New Crop Palm Trees
Sitting over a long lunch, a friend asked me if I could remember my earliest impressions of Kuwait, and all I could remember was that the traffic speeds scared the hell out of me. Then, yesterday morning, we were driving on 40 and my memory was jogged; I remember moving here from Qatar and thinking how GREEN Kuwait is.
Qatar is impeccably clean. Street crews are out all the time, insuring that the highways are immaculate. There are beautiful flowers and wide boulevards. But when you leave Qatar, you realize your eyes are starved for green. I remember landing here the first time, and seeing pockets of green, even in very desert-like areas. I love the way the government has planted trees, especially palm trees. Your mind may not always register them, but it makes for a nicer environment.
I noticed recently a new crop of palm tree antennas. I think this is a total hoot. A generation ago, everyone in this area was buying Eiffel tower replicas for their roofs to bring in TV signals; now the communication towers are being disguised – and I love it. I blogged about this a while back but this time, I am going to challenge YOU – take your camera and open your eyes. When you see a disguised communications tower, shoot it.
How do you recognize them? They are taller than any real palm tree you have ever seen. They have no dead leaves and nothing on the trunk. They tend to be near hotels, but I also see them occasionally in a residential district.
You can blog it, or you can send it to me as a JPEG attachment and I will publish them. Be sure to tell us where it is taken. Here is the one I saw at the Hilton:
Here is the previous entry on Palm-Tree-Antennas.
And bravo to whoever came up with this idea – it is clever and it is a great disguise for those communication towers. Gives me a grin whenever I see them.
No sunrise today; the dust is rolling in and the sun can barely be seen. The temperature at 0830 is 66°F/19°C.
And Everything Went Wrong
Five minutes ago there was another accident outside my house. I was on the phone before I even spotted it, calling 777.
The guy who hit the other guy is backing up and . . .DRIVING AWAY! There must be 20 witnesses with cell phones looking dumbfounded as he is driving away, but not so dumbfounded they are not taking photos of the car with their cell phones and writing down the license number. I am sorry, whoever was the hitter was dumber than dumb.
777 rings and rings. Some man finally answers, sounding annoyed, and when I ask for the traffic police, he says something – it didn’t sound very nice – and hung up on me. (The women must have gone home. They are always polite, efficient, and competant.) When I dialed the local police directly (yep, we’ve talked before so I DO have their number) NO ONE answers.
It is time for prayer, but . . . 20 minutes later, the hit car is still causing all kinds of traffic problems and no one can do anything because no police are coming.
Update – two minutes later, there are cops, there is an ambulance, and there are 20 people showing photos to the police of the numbskull who hit and run. Don’t you just love technology?
Donna Leon: Suffer the Little Children
After reading Zanzibar Chest I decided it was time to give myself a break, and I allowed myself another Donna Leon book, this one Suffer the Little Children. I am currently reading another detective series, recommended by my sister, set in China. What they all seem to have in common is a very tired, sad, jaded view of corruption in society, and particularly among the poorly paid police. Sigh.
In this book, a Doctor and his wife are invaded in the middle of the night by the carabinieri, a kind of police in Venice. I am not sure how the two agencies differ, maybe it is like the difference between state police and local police in the US, but when the paper was faxed over coordinating with Brunetti’s office, it got lost somewhere, and the action was never coordinated, and Brunetti gets a call in the middle of the night.
The doctor and his wife have adopted a child illegally. They bought an unwanted child from an Albanian woman, paid for her pregnancy expenses, paid a huge fee to her, and then had the child taken from them. Here is the saddest part of the story – the child’s mother doesn’t want the child, the illegally adopting parents want him back desperately, but the child is sent to a state orphanage, because of the illegal adoption.
It is a very sad book.
Here is why I read Donna Leon – some of her paragraphs are just brilliant. Memorable. Unforgettable.
“Brunetti’s profession had made him a master of pauses: he could distinguish them in the way a concert-master could distinguish the tones of the various strings. There was the absolute, almost belligerent pause, after which nothing would come unless in response to questions or threats. There was the attentive pause, after which the speaker measured the effect on the listener of what had just been said. And there was the exhausted pause, after which the speaker needed to be left undistrubed until emotional control returned.
Judging that he was listening to the third, Brunetti remained silent, certain that she would eventually continue. A sound came down the corridor: a moan or the cry of a sleeping person. When it stoped, the silence seemed to expand to fill the place.”
When you read Donna Leon, you forget you live anywhere else. For one brief moment, you become Venetian, you live in Guido Brunetti’s shoes. The speak the Venetian dialect, you think like a Venetian. What an escape!
The paperback edition will be out in April for $7.99 at Amazon.com for $7.99 plus shipping.
“Whirling Chaff”
From Psalm 83
Verse 13
O my God, make them like whirling dust,*
like chaff before the wind.
Reading the Lectionary readings for today I came across this verse in the very first reading. It brought a grin to my face.
Lent continues. The Lord sends me out in my car almost daily, in spite of my best laid plans. I struggle to keep my resolution not to call – not to even THINK – bad names at the fools on the road who cause disruption, chaos and pain. It helps to have a substitute in mind, so I have something I CAN say instead of just struggling NOT to say the words that immediately come to mind.
The above verse will do nicely – don’t you think?
History of Architecture in Old Kuwait City
When I came to live in Kuwait, my resourceful niece, Little Diamond went online and found all kinds of fabulous books about Kuwait, books you can’t find in Kuwait. Five interesting books, mostly about an earlier era in Kuwait, when my Kuwaiti friends tell me it was still one community.
“It was like paradise” they say, and they sigh.
I found another book recently, a book I have never seen before, although it was published in 1994, so it is not old. It is The History of Architecture in Old Kuwait City (and the influence of it’s elements on the Architect) by Saleh Abdulghani Al-Mutawa.
Although I intend to give this book as a gift to a friend, I couldn’t resist taking a peek inside, first. Should have resisted – I ended up reading the whole book.
This man loves architectural details the way I do, but he has studied them, and he is on a mission to bring back elements of uniquely Gulf architecture to the Gulf. One reason I love this book is that I know the buildings he has designed; I had a friend who lives in one, and we all marveled at it’s architectural elements.
I particularly love the wind towers.
I lived in Jordan for two years with no air conditioning. I don’t know why, but we didn’t miss it. We had our windows open all night and early mornings, we had rolled down shutters to keep the harsh sunlight out and we had ceiling fans – we managed.
Life would be different without A/C; life styles would change, but it would be manageable.
I want to quote from this book for you. Kuwaiti readers, you probably know all these things, but my readers in other parts of the world – like me – may find this fascinating.
Architecture and Building Materials in Old Kuwait City
Building materials were taken from materials available in nature: sea rock, mud, limestone and gypsum. As old Kuwait’s economy depended on the two journeys for diving and travel to Africa and India, Kuwaitis imported teakwood from India, and jandal (trunk) and basajeel (bamboo) from Africa (Mombassa – Kenya). These completed the elements of the construction. The shape of the old Kuwaiti architecture came to suit the environment and circumstances. Houses were adjacent in a manner that indicated the unity and cooperation of the people. Streets were narrow in such a way that the sun did not fall on the full street, and that made the streets cool and shaded. Mosques were the places for prayers, where they pray five times a day, were near the houses. There was a mosque in each district to enable the elders from walking to it without trouble. Kuwaitis care much for their religion.
Construction depended on Kuwaitis themselves. The engineer, called “ustad’ at that time, supervised the building and the laborers of Kuwaitis prepared for it. They carried rocks, prepared mud bricks, and started building.
Kuwait city was spontaneously and simply divided. In this it is similar to many old world cities, like London. There were three districts: Sharq (east), where the sun rises, Qibla, where the sun sets, and Wosta, which lies between them. The three districts were surrounded by their fence which the Kuwaitis built to defend their city.
By jandal, the author means trunks of trees, which you will see incorporated in the illustration above, painted black. When he talks about the fence around old Kuwait, he is talking about the wall which once existed. You can still find the (re-creations) of the gates to the city, except we can’t fine the one that is supposed to be around B’naid al Gar.
More to follow!
National Day Crazies
How was I to know?
Where was I last year on Liberation Day?
Yesterday, I was finishing up a project around 6 and heading to my next appointment when I turned onto Gulf road. Big mistake. I should have taken my clue from the barriers guarding entry to the left on Gulf road, but as I was turning right, I didn’t give it more than a second thought.
Big mistake. Suddenly I am caught in semi-gridlock, and the worst kind, gridlock with gangs of adolescents wandering the sidewalks on both sides of the car, gridlock with main routes being barred, gridlock with people in adjacent cars spraying each other with high arching streams of foam – it’s like suddenly being in the middle of a nightmare.
Except this is a very contained nightmare. These people are having a lot of fun. Although we are inching along, children are hanging out of windows, I suddenly realize – yes, their parents know where they are – their parents are driving.
No one sprays foam at me. There seem to be rules; the only spray I see exchanged is between people foaming at each other; they leave me alone. As we inch along, horns start the beep-beep beep-beep-beep of weddings and soccer cup wins,
and people seem to be relaxed, not anxious, not speeding and aggressive. Although it takes me about half an hour to make my turn on to the expressway (the turn lane is blocked by celebrants) I eventually get through.
Later, I get a desperate call from AdventureMan.
“The roads are blocked! I can’t get through! I have to get over to the right turn lane and I don’t think I can get through all these cars! It’s gridlock!”
He is in a different part of the city, but same problem.
Where were we last year on National Day/Liberation Day? We don’t remember the traffic being so heavy, so gridlocked! And at the same time, it is fun seeing everyone having such a great time.
Kuwait Tradition?
Last night, out along Gulf road, we got to see first hand all the celebrations for Kuwait National Day and Kuwait Liberation Day. I’m like a kid; I love to see the bright lights! Sorry if these are a little fuzzy, but there is no place to stop when you are dragging along Gulf Road. There are some fabulous lights in downtown Kuwait, sparkling and BRIGHT but impossible to photograph while you are driving along, and – well, you know what it is like to try to find a parking spot, right? Ho ho hohohohho!
I love to see people out having a good time, I love all the cars covered with Kuwaiti flags – even motorcycles with flags. It’s like one continuous long parade. I love all the decorated buildings, I love the atmosphere of celebration and gaiety. . .
And I found myself wondering how this one particular “traditon” started? How does it get to be something you expect? Those skinny little adolescent boys with their cans of spray foam? People driving with their children hanging out the windows? People in convertibles with their kids sitting on the back seats, goofing off? Where are their parents???
Where traffic is jammed up I can understand that the kids aren’t really in any danger, but once traffic gets going, parents, please, pull your children into the seats where they belong!
Also, I have never seen such a huge police presence. While everyone else is having a five-day holiday, these guys must all be on duty! There were police everywhere, trying to make sure the jubilation didn’t get out of hand. They were polite, they were kind to the youngsters, and they kept a highly visible presence which, I am convinced, is probably necessary. I think they are doing a great job. I like it a lot when protection is gently provided. 🙂
Keystone Cops
As you all have seen from US Crime tapes, this news story could happen anywhere, but it happened in Kuwait. I would love to see a video of this!
Kuwait Times, 21 Feb 2008
Drunken Man
The operations room received an anonymous call reporting that a drunken man had been dancing in the streets of Fehaheel and terrifying passersby. A police patrol rushed to the scene and managed to arrest the suspect, who initially resisted arrest.
However, after being cuffed and forced into the patrol vehicle for just a couple of seconds, he managed to step out and ran for dear life while police were busy putting some gear into the vehicle’s trunk. A wild goose chase ensued with police hot on his trail, while the man returned to the spot where the vehicle was parked, got in, stepped on the gas and sped to his freedom again. Police later tracked the vehicle that was dumped in a deserted area in Jleeb. A manhunt has been launched to arrest this man.
I commend the writer on the correct use of the plural “passersby.” Bravo.
Your challenge: how many cliche’s did this staff writer use to write this article?
Aidan Hartley’s Zanzibar Chest
I started Zanzibar Chest in December, and could not get into it. It was interesting, but at first the tone was . . . I don’t know, maybe pompous? Something in the tone put me off, and yet I didn’t put it back on the bookshelves, nor did I give it away. It sat on my bed table while I attacked lesser works, more enjoyable fare. Then, one day, I just knew it was time to try it again, and this time, I could hardly put it down.
Born in Kenya, just before the rebellion, Aidan Hartley spent his life mostly in Africa. He skillfully interweaves three main story lines – the life of his mother and father, the life of his father’s best friend and his own life as a news correspondent.
This is not a joyful book. It is not inspirational. It is a tough, hard look at the people who cover the news, and the toll it takes on their lives. It is a story of drugs and alcohol to numb the pain of what they are observing, the comraderie of gallows humor and surviving the intensity of living through life-threatening moments together.
He covers some truly awful events. He covers the wars in Somalia, and in Rwanda. He covers Kosovo and Serbia. He is sent into some of the most dangerous and awful of places. He pays the price.
In his Zanzibar Chest, he takes us with him.
I will share a couple quotes with you, and if you are sensitive, please stop reading now. This book is not for you. It is almost not for me, except that sometimes I think we need to come face to face with just how awful reality can be to put our own lives right, to set appropriate priorities.
“I can’t put my finger on exactly how death smells. The stench of human putrefecation is different from that of all other animals. It moves us as instinctively as the cry of a newly born baby. It lies at one extreme end of the olfactory register. Blood from the injured and the dying smells coppery. After a cadaver’s a day old, you smell it before you see it. From the odor alone, I could tell how long a body had been dead and even, depending on whether brains or bowels had been opened up, where it had been hacked or shot. A body would quickly balloon up in the tropical heat, eyes and tongue swelling, flesh straining against clothes until the skin bursts and fluids spill from lesions. Flies would get in there and within three days the corpse might stink. It became a yellow mass of pupae cascading out of all orifices and the flesh literally undulated beneath the clothes. The tough bits of skin on the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet were the parts of the body that always rotted away last. As living people, these had been peasants who had walked without shoes and worked hard in the fields. A man who had been dead seven days reeks of boiling beans, guava fruit, glue, blown handkerchiefs, cloves and vinegar. After that he starts to dry out into a skeleton until he’s almost inoffensive . . .
The dead accompanied me long after Rwanda. It was months before I could order a plate of red meat served up in a restaurant. I smelled putrefaction in my mouth, or in my dirty socks, or as sweat on my body. I imagined what people I met would look like when dead. . . “
These guys all suffer from Post traumatic stress syndrome, they deaden themselves with drug and alcohol, and they are totally addicted to the adrenalin rush their job gives them. Living on adrenalin takes a huge toll – on their health, on their mental health, on their relationships, on their belief in goodness. They are the witnesses to the enormity of man’s inhumanity against one another.
In another quote, the author tells us:
“It was impossible for latecomers to comprehend the evil committed here but the British military top brass were still so scared of what their soldiers might see and what it would do to their minds that they sent a psychiatrist to accompany the forces to Rwanda. Bald Sam and I were amazed at that. We laughed about it. A shrink! It seemed extravagant. But the truth is that we stuck close to that man for days. We said it was all for a story, but really it was about us. The psychiatrist, whose name was Ian, told us his special area of interest was the minds of war correspondents. I could see Bald Sam squirming with happiness at all the attention, and I felt quite flattered myself. . . .
. . . for years I did endure some sort of payback. I have to try every day to prevent the poison that sits in my mind to spread outward and hurt the people I love. Sometimes I can’t stop it and I wonder if in some way the corruption will be passed on from me to my children.”
Toward the end of the book, the author tells us how hard it is to give up this adrenalin-news-junky life:
“Whenever I see a news headline to this day I half feel I should board the next flight into the heart of it. I’d love to get all charged up again and I could write the story with my eyes closed. I’m sure the sense that I’m missing out while others get in on a great story will never completely pass. . . The sight of people committing acts of unspeakable brutality against others fills a hole in some of us. The activity is made respectable by being paid a salary to do it, but there is a cost.”
This is not a book I really wanted to read, but it is a book I will never forget. Hartley doesn’t spare himself in the telling of this tale. He takes us with us and shows us all of it, and all of his own warts along with the tale. Would I recommend this book? Not for the sensitive, not for those who don’t want to look at the dark side. Between idyllic sequences on the beaches near Mombasa, in the hills of Kenya and Tanzania, in the dusty deserts of Yemen, there are some very intense and bloody moments. This is non-fiction, it is a documentary, it is a slice of the real life one man has seen, and that to which he has been witness. Read the book, and like him, you pay a price. You carry images in your head that you can’t forget, and a sorrow for our inability to solve our differences peaceably.
(Available in paperback from Amazon.com for $10.88. Disclosure: Yes, I own stock in Amazon.com.)
God Laughs
So I think I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that Lent was beginning and I was giving up all cursing in the car, as a kind of practicing some spiritual discipline kind of thing.
What I didn’t tell you was that I had this sneaky strategy all planned out – I had all kinds of projects lined up at home, and I didn’t really intend to be on the road much during Lent, and I thought that not putting myself in temptation would help do the trick.
I always get tripped up when I make those kinds of strategic decisions toward spiritual disciplines. Strategic and spiritual don’t always blend too well.
What happened is this – suddenly I have found myself on the road more than I ever thought. On the road every single day. Running from one thing to another. And not just my familiar treks either, but some challenging driving, new places, and with people in the car.
The pressure is on. The very worst day of all, I just had to give God a great big grin and thank him for the opportunity to really, really practice my spiritual discipline. The car is full of people, I am on a strange road, sand and dust are blowing everywhere, the competition for my road space are on their way home with their kids in the car, the highways are packed and people are hungry and all I can do is laugh, because I sure can’t curse.
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