We have been holding our breath here on and off according to the news and gossip that filters through the grapevine, our phones, and computers on any given day. At first tiny tendrils of protest news slipped out of Sohar--six dead...rubber bullets...live ammunition?...five dead...Lulu **GASP** burned to the ground...not the Lulu!...one dead...Sohar shut off from the world...none dead...more protests coming...
Stop, stop...More protests coming?!?!?! In Oman!?!?! This is the home of the ten hour work week! The afternoon nap! The smiling folk who always take the time to check on your well-being, even if you just spoke 1o minutes before. More protests?
Supposition and speculation began immediately, with blame naturally being placed squarely upon the shoulders of the neighboring Emiratis. It all made sense, people reasoned, with the UAE border being right there next to Sohar. Yes, yes, the Emiratis were definitely to blame. One long time resident said, "I am not sure what to make of this. This is certainly not Omani style to go out, burn something down, get someone killed, and then promise more of the same. I am guessing the Emiratis were involved."
On Sunday we received a panicked call from an American at Sultan Qaboos University. He was so distraught that even across the living room from Tony I could hear both sides of the conversation clearly. "Be careful!" he warned. "I have received word from a reliable source that there will be more protests on Tuesday right by your house. If things get too heated with these next rounds of protests I am leaving. I will catch the first flight out of here that will take me. It is just not worth it to me to risk my life staying here."
It was a fairly one-sided conversation filled with panicky catch-phrases usually heard only in movies where aliens suck out people's brains or spies attempt espionage.
Next came the continuous flow of text messages in Arabic and English which simultaneously drummed up support for more protests--"Meet at 4 p.m. on Tuesday near the airport!"; discouraged people from attending--"Stay away from Seeb on Tuesday. Save yourself! Save yourself!"; and reminded people to comport themselves like Omanis--"In Oman, we do not burn things. Please do not burn things on Tuesday. This is not Egypt."
Tuesday dawned, quiet except for the familiar prayer calls, and the skimpy traffic of those brave enough to disregard those pesky text messages and venture out onto the roads . Searches on the internet revealed very little additional information on Sohar. Finding no warnings on the US Embassy's website we decided to venture out toward Muscat proper and check out the science museum. The rest of Tuesday flowed by as usual, a collection of schoolwork, playdates, hiking, and driving back and forth between destinations througout Greater Muscat.
On Wednesday the stories and photos began to filter through the silence of the press, revealing what had happened near our house on Tuesday afternoon. A picture of a man in a pure white dishdasha, pushing a baby carriage down the street, draped with a signboard proclaiming his love of the Sultan. Another of a group of foreign nationals holding a huge Omani flag stretched between them, smiling as they walked down the street. A shot from above of thousands walking through the cool evening air, all gathered around an impossibly enormous poster of Sultan Qaboos. "We love the Sultan!" they had apparently chanted. "This is a demonstration of LOVE and SUPPORT!"
No hate and violence. No angry voices. Nothing. Just love and support. Now that is more like it. Okay, yes, we are still a bit confused. None of this went like we thought it would, or like it went in the other Gulf States. But for now things have settled back into the routine of the Oman that we know.
We'll keep you updated.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Anglicization of Tehva
Slowly, slowly, the vocabulary is creeping in. Slowly, slowly her tones are twisting... a subtle lilt at the end of a sentence, an emphasis added at the end of a word instead of the middle. Tehva is beginning to sound like a citizen of the United Kingdom and, just as in spite of our protestations she once developed a deep drawling Southern accent, there is nothing we can do at this moment to change her Anglicized linguistics. Things have gotten to the point that she is beginning to sound like she is expecting an invitation to the upcoming royal wedding.
The responsible party is, of course, preschool, with the primary offender being the reading program they have elected to use. Published by Oxford, it includes such engaging titles as, "Kipper Plays Cricket", "Mum and Dad", and "What A Din!" The characters have all sorts of rollicking adventures and love to ride the Tube, whine "Oh, Mum!", and drink tea thick with milk and sugar. Tehva loves Mum, Dad, Kipper, Chip, and Biff; they have become like the highly functional and enviable British half of the family to us during the past two months. I only wish that they would tell us their address in England so that we would have a free place to stay if we decide to visit this summer.
The other culprit is her teachers. Preschool is not just a time for socialization, block building, and exploration here. It is a year where the wee ones are expected to learn their odd and even numbers, verb tenses, phonology, and expand their vocabulary. For example, they recently studied healthy foods and did a long unit on fruits and vegetables. Tehva returned home to us at the end of one school day completely unimpressed that she had been calling vegetables by improper names for the past five years. "It's not a pepper," she lectured. "It's a 'capsicum', and it's not an eggplant, it's called an 'aubergine'. Those are healthy foods. We should eat them more often."
"We do," I countered.
"No, we don't," she replied and that was the end of the argument. I wanted to shove a crumpet up her nose.
Tehva is also coming to prefer Britishisms to Americanisms, simply because that is what surrounds her for half of her daily routine. She has begun describing food as "nice" instead of "yummy" or "good"; she has been heard to suggest someone "carry on" instead of "continue"; she is using "quite" as a modifier more often than "very"; she has opted to describe things as "lovely" instead of "cute". Is this a problem?
Admittedly, not really at this point in her little life. However, I have visions of her in a couple of years, entering second grade in the USA, and asking the teacher, "I feel quite parched and fancy a nice drink of water from the fountain just now. Would that be all right, then?"
Instead of telling Tehva, "Oh yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it? Carry on with that," the teacher may be so doubled over laughing that Tehva will never get her drink of water.
And that would be quite tragic, wouldn't it then?
The responsible party is, of course, preschool, with the primary offender being the reading program they have elected to use. Published by Oxford, it includes such engaging titles as, "Kipper Plays Cricket", "Mum and Dad", and "What A Din!" The characters have all sorts of rollicking adventures and love to ride the Tube, whine "Oh, Mum!", and drink tea thick with milk and sugar. Tehva loves Mum, Dad, Kipper, Chip, and Biff; they have become like the highly functional and enviable British half of the family to us during the past two months. I only wish that they would tell us their address in England so that we would have a free place to stay if we decide to visit this summer.
The other culprit is her teachers. Preschool is not just a time for socialization, block building, and exploration here. It is a year where the wee ones are expected to learn their odd and even numbers, verb tenses, phonology, and expand their vocabulary. For example, they recently studied healthy foods and did a long unit on fruits and vegetables. Tehva returned home to us at the end of one school day completely unimpressed that she had been calling vegetables by improper names for the past five years. "It's not a pepper," she lectured. "It's a 'capsicum', and it's not an eggplant, it's called an 'aubergine'. Those are healthy foods. We should eat them more often."
"We do," I countered.
"No, we don't," she replied and that was the end of the argument. I wanted to shove a crumpet up her nose.
Tehva is also coming to prefer Britishisms to Americanisms, simply because that is what surrounds her for half of her daily routine. She has begun describing food as "nice" instead of "yummy" or "good"; she has been heard to suggest someone "carry on" instead of "continue"; she is using "quite" as a modifier more often than "very"; she has opted to describe things as "lovely" instead of "cute". Is this a problem?
Admittedly, not really at this point in her little life. However, I have visions of her in a couple of years, entering second grade in the USA, and asking the teacher, "I feel quite parched and fancy a nice drink of water from the fountain just now. Would that be all right, then?"
Instead of telling Tehva, "Oh yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it? Carry on with that," the teacher may be so doubled over laughing that Tehva will never get her drink of water.
And that would be quite tragic, wouldn't it then?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Top Ten Things to Do in the UAE
People here either love the United Arab Emirates or absolutely loathe it. As the northwestern border of Oman snuggles right up to the UAE, it is an easy trip from here--a mere two hours to the crossing and then just a hop, skip and jump to Dubai, which either makes people froth at the mouth in desire, or in detestation. Intrigued by a country which elicits such a variety of emotions, we decided to take a few days and check it out for ourselves.
We found quite quickly that the UAE offers years and years worth of entertainment and excitement, but we managed to come up with a handful of tops for a moderately entertaining blog.
Number 10: Celebrate Australia Day
Sohar practically falls into the UAE from Oman and so, for the purposes of this blog, it becomes part of the top ten. We stopped in Sohar on the way to the UAE in order to visit Kez, G, and Baby Hux and found ourselves wrapped in the hoopla that surrounds Australia Day, which is a holiday that no one could really explain but everyone was very excited over.
On the afternoon of Australia Day, armed with a package of buns, a styrofoam tray bursting with beef sausages, and a bowl of potato salad, we tripped excitedly toward their compound's common green. Cool stucco homes are built in a neat square around the green and we wound our way through the grassy neighborhood, following the sounds of people laughing and cheering. Australia Day sounded like great fun and the closer we came to the wall, the more gooberish Tony and I became in anticipation of what sounded like a great party.
"Yes," G said slowly, pushing Hux along in his stroller. "It sounds like great fun in there, but they don't sound too Australian. They shouldn't be up and making that much noise already...they should be more..." She pushed open the gate and found a large group of whities sitting in a circle, singing of billybongs, kookaburras, and kangaroos, and enjoying beers, while a second unrelated group, mostly Indians, cheered while playing cricket further off on the green. "Yes," she confirmed, gesturing toward the circled group. "Here are our Australian friends. Now this looks like an Australian holiday."
A celebrant.
G put her bowl of potato salad next to the 12 other bowls of potato salad, plopped her sausages next to 12 other packages of sausages, and grabbed a drink. "Happy Australia Day."
Number 9: Learn to Play a Gentlemen's Game An hour passed during which time we were educated on the finer points of Australian geography, zoology, and climatology. The men, having drunk enough beer to intoxicate Sydney, deemed the time appropriate for cricket, produced wickets, bails, bats, and balls, and paced off a distance on the pitch. They threw we Americans into the field and began to banter about terms such as "dibbly dobbly", "googly", "box" (not the kind you stand in but the kind you shove down your drawers--as it is a gentlemen's game we cannot call it anything more graphic than "box"), and the like. At the end of the afternoon they had all been kind enough to allow we Yanks to bat, bowl, and run numerous times between wickets, all the while confusing us by demanding that we "raise the bat", "run!" and "stop!" without really telling us why.
Fortunately, no one cared that we had absolutely no clue what we were doing; and, we felt like proper gentlemen at the end of it.
Number 8: Lose the Camera
Australia Day was brought to a screeching halt by the sprinkler system, which kicks on every night at 10 PM. The Australians responded to the deluge by sweeping all the leftover potato salad bowls, beer cans, and random personal belongings into a bag and hauling it to the closest house to be sorted in the morning. Upon packing to depart in the morning we realised our camera had gone missing and was quite likely in one of the bags. A quick search yielded no camera and so we were forced to press on without the camera. Bummer.
Number 7: Buy a New Camera
Number 6: Find the Old Camera
Now we have two cameras.
Number 5: Ride a Camel
We found quite quickly that the UAE offers years and years worth of entertainment and excitement, but we managed to come up with a handful of tops for a moderately entertaining blog.
Number 10: Celebrate Australia Day
Sohar practically falls into the UAE from Oman and so, for the purposes of this blog, it becomes part of the top ten. We stopped in Sohar on the way to the UAE in order to visit Kez, G, and Baby Hux and found ourselves wrapped in the hoopla that surrounds Australia Day, which is a holiday that no one could really explain but everyone was very excited over.
On the afternoon of Australia Day, armed with a package of buns, a styrofoam tray bursting with beef sausages, and a bowl of potato salad, we tripped excitedly toward their compound's common green. Cool stucco homes are built in a neat square around the green and we wound our way through the grassy neighborhood, following the sounds of people laughing and cheering. Australia Day sounded like great fun and the closer we came to the wall, the more gooberish Tony and I became in anticipation of what sounded like a great party.
"Yes," G said slowly, pushing Hux along in his stroller. "It sounds like great fun in there, but they don't sound too Australian. They shouldn't be up and making that much noise already...they should be more..." She pushed open the gate and found a large group of whities sitting in a circle, singing of billybongs, kookaburras, and kangaroos, and enjoying beers, while a second unrelated group, mostly Indians, cheered while playing cricket further off on the green. "Yes," she confirmed, gesturing toward the circled group. "Here are our Australian friends. Now this looks like an Australian holiday."
A celebrant.
G put her bowl of potato salad next to the 12 other bowls of potato salad, plopped her sausages next to 12 other packages of sausages, and grabbed a drink. "Happy Australia Day."
Number 9: Learn to Play a Gentlemen's Game An hour passed during which time we were educated on the finer points of Australian geography, zoology, and climatology. The men, having drunk enough beer to intoxicate Sydney, deemed the time appropriate for cricket, produced wickets, bails, bats, and balls, and paced off a distance on the pitch. They threw we Americans into the field and began to banter about terms such as "dibbly dobbly", "googly", "box" (not the kind you stand in but the kind you shove down your drawers--as it is a gentlemen's game we cannot call it anything more graphic than "box"), and the like. At the end of the afternoon they had all been kind enough to allow we Yanks to bat, bowl, and run numerous times between wickets, all the while confusing us by demanding that we "raise the bat", "run!" and "stop!" without really telling us why.
Fortunately, no one cared that we had absolutely no clue what we were doing; and, we felt like proper gentlemen at the end of it.
Number 8: Lose the Camera
Australia Day was brought to a screeching halt by the sprinkler system, which kicks on every night at 10 PM. The Australians responded to the deluge by sweeping all the leftover potato salad bowls, beer cans, and random personal belongings into a bag and hauling it to the closest house to be sorted in the morning. Upon packing to depart in the morning we realised our camera had gone missing and was quite likely in one of the bags. A quick search yielded no camera and so we were forced to press on without the camera. Bummer.
Number 7: Buy a New Camera
Number 6: Find the Old Camera
Now we have two cameras.
Number 5: Ride a Camel
The Offending Creature.
Our friend Liz knows, like, everyone in Al Ain (which is officially in the UAE). She even knows a guy named Bill who, during his twenty plus years in the UAE, has managed to accumulate a batallion of previously abused camels. Now that he has rehabbed the camels he has decided that he will try to begin a camel tour business, but first he needed some people to practice touring on his rehabbed camels. We were those people.
As we drove toward the camel farm, the sky in front of us went from brilliant blue to grey, and then to yellow, and finally to brown. "Sand storm! It's a sand storm!" we all chirped, excited by the novelty of the apricot sand blowing shaping itself into miniature dunes along the highway, moving exactly like a blizzard of wind-whipped snow. At the farm, we wrapped our heads in shirts and jackets to keep the sand off of our faces, but it crept in anyhow, silty and fine, sifting into our ears and eyes.
We were introduced to the camels--Solomon the Wise, Halwah the Sweet and Sharda the Complainer. Bill gave the kids banana peels and soggy cauliflower to feed to the camels, and all three animals delicately pried the snacks away with their long floppy lips and chewed lazily with green-tinged teeth. The blowing sand did nothing to stop their snacking or their foraging for more delicacies. Finally, Bill declared that the storm had abated enough that we would be able to ride the camels a bit. Each animal was saddled with a rope and a quilt, we were instructed on the proper boarding technique, and we were off.
Number 4: Fall O
ff the Camel I had been so worried that I would anger the camel by boarding improperly. With their backward knees, impossibly long necks, and reported penchant for spitting, I was a bit leary of getting near the camels anyhow but as soon as Sharda the Complainer smiled at me I was foolishly drawn in. Although poor Sharda had had a rough beginning, he had turned over as much of a new leaf as rehabbed camels can. At first no one had even been allowed to get near him but he had come a long way in the past two years, reported Bill.
So as I jumped onto Sharda, settling in behind his hump, and then nestled Silas in in front of me, perched just on the backwards slope of the hump, I was confident that this camel would do me no wrong. Sharda stood up camel style, thrusting his butt into the air first, and then rising the front half of his body up next. I twisted my fingers into Sharda's rough wirey-soft fur and fell into an easy rhythm as he clomped over the rippled sand dunes.
Silas and I chatted about the Silk Road and the frankincense trade. And then, without warning, Sharda turned on us. He bucked and bucked and bucked again. I closed my eyes, grabbed Silas, and went down, right behind the camel's tail, hoping simultaneously that the camel would not crap on me, that Silas would land on me, and that I would curve my spine sufficiently to NOT land on my head.
It worked--there was no poo, Silas landed on me, elbowing me in the head on the way down, and I landed solidly on my right side. I highly recommend NOT riding rehabbed camels in the future. They can, apparently, be oddly unpredictable.
Number 3: Take Prescription Pain Killers (Without Worrying About the Prescription Part)
"You fell off a camel!" This astute observation came from Bill's Emirati friend, who had accompanied us to the camel farm. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No, no," I protested. "I just need to lay here a minute." I was camped out very comfortably on a bed of apricot sand, lights flashing behind my eyes, feeling nauseated at the thought of standing up. In a panic I remembered that Tony had never filed for official leave from the university. We had, in effect, snuck out of Oman for this trist. Then I had a flash of myself in an Emirati hospital, filling out scads of paperwork, listening to the snickers that would surely come were I to admit that I had been dumb enough to get onto a camel during a sandstorm, and then had fallen off. No, no...no hospitals.
"Okay, then. You know, falling off a camel is very Bedou (Bedouin) and I have Bedou medicine for you. Here, I have dates." A silver tin appeared in a flash, filled with organic, home grown dates. Then cups of hot coffee infused with cardmom appeared from nowhere. "You are very strong. Like a Bedou. Have another date." I could hardly hear him over the buzz in my ears and Silas's frightened crying. Silas was moaning, "I want to go home! I want to go back to the United States. I want to go home." I checked for ruby slippers.
When we returned to Liz's house, she broke out the Western version of dates--drugs. All of the pills she offered ended in "-dine" and "-dol" and I dutifully ate what she popped out of the foil wrappers. "All it takes to get this stuff here is to sound like you know exactly what you need," she added. "Who needs a prescription?!?!" Indeed.
Number 2: Play in the Snow
Dates and drugs being highly effective treatments for camel-induced injuries, I found that I had recovered sufficiently within 24 hours brave the local mall. Tehva is now a five year-old Churtle and so we did something extra special this year for her birthday--we went ice skating at the local mall. It is not enough to be able to shop at the malls in the UAE. One must also have the opportunity to do the unbelievable, like ski or ice skate or remove one's kidney. (Just testing to see if you are still with me.)
Number 1: Eat pork.
As if the snow, the camel ride and the cricket weren't enough, we found the number one activity to do on a trip to the UAE--eat of the forbidden animal. Pork is a dirty animal and yet we crave it. However, unless we want to fork out the equivalent of a month's car payment, we cannot eat of the pig. Thus we have not eaten pig in almost five months, even though Silas often wistfully whispers, "I sure miss ham" and Tian chimes in, "Me, too. I love pork."
So when the nice lady in the Korean restaurant sidled up to Tony and uttered those fateful words, "Pssssst....you like samkyupsaal (pork belly) in kimchee chigae (fermented cabbage stew)?" he sat like a stunned idiot and finally replied, "Ummm, yes?" (as if this were a question at all, because what is kimchee chigae without a hefty serving of sliced belly fat in the bottom of the bowl?). Inexplicably, Koreans can access affordable pork in the UAE and serve it up buried in the bottom of our kimchee chigae. That it is offered like an illegal substance (which I suppose it is) makes it all the more delicious.
Now that you have seen all that the UAE has to offer I am sure you are clamoring for plane tickets to Dubai. I hope that you will consider jumping the border and coming to visit us in sedate Oman. We are just a short hop skip and jump from the excitement that the UAE offers, and a kind respite from the artery-clogging pork, raucous camels, and vicious sand storms that plague our neighbor. We have your room waiting!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Would You Like Something Special for Dinner This Week?
The refrigerator that the university kindly gave us is the size of a large cooler. Yes, from the outside it looks like it would hold more than a gallon of milk, a handful of produce, and a selection of Indian pickles; in reality, it holds just that, but only if you put your foot on the door and really shove the thing closed after packing it full. When our grocery supplies dwindle, however, the thing begins to look like a yawning cavern, and that it is how it looks now as I type this.
Tony stepped up this evening and generously volunteered his time and energy to run to our friendly neighborhood hypermarket. "I am taking dinner requests," he announced. "This will be your one and only opportunity to dictate what you would like for dinner during the coming week. No requests will be entertained after this date."
All three kids stared at him with such dopey intensity that I expected strings of drool to swing simultaneously from their lips and connect near the floor, to complete that final jarring drop to the tiles together. "Anything special you would like?"
"Ummmm, no," and then all three scattered to the winds. This no, of course, was a complete and total lie because the minute Tony returns from the hypermarket, Silas will be pulling himself about the house moaning about our steady diet of parentally selected food, and Tehva and Tian will be seeking dietary solace with the neighbors.
Silas quite possibly will contain his dissatisfaction until tomorrow, when the neighbors begin their daily round of cooking in their "dirty kitchen". In Oman, if you are really swanky-swank, you will have two kitchens. One inside your house, where you cook yummysweet things like cakes and tea, and one outside your house where you cook yummy but stinky things like fish and onions.
We, being just one step above peasants, have only one kitchen, but the people around us all have dirty kitchens, open to the outside through generous vents and gaping windows; in Silas's opinion, those kitchens exist simply to torment him. Beginning around 10:30 a.m. and continuing until late into the night, the cooks in the dirty kitchens are cookin' dirty and he can identify every dish. "Oh, Mommy, the neighbors are cooking fried fish and chippatis. Are we having fried fish and chippatis tonight?"
"No."
Silas sounds genuinely baffled by this and asks in his best quizzical little boy voice, "Mommy, why not?"
"Because you didn't ask for those when we made the shopping list last week. Will you remember to mention it next time we make a shopping list?"
"Yes." Note the drool back there at the beginning.
Silas, having befriended so few little boys here, is really getting the short end of the stick as he cannot quickly and conveniently escape to other little boys' houses when he has a Disgusting Dinner Emergency.
Tian and Tehva, on the other hand, have befriended several little girls who all have dirty kitchens and yummy stinky smells drifting from their gardens at all hours of the day. Their parents employ Filippinas and Sri Lankans and Indians, all of who are seemingly masters at curries and soups that vent steam so thick and spicy that it seems you could linger outside their gates and eat those mouth-watering puffs. The house maids also are very good at preparing "child-friendly snacks" like french fries and chicken nuggets for poor American children who are obviously starved at the hands of their callous parents.
Tony returned from the store with the usual disgusting staples--fresh dates, milk, tea, feta cheese, rice and pasta, olives, olive oil, fish, lentils, a fat bag full of soft fresh flat bread, fresh produce, and 2 kilograms of creamy full fat yoghurt. Tomorrow all three children will crowd into the kitchen to take stock of the offerings for the week and walk out again disgusted. Tehva will go begging door to door for bags of chips and sodas--and come home well-supplied. Silas will belly ache around the house, like an overbred poodle turning its nose up at its daily ration of dog chow. And Tian will complain only to happily eat what is on offer anyhow.
And all three will resolve, "Next week I am going to tell Daddy to buy..." and drool, dopey and stunned once again, when we make the weekly list.
Tony stepped up this evening and generously volunteered his time and energy to run to our friendly neighborhood hypermarket. "I am taking dinner requests," he announced. "This will be your one and only opportunity to dictate what you would like for dinner during the coming week. No requests will be entertained after this date."
All three kids stared at him with such dopey intensity that I expected strings of drool to swing simultaneously from their lips and connect near the floor, to complete that final jarring drop to the tiles together. "Anything special you would like?"
"Ummmm, no," and then all three scattered to the winds. This no, of course, was a complete and total lie because the minute Tony returns from the hypermarket, Silas will be pulling himself about the house moaning about our steady diet of parentally selected food, and Tehva and Tian will be seeking dietary solace with the neighbors.
Silas quite possibly will contain his dissatisfaction until tomorrow, when the neighbors begin their daily round of cooking in their "dirty kitchen". In Oman, if you are really swanky-swank, you will have two kitchens. One inside your house, where you cook yummysweet things like cakes and tea, and one outside your house where you cook yummy but stinky things like fish and onions.
We, being just one step above peasants, have only one kitchen, but the people around us all have dirty kitchens, open to the outside through generous vents and gaping windows; in Silas's opinion, those kitchens exist simply to torment him. Beginning around 10:30 a.m. and continuing until late into the night, the cooks in the dirty kitchens are cookin' dirty and he can identify every dish. "Oh, Mommy, the neighbors are cooking fried fish and chippatis. Are we having fried fish and chippatis tonight?"
"No."
Silas sounds genuinely baffled by this and asks in his best quizzical little boy voice, "Mommy, why not?"
"Because you didn't ask for those when we made the shopping list last week. Will you remember to mention it next time we make a shopping list?"
"Yes." Note the drool back there at the beginning.
Silas, having befriended so few little boys here, is really getting the short end of the stick as he cannot quickly and conveniently escape to other little boys' houses when he has a Disgusting Dinner Emergency.
Tian and Tehva, on the other hand, have befriended several little girls who all have dirty kitchens and yummy stinky smells drifting from their gardens at all hours of the day. Their parents employ Filippinas and Sri Lankans and Indians, all of who are seemingly masters at curries and soups that vent steam so thick and spicy that it seems you could linger outside their gates and eat those mouth-watering puffs. The house maids also are very good at preparing "child-friendly snacks" like french fries and chicken nuggets for poor American children who are obviously starved at the hands of their callous parents.
Tony returned from the store with the usual disgusting staples--fresh dates, milk, tea, feta cheese, rice and pasta, olives, olive oil, fish, lentils, a fat bag full of soft fresh flat bread, fresh produce, and 2 kilograms of creamy full fat yoghurt. Tomorrow all three children will crowd into the kitchen to take stock of the offerings for the week and walk out again disgusted. Tehva will go begging door to door for bags of chips and sodas--and come home well-supplied. Silas will belly ache around the house, like an overbred poodle turning its nose up at its daily ration of dog chow. And Tian will complain only to happily eat what is on offer anyhow.
And all three will resolve, "Next week I am going to tell Daddy to buy..." and drool, dopey and stunned once again, when we make the weekly list.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Doing the Hash
On Friday morning, we all piled into the car to meet the Hash Daddy, Ahmad. As we tootled along behind a Toyota Hilax (what is it with this place and large livestock in the back of a teeny tiny truck?), watching the pair of cattle periodically drop paddies, I considered the momentous nature of this occasion, our First Hash Lay. Maybe the pair of crapping cattle was a sign of...what? Maybe we were taking on too much responsibility too early in our Hashing Career and we would fail miserably and crap out. Maybe we were bound to encounter all sorts of uncomfortableness during the Hash Lay.
Our Hash Daddy, Ahmad, found us waiting for him at the airport round about, listening to a podcast on parasitic infections. Tony hit the eject button on the CD player, in the middle of a sentence about hook worms and MS sufferers, as Ahmad bounced from his car, which was stamped brightly with the Oman Air logo. "Ah, I did not see you! I was on the other side of the round about! How are you? Children? How are you?" He jammed his meaty hand through the back window and shook hands with the closest kid he could grab. "All right," he announced, smoothing his black dress pants and giving a tug at his crisp white shirt. "We will head that way. Follow me!"
He led us down a dusty road, parked at the crest of a rocky hill, and then leapt from his car once again to help unload the 25 pound bag of flour in our trunk. "Yes, this is a great place for a Hash. Yes, perfect. And...no, no, no, let me carry a bucket of flour. My pants? No, no, they are old. I have to go to my mother's this afternoon for lunch. No, no, it will be fine. Please, let me take a bucket." And with that he shoved a ladel into the grey, flour filled bucket, and strode off toward a downward slope.
Okay, so I am sensing that some of you have no clue what this Hash stuff is all about seeing as you have assumed that this would be either about A.) some sort of illicit drug trade operation out of the Middle East, or B.) a meat and potato dish served with eggs. In fact this is about a running event that happens on a weekly basis all over the world. The tradition began in Malaysia many a year ago and was originally called a Paper Chase. One person would go out and lay a trail of crumpled papers on the ground; others would follow later in the day and try to find the Lay-er based on the trail formed by the little slips of paper.
These days, a Hash begins the day before the great event, when "hares" (that's us) go out and dump little piles of flour periodically to create a trail. Every now and then the hares create a false trail off of the true trail, or drop the trail entirely for a distance. The hares can also split the trail so that those who are running (keenies) can continue on a longer route and those who are walking the trail (weenies) can head back to the party at the end.
We followed Ahmad through the scrub and rock that form the Omani landscape around Muscat. Every ten feet or so the kids dumped a ladelful of flour on the ground. At the end of two hours we had finished marking a circuit in the desert, with a number of false trails leading people off toward empty corridors. As we walked and dumped, Ahmad had filled us in on the multiple countries he had lived in since his childhood in Muscat, his job working for Oman Air as an engineer, his children who were nearly all grown and living all over the world, and his love of Hashing.
When we arrived at the actual Hash the next day, Ahmad was already there, wearing his trademark skimpy shorts and Hash Shirt. He walked from group to group, kissing each person on each cheek once and then once on the lips. He joked and shook hands and promised "the Second Best Hash ever." ("Why the second best?" he posited. "Well, the best is not so possible...but the second best? You can always argue for the second best no matter what you do.") We six who had laid the trail the day before were "smocked" with red bibs sporting the word, "Hare" and were promised a post-run beer. Then suddenly someone called "On-On" and we were off, wrapped in an enormous group of individuals from all over the world who had come to run through the desert following our flour trail.
The bugler rallied everyone by bugling every 5 minutes and crying, "On on!" The runners yelped, "On on!" everytime a new flour pile was discovered. The front runners yelled, "Are you?" every time they lost the trail, and then slowed their gaits to a walk, searching for the next flour pile. They chirped, "On on!" once they found the trail again. A well-laid Hash will find the keenies and weenies finishing at the same time because, in theory, the keenies will lose the trail and spend all their time and energy finding it again while the weenies will catch up to them just in time to continue onward upon the recently discovered trail.
An hour after we had started the Hash, we all finished back at the car park, dripping sweat. In the west, the sun was setting, shrouding the mountains around Muscat in a red glow. The Gulf of Oman to the north looked as flat and calm as a swimming pool. The Hashers all gathered round us in the rapidly falling darkness and sang the Hash Song while we guzzled a beer and poured a bit on our heads to show the true Hash Spirit.
One of the regular Hashers was getting ready to leave Oman after more than ten years in the country so had hired a catering truck to drive out into the middle of the desert and set up a meal for all of us. After we had drunk our beers, we huddled around the bonfire clutching our catered suppers, enjoying shots of liquer and plastic glasses of wine. The Little Hashers ran around trying to slip ice down one anothers' backs. There was talk of development within Oman, goats and the challenges of laying a Hash without the goats eating the flour, Afghanistan and its human rights issues, accents as they differ across the UK, and how to best obtain a liquor license in Muscat.
The Hash is the one day a week when we swim in incongruities. We, both Omanis and non-Omanis, are in a Muslim country drinking in a public place. The women wear wraps to the Hash and then, in the impromptu car park, strip them off to reveal bare legs underneath. Beer and wine sit out in the open. And although we are less than a kilometer from main roads, no one bothers us, questions us, or even looks our way. We spend an evening sweating, teasing, drinking, and chatting.
That is the Hash.
Our Hash Daddy, Ahmad, found us waiting for him at the airport round about, listening to a podcast on parasitic infections. Tony hit the eject button on the CD player, in the middle of a sentence about hook worms and MS sufferers, as Ahmad bounced from his car, which was stamped brightly with the Oman Air logo. "Ah, I did not see you! I was on the other side of the round about! How are you? Children? How are you?" He jammed his meaty hand through the back window and shook hands with the closest kid he could grab. "All right," he announced, smoothing his black dress pants and giving a tug at his crisp white shirt. "We will head that way. Follow me!"
He led us down a dusty road, parked at the crest of a rocky hill, and then leapt from his car once again to help unload the 25 pound bag of flour in our trunk. "Yes, this is a great place for a Hash. Yes, perfect. And...no, no, no, let me carry a bucket of flour. My pants? No, no, they are old. I have to go to my mother's this afternoon for lunch. No, no, it will be fine. Please, let me take a bucket." And with that he shoved a ladel into the grey, flour filled bucket, and strode off toward a downward slope.
Okay, so I am sensing that some of you have no clue what this Hash stuff is all about seeing as you have assumed that this would be either about A.) some sort of illicit drug trade operation out of the Middle East, or B.) a meat and potato dish served with eggs. In fact this is about a running event that happens on a weekly basis all over the world. The tradition began in Malaysia many a year ago and was originally called a Paper Chase. One person would go out and lay a trail of crumpled papers on the ground; others would follow later in the day and try to find the Lay-er based on the trail formed by the little slips of paper.
These days, a Hash begins the day before the great event, when "hares" (that's us) go out and dump little piles of flour periodically to create a trail. Every now and then the hares create a false trail off of the true trail, or drop the trail entirely for a distance. The hares can also split the trail so that those who are running (keenies) can continue on a longer route and those who are walking the trail (weenies) can head back to the party at the end.
We followed Ahmad through the scrub and rock that form the Omani landscape around Muscat. Every ten feet or so the kids dumped a ladelful of flour on the ground. At the end of two hours we had finished marking a circuit in the desert, with a number of false trails leading people off toward empty corridors. As we walked and dumped, Ahmad had filled us in on the multiple countries he had lived in since his childhood in Muscat, his job working for Oman Air as an engineer, his children who were nearly all grown and living all over the world, and his love of Hashing.
When we arrived at the actual Hash the next day, Ahmad was already there, wearing his trademark skimpy shorts and Hash Shirt. He walked from group to group, kissing each person on each cheek once and then once on the lips. He joked and shook hands and promised "the Second Best Hash ever." ("Why the second best?" he posited. "Well, the best is not so possible...but the second best? You can always argue for the second best no matter what you do.") We six who had laid the trail the day before were "smocked" with red bibs sporting the word, "Hare" and were promised a post-run beer. Then suddenly someone called "On-On" and we were off, wrapped in an enormous group of individuals from all over the world who had come to run through the desert following our flour trail.
The bugler rallied everyone by bugling every 5 minutes and crying, "On on!" The runners yelped, "On on!" everytime a new flour pile was discovered. The front runners yelled, "Are you?" every time they lost the trail, and then slowed their gaits to a walk, searching for the next flour pile. They chirped, "On on!" once they found the trail again. A well-laid Hash will find the keenies and weenies finishing at the same time because, in theory, the keenies will lose the trail and spend all their time and energy finding it again while the weenies will catch up to them just in time to continue onward upon the recently discovered trail.
An hour after we had started the Hash, we all finished back at the car park, dripping sweat. In the west, the sun was setting, shrouding the mountains around Muscat in a red glow. The Gulf of Oman to the north looked as flat and calm as a swimming pool. The Hashers all gathered round us in the rapidly falling darkness and sang the Hash Song while we guzzled a beer and poured a bit on our heads to show the true Hash Spirit.
One of the regular Hashers was getting ready to leave Oman after more than ten years in the country so had hired a catering truck to drive out into the middle of the desert and set up a meal for all of us. After we had drunk our beers, we huddled around the bonfire clutching our catered suppers, enjoying shots of liquer and plastic glasses of wine. The Little Hashers ran around trying to slip ice down one anothers' backs. There was talk of development within Oman, goats and the challenges of laying a Hash without the goats eating the flour, Afghanistan and its human rights issues, accents as they differ across the UK, and how to best obtain a liquor license in Muscat.
The Hash is the one day a week when we swim in incongruities. We, both Omanis and non-Omanis, are in a Muslim country drinking in a public place. The women wear wraps to the Hash and then, in the impromptu car park, strip them off to reveal bare legs underneath. Beer and wine sit out in the open. And although we are less than a kilometer from main roads, no one bothers us, questions us, or even looks our way. We spend an evening sweating, teasing, drinking, and chatting.
That is the Hash.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Happy Merry Christmas
Nothing is more wearying than being reminded regularly that we are living in a volitile, dangerous part of the world, where holy soldiers lurk around hidden corners, conspiring to off us at the drop of a hat. It is not the American embassy that is giving us dire warnings, but folks back home. Most exhausting of all is to have well-meaning individuals who have no experience in this part of the world tell us what danger we are in by staying here.
Christmas has brought out more words of caution than usual, as if the birth of the Little Lord Baby Jesus evokes not only joy for the season, but paranoia as well. Friends back home warn us to watch our backs, keep the children close, take different routes in getting to and from work, and to NEVER give out our phone numbers or addresses to strangers. Duh.
Just to put inquiring minds at ease, here is what Christmas looked like here in Al Mawaleh, Muscat, this year. Christmas Eve saw lots of action in the neighborhood with well-wishes from the neighbors who wanted to know what we were doing for the holiday. We received cheery "Happy Christmas"es from many people whom we knew only by face.
The real fun began with the arrival from Sohar of our friends K and G, and Baby H. They arrived bearing dates (because what would a holiday celebration be here without dates?), gifts, and goodwill toward man. In the evening, more friends arrived for an early dinner in order that everyone could make it to church in time for the Christmas Eve service. However, lamb, drinks, and laughs prevailed, and no one made it to church. Ah, well.
We were fortunate that my parents sent "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in order that we would be able to enjoy the annual reading of the tome. We opened the book and were delighted to hear Poppop's voice recorded, reading the story to us as we turned the pages. What's more, he included the usual disgusting deviations from Clement Moore's version, much to the delight of all the children who listened to it.
Christmas morning arrived with the consumption of the traditional saffron rolls (slightly burned of course as tradition dictates), the opening of stockings, and the annual Santa search. Santa DID come, as evidenced by the runner marks and reindeer prints left in the dust of the roof. The prints were deemed authentic by our panel of experts as there were absolutely NO shoeprints or footprints around the Santa marks, which means that the Santa marks could not have been fabricated by parents or other interested parties.
Breakfast was a disappointment as one cannot find chipped beef here, and everyone knows that a Christmas breakfast without chipped beef is not really Christmas at all. Instead we ate beef sausages, eggs with toast, and fruit salad, with a hefty scoop of of moaning and groaning throughout. I know, I know, we all must make sacrifices sometimes, and this was one of those times.
The gift opening segment of the morning was the usual excitement. No one received a pony this year, even though there is plenty of space for one in this house. Nor did we have any camels pop out of boxes. We did end the morning with the traditional scavenger hunts, with everyone finding some big loot at the end. Santa brought us a flat screen TV so now we are almost cool--it's not a very big flat screen, so that's why we are just "almost cool" instead of "totally cool".
As an added bonus, we got to celebrate Boxing Day this year, since we are surrounded by English speakers who go in for such things. Boxing Day involved shopping, beach time, drinking, napping, consumption of leftovers, and movie watching. Apparently, if we had employed a domestic we would have had to give her the day off, along with a Boxing Day bonus.
See, no holy wars, acts of unspeakable violence, or volatility here. We all survived the day and are fatter and happier for that. Merry Christmas to all. Sorry, we have been told that we should be saying, "Happy Christmas to all" from now on as that is the proper way to do things. And well wishes for the New Year, too!
Christmas has brought out more words of caution than usual, as if the birth of the Little Lord Baby Jesus evokes not only joy for the season, but paranoia as well. Friends back home warn us to watch our backs, keep the children close, take different routes in getting to and from work, and to NEVER give out our phone numbers or addresses to strangers. Duh.
Just to put inquiring minds at ease, here is what Christmas looked like here in Al Mawaleh, Muscat, this year. Christmas Eve saw lots of action in the neighborhood with well-wishes from the neighbors who wanted to know what we were doing for the holiday. We received cheery "Happy Christmas"es from many people whom we knew only by face.
The real fun began with the arrival from Sohar of our friends K and G, and Baby H. They arrived bearing dates (because what would a holiday celebration be here without dates?), gifts, and goodwill toward man. In the evening, more friends arrived for an early dinner in order that everyone could make it to church in time for the Christmas Eve service. However, lamb, drinks, and laughs prevailed, and no one made it to church. Ah, well.
We were fortunate that my parents sent "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in order that we would be able to enjoy the annual reading of the tome. We opened the book and were delighted to hear Poppop's voice recorded, reading the story to us as we turned the pages. What's more, he included the usual disgusting deviations from Clement Moore's version, much to the delight of all the children who listened to it.
Christmas morning arrived with the consumption of the traditional saffron rolls (slightly burned of course as tradition dictates), the opening of stockings, and the annual Santa search. Santa DID come, as evidenced by the runner marks and reindeer prints left in the dust of the roof. The prints were deemed authentic by our panel of experts as there were absolutely NO shoeprints or footprints around the Santa marks, which means that the Santa marks could not have been fabricated by parents or other interested parties.
Breakfast was a disappointment as one cannot find chipped beef here, and everyone knows that a Christmas breakfast without chipped beef is not really Christmas at all. Instead we ate beef sausages, eggs with toast, and fruit salad, with a hefty scoop of of moaning and groaning throughout. I know, I know, we all must make sacrifices sometimes, and this was one of those times.
The gift opening segment of the morning was the usual excitement. No one received a pony this year, even though there is plenty of space for one in this house. Nor did we have any camels pop out of boxes. We did end the morning with the traditional scavenger hunts, with everyone finding some big loot at the end. Santa brought us a flat screen TV so now we are almost cool--it's not a very big flat screen, so that's why we are just "almost cool" instead of "totally cool".
As an added bonus, we got to celebrate Boxing Day this year, since we are surrounded by English speakers who go in for such things. Boxing Day involved shopping, beach time, drinking, napping, consumption of leftovers, and movie watching. Apparently, if we had employed a domestic we would have had to give her the day off, along with a Boxing Day bonus.
See, no holy wars, acts of unspeakable violence, or volatility here. We all survived the day and are fatter and happier for that. Merry Christmas to all. Sorry, we have been told that we should be saying, "Happy Christmas to all" from now on as that is the proper way to do things. And well wishes for the New Year, too!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Parent Failure
Everyone in Muscat knows The Clock Roundabout. It stands like a sentinel at a cross roads--go one way and you are on the road that heads toward the ocean, toward what is known as As Seeb. Go another and you will find yourself at the airport, or heading toward Nizwa or Sohar. And likewise, because everyone knows The Clock Roundabout, everyone knows exactly where we live, because we live so close to the The Clock that we can hear it chime the hour during the school day if we keep our window open.
At the base of The Clock, there is the lush, green Sahwah Park, well within walking distance of our house. It is built in a sort of triangle shape, with rounded corners. In one corner there are stables where the horses live that pull the carriage through the park each evening. In another corner there are a series of fountains that shoot color-tinged water high into the air, and another series of more gentle fountains that randomly bubble out of the ground. Within the borders of the park there are mazes carved from hedges, stairs bordered by thick beds of petunias, and acres of green grass. And in that third corner of the triangle there is a playground.
During the day, the park and playground are not open (unless you know where the fence has been cut and bent in order to allow admission...not that I would know something like that). But at 4 p.m., as the sun is going down, the park begins to burble with energy. The people come in hordes...women wrapped in black abayas, pushing a baby in a stroller; men in their cool white dishdashas, holding a child by the hand; the nanny toting along another, older child; another domestic carrying a picnic basket; a boy with a soccer ball and a giant woven mat. These groups enter the park and set up a camp for the evening and, once their space is set, the children run to the playground.
The playground is not just a set of swings and a jungle gym. This is a pair of play structures--the grand-daddy of all playgrounds, with slides so high that there is no way they meet any sort of safety code. The sides of the play structures are riddled with climbing hitches and half a dozen towers are connected by rope bridges. In the chalky darkness, children skip through the cool sand, playing soccer, running through the towers, screaming in the dark.
The park has recently loomed large in my children's realization that I am a less-than-perfect parent. I do not carry snacks. I do not carry anything to treat impromptu wounds. I do not haul entertainment, spare change, or water. In short, I am the anti-mother, and this situation has become unacceptable to Silas. When we go to the park, Silas expects that, when he is thirsty, I will have a bottle of water for him because he sees all these other well-prepared families with their overflowing picnic baskets doling out goodies to their own children. When Silas is hungry, he wants a snack to magically appear from somewhere within my proximity. In short, I am a disappointment to my chronically starving son.
Last night, we visited the park; after two hours we were ready to head home. Tehva and Silas were thirsty and I had nothing for them except for the promise of water when we arrived home. In her anger at my lack of vital supplies, Tehva attempted to step on the hems of passing women's abayas and Silas collapsed into a dehydrated heap every three steps. "But I am THIRSTY!" **collapse** **stomp** "Mom, I need WATER!" **collapse** **stomp**
In the confusion of the masses around us, the whining messes next to me, and the Arabic language program being blasted from the speakers in the trees (Am I in China?), a blanket of self-doubt wrapped itself about my brain. "What am I doing?" I thought..."I am frickin' in the Middle East with three kids who are not in school. I am surrounded by people whose calves I have never seen and probably will never see. It is nearly Christmas and we are still running around in short sleeves. The people around me have their children dressed in scarves, hats, and down jackets even though the temp is in the 70s. This is ridiculous. What are we thinking being here?"
This self-doubt that comes and goes when adjusting to a new place has finally come to me. It will evaporate as quickly as it has come and I will emerge a person with a new attitude and understanding. And maybe then I will also know how to carry a bottle of water for poor Silas. Whatever.
At the base of The Clock, there is the lush, green Sahwah Park, well within walking distance of our house. It is built in a sort of triangle shape, with rounded corners. In one corner there are stables where the horses live that pull the carriage through the park each evening. In another corner there are a series of fountains that shoot color-tinged water high into the air, and another series of more gentle fountains that randomly bubble out of the ground. Within the borders of the park there are mazes carved from hedges, stairs bordered by thick beds of petunias, and acres of green grass. And in that third corner of the triangle there is a playground.
During the day, the park and playground are not open (unless you know where the fence has been cut and bent in order to allow admission...not that I would know something like that). But at 4 p.m., as the sun is going down, the park begins to burble with energy. The people come in hordes...women wrapped in black abayas, pushing a baby in a stroller; men in their cool white dishdashas, holding a child by the hand; the nanny toting along another, older child; another domestic carrying a picnic basket; a boy with a soccer ball and a giant woven mat. These groups enter the park and set up a camp for the evening and, once their space is set, the children run to the playground.
The playground is not just a set of swings and a jungle gym. This is a pair of play structures--the grand-daddy of all playgrounds, with slides so high that there is no way they meet any sort of safety code. The sides of the play structures are riddled with climbing hitches and half a dozen towers are connected by rope bridges. In the chalky darkness, children skip through the cool sand, playing soccer, running through the towers, screaming in the dark.
The park has recently loomed large in my children's realization that I am a less-than-perfect parent. I do not carry snacks. I do not carry anything to treat impromptu wounds. I do not haul entertainment, spare change, or water. In short, I am the anti-mother, and this situation has become unacceptable to Silas. When we go to the park, Silas expects that, when he is thirsty, I will have a bottle of water for him because he sees all these other well-prepared families with their overflowing picnic baskets doling out goodies to their own children. When Silas is hungry, he wants a snack to magically appear from somewhere within my proximity. In short, I am a disappointment to my chronically starving son.
Last night, we visited the park; after two hours we were ready to head home. Tehva and Silas were thirsty and I had nothing for them except for the promise of water when we arrived home. In her anger at my lack of vital supplies, Tehva attempted to step on the hems of passing women's abayas and Silas collapsed into a dehydrated heap every three steps. "But I am THIRSTY!" **collapse** **stomp** "Mom, I need WATER!" **collapse** **stomp**
In the confusion of the masses around us, the whining messes next to me, and the Arabic language program being blasted from the speakers in the trees (Am I in China?), a blanket of self-doubt wrapped itself about my brain. "What am I doing?" I thought..."I am frickin' in the Middle East with three kids who are not in school. I am surrounded by people whose calves I have never seen and probably will never see. It is nearly Christmas and we are still running around in short sleeves. The people around me have their children dressed in scarves, hats, and down jackets even though the temp is in the 70s. This is ridiculous. What are we thinking being here?"
This self-doubt that comes and goes when adjusting to a new place has finally come to me. It will evaporate as quickly as it has come and I will emerge a person with a new attitude and understanding. And maybe then I will also know how to carry a bottle of water for poor Silas. Whatever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)