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.
Monday, September 28, 2009
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.
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