We opened sheets of newspaper and lay them overlapping to cover Mr. Achir's carpet. He apologized profusely as we did so, not about eating at a table made of newspaper but about us having to endure his housekeeper's cooking for this impromptu meal. "My wife is not here to cook for the children tonight and the housekeeper's cooking? Well, I don't know."
I had watched the housekeeper earlier dig balls of dough from a steel bowl and roll chippatis, an Indian flatbread. She had looked competent enough to me, simultaneously drizzling ghee (clarified butter) around the dough as it bubbled and rose in the cast iron skillet, monitoring the pressure of the ghosh (mutton curry), and setting up a pot of rice.
Mr. Achir bustled back and forth from the kitchen with bottles of water and big bowls of fluffy white rice. Then he followed with a bowl of ghosh, thick with brown gravy, and a heaping bowl of sauteed and spiced and shredded cabbage. Finally he set a smaller bowl down on the newspapers and, full of pride, announced, "My wife made that one. Green chile curry. It is a little spicy so maybe it is not fit for the children. Come let's eat!" I could make out some small green chiles and peanuts swimming in a dangerous looking red sauce, topped with more of the melted ghee.
We filled the dishes for the children while Achir chastised us for being so stingy with the size of our servings. He piled buttery chippati after chippati on our plates. His own children began to eat, left hands tucked neatly in their laps, right hands fully engaged in the art of mixing rice with sauces and gravies.
Tian dantily ate from her spoon, but Tehva stopped short. "Chinja is eating with his hands." The only thing missing from her observation was an, "Oooooooo! He's in trouble!" but her tone definitely suggested that she was expecting a spanking to follow shortly for seven-year-old Chinja.
As Tehva watched Chinja's deft one-handed eating, she dropped her spoon. Truth be told, the dishes looked even more delicious as Chinja mixed and pinched, and then neatly shoveled his food into his mouth. "Can I do that, too?" And before I could even respond Tehva was mixing and shoveling, too.
Silas silently eyed Tehva, Chinja, and Chinja's sister, Ruksana, and then put aside his fork. "Mom, I'm going to use my hands," he stage whispered, as if preparing to dive off of a cliff or wrestle a crocodile. If it is possible for a seven-year-old boy to look awkward eating with his fingers, Silas fulfilled that possibility. He gradually doubled himself over, all the while shoveling rice into his mouth, until his chest rest solidly on his criss-crossed legs. Then he folded tighter, his face just a few inches off his plate. Finally he decided to lay on his stomach and close that precarious inch between his plate and his mouth. Bad manners? Probably.
We wiped up the last of the gravy with the chippatis only to have Achir throw more chippatis at us. "No, no," I protested. "You're making me fat!" As fast as I could eat those buttery flatbreads I was finding more food on my plate. Then I remembered. Stop eating--leave things uneaten. As painful as it was to American sensibilities, I took a bit of mutton and a bit of cabbage, played with it, and let it be. No more chippatis came flying in my direction.
As we walked out the door later in the evening, the kids were astonished. "Wow! That was the best day ever and we didn't even know them at the start!" It was true. All three kids had been there since early afternoon and had been entertained, fed, entertained, fed, entertained and fed again. "The only thing better than lunch was dinner! That was amazing! And we had such a good time! We did they do that for us? In the United States that would never happen!"
I tried to explain cultural differences to Tian and Silas. I tried to explain the concept of karma and how some believe that good deeds come back to revisit those who lay a path of kindness. I talked and talked but in the end they set their own conclusions.
They decided that Mr. Achir and his family are good people and no longer strangers to us. And boy can they lay out a mean dinner spread.
Human nature leads us to make generalizations--sometimes for good and sometimes for bad. and I let them generalize away on this one. This is what they now believe--people from India are so nice--that equals out to more than 1/5 of the world's population being full of kindness!
What a nice mindset to have achieved in the course of just two meals and an afternoon of play.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Camels on Wheels and Other Charming Anomalies
For today's post we have something special--a song! I know, we all love songs, especially Tehva who has recently demonstrated a new love for recitations, turning all odd twists of phrase into song. "Star Wars Star Wars Lego Car Wars" is one that we all have come to despise. "Ahummmdulah praise Allah.... a hum banana praise Allah" comes shooting out at the oddest moments, which can be nerve wracking when we are in a public place surrounded by people who probably do not use "Allah" and "banana" together very often.
The song to be featured today is much more mundane. Sung to the tune of "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes", it is catchy enough to dance to and ALL TOTALLY TRUE. Here we go. First verse:
Have you ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Have you ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Have you ever seen a dromedary, looking fairly ordinary,
Ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Apparently camels only drive after dark in order to avoid pesky Westerners and their cameras because if it had been daylight, I would have shot a photo of this one, as would have any other English speaker who happened to chance across the driving dromedary.
The vehicle of choice? A Toyota Hilux (for those of you who lack male genetalia, that is a mini pick up). And, all right, the camel wasn't actually driving. But somehow the driver had folded the camel into the bed of the pickup and perhaps given it some camel-downers so that the beast actually looked like it was smiling and enjoying the ride. Additionally, it was festooned with a little camel cap and a hump cover, plus a little camel seatbelt to keep it from abandoning its joyride before reaching its destination.
Second verse:
Have you ever found a goat outside your door? (Have you?)
Have you ever found a goat outside your door? (Have you?)
Have you ever found a goat herd, dropping little goat turds?
Have you ever found a goat outside your door?
Yes, so we live in the big city here, just a block from a hypermarket (that would be a mall in the USA), yet we are apparently surrounded by enough scrub and brush to sustain a herd of goats. Right outside our house. And goats poop. A lot. In our driveway. Yet another reason to hire a maid.
Third verse:
Have you ever seen your children freaking out, (Eghad)
Have you ever seen your children freaking out, (Eghad)
Have you ever seen them freaking,
Whining crying screaming,
Have you ever seen your children freaking out?
We discovered this week that the shells the kids have been picking up are killers. Literally killers. They have been collecting delicate, white cone shells and have been clutching them in their hands, walking down the beaches. The beaches here go seemingly forever with no one and nothing on them but rocks, shells, and the very occasional fishermen.
A new found friend, who has extensive experience diving, was examining the shell collection, which lines one of our window sills. Frantically he cried, "You let them pick those up? They shoot poisonous barbs at fish and they can, frankly, kill a child. Don't let them put them in their swimmers."
So even though these shells had been sitting on our marble stoop for days and were anything but sustaining life, the kids danced and screamed and generally had a freak out.
Try not to get that little ditty stuck in your head. And tune in for another blog from the Land of Sand in a few days.
The song to be featured today is much more mundane. Sung to the tune of "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes", it is catchy enough to dance to and ALL TOTALLY TRUE. Here we go. First verse:
Have you ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Have you ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Have you ever seen a dromedary, looking fairly ordinary,
Ever seen a dromedary drive? (Yee hah!)
Apparently camels only drive after dark in order to avoid pesky Westerners and their cameras because if it had been daylight, I would have shot a photo of this one, as would have any other English speaker who happened to chance across the driving dromedary.
The vehicle of choice? A Toyota Hilux (for those of you who lack male genetalia, that is a mini pick up). And, all right, the camel wasn't actually driving. But somehow the driver had folded the camel into the bed of the pickup and perhaps given it some camel-downers so that the beast actually looked like it was smiling and enjoying the ride. Additionally, it was festooned with a little camel cap and a hump cover, plus a little camel seatbelt to keep it from abandoning its joyride before reaching its destination.
Second verse:
Have you ever found a goat outside your door? (Have you?)
Have you ever found a goat outside your door? (Have you?)
Have you ever found a goat herd, dropping little goat turds?
Have you ever found a goat outside your door?
Yes, so we live in the big city here, just a block from a hypermarket (that would be a mall in the USA), yet we are apparently surrounded by enough scrub and brush to sustain a herd of goats. Right outside our house. And goats poop. A lot. In our driveway. Yet another reason to hire a maid.
Third verse:
Have you ever seen your children freaking out, (Eghad)
Have you ever seen your children freaking out, (Eghad)
Have you ever seen them freaking,
Whining crying screaming,
Have you ever seen your children freaking out?
We discovered this week that the shells the kids have been picking up are killers. Literally killers. They have been collecting delicate, white cone shells and have been clutching them in their hands, walking down the beaches. The beaches here go seemingly forever with no one and nothing on them but rocks, shells, and the very occasional fishermen.
A new found friend, who has extensive experience diving, was examining the shell collection, which lines one of our window sills. Frantically he cried, "You let them pick those up? They shoot poisonous barbs at fish and they can, frankly, kill a child. Don't let them put them in their swimmers."
So even though these shells had been sitting on our marble stoop for days and were anything but sustaining life, the kids danced and screamed and generally had a freak out.
Try not to get that little ditty stuck in your head. And tune in for another blog from the Land of Sand in a few days.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
The Morning Run
4:40 a.m. comes early in Oman. We are surrounded by mosques in our neighborhood and the five-times daily drone of the call to prayer first comes at 4:40 a.m. I am up early enough to hear the shuffle of sandals and flip flops of the men making their ways to the mosques for the morning ritual--cleanse, pray, chat, and then shuffle home to begin the day.
If I really hustle and get my running clothes on, I can be at the door early enough to surreptitiously watch the prayers inside the walls of the open-air prayer platforms and mosques. However, now that I have adjusted to the noises of Oman, I usually sleep right through the moan of "Allaaaaaaaaah akbaaaaaaaaar..." and I stumble outside just as the sky is lightening--right around 5:45 every morning.
This morning the smells are overpowering. The odor of rotten eggs lingers in swirling dust clouds and as I walk I imagined myself enshrouded by a cloak of stench. But three steps later a cool breeze whips in off of the ocean, whisking away the reek and replacing it with a chill. Three steps later the chill has been beaten by the heat of the rising sun. It is a daily battle between the heat and the hint of a chill.
The sun here does not rise lazily like it does in Virginia. Instead it jumps off the horizon and rises impossibly quickly. As I turn to the east, I watch it rise behind the dome of the green-topped mosque. The sun looks friendly, like a giant orange eclipsed by a jaden ball, but it is a nasty orange--the temperature is already heading toward steamy.
The migrant labor population, mostly Indians, is up early, too, squatting in the ubiquitous pebble strewn lots, brushing teeth and hawking to spit into piles of broken bricks, scuffing at the dust with calloused feet and cracked shower shoes. They stare openly at my passing, not like the Omani men who nonchalantly avert their gaze, reminding me of falsely modest Baptist boys under the scrutiny of God and their elders.
As the sun rises higher over the mosque, the school children trickle into the street. The boys all wear the starched white dishdasha--a robe that extends from neck to ankle--and qimb--an embroidered cap. The girls wear tight white cotton pants and a white shirt overlain with a blue tunic. They also sport white head scarves that cover their necks and hair but leave all of their faces open to the world. They glance quickly as I run by but do not waiver in their intent bus waiting ritual. The hired help sits with the children, there to make sure that their charges make it onto the bus.
Now sun has risen enough that the workers have covered their heads with towels to keep off the sun. I start to hustle home, sticking to the shady spots cast by the date palms scattered about the neighborhood and the high walls that ring every house here. In just 45 minutes the heat has gathered enough strength to make me sweat through a t-shirt. The wind that delivered the ocean breeze is perceptible only in the shade so I linger for a minute in the covered walkway to our house, knocking the dust from my shoes.
Tomorrow I will follow a different route, trying to beat the sun's climb.
If I really hustle and get my running clothes on, I can be at the door early enough to surreptitiously watch the prayers inside the walls of the open-air prayer platforms and mosques. However, now that I have adjusted to the noises of Oman, I usually sleep right through the moan of "Allaaaaaaaaah akbaaaaaaaaar..." and I stumble outside just as the sky is lightening--right around 5:45 every morning.
This morning the smells are overpowering. The odor of rotten eggs lingers in swirling dust clouds and as I walk I imagined myself enshrouded by a cloak of stench. But three steps later a cool breeze whips in off of the ocean, whisking away the reek and replacing it with a chill. Three steps later the chill has been beaten by the heat of the rising sun. It is a daily battle between the heat and the hint of a chill.
The sun here does not rise lazily like it does in Virginia. Instead it jumps off the horizon and rises impossibly quickly. As I turn to the east, I watch it rise behind the dome of the green-topped mosque. The sun looks friendly, like a giant orange eclipsed by a jaden ball, but it is a nasty orange--the temperature is already heading toward steamy.
The migrant labor population, mostly Indians, is up early, too, squatting in the ubiquitous pebble strewn lots, brushing teeth and hawking to spit into piles of broken bricks, scuffing at the dust with calloused feet and cracked shower shoes. They stare openly at my passing, not like the Omani men who nonchalantly avert their gaze, reminding me of falsely modest Baptist boys under the scrutiny of God and their elders.
As the sun rises higher over the mosque, the school children trickle into the street. The boys all wear the starched white dishdasha--a robe that extends from neck to ankle--and qimb--an embroidered cap. The girls wear tight white cotton pants and a white shirt overlain with a blue tunic. They also sport white head scarves that cover their necks and hair but leave all of their faces open to the world. They glance quickly as I run by but do not waiver in their intent bus waiting ritual. The hired help sits with the children, there to make sure that their charges make it onto the bus.
Now sun has risen enough that the workers have covered their heads with towels to keep off the sun. I start to hustle home, sticking to the shady spots cast by the date palms scattered about the neighborhood and the high walls that ring every house here. In just 45 minutes the heat has gathered enough strength to make me sweat through a t-shirt. The wind that delivered the ocean breeze is perceptible only in the shade so I linger for a minute in the covered walkway to our house, knocking the dust from my shoes.
Tomorrow I will follow a different route, trying to beat the sun's climb.
September 26--Learnings
Tomorrow is Saturday, which is to say that tomorrow is Monday. The weekends running on a Thursday-Friday schedule has put us into a tailspin of confusion, per this recent conversation with Tian:
Me: "Okay, so tomorrow you are getting up early because it is a school day."
Tian: "But it's Saturday! We don't do school on Saturdays!"
Me: "Yes, we do because it is really more like a Monday."
Tian: "But I thought you said it was Saturday! That would make it the weekend!"
Me: "No, Thursday and Friday are the weekend."
Tian: "No, Saturday-Sunday is!"
Me: "Where are you living right now?"
Tian: "Oh, yeah."
After taking a break from school for a week that spanned three continents, two oceans, two hotels, five visas, and thousands of miles, is it any wonder that Tian is baffled by the new schedule for the weekend, or has forgotten how to spell "story" or "happy"? (Neither one ends with "ie" for those who are wondering).
If these things have been forgotten, many more have been learned in their place. Instead of an automatic garage door opener we have a fancy iron gate that slides open and closed with the press of a button. We have learned to leave our gate open if we are hoping for visitors and to close it if we are not. We were desperate for company today so left it open all day and garnered the spoils--a jar of Omani honey, a bottle of cologne, two smiling boys, and two giggly little girls looking for a play date.
We learned all about the necessity of owning a car in Muscat. It is not a walker-friendly city so we have not been able to venture too far from our neighborhood, which is hemmed in by two causeways. However, today a kind American took pity on us, drove us about, and showed us what we have been missing: stunning beaches strewn with shells and colored rocks, marketplaces loaded with fresh produce and live poultry, and juice bars that sit anticipating beach goers.
We have learned the ins and outs of living in an enormous home. With three floors (tiled throughout), five bathrooms, four bedrooms, an HGTV kitchen with granite counter tops, and a marble staircase, we are all learning to mop and sweep, and then to scream to hear the echo bounce throughout the empty space.
We are learning but tomorrow begins the formal schooling upstairs in the maid's quarters turned school room. There are reportedly a handful of families who are homeschooling throughout the city. The next thing to learn will be their phone numbers.
Me: "Okay, so tomorrow you are getting up early because it is a school day."
Tian: "But it's Saturday! We don't do school on Saturdays!"
Me: "Yes, we do because it is really more like a Monday."
Tian: "But I thought you said it was Saturday! That would make it the weekend!"
Me: "No, Thursday and Friday are the weekend."
Tian: "No, Saturday-Sunday is!"
Me: "Where are you living right now?"
Tian: "Oh, yeah."
After taking a break from school for a week that spanned three continents, two oceans, two hotels, five visas, and thousands of miles, is it any wonder that Tian is baffled by the new schedule for the weekend, or has forgotten how to spell "story" or "happy"? (Neither one ends with "ie" for those who are wondering).
If these things have been forgotten, many more have been learned in their place. Instead of an automatic garage door opener we have a fancy iron gate that slides open and closed with the press of a button. We have learned to leave our gate open if we are hoping for visitors and to close it if we are not. We were desperate for company today so left it open all day and garnered the spoils--a jar of Omani honey, a bottle of cologne, two smiling boys, and two giggly little girls looking for a play date.
We learned all about the necessity of owning a car in Muscat. It is not a walker-friendly city so we have not been able to venture too far from our neighborhood, which is hemmed in by two causeways. However, today a kind American took pity on us, drove us about, and showed us what we have been missing: stunning beaches strewn with shells and colored rocks, marketplaces loaded with fresh produce and live poultry, and juice bars that sit anticipating beach goers.
We have learned the ins and outs of living in an enormous home. With three floors (tiled throughout), five bathrooms, four bedrooms, an HGTV kitchen with granite counter tops, and a marble staircase, we are all learning to mop and sweep, and then to scream to hear the echo bounce throughout the empty space.
We are learning but tomorrow begins the formal schooling upstairs in the maid's quarters turned school room. There are reportedly a handful of families who are homeschooling throughout the city. The next thing to learn will be their phone numbers.
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