she was sentenced to receive for wearing trousers. I ask "Tony" how the Sudanese government is able to justify the immodesty of pants by way of Islamic law. He explains that God calls for modesty in order for women to express respect for their own bodies, but more importantly, to quell any potential for temptation from a man toward the opposite sex. If a woman is forcibly “sought after”, "Tony" says he can tell her why. Obviously she makes herself “open to men”. “But trousers cover the same parts of the body as skirts,” I offer. In the most round-about and indecipherable phrasing possible, he replies, “No, because there, the areas that I would find tempting would be there.”
So here is the take-away point kiddo: pursuance, attacks, sexual assault, rape, etc occur because SHE ASKED FOR IT. The man is in no way to blame, I mean really, what can be expected? Self-restrain? Come on, he’s completely innocent in this, it’s those damn whoring gals swingin’ their swag all over the durn place…
I sat on that couch and watched his face and his eyes. I bit my tongue; I have to play the game. But while to me it’s just that, a game, a great exhibition of pretend, it isn’t to them.
It took 4 full days but I eventually got up the nerve to ask "Carmela" whether I would be allowed to go for jogs. I could think of few things else. When you spend every second either at home, school or being shuttled between the two, even the most menial and tawdry of free acts becomes a precious gift. The first thing she said was, “You want to run? Why?” And the second thing she said was that I could go either in the early morning or the evening. Yesterday morning when I opened the front gate, tennis shoes in tow, I felt that I had just been granted absolute pardon. I was “free”.
Last night we went to my aunt’s house to break fast, they are the family who also have a student staying with them ("Roe"). My throat is constantly sore because of the endless air conditioning. "Roe" and I flipped through an Arabian fashion magazine, the first we have seen since arrival. All the runway pieces are modest, all the advertisements fully covered, and if there were any question, the magazine editors took the liberty of essentially “filling in” skin baring areas with black censor-tape. If the dress was originally off the shoulder, it now has a gaudy make-shift black strap where there was only skin before. If it’s too low cut, too revealing in the back, too short, all errors have been corrected with a bold, black cure-all.
Does exposing the body to a ridiculous extreme invite loss of dignity for the individual? Do I, in my usual western garb, have less respect for myself and thus make myself “open to men”?
Does hiding the body to a ridiculous extreme instill a sense of shame for the individual? Will my sister "Meadow" grow up feeling that her body is embarrassing, that it is taboo?
Seeing those painstakingly designed pieces so callously converted to hide what is meant to be seen as beautiful was obnoxious.
The little girls brought us plates of flan-like cake into "Roe's" room where we were resting. Quietly, "Roe" and I wrapped up the spongy squares and threw them in the bathroom trash. I tried to sleep again, flitting in and out and not getting home till nearly midnight.
Today I stretched across a loft-sofa after lunch, air conditioner off, drowsing on my elongated arm. Wadding through the outer membrane of a dream, the phrase “foon-dook careem” assembled itself and set on repeat. When translated it means “kind hotel”.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sorry
BTW - i've take HUNDREDS of pictures but our instructor won't let us upload/download from the internet using our school wireless so i'll get them up ASAP on www.sarahdroege.shutterfly.com
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Faded
"Christopher" is home. All the couches are pushed back against the walls and there is plastic on the floor. Nadia’s family brought their maid to help our own two and "Carmela" runs from room to room, hijab billowy and sheer in her wake. The room is full and children are crying screaming running eating; hands tied together or pants falling down. Men on the left. Women on the right. Too blatant to really even deem mentioning. This aunt and that aunt and the other are round and brown with deliberate brows and housedresses in chartreuse and olive or cerulean and indigo. Bright bright with gaudy CZs and gold bracelets and hijab with floral prints that contrast so violently to their dresses that they nearly match. When the men return from the mosque, dinner has been set up on the buffet by "Melphi" and the others. "Carmela" ushers "Roe" (another SIT student) and I back over to the chair-less side of the room because the “men are coming”. Twenty-some beautiful, polite, intelligent, capable women sit beside one another on ornamental rugs and tile, gossiping about Nadia and telling Hamdoon to get away from the light socket, while their counterparts retrieve piles of piping-hot food from the dark wood table. Five minutes. Ten minutes. We wait until they have served themselves, and some have had seconds, before we are invited to the table.
9:54 and nearly everyone has gone home. I go down the three stairs to my room and close the door. Then I lock it. As silly and crass and raunchy and homey as I can manage, I turn up my Wayne so I can just hear him above the hum of the air conditioning.
your money man it’s just so timeless,
and I’m in the mood to get faded, so please bring your finest,
and what are all your names again, we’re drunk, remind us,
are any ya’ll into girls like I am, let’s be honest
Right on, kiddo. Good night.
9:54 and nearly everyone has gone home. I go down the three stairs to my room and close the door. Then I lock it. As silly and crass and raunchy and homey as I can manage, I turn up my Wayne so I can just hear him above the hum of the air conditioning.
your money man it’s just so timeless,
and I’m in the mood to get faded, so please bring your finest,
and what are all your names again, we’re drunk, remind us,
are any ya’ll into girls like I am, let’s be honest
Right on, kiddo. Good night.
Veiling Ceremony
I join "Hunter" and "Meadow" in the living room. It’s late afternoon and they are so tired from fasting. On the television, teams of super-powered Asians battle one another with yo-yos on basketball courts in Blazing Teens 2.
The heat here isn’t like the mugginess of the South East or the dry warmth of the South West. I’m going to take a bit of a risk here and say, just for the record, you have never been this hot. There’s no reason to get defensive about it, it’s just the simple fact that heat like this just does not exist in North America. Because of this, each room has its own air conditioning unit that is attached to the wall near the ceiling which can be turned on with a remote. Walk into a room, turn on the air. Exit the room, shut it off. Because of the heat, you do not see people outside their homes during most daylight hours, i’m not entirely convinced that you can survive out there and that isn’t a joke. So where do all these hot and starving people end up when bored of their homes? The hypermarket of course!! The masses might not be able to eat, but that definitely doesn’t keep them from shopping for food. Every time I have been to a grocery in the past week it has been packed. Perhaps being near food provides the sort of solace that comes next to eating it.
Today (September 4, 2009), before leaving for City Center Mall I decided to put on a hijab. Now, you all know me, you know about any bra-burnin- liberal-feminism-kick that I uphold and I would love to talk to you more about that later. But, as Westerners choose to confuse, I am not talking about the oppression-of-the-Middle-Eastern-woman-as-represented-by-the-color-and-coverage-of-her-traditional-attire, I am talking about a fashion statement. That being said, I purposefully refrained from wearing hijab for my first few days with the family so that it was understood that wearing said scarf would be a conscious choice on my part, not just something I figured I should do so I may as well do it. Once properly wrapped and pinned, I met "Carmela" in the foyer and immediately she took my hand. Smiling, smiling, smiling she told me how beautiful I look, and took me into the living room where her husband is sitting.
"Tony" just bout exploded with happiness. He explained that hijab is not representative of Muslim women alone as many think, is the national costume for Omanis and I look so wonderful, thank you for wearing it, thank you thank you. "Tony" tells me then that he would like to purchase an abaya for me, “out of [his] own pocket”. I tell him “la, la, it is too much money”, “no, it is not too much, I want to buy it for you”… it was amazing, the response was beyond celebratory, kinda like when… actually I can’t compare it to any event…
you can bring home straight A’s or get your name up in lights or win a frickin black Ferrari and your parents will never be as excited and happy as mine were in that one moment.
Except maybe when you are born.
Maybe that’s kinda what happened. And that's super scary.
The heat here isn’t like the mugginess of the South East or the dry warmth of the South West. I’m going to take a bit of a risk here and say, just for the record, you have never been this hot. There’s no reason to get defensive about it, it’s just the simple fact that heat like this just does not exist in North America. Because of this, each room has its own air conditioning unit that is attached to the wall near the ceiling which can be turned on with a remote. Walk into a room, turn on the air. Exit the room, shut it off. Because of the heat, you do not see people outside their homes during most daylight hours, i’m not entirely convinced that you can survive out there and that isn’t a joke. So where do all these hot and starving people end up when bored of their homes? The hypermarket of course!! The masses might not be able to eat, but that definitely doesn’t keep them from shopping for food. Every time I have been to a grocery in the past week it has been packed. Perhaps being near food provides the sort of solace that comes next to eating it.
Today (September 4, 2009), before leaving for City Center Mall I decided to put on a hijab. Now, you all know me, you know about any bra-burnin- liberal-feminism-kick that I uphold and I would love to talk to you more about that later. But, as Westerners choose to confuse, I am not talking about the oppression-of-the-Middle-Eastern-woman-as-represented-by-the-color-and-coverage-of-her-traditional-attire, I am talking about a fashion statement. That being said, I purposefully refrained from wearing hijab for my first few days with the family so that it was understood that wearing said scarf would be a conscious choice on my part, not just something I figured I should do so I may as well do it. Once properly wrapped and pinned, I met "Carmela" in the foyer and immediately she took my hand. Smiling, smiling, smiling she told me how beautiful I look, and took me into the living room where her husband is sitting.
"Tony" just bout exploded with happiness. He explained that hijab is not representative of Muslim women alone as many think, is the national costume for Omanis and I look so wonderful, thank you for wearing it, thank you thank you. "Tony" tells me then that he would like to purchase an abaya for me, “out of [his] own pocket”. I tell him “la, la, it is too much money”, “no, it is not too much, I want to buy it for you”… it was amazing, the response was beyond celebratory, kinda like when… actually I can’t compare it to any event…
you can bring home straight A’s or get your name up in lights or win a frickin black Ferrari and your parents will never be as excited and happy as mine were in that one moment.
Except maybe when you are born.
Maybe that’s kinda what happened. And that's super scary.
Ah yes, Lulu Hypermarket?
This morning (September 3rd, 2009), I lugged out my Arabic books and did some more studying. Right now I nearly pee my pants if I’m able to name items in the room or use simple verbs. Baby steps. My sister and cousin bounced into the room to stare and smile shyly. They are learning English in school and we are able to speak a little.
As a rule, Americans smile too much. I know look like some crazy, walking around and grinning like an idiot 24/7. In the US if we are confused, embarrassed, happy, not understanding, laughing, greeting, affirming, talking, whatever, we smile. We also smile as a replacement of speech. As if my hair and skin didn’t make it obvious enough, I bumble through every situation or non-situation with this ridiculously fat western grin on my face…
Mid-morning, my Dad came in to ask if I would like to go to the store with them. I jumped at the chance, having absolutely wore-out the ONE skirt I brought with me (apparently, unlike the paperwork said, wearing jeans is usually too casual). Now i’ve always been one for a good time, but when your twelve-year-old sister and cousin take you clothes shopping you’ve basically made it to the big-time. They flitted around, trying on skirts taller than they were and gasping “wa-allah!” at a black and white hound’s-tooth number with pleats, frills, lace at the hem and corset-like ties up the front haha… "Meadow", "Hunter", and I rode the escalator down, and then up. And we did it again. And then once more. They tripped over their shoes and re-wrapped their hijabs. They helped me pick out a bath towel; we rode the escalator, and then we rode it again.
There’s no way around it now. My laptop and notebooks host raised date-fingerprints and the pages are tacky. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. Awkward, and there are spices beneath my fingernails, i’m lying on sheets the color of a blood orange and damn if i am not alive.
As a rule, Americans smile too much. I know look like some crazy, walking around and grinning like an idiot 24/7. In the US if we are confused, embarrassed, happy, not understanding, laughing, greeting, affirming, talking, whatever, we smile. We also smile as a replacement of speech. As if my hair and skin didn’t make it obvious enough, I bumble through every situation or non-situation with this ridiculously fat western grin on my face…
Mid-morning, my Dad came in to ask if I would like to go to the store with them. I jumped at the chance, having absolutely wore-out the ONE skirt I brought with me (apparently, unlike the paperwork said, wearing jeans is usually too casual). Now i’ve always been one for a good time, but when your twelve-year-old sister and cousin take you clothes shopping you’ve basically made it to the big-time. They flitted around, trying on skirts taller than they were and gasping “wa-allah!” at a black and white hound’s-tooth number with pleats, frills, lace at the hem and corset-like ties up the front haha… "Meadow", "Hunter", and I rode the escalator down, and then up. And we did it again. And then once more. They tripped over their shoes and re-wrapped their hijabs. They helped me pick out a bath towel; we rode the escalator, and then we rode it again.
There’s no way around it now. My laptop and notebooks host raised date-fingerprints and the pages are tacky. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. Awkward, and there are spices beneath my fingernails, i’m lying on sheets the color of a blood orange and damn if i am not alive.
Me! Pick ME!
If you have ever seen the movie Cider House Rules, you’ll remember how the children act when potential parents arrive to have a look at the orphanage’s wares. Welcome to SIT day six. You’ve never seen a group of college-educated twenty-somethings so nervous and fussy as the day they all get adopted. All day long we were at the villa, listening to speakers, holding discussions, asking new questions, but beneath it all our thoughts never strayed far from HOMESTAY…homestay…homestay… we were beginning our “Fears and Expectations” discussion at about three, an hour and a half before pick-ups would begin, when Jami was called away… three round women in abayas navigated the doorway and were ushered aside by our instructor Elizabeth. Once the door closed with Jami outside of it the room was a bustle – everyone talking, scheming, sweating, shifting, smiling, cringing, nervously laughing, thinking “iwishitwasmethankgoditsnotme!”, when the door opened again and Aisha peeked in, “And Sarah D.?”
I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it, but the short amount of time I’ve had has been packed to capacity and I think what I’ve decided is that it’s like when you ride a roller coaster (yeah, yeah, clique) and, like always, it’s the part where the track catches and you are being hoisted upwards on the first big hill before the ride starts.
It is at this point, more than any other, that you can’t think about turning back, you’re done for kiddo, and you don’t really have the resources or the nerve to think about what’s coming next.
So you disconnect.
You have to live without precedence or plan because that is truly the only way to deal. Or maybe it’s like standing at the foot of a ladder that goes to the top of Mt. Everest or something… what you are trying to accomplish is just too big to even fathom and you have so far to go that it hardly registers as a task. So you climb, but don’t even pretend to know what you’re doing sugarpie, you aren’t fooling anyone…My family is beyond anything I could have imagined. At dinner, "AJ" was instructed to set out a smattering of silverware next to my plate, but instead of employing my two knives and spoon, I followed the example set by my brother and parents and ate my rice, chicken, and salad with my hand. It’s strangely liberating to indulge like that, especially when surrounded by cool tile and heavy curtains. I’m getting rice all over my chin and there are two kitchens in this house. My mom, "Carmela" has older children from a previous marriage and speaks Swahili, French, Arabic and English. She is lovable and round and when I told her I could wait till the breaking of the fast to have something to eat, she insisted on bringing me mango juice and cupcakes. “We have to fast. Not you,” she reasoned. My brother "AJ" is 14ish I’m guessing and either because he is just learning English or he really isn’t digging me, has done his best to avoid any sort of direct interaction, lol, hopefully he will come around. Their eldest son, "Christopher", is attending college in Jordan but is coming home this weekend (?) for a vacation. (BTW, in Oman the weekend is Thursday-Friday for government employees, Friday-Saturday for businesses and banks) My sister "Meadow" is 12 and she is downright terrific. She came right into my room and both her and her cousin greeted me on both cheeks before racing off in their mismatched hijabs. My dad, however, takes the cake. After graciously greeting me, the first thing he asked was about my Arabic… good grief… I told him I definitely needed some help and he just went nuts, he is so pumped, “That is what I am here for!” he told me. “Hurry Sawrah! Break the fast with us!” He and "AJ" shoveled down some dates before heading off to Mosque while the Mrs. and I casually enjoyed our first course. After returning, he came into the room arms full of literature. “Here will tell you about Oman,” he said handing me a book along with newspapers in both Arabic and English… is this guy too good to be true or? He sat everyone down in the living room and asked me to tell about myself and “Everyone listen!” I did the best I could on the spot. Even though I was describing myself in English I still had trouble figuring out what to say haha. His childhood was in Zaire, but he has spent most of his time in Egypt and Oman as his father is Omani. He works for a government Ministry and his specialty has to do with traditional methods of recording Omani history/culture. He has been to America on numerous occasions, speaks terrific English, and thought that this was just the most terrific idea for his family when Farouk called him up about taking on a student a few weeks back.
I haven’t had a lot of time to think about it, but the short amount of time I’ve had has been packed to capacity and I think what I’ve decided is that it’s like when you ride a roller coaster (yeah, yeah, clique) and, like always, it’s the part where the track catches and you are being hoisted upwards on the first big hill before the ride starts.
It is at this point, more than any other, that you can’t think about turning back, you’re done for kiddo, and you don’t really have the resources or the nerve to think about what’s coming next.
So you disconnect.
You have to live without precedence or plan because that is truly the only way to deal. Or maybe it’s like standing at the foot of a ladder that goes to the top of Mt. Everest or something… what you are trying to accomplish is just too big to even fathom and you have so far to go that it hardly registers as a task. So you climb, but don’t even pretend to know what you’re doing sugarpie, you aren’t fooling anyone…My family is beyond anything I could have imagined. At dinner, "AJ" was instructed to set out a smattering of silverware next to my plate, but instead of employing my two knives and spoon, I followed the example set by my brother and parents and ate my rice, chicken, and salad with my hand. It’s strangely liberating to indulge like that, especially when surrounded by cool tile and heavy curtains. I’m getting rice all over my chin and there are two kitchens in this house. My mom, "Carmela" has older children from a previous marriage and speaks Swahili, French, Arabic and English. She is lovable and round and when I told her I could wait till the breaking of the fast to have something to eat, she insisted on bringing me mango juice and cupcakes. “We have to fast. Not you,” she reasoned. My brother "AJ" is 14ish I’m guessing and either because he is just learning English or he really isn’t digging me, has done his best to avoid any sort of direct interaction, lol, hopefully he will come around. Their eldest son, "Christopher", is attending college in Jordan but is coming home this weekend (?) for a vacation. (BTW, in Oman the weekend is Thursday-Friday for government employees, Friday-Saturday for businesses and banks) My sister "Meadow" is 12 and she is downright terrific. She came right into my room and both her and her cousin greeted me on both cheeks before racing off in their mismatched hijabs. My dad, however, takes the cake. After graciously greeting me, the first thing he asked was about my Arabic… good grief… I told him I definitely needed some help and he just went nuts, he is so pumped, “That is what I am here for!” he told me. “Hurry Sawrah! Break the fast with us!” He and "AJ" shoveled down some dates before heading off to Mosque while the Mrs. and I casually enjoyed our first course. After returning, he came into the room arms full of literature. “Here will tell you about Oman,” he said handing me a book along with newspapers in both Arabic and English… is this guy too good to be true or? He sat everyone down in the living room and asked me to tell about myself and “Everyone listen!” I did the best I could on the spot. Even though I was describing myself in English I still had trouble figuring out what to say haha. His childhood was in Zaire, but he has spent most of his time in Egypt and Oman as his father is Omani. He works for a government Ministry and his specialty has to do with traditional methods of recording Omani history/culture. He has been to America on numerous occasions, speaks terrific English, and thought that this was just the most terrific idea for his family when Farouk called him up about taking on a student a few weeks back.
Hot town summer in the city
Because, as women, we aren’t allowed to wonder around the Corniche on our own, much less any other less-touristy area of Oman, we delicate female souls had to resort to listening about all our male companions’ solo adventures out and about Mutrah. A few mornings prior, Scott had stumbled upon the local fish market so he took Rachel and me on Tuesday morning. The low lying building is separated into two parts, the smaller being on the water and composed of tiled stalls with faucets for the gutting and cleaning of a day’s catch. Nearer to the road, the rest of the structure houses aisles situated between raised platforms where men in plastic sandals sat on their ankles near thick piles of slippery wide-eyed fish. There were heavy, meat-rich fish and tiny thin ones, sharks and squid, yellow, grey. Fresh slices of juicy pink flesh still bleeding freshly within the grout-filled veins of the market’s floor tiles. Unlike the frankincense-fogged alleyways of the Mutrah Souk, no one peddled their wares to us. Perhaps they couldn’t picture what we would possibly do with the rubbery wings of a skate or 10 kilos of blue crab.
Our assignment for the morning was, once broken into mixed-gender groups of three, to locate a museum specific to our group, hail a taxi and explain where we needed to go, explore the museum and acknowledge any disparity or inconsistency common when explaining Oman under Sa’id versus Oman under Qaboos, and grab a cab back to SIT for lunch by 100.
Our museum was in Muscat proper, and was basically the private collection of a Sheik named Al Zubair who was a friend of Sultan Qaboos’ father. Lots of guns, women’s jewelry, regionally specific costumes and photographs. By the time we left I had khanjars coming out my frickin pores. We had plenty of time before we needed to start our one hour cab ride to SIT, so we walked the few thick and cement blocks to the Sultan’s palace. Interesting… with all the astoundingly beautiful architecture in Oman that never fails to catch your eye or make you whisper in awe “wa-allah…” this building is… well… in a league of its own i guess…
When we arrived at SIT, everyone was having individual meetings with Sultan, our Arabic teacher, to discuss the level they tested into. After having been with myself throughout the length of that exam, I knew fairly certain that my score should probably place me in the special-ed version of the beginners’ level – I had barely looked at Arabic all summer and the language hadn’t been exactly a piece of cake even when I had daily interaction. So I must admit I was surprised when, after Sultan asked me to talk about my family in Arabic and I said something along the lines of “Err, well… dad is ‘ahb’ and mom issss ‘ohm-ma’…?” he said I should be in the advanced class.
Come again?
I asked him very politely to put me in something lower, I told him that I would much rather be in intermediate but he insisted and so I sit here still very confused. Eh, it’ll all work out “en sha-allah”.
David Fenner, the SIT program director for Oman gave a talk that afternoon that was extremely entertaining. He and his wife did Peace Corp work in Oman some 30 years ago and just recently returned to take on this project. It being our last night before the initiation of the homestay, a bunch of us went to an “Indian” restaurant along the Corniche, whose title should be used loosely since they sold pizza, burgers, sweet and sour soup, AND curry. Afterwards, Chris, Sarah and I crept through a scattering of back alleyways to get to the most seedy and fabulous section of the Souk in order to buy kilos of beautiful moist dates. The feral cat population, a constant and unnerving presence no matter where you are, jumped in number exponentially as we wound tighter and tighter into the food-rich region of the market. We were going to meet up with Scott and the gang at the Souk entrance and thus had to find our way back through the startling glitter of plated gold from jewelry store after jewelry store, back into the frankincense heart of the market.
Our assignment for the morning was, once broken into mixed-gender groups of three, to locate a museum specific to our group, hail a taxi and explain where we needed to go, explore the museum and acknowledge any disparity or inconsistency common when explaining Oman under Sa’id versus Oman under Qaboos, and grab a cab back to SIT for lunch by 100.
Our museum was in Muscat proper, and was basically the private collection of a Sheik named Al Zubair who was a friend of Sultan Qaboos’ father. Lots of guns, women’s jewelry, regionally specific costumes and photographs. By the time we left I had khanjars coming out my frickin pores. We had plenty of time before we needed to start our one hour cab ride to SIT, so we walked the few thick and cement blocks to the Sultan’s palace. Interesting… with all the astoundingly beautiful architecture in Oman that never fails to catch your eye or make you whisper in awe “wa-allah…” this building is… well… in a league of its own i guess…
When we arrived at SIT, everyone was having individual meetings with Sultan, our Arabic teacher, to discuss the level they tested into. After having been with myself throughout the length of that exam, I knew fairly certain that my score should probably place me in the special-ed version of the beginners’ level – I had barely looked at Arabic all summer and the language hadn’t been exactly a piece of cake even when I had daily interaction. So I must admit I was surprised when, after Sultan asked me to talk about my family in Arabic and I said something along the lines of “Err, well… dad is ‘ahb’ and mom issss ‘ohm-ma’…?” he said I should be in the advanced class.
Come again?
I asked him very politely to put me in something lower, I told him that I would much rather be in intermediate but he insisted and so I sit here still very confused. Eh, it’ll all work out “en sha-allah”.
David Fenner, the SIT program director for Oman gave a talk that afternoon that was extremely entertaining. He and his wife did Peace Corp work in Oman some 30 years ago and just recently returned to take on this project. It being our last night before the initiation of the homestay, a bunch of us went to an “Indian” restaurant along the Corniche, whose title should be used loosely since they sold pizza, burgers, sweet and sour soup, AND curry. Afterwards, Chris, Sarah and I crept through a scattering of back alleyways to get to the most seedy and fabulous section of the Souk in order to buy kilos of beautiful moist dates. The feral cat population, a constant and unnerving presence no matter where you are, jumped in number exponentially as we wound tighter and tighter into the food-rich region of the market. We were going to meet up with Scott and the gang at the Souk entrance and thus had to find our way back through the startling glitter of plated gold from jewelry store after jewelry store, back into the frankincense heart of the market.
My Toilet is an Elephant
Gulf facilities are not built to handle toilet paper. Some combination of the absence of water and the lack of overall toilet horsepower contribute to this, thus it is generally accepted that toilet paper should not end up inside the toilet… But although I am no bidet virgin, it was still slightly unnerving to see a three-foot hose and nozzle beside the ol’ loo when first using the airport facilities. The hose was nearly identical to what one would find retracting from their kitchen sink in mid-America, with the exact same squeeze-to-spray feature. But we ain’t washin dishes. After only the slightest hesitation, I closed the stall door behind me and looked warily down at the water droplets coating the seat. My initial reasoning was that each pot came with her own personal washing system to make janitorial tasks more efficient. In reality, the whole system is pretty practical. The toilets can’t deal with paper thus one sprays with their right and washes with their left, drying themselves with the available tissue which can then be thrown in the trash can. Like most things I have encountered so far, my hose only seemed strange or inefficient until I learned the reasoning behind it. Plus it looks pretty baller.
Blur
If you want to eat the date correctly, first you have to start with your right hand. Squeezing the fruit, you work the long, oval pit to a surface, breaking it through the sticky meat, and deposit it on the table. You do not use your left hand because it is dirty. Nor do you stick the whole fruit in your mouth and pull out the masticated seed with your fingers. It is fluid and intuitive to an Omani, and a downright mashed-up failure for the rest of us.
On Monday we visited the Sultan Qaboos University. Beautifully laid out and highly decorated, Oman’s solo public University boasts seven different colleges from education to engineering, and isn’t shy to admit that they have lowered their admission standards in order to keep men enrolled at all. The school IS difficult to get into, they skim the best and the brightest off the top for all of Oman since SQU not only offers a free ride to its students, it also pays for all their supplies and offers them an allowance… that being said, the school is currently girl:boy around 60:40 and that is only because of this recent lowering of standards.
Post SQU we visited the US Embassy wherein we were briefed on certain things we should not do in order to stay in this country’s good graces. They brought to the forefront issues of health we should be aware of and made sure we understood that in case of an emergency, they could spring us if necessary. Maybe.
For some reason this particular day seemed exceedingly hot and I was irritably, miserably tired. Once the adrenaline-induced novelty unravels on about day 3, fatigue just seems to accumulate on itself, backing up over and over in muggy folds.
I’m quite sure we ended up back at SIT for yet another briefing on yet another essential topic but… whatevThat evening we were invited to break fast at the home of Farouk, the gentleman in charge of homestay coordination for our program. It was a mansion of a house, filled will filigree and inlay, Persian rugs and peacock feathers, gold lame, dark wood, beveled mirrors, painted tile, and ten bathrooms… and they are decently middle class. Breaking the daily Ramadan fast is like Christmas dinner. Times thirty - since it’s held for an entire month. After the fourth call to prayer, the throbbing sun finally falls away. Everyone gathers for essentially a course of appetizers; triangular beniets, mango/strawberry/lemon/orange/etc fresh fruit juices, sweet cheese bread balls, falafels, breaded something-or-others with green coconut/na-na (mint)/lemon sauce, and dates, dates, dates, dates. The men eat quickly in order to make it to the Mosque before seven for the magreeb (sunset) prayer. Upon returning, the main meal is served, always consisting of innumerous variations on a chicken dish, something akin to potatos al’gratein, piles and piles of rice, a carrot, cucumber, and greens salad, and for this particular instance, a gigantic fish in yellow sauce. As if this weren’t lavish and filling enough, a sweets spread follows, similar to the fast-breaking course, but in this case with the addition of a sort of sweet soup made of pumpkin and coconut milk… can’t say anyone had trouble getting to sleep that night.
On Monday we visited the Sultan Qaboos University. Beautifully laid out and highly decorated, Oman’s solo public University boasts seven different colleges from education to engineering, and isn’t shy to admit that they have lowered their admission standards in order to keep men enrolled at all. The school IS difficult to get into, they skim the best and the brightest off the top for all of Oman since SQU not only offers a free ride to its students, it also pays for all their supplies and offers them an allowance… that being said, the school is currently girl:boy around 60:40 and that is only because of this recent lowering of standards.
Post SQU we visited the US Embassy wherein we were briefed on certain things we should not do in order to stay in this country’s good graces. They brought to the forefront issues of health we should be aware of and made sure we understood that in case of an emergency, they could spring us if necessary. Maybe.
For some reason this particular day seemed exceedingly hot and I was irritably, miserably tired. Once the adrenaline-induced novelty unravels on about day 3, fatigue just seems to accumulate on itself, backing up over and over in muggy folds.
I’m quite sure we ended up back at SIT for yet another briefing on yet another essential topic but… whatevThat evening we were invited to break fast at the home of Farouk, the gentleman in charge of homestay coordination for our program. It was a mansion of a house, filled will filigree and inlay, Persian rugs and peacock feathers, gold lame, dark wood, beveled mirrors, painted tile, and ten bathrooms… and they are decently middle class. Breaking the daily Ramadan fast is like Christmas dinner. Times thirty - since it’s held for an entire month. After the fourth call to prayer, the throbbing sun finally falls away. Everyone gathers for essentially a course of appetizers; triangular beniets, mango/strawberry/lemon/orange/etc fresh fruit juices, sweet cheese bread balls, falafels, breaded something-or-others with green coconut/na-na (mint)/lemon sauce, and dates, dates, dates, dates. The men eat quickly in order to make it to the Mosque before seven for the magreeb (sunset) prayer. Upon returning, the main meal is served, always consisting of innumerous variations on a chicken dish, something akin to potatos al’gratein, piles and piles of rice, a carrot, cucumber, and greens salad, and for this particular instance, a gigantic fish in yellow sauce. As if this weren’t lavish and filling enough, a sweets spread follows, similar to the fast-breaking course, but in this case with the addition of a sort of sweet soup made of pumpkin and coconut milk… can’t say anyone had trouble getting to sleep that night.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Thick of It
Things are such a humid, conglomerated mess so don’t ask the date or time. I have no clue. Yesterday morning (?) we visited Sultan Qaboos’ Grand Mosque and it was spectacular. We all had to be dressed appropriately before the armed guards would grant us access into the gardens. You must remove your shoes before entering. You must stay on the blue carpet once inside. The women’s room was impressive with breathtaking woodwork on the ceiling and doors, tile blooming into indefinite patterns on the walls, and glittering chandeliers above us.
Fabulous.
Until we saw the male prayer room… All colors used on the interior are natural, nothing is painted. Every small, seemingly insignificant detail is attended to, the stone inlay is mind-blowing. The Swarovski Crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling weighs 8 tons. The room’s rug was the LARGEST in the world until Dubai one-upped-them within the last year. The buildings, grounds, garden, library, bathing rooms, shoe cubbies… all of it was immaculate stone and or rich brown wood. Qaboos paid for this Mosque “out of his own pocket” as everyone says, and he spared no expense.
That afternoon was our second drop off activity. We were broken into mixed-gender groups of three and were given a slip of paper with a destination. The assignment was to hail a taxi, tell them where you needed to go, get there and take notes on specified Arabic foods, and then use similar methods to return home. In Oman one barters with the driver before entering the cab in order to determine price. Under no circumstances does a woman ride in the front if there is a man with her. Under no circumstances are their seatbelts for backseat passengers. And under no circumstances does the taxi driver abide by any kind of traffic law or limit (mom and dad, this would be a good part to skip over). The driving here is atrocious. EVERYONE cuts off EVERYONE, honks at EVERYONE, speeds past EVERYONE without turn signals in a kind of merging/braiding motion where turns are always too sharp and you’re always in your neighbors lap 30 seconds in and if you are still breathing by the time you tumble out of the back seat into oncoming traffic, the trip has been of the utmost success. Haha… maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But just the breathing part.
Last night Scott tracked down a “traditional Omani restaurant” on Ruwi, so like 18 of us went. The food was delicious as usual, I think we probably gave our waiter a heart attack, and no one remembered the name of what they had ordered by the time the food was brought out but, hell, what would life be without a little utter chaos.
Fabulous.
Until we saw the male prayer room… All colors used on the interior are natural, nothing is painted. Every small, seemingly insignificant detail is attended to, the stone inlay is mind-blowing. The Swarovski Crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling weighs 8 tons. The room’s rug was the LARGEST in the world until Dubai one-upped-them within the last year. The buildings, grounds, garden, library, bathing rooms, shoe cubbies… all of it was immaculate stone and or rich brown wood. Qaboos paid for this Mosque “out of his own pocket” as everyone says, and he spared no expense.
That afternoon was our second drop off activity. We were broken into mixed-gender groups of three and were given a slip of paper with a destination. The assignment was to hail a taxi, tell them where you needed to go, get there and take notes on specified Arabic foods, and then use similar methods to return home. In Oman one barters with the driver before entering the cab in order to determine price. Under no circumstances does a woman ride in the front if there is a man with her. Under no circumstances are their seatbelts for backseat passengers. And under no circumstances does the taxi driver abide by any kind of traffic law or limit (mom and dad, this would be a good part to skip over). The driving here is atrocious. EVERYONE cuts off EVERYONE, honks at EVERYONE, speeds past EVERYONE without turn signals in a kind of merging/braiding motion where turns are always too sharp and you’re always in your neighbors lap 30 seconds in and if you are still breathing by the time you tumble out of the back seat into oncoming traffic, the trip has been of the utmost success. Haha… maybe that’s a little exaggerated. But just the breathing part.
Last night Scott tracked down a “traditional Omani restaurant” on Ruwi, so like 18 of us went. The food was delicious as usual, I think we probably gave our waiter a heart attack, and no one remembered the name of what they had ordered by the time the food was brought out but, hell, what would life be without a little utter chaos.
Ye-om Wa-Hed Pictures
Our villa in North Al-Hail. This is where we will taken everyday for classes.
<- The beach is about a half mile from our front door
Da Pohang - our ghettotackytransportation
<-Looking out from a tower at the Souk entrance to the port, we are staying down the street to the left a few blocks
Souk shops
Ye-om Wa-hed
This morning we had our breakfast in a private room of the hotel; lots of coffee and tea with white toast and a fried egg. What followed was an introductory meeting where we received approximate schedules, our school administered cell phones, etc. Our first assignment was to visit Mutrah Souk down the street and find something unusual that’s purpose was unbeknownst to us, find out its use, and barter with the shop owner to sell it to us for 3 rial. We are in a hotel basically right on the Muscat harbor along Corniche, private and sultanate yachts of ridiculous sizes dock at the industrial pier. My roomy Rachel (who is Austin College friends with Miss. J. Jennings!!) and I stopped in the first clothe shop we found in order to buy a hijab for visiting the Grand Mosque Sunday. Everyone here speaks English very well, and likes to use it which makes for an ironic sitch when we are trying to improve our skills in Arabic. We both got him to sell us black silk hijabs for 4 OM (9ish dollars) instead of 6 OM and spent a good amount of time in front of the shop mirror being instructed on how to appropriately wrap the slick fabric around our face and head. Down the same street an antique shop had various curios and I purchased an intricate metal henna ink-holder for 3 OM. A few shops later Rachel bought an antique secret-message-scroll cylinder, haha those shop keepers saw us coming and thought “There’s a sucker born every minute…”
Because it’s Ramadan, the Souk was very empty (restraint from making superfluous purchases during daylight hours), making the two of us American tourists even more vulnerable to the salesmen standing at every shop entrance. “Welcome! Hi! Come!” “Hello, 100% silk, incense?” “Enter! Come now! Come now!!” “T-shirts, shaws? Pashmir! Welcome!” Needless to say, Rachel and I were pretty happy we at least knew to say “la, shook-ran” (no, thank you). We also had to find our way to a post office in order to purchase a stamp.
When everyone was back at the hotel we got on the bus to visit our “large villa” in a northern residential area of Muscat that would serve as our classroom compound. This labeling was entirely appropriate. The house-converted-school building is gorgeous. Everything is tile and columned and white or beige or mint and so shadowy cool with intricacies and details left out from even the most fabulous US homes. The gulf is visible from an upstairs balcony, maybe a half mile away. Lunch was ordered in and we were holed up in the kitchen until we finished our mixed rice/chicken/steamed cabbage dishes. The. Food. Is. So. Good. It probably helped that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was eating it. In spoonfuls.
Later we spent time in an upstairs loft talking about our observations of the Souk and one another’s unusual objects. We took an Arabic level placement test (AHHH.) and went over the schedule for tomorrow. It’s super important that we follow the rules when visiting the Grand Mosque and our program leader Elizabeth made it very clear that if we weren’t dressed appropriately we would spend our day OUTSIDE the building. And let me just tell you how hot it is here. In the shade.I don’t remember the 45 minute ride back to the hotel. I’ve never slept like I do here. There is no energy for dozing or dreams. Either you are awake or you are asleep and when I say asleep what I really mean is dead.
Rachel and I went directly to bed when we got back and were woken up by Sarah at around 9 pm to go out in search of dinner. Now, because no one is allowed to engage in any form of pleasure during the daylight hours, night time is a big deal. All the restaurants, closed during the day, just get slammed with patrons. Everyone everywhere is out walking, shopping, eating. It’s like a holiday every evening when the clock rocks 6:30. I had a mutton sharwama which is like a lamb pita-wrap with sauce and cabbage. Delicious. After dinner we returned to the Souk, now packed with people. It may to ten or eleven or twelve but everyone and their child is out and about. We bought pins for our hijabs, spent considerable time browsing in the first “grocery” store we had come across thus far, and managed to make it out of the labyrinth of looping back streets and winding alleyways tight enough to force single file in order to head home. Ye-om wa-hed: complete.
Because it’s Ramadan, the Souk was very empty (restraint from making superfluous purchases during daylight hours), making the two of us American tourists even more vulnerable to the salesmen standing at every shop entrance. “Welcome! Hi! Come!” “Hello, 100% silk, incense?” “Enter! Come now! Come now!!” “T-shirts, shaws? Pashmir! Welcome!” Needless to say, Rachel and I were pretty happy we at least knew to say “la, shook-ran” (no, thank you). We also had to find our way to a post office in order to purchase a stamp.
When everyone was back at the hotel we got on the bus to visit our “large villa” in a northern residential area of Muscat that would serve as our classroom compound. This labeling was entirely appropriate. The house-converted-school building is gorgeous. Everything is tile and columned and white or beige or mint and so shadowy cool with intricacies and details left out from even the most fabulous US homes. The gulf is visible from an upstairs balcony, maybe a half mile away. Lunch was ordered in and we were holed up in the kitchen until we finished our mixed rice/chicken/steamed cabbage dishes. The. Food. Is. So. Good. It probably helped that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was eating it. In spoonfuls.
Later we spent time in an upstairs loft talking about our observations of the Souk and one another’s unusual objects. We took an Arabic level placement test (AHHH.) and went over the schedule for tomorrow. It’s super important that we follow the rules when visiting the Grand Mosque and our program leader Elizabeth made it very clear that if we weren’t dressed appropriately we would spend our day OUTSIDE the building. And let me just tell you how hot it is here. In the shade.I don’t remember the 45 minute ride back to the hotel. I’ve never slept like I do here. There is no energy for dozing or dreams. Either you are awake or you are asleep and when I say asleep what I really mean is dead.
Rachel and I went directly to bed when we got back and were woken up by Sarah at around 9 pm to go out in search of dinner. Now, because no one is allowed to engage in any form of pleasure during the daylight hours, night time is a big deal. All the restaurants, closed during the day, just get slammed with patrons. Everyone everywhere is out walking, shopping, eating. It’s like a holiday every evening when the clock rocks 6:30. I had a mutton sharwama which is like a lamb pita-wrap with sauce and cabbage. Delicious. After dinner we returned to the Souk, now packed with people. It may to ten or eleven or twelve but everyone and their child is out and about. We bought pins for our hijabs, spent considerable time browsing in the first “grocery” store we had come across thus far, and managed to make it out of the labyrinth of looping back streets and winding alleyways tight enough to force single file in order to head home. Ye-om wa-hed: complete.
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