I Don't Really Speak Arabic

My daily Arabic lessons always happen over dinner and, unfortunately, come from a fairly unreliable source. Tehva is our resident Arabic expert, haphazardly dishing out phrases and single words nightly. The problem is, we cannot ask her how to say this, or how to say that as she cannot translate for us. We are simply prisoners to her linguistic whims and, thus, possess a command of the language that consists of the most convoluted vocabulary and phrases.

Last night, while Silas vomited in his plate over the eggplant he was being forced to eat (quite literally), and Tony and I sipped an amber beverage between us, Tehva held court at the table. "Walid means boy, like one little boy. But if you have a line of boys or a group of boys, that has a different word. That word is oglad. But a group of girls is banad, like when we go outside after Arabic class the teacher tells to us line up and says, 'Yalla, oglad.' And then all the boys line up. And then she says, 'Yalla, banad.'" With that, Tehva authoritatively jammed a spoonful of rice into her mouth, and that was the end of the day's lesson.

With such limited exposure to Arabic, my language development has, to put it mildly, been stunted this year. We all came with honest intentions to learn the language but have had such limited opportunities to learn any of it. As a matter of fact, if it weren't for Tehva and her nightly mini-lectures, we would still be working on, "Saalam Aleykum" and "Masaalama".

However, as I am sure all of you know who have suffered through five year olds, their information is not always accurate or terribly reliable, so two nights ago I called in an expert--Zamzam the Emirati. Zamzam has, by some horrible twist of fate, given up her life in Dubai for a more sedate and, shall we say, dull life here in Muscat. She is elegance itself in her embroidered abayas, tastefully executed makeup, and head scarves that show nearly HALF of the hair that she has on her head. Often her abaya gaps and I can see the designer jeans underneath and her tight, low-cut tops. She is shockingly trendy and sooooo out of place here.

On the nights when they close off the pool to men and boys, pulling the opaque club curtains and tucking the ends into the doors for good measure, Zamzam comes to swim with the ladies. The employees, who are all men, scurry about the pool just before 7 p.m., dimming the lights, delivering the last pots of tea from the restaurant, straightening chairs, and searching for boys and men who may be hiding in the dark recesses of the University Staff Club.

When the hands of the clock hit 7 p.m., the ladies peak to be sure the curtains are really closed and the workers are gone, and then smile, exhale, and remove their head scarves and abayas. Some put on risque one- piece bathing suits that show their arms and legs, their collar bones, and the split in their cleavage. Scandal! Others elect to wear more modest suits, with leggings, full arm coverage, and a matching bathing suit head scarf that wraps under their chins and around their necks.

Zamzam, of course, elects to wear a "skimpy" one-piece with a frilly little skirt, and a black and white bathing cap that matches the design on her suit. On this night, as on other nights I see her at the pool, the other women seem to avoid her and, while the others conglomerate in knots of head to toe fabric, she bobs or sits alone, looking for someone to chat with. Our conversations, while in English, are peppered with the ubiquitous "Humdilallah" and "Yani", and she is always trying to teach me more Arabic, but tonight I want her to listen to Tehva and tell me what she is always saying as she wanders around the house.

Some of her blathering is easily understood:






But other things I cannot decipher and so I ask Zamzam to have a chat with her and tell me just how much of what she is saying makes sense. Tehva takes one look at the monumental task in front of her, maybe intimidated by Zamzam and her elegance, maybe frightened at finally being found out as a fraud, and she freezes. I try to play the part of the encouraging mother but before too long, I have to run out to the toilet so cannot stay and encourage for more than a moment.

When I return, my answer is waiting. Tehva is at the poolside, waving her arms in the air like an enthusiastic, bordering on rabid, aerobics instructor. She is counting, "Wahid, ithnain, thalaatha, arbaa..." while she rhythmically moves her arms and throws her hips side to side. Her r's roll off her tongue beautifully but I cannot admire those r's too long because I am distracted by the enormous bevy of women who are in the pool, staring at Tehva, mimicking her technique, flailing their arms and shaking their hips. They are counting in Arabic with her. Then she breaks off the counting and issues some sort of command, and they all start to jump up and down, the pool water churning and waving around as they resume counting. Tehva issues one last command and they smile and jog a little in the water. "I didn't know she could speak Arabic!" one of the women grins at me.

"Neither did I," I reply, as I scoop her up. Zamzam gives me a thumbs up. "Aamal jaeed," she says to me, which means that Tehva has done a good job...I think. Because although Tehva looks pleased with herself, when I ask her what Zamzam just said, she shrugs. "I only understand my teachers' Arabic. And I don't really speak Arabic."

Whatever.