"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.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)