back to Araby

I must have reached a new plateau of middle-aged dorkiness. What would my friends think if they knew I was tuning to Easy Listening on internet radio? I’m finding I’d much rather hear Patty Page singing “On the Street Where You Live” than David Bowie’s angsty “Ziggy Stardust.” For crying out loud!

Come to think of it, what’s probably more surprising is that I’m not listening to the “Arabic Groove” CD that I bought. I thought I ought to be giving myself the appropriate soundtrack for myself while I’m here. When I was an exchange student in Japan many years ago, I had a kind of rating system for myself as a person living abroad. I felt that it was my responsibility to prefer everything Japanese. Whenever I went to the department store snack bar for a corndog or listened to my Supertramp album, it was a kind of guilty pleasure. I knew that I supposed to be immersing myself in things Japanese. People go to great lengths to “do as the Romans do.” There’s something in Japan called “natto,” which is fermented soybeans which have a gooey slime on them and make long saliva-like strings when you pick them up with chopsticks. They smell and taste disgusting. To love natto is to prove your status as a true japanophile. I knew a guy who made the mistake of boasting that he LOVED natto. His fame spread quickly, and everywhere he went people gave him bowls and bowls of natto. He secretly told me that he regretted ever saying he liked natto, but by then it was too late to back down. What you have to do is explore with an open mind, but be honest about what works for you. I like wearing a dishdasha around when I can get away with it, because nothing else makes sense given the heat here. Jeans are just miserably hot, and I don’t see how anyone could wear them regularly without developing fungus in the crotch. But after swimming this morning I didn’t feel too bad about eating at McDonald’s for breakfast (not very exotic, but I just wasn't in the mood for bean gruel and pita bread). I was with Mahmoud and his brother Mustafa. Mahmoud had called me at five in the morning to see if I wanted to go swimming in the Persian Gulf. It’s something you only do in the early morning before the brutal sun gets going.

The sun was just rising as we got to the beach. It was huge and gorgeous. We discussed what would be a good description for our morning sun. Mustafa said it was like an orange. I told him he should be ashamed of himself for such an unpoetic description. So he said, “How about a golden plate?” That was an improvement. We settled on “golden peach” for our metaphor. And that is was, a golden peach of a sun, marking the morning with a kind of celestial blessing. The water of the gulf was soft gray-blue color, and close to body temperature (but refreshing nonetheless because the air was warmer than body temp). Here they call it the Arabian Sea, and according to our staff handbook, teachers can receive a warning letter at my school if they refer to it as the Persian Gulf. Persian or Arabian, it was wonderful, and we swam far out and back. Then we went and ate our McDonald's Value Meals. I found out that Mustafa likes fishing and communist ideology. I’ve pretty much come to see communism as a discredited pipe dream, but I shook his hand anyway. I love youthful idealism. Where would we be without it?

Wow, now my easy listening internet radio station is playing Ryu Sakamoto’s “Sukiyaki,” the only Japanese language pop song that ever made the hit parade in America. The irony never ends. And here we go with Rosemary Clooney and “You Took Advantage of Me.” I’m so hot and bothered that I can’t tell my elbow from my ear. [dance break]

Let me see, now what can I tell you about my first week back in Kuwait? The first day I tagged along with my friends from the old clique (the British 5th grade teacher and his art teacher wife) to get their computer set up for wireless internet and have lunch at the mall. The art teacher wife is pregnant. She can’t really take the sun at mid-day, and when we had to hike from the parking spot to the computer place, hubby had to forge ahead and let us follow him by going in little runs from one air-conditioned shop to the next. The heat is not as big a topic of conversation since this is our second year here, but neither is it ignorable. Yesterday afternoon I came home and saw that Yahoo Weather was showing Kuwait temperature as 120 degrees. So it seemed kind of crazy when the same couple called me on Sunday and asked me if I wanted to go for a ride with them in the desert to visit Mutla Ridge. 5GT insisted he was going to attempt to hike the ridge a bit despite the heat, and let the Mrs. run the air conditioning and wait in the car. It sounded insane to me, but I figured it would be something to write about, and I could wear my new Indiana Jones hat out there without feeling too ridiculous. It was a long ride. When we got to the ridge, it was completely inaccessible because of fencing. I read later that it is in a military zone. We did stop at a little general store that had the quality of a space station on the moon, out in the middle of nowhere-and-nothing, just barely air conditioned to tolerability and stocked with everything imaginable. We went to Ahmadi, known as the roughest district in Kuwait, said to be populated by stone-throwing Beduoins. We went all over the place asking for directions to the historical Red Fort. Nobody threw any stones at us. One guy said, “Isn’t that in New Delhi?” (Indeed there is also a Red Fort in New Delhi. We chuckled over the silly idea that someone would go to the wrong country in search of the Red Fort.) We finally found it. Unfortunately the Red Fort is closed on Sundays. They took a picture of the gate, and then we went to Marina Mall to eat at the food court. So much for our educational Kuwait field trip. Still, it was a fun day.

What else transpired this week? Waleed and Ahmed joined me in the school’s pool on Tuesday. Waleed’s swimming is looking great. Ahmed still can’t stand to put his face in the water. We’re both coaching him. He invited us to his sister’s apartment for dinner the next night. He bought grilled chicken, bread and hummus. We spread newspapers on the floor and tore into the food with our fingers like wild barbarians. A bone flew out of my mouth and landed in the hummus. Waleed said, “Don’t worry no problem.” I love those guys.

We have been having great inter-religious dialogue.. and here, I’m not really kidding anymore. Since Taize, I guess some people would say I’ve sort of “got religion,” and prayer has claimed a new priority in my life, for better or worse. It now makes a lot more sense to me why these guys drop everything to pray. I’ve decided that when I’m with one of my Muslim friends, now, instead of sitting there picking at my fingernails while he prays, I’m going to pray beside him wherever possible. I’ve done it a few times already. Catholic prayers, like the “Our Father” and the “Glory Be” lend themselves quite well to this. It seemed especially relevant and meaningful that night at Ahmed’s apartment, because Waleed got a sudden call from his uncle. His uncle said that something had happened to his mother, she was in the hospital, and it was very serious. The uncle was on his way to the airport to fly back to Egypt, and he told Waleed that he needed to make travel arrangements immediately. Waleed came unglued. Ahmed and I prayed with him for a while, and then he went home to figure out what to do. After he left, Ahmed and I stayed up and talked until after midnight. It’s amazing how much you can communicate with extremely limited language ability.

Taize is not easy to replicate, but it is a kind of incubator for a little spiritual flame that can be brought home or wherever life takes you. I’ve decided to start attending mass at the Vicariate parish here in Kuwait. I’ve written before about the “third world” quality one finds there. Last week the mass was said by an old priest from India who sort of barked out the liturgy with forceful, mechanical tones. The faces of the congregants, nearly all either Filipino or Indian, looked angry and sad at the same time. They always seem beat up by life here in Kuwait, and I’ve seen enough to understand how they struggle and how they are treated. Faith keeps them going, and their devotion is palpable. I know Mustafa the Communist would probably quote Marx’s famous line, “Religion is the opiate of the people,” and look no further. Maybe I’m too hypnotized myself; I just think it’s more complicated than that. Today I’m going to try to save a few dinars by catching the bus to church. I talked to one Filipino guy before mass last week… maybe I’ll see him again. It would be nice to make a friend or two there. But even if I don’t connect with anyone, it’s okay. I want to say a couple Glory Be‘s, because I found out just a little bit ago that Waleed’s mother is okay. And my own mother and father are okay. It was great to spend time with them this past summer, and I miss seeing them, but I know they’re okay.

Now I’ve written a blog entry, so I can cross one thing off my to-do list. Tonight maybe I’ll write my new students’ names in my attendance book (school attendance is done on the network, but administration wants us all to keep handwritten records). Maybe I'll dust off the banjo and see if I remember the three chords I mastered last year. Till next time, Maasalama.