Culture Crash

It seems as if the vibes in the universe that modulate weirdness have bent just enough that the bizarre is coming through loud and clear. Back in my politically correct grad school days, the bizarre and incomprehensible encountered in a foreign culture was labeled with the very benign term, "culture bump". Alrighty, then, we can go with that if it makes some of you more comfortable.

In just one week I have tripped across so many weird culture bumps that they are starting to more accurately resemble culture pot holes. Great big deep pot holes.

Be careful! Oh, no, wait...you're driving an automatic. Well done, ladies!

As I drive Tony to work in the morning in our manual Kia Rio I am supposedly breaking the law. Women here are not supposed to drive stick shifts because, errrr, they're suggestive? Tony speculates that someone in the Omani lawmaking body heard that urban legend about the girl who took Spanish fly and, well, you know. Not sure the whys really, but when the driving test is administered here, women are to take the test on the much less erotic automatic transmission, while men must fondle the stick of a manual in order to pass the same test.

Girlfriends are for wusses. Manly men ice skate with other manly men. Period.

Muscat has a new skating rink in the very swank section of town called Qurm (no need for a vowel between the r and m in case you were thinking, "TYPO!") Qurm is where we lowlings (mostly teachers) can go to stare greedily at the other half (mostly petroleum engineers) who have lots of money to spend on niceties such as furniture, Land Rovers, Hummers, and organic products imported from the more cultured parts of the world.

Needless to say, we don't spend much time in Qurm since it makes us feel like peasants.

Anyhow, today we did venture into Qurm for a birthday party at the new skating rink. Tehva wore her very ugliest fur-lined shirt and clashing paisley flowered pants for the occasion, while Silas wore his cleanest pair of floods, and Tian, in her carefully matched duds, rolled her eyes at both of them.

As we made our entrance there was nary a soul to be seen--just one abaya-clad woman sitting behind the cash desk looking thoroughly put out at having to be there at all, and a tiny collection of ten-year-old girls ready for a birthday party. The ice was empty with the exception of a clutch of boys scooting tentatively across the ice.

Fast forward two hours and the ice rink is awash in boys and men dressed in the most stylish fashions that Oman has to offer--Michael Jackson gloves; tight black jeans made all the more attractive by a white belt full of holes--think spiked belt with the spikes pulled out but the holes left behind; t-shirts printed with English phrases such as "I Hate Girls" and "No girlfriend! No problem!" (I am NOT making this up); and to top off the ensemble, a net baseball cap like was popular in the US in the 70s, with the plastic doohicky in the back that you can use to adjust the size of the cap. The cap is the most important part of the fashion statement as the plastic doohicky must be adjusted to the very smallest size and the cap must rest upon the head in such a manner that it makes the wearer look like he has an itty-bitty pinhead.

The horde of 20, who range in age from 9 to about 23, skate around and then perform a showy move for one another--some throw their bodies in the air and slam onto the ice, their momentum carrying their bodies through the trajectory of other skaters. Others do breakdance moves, digging the toes of their skates into the ice and then, for good measure, eating the flakes of ice that result. Then suddenly and without warning the boys begin whistling, making what sound like camel calls, and skating while holding hands, careening back and forth across the rink at top speed. And just as quickly they converge in the center, still holding hands, and spin one another around as fast as possible.

My first thought, being a red-blooded American, is that they are doing this to show off for the girls in the rink but silly me there are only about three girls in the rink and they are tending to a friend who has fallen and hit her head on the ice. The girls have no time for the boys, which isn't a concern anyhow as the boys are in fact NOT doing this for the girls. They are doing it for each other. And those t-shirts seem to be a statement of fact.

The new Muscat Opera House is haram so STAY AWAY!

Religiously speaking, Oman is still a bit of a head-scratcher. Yes, the predominance of the population is Muslim, but the sect of Islam that they follow, Ibadi, is one based on a more liberal interpretation of the Koran. The word haram, which means "forbidden" in Arabic has worked its way into our vocabularies, but we don't have to talk about haram very seriously very often because followers of Ibadi say it's all good. We don't worry too much about haram in Oman. Until now.

One of Oman's top emirs has announced that the new Opera House, which cost about a bazillion riyals to build and dominates swanky Qurm's skyline and its social scene, is haram. Strict Muslims regard music as haram and guess what they have been doing at the Opera House. Yes, making music. Naughty naughty.

He could have raised this issue a couple years ago when they started building this collosus.

Ladies! Get away from the pool! And stay off of that exercise bike! And no treadmill for you! Away! Away!

This week I overheard an interesting statistic--the average Omani woman's resting heart rate (while in her twenties) is 80-100 beats per minute.

And that, apparently, is okay, because maintaining a healthy heart rate would require some sort of exercise, which might involve displaying some flesh, and that would be unacceptable, even in facilities designed for exercise.

The Staff Club, to which we belong here, is a cross between social outlet and exercise center. Think YMCA crossed with Parks and Rec with a Shoney's stuck to it. If you are affiliated with Sultan Qaboos University, it is the place to be for dinner, swimming, jogging, soccer, basketball, tennis, playground, and hanging out around the pool. While the kids enjoy a dip, the adults can have a cup of tea, served at poolside by nice men wearing crisp uniforms carrying silver trays. The tennis court is the only place on the campus that women can comfortably wear shorts, and the club is the only place on campus that Muslim women can uncover their heads and go for a dip (but only on Sunday and Tuesday evenings).

This is a bit much, though. A gentleman stood up at the last Staff Club general meeting and suggested the Staff Club become a "Gents' Only" facility. The facilitator, whose name sounds an awful lot like Ghengis Khan, startled at the suggestion (much to his credit) and then asked the man to repeat it for good measure. "Yes, how about we make the staff club 'Gents Only'--I put it to the members." The members stared back. End of discussion.

Usury is bad, but I hadn't realized that until now. That's what the US banks must be doing for us! Saving us from eternal damnation!

The Staff Club, for a little bitty facility, has quite the budget and pulls in a tidy sum of money each year, which is placed into an account where it bears a bit of interest. It is not a lot of interest but it is enough to allow members to afford niceties like a crisply uniformed staff that will serve tea by the pool.

During the meeting, when the Mongol Conqueror announced the year's income and outflow, a hand shot into the air. "Can we place the money in a non-interest bearing account?" I dredged my ears clean. Huh? No one else reacted with the least bit of shock or surprise. As a matter of fact, many rolled their eyes. The woman next to me sunk in her chair--"Typical. Happens every time."

"What is going on? Why would she say no to free money?"

"An interest-bearing account is usury. Haram."

Oh. Just when you think the culture bumps are no more and that a place is so familiar it again becomes unfamiliar, confusing, and surprising.

How exciting!

Faux Wheel Drive

Theoretically blogging, Kia Rios are not made for off-roading. Apparently they simultaneously lack the clearance and the cubic litres to power them through such off-road hazards as sand dunes and mucky wadis. However, we find that our Rio, when fully loaded with a weekend worth of camping equipment, three car sick children, and two crabby adults positively hugs the rough, unpaved roads that scream "ADVENTURE".

Chanting the mantra "The Rio loves off-roading...The Rio is a four wheel drive...The Rio loves off-roading..." we set off in the middle of a group of rugged looking Land Rovers up a wadi into an area called the Gubra Bowl.

The Land Rover owners scoffed just a little when they saw our ride. After all, their vehicles were pimped--ladders, racks, four wheel drive, spare petrol in square metallic containers strapped like a badge to the rear spare tire...oh, did I mention our spare tire is in shreds in the trunk thanks to an unfortunate encounter with a curb a year ago? A view looking over the Gubra Bowl One of these days we'll have to get that repaired.

But no matter, with a flick of the eyes, the Land Roverers silently agreed amongst themselves to set us in the middle of the caravan, a bit like elephants set their sick and infantile in the middle of the herd for protection.

An hour into the Bowl over violently graded dirt roads, the Land Rovers shot up and over a rise to claim our camping spot, right in the middle of a group of three camels. To honor our arrival one spread its back legs and created a sizable pond of camel pee. Charming.

The camel handlers came and stood for a series of photos and a litany of questions regarding their camels' ages, diet, and well-being. One of the camel farmers came and threw his ten-year-old son up and behind the camel's hump. Another camel became very upset at its friend's plight and started doing a camel dance around our campsite. The questions and comments continued. Many "humdill-allah"s and "inshallah"s were exchanged before the word of the winter began to be bandied about--"muttera" and "shittah". Rain.

Earlier in the day another front had moved off of the Indian Ocean and was in the process of breaking up over northern Oman, dumping rain on select locations. Of course rain is good. However, as you may have gathered from earlier posts, rain, while appreciated, is not always desired due to the flooding that invariably ensues after even the smallest amount of precipitation hits the ground. And rain is especially unwelcome during a camping trip in a Kia Rio in the middle of a place with the word "bowl" in its name.

The afternoon melted into an evening that stewed in cold, black clouds. While the kids, all dressed in two and three layers, climbed and ran along rocky rises all around us, the winds grew stronger and chillier, finally blowing away the clouds. The astronomers among us brought out their telescopes and trained them on the moon, Jupiter, and Orion's Nebula. We added more layers and hunkered down in camp chairs between long spells staring through the lenses at the bright, crater-ridden moon, clusters of stars, and the bands of color on Jupiter.

And it never rained. And the Kia Rio made it out of the Bowl. And all was well with the world.

Another successful camping trip thanks to our faux wheel drive.