Quiet Saturday Lane Change in Doha
I was noticing this morning how quiet and calm the traffic is – after all, it is Saturday, and it is summer. Even so, there is considerable traffic on C-ring, and the occasional arrogant “get-out-of-my-way-this-is-my-country” driver, but not so bad.
At one of the busiest traffic lights in the country, now called the Ramada junction, or “where-the-Ramada-roundabout-used-to-be” the van in the far right lane needs to get over to the left turn lane. In Doha, this is possible. I don’t know how all the cars squeeze together, but the driver makes it across three lanes of traffic to the left turn lanes:
Angel Wings
Every now and then, a blessing happens that is just so magnanimous, so unexpected, that I am just overwhelmed with awe at it all.
One of my sweet friends flew into Doha to help me unpack boxes. I was stuck; the room I was unpacking required lots of decisions, and I just couldn’t see my way to making them. I was just overwhelmed.
My angel friend showed up on my doorstep and whirled through the boxes, unpacking, shooing me out of the room, getting everything put away while I worked elsewhere. The room is now in order, and, as she says, I can re-order it to my liking a little piece at a time, but meanwhile, I can work in there without having a panic attack from all the boxes not unpacked.
When she had finished unpacking and putting away, she put her hand on her hips and said “That’s all??? No more boxes???” I was tempted to let her loose on AdventureMan’s room, but I resisted the temptation. LLLOOOLLL, I was so stuck, and she really rescued me.
The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
I don’t know why I didn’t read this book sooner! First, I saw people like me reading it in airports, and it certainly has a memorable title. The people reading looked totally engrossed. I’m not one to strike up conversations in airports, but on occasion, when I see people reading a book I don’t know about and it is the size of the books that book groups usually read, I will ask, and write it down, and bother the person no further.
I had ordered it on amazon.com when my son’s wife’s father’s wife (and you thought Gulf relationships were complicated!) mentioned to me in an e-mail that she was reading it and that she could barely tear herself away. She and I often pass really good books and/or recommendations back and forth, so that bumped it up a few notches in priority. When it got here, I had just finished Rutherfurd’s London (oops, I thought I had reviewed it, and I haven’t, so I will,) and I thought it was a southern book, like The Ya-Ya Sisterhood or Sweet Potato Queens, no, you are right, I hadn’t read anything about it, just trusted from all the people I saw reading it that it was good, but because of the name, I thought it would be light.
Wrong!
It isn’t depressingly heavy, like The Little Prisoner was heavy, and it had some totally wonderful laugh-out-loud moments, but the subject matter was the German occupation of the island of Guernsey, in the English Channel, and an author in search of a book topic in post-war London, and a little girl born outside of marriage and cared for by a village of caring people. It is spiced up by a dashing romance, and the process of relationship building that happens in the novel, unlikely relationships, aren’t those the very best kind for spice? 😉
The entire story is told in letters. The primary voice, that of Juliet, a thirty-something author, ties all the letters together, but not all letters are to her or from her. It is a great technique for allowing many different voices and many different perspectives. From the first page, you are captivated. Right now, Guernsey is more real to me than the boxes I need to unpack, and there is a part of me that yearns to flee to Guernsey and find a house near a cliff where I can watch the sun set in the west and the clouds turn colors . . .
Here is one sample of the kind of letters you will find when you read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Don’t wait! This is an unforgettable book!
1st May 1946
Dear Mark,
I didn’t refuse, you know. I said I wanted to think about it. You were so busy ranting about Sidney and Guernsey that perhaps you didn’t notice – I only said I wanted time. I’ve known you two months. It’s not long enough for me to be certain that we should spend the rest of our lives together, even if you are. I once made a terrible mistake and almost married a man I hardly knew (perhaps you read about it in the papers) – and at least in that case, the war was an extenuating circumstance. I won’t be such a fool again.
Think of it: I’ve never seen you home – I don’t even know where it is, really. New York, but which street? What does it look like? What color are your walls? Your sofa? Do you arrange books alphabetically? (I hope not.) Are your drawers tidy or messy? Do you ever hum, and if so, what? Do you prefer cats or dogs? Or fish? What on earth do you eat for breakfast – or do you have a cook?
You see? I don’t know you well enough to marry you.
I have one other piece of news that may interest you: Sidney is not your rival. I am not now nor have I ever been in love with Sidney, nor he with me. Nor will I ever marry him. Is that decisive enough for you?
Are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t rather be married to someone more tractable than I?
Juliet
Written by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows, the book will challenge your ideas, will inform you of an obscure episode in World War II, will make your heart sorrow at the inhumanity of which we human beings are capable towards one another, and make your heart sing at the goodness in the human soul. That’s pretty amazing for one book.
Family Food Center, Doha, Qatar
Today I went back to one of my favorite old shopping places, the Family Food Center. I have to go early in the morning, as there is hardly anywhere to park. I only needed three things, but I always find cool things there that I forgot I needed.
It was really a quick trip, a reconnaissance, mostly to see what was there, but also because I want to make something special for AdventureMan and I haven’t found the key ingredient anywhere else. Almost all the stores have corn flour, but only Family Food Center has Corn Meal, which is the critical ingredient for corn bread, true comfort food if you are from the Southern part of the United States.
Not only did they have corn meal – but they have Bob’s Red Mill Corn Grits / Polenta, which I was bringing back by the suitcase full from Seattle – at not much less than the price they are charging here! 15QR comes to $4.13 and it seems to me I was paying between $2.99 and $3.59 in Seattle. Crank in the shipping factor, and the space factor, and the “paying for extra baggage” factor, and the mess factor – I am willing to pay 15QR to have it conveniently HERE when I need it to make cornbread for my husband, who will think I am amazing! Wooo HOOOO!
They are also the only store in town where I found my sweet friend that I can hardly do without to get my day started:
Vanilla Caramel, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven! 🙂
Because most days I have lunch by myself, AdventureMan eats at work, I found another old friend that I can’t eat when he is around because he can’t bear the smell. He has Southern roots, I have a lot of Swedish in my background, and oh how I love pickled herring.
I make a salad with it, and use the juice it comes in for salad dressing. It soothes the Swedish part of my heart. No, you don’t have to like it, you just have to tolerate that there are people in the world who like to eat pickled herring. You might be like AdventureMan, he finds it very difficult to believe:
The sweetest part of the trip was just icing on the cake. I found everything I needed, the store was uncrowded when I got there, and as it started filling up, I was able to walk right up to the checkout and leave. I didn’t really need help with the bags, I only had three or four, but the bagger-guy was already out the door, so oh well, I guess God just wants me to be generous today. As he was putting the groceries in the car, he said “Madame, we have not seen you for a long time!”
I was shocked. It’s been three years since I was there. I said “I’ve been living in Kuwait, but now I am living again in Doha,” and he said “Welcome back, Madame, we have missed you!”
Blink Your Eye; Doha Changes
We know we are “old hands” in Doha, because now we say things like “this was taken from the spit where the Bandar restaurants used to be” and “you turn left at old Parachute roundabout.”
We drove around, noting the amazing expansion of the city and the changing character of the downtown. As I did in Kuwait, I am trying to photograph a lot of it before it goes away, but the urgency is greater in Doha, where change of enormous magnitude can happen almost overnight.
I watched these guys for a long time; I had a safe parking spot and the view was great. I don’t think there is any such thing as a grown man when it comes to heavy machinery. Guys that operate bulldozers and steamshovels always make it look like WAAAYYYY too much fun, don’t they? I wonder if they can hear their Mamas in their heads saying things like all Mamas say: “Don’t you go up on that building in that heavy tractor, that’s DANGEROUS! !”
Look – no underpinnings in the floors beneath, nothing to stop a collapse, and these guys are making dust swirl and sparks fly with their big-boy toys. They ARE wearing helmets.
This is old Dhow roundabout. (You can see the dhow in the center of the roundabout over there on the left, see it?) Everything is changing in this area, but Dhow roundabout hasn’t changed – yet. The traffic pattern has changed a little; you can no longer turn off Dhow roundabout to enter the souk area. It is all for the best. Traffic runs more smoothly now, and when you do get to the souk parking, there is more of it. 🙂
This is old Al Ashmakh; this is what most of Doha used to look like back when it was “sleepy little Doha” – not so long ago, like seven years ago.
I know you are thinking “why is she taking photos of things like that?” because it still looks like this in parts of Kuwait, too, like Maidan Hawally and Hawali, and some of the back streets in Subaihiya, but these parts of Doha are disappearing, with all the little tiny stores and their colorful signs and merchandising.
I was in Al Ashmak because I want to have some new kneelers made for our church, and the priest thought the idea of having them done in the sadu-like upholstery fabric was a good one. It would add a more local flavor, and, insh’allah, hold up a little better than the current cotton, which is wearing a little thin.
I went to a shop and waited patiently while two Sudanese women bought beds and mattresses, and when the clerk came to wait on me, some very important gentleman rushed in, interrupted us, and took the clerk away to wait on him. I waited about five minutes – about 4 minutes and 30 seconds too long – before I walked out. I should have known better. I will find a place in my own neighborhood.
When I saw this truck, I shuddered. My household goods should be coming any day. This is how I am afraid they will show up, and maybe a box or two fell off on the way 😦
When I moved to Kuwait, three boxes got lost, the first time that has ever happened to me. Here is what is amazing to me – two of the boxes were full of book. Not just books, but books on quilting. I keep thinking “who on earth would want these books???” The problem is, quilting books are expensive, and some of the ones I had were old, not just out of print, but limited edition books, so they are priceless – and irreplaceable. I used them for teaching, and I shared them generously. It broke my heart to lose them. I almost don’t want my goods to show up; I am almost too afraid, wondering what might go missing this time?
Signs of the Times in Doha, Qatar
There are a whole series of these signs, carefully placed at eye-level at most stoplights. Here are two; it takes me a while to get in the right position at the right time and to have my camera ready, but I am learning to always have my camera ready:
May God richly bless my husband for his patience; I am always calling out “Can you pull over so I can get a picture of that sign?” In Arabic, this one says “Bunshury al Rodoa”
I speak some Arabic, not a lot, like I can’t discuss politics with you, or anything complex, but I know shapes and colors and directions, and it all comes in handy. I took this sign because my favorite color is purple, and it is a very hard name to remember, when you are looking for something specific that is purple. 🙂
And see if you can guess why this is my very favorite photo of all 😉
The Paper Moon by Andrea Camilleri
Ahhh! Another book about corruption, but this one is no where near so painful for me to read as The Appeal by John Grisham, because this one is set in Sicily, where we expect a certain level of corruption, and Italy, where the whole system operates by rules we can barely begin to comprehend, but it is ITALY, and fascinating, and funny, and another great page turner for these hot hot hot summer days.
Andrea Camilleri has a whole series of books about Inspector Montalbano, which I love almost as I love the Donna Leon series about the Venetian, Guido Brunetti. Brunetti has the edge because he is married and has a family, and it IS Venice – no competition there, Venice will always win, hands down. But Inspector Montalbano’s single status allows for a whole different flavor permeating his investigations, and he, like Guido Brunetti, shares the Italian reverence for really great food.
I didn’t want to fix dinner. I didn’t want to get out of bed. All I wanted to do was to read the whole book, and, when I finished, I wanted another one!
Inspector Montalbano is asked by a woman to find her missing brother, and he finds him almost immediately, dead, under bizarre circumstances. The brother has a very large amount of money unaccounted for, and unaccounted in terms of earnings, as well. He is a pharmaceutical representative, good at what he does – but he still has way too much money, and Inspector Montalbano finds he is rather fond of the prime suspect.
In the meantime, his office has also been tasked to find the reason several high level politicians have suddenly died, purportedly of a variety of causes, but in reality, all have died of drug overdoses. The problem is, that finding the culprit means exposing the reality of high level drug usage, and the inspector realizes the case has been dumped on his office because no one wants to take responsibility for what happens when the culprit is caught. It’s all very Italian, very Sicilian.
Between investigations, Inspector Montalbano eats some amazing meals. 🙂 He takes his glass of wine and walks in the sand out to the sea. We get to know the characters working out of his office better, and to appreciate their quirkiness. This is a great series, a lot of fun. I think I need to go to Sicily for a visit. I definitely need some Italian food and a glass of vino!
Photo courtesy of http://visibleearth.nasa.gov/)
From time to time a word or phrase would appear that required going to the back of the book where the word is not only translated, but the concept explained, something crucial when reading a novel from another culture. In this series, it is particularly valuable, as the background for the crimes and their investigations with political implications, and if you don’t understand the politics, you can miss the point of the novel.
I found this book at Amazon.com. for a mere $10.19 plus shipping.
The Appeal by John Grisham
One of the things I like about John Grisham is that he really likes the underdog. In his books, the person often the least likely to prevail does so, usually because he has a smart attorney, one who is paying attention and taking good care of the client. Warning – this book review contains a spoiler, so don’t go any further if you don’t want to know too much about the plot and resolution.
The Appeal is the exception. No one wins, not even the apparent winner, who sails off in the end with his empty, unsatisfying life. He schemes, he exploits, he lies, he buys elections, and he makes a fortune – and he isn’t satisfied. He is married to a woman who sounds more like a greyhound, all skin and bones and self-absorption.
The subject matter is a case where a chemical company has dumped toxic wastes into the ground in Mississippi, it has penetrated into the groundwater, and polluted the entire water system of a small fictional town. Two lawyers, married to one another, sacrifice everything and face bankruptcy to win a case for their client who has lost both husband and son to cancer caused by the toxic chemicals dumped. They win.
There is an appeal.
What this book is about isn’t just about groundwater contamination, or even about buying elections in Mississippi – it is an indictment of every state that elects judges. The core of the novel is about how big money, big corporations, pick candidates and fund them, legally and illegally, and insure that they win. They pack the courts with judges who are opposed to large settlements.
God bless John Grisham. With all his great legal thrillers, he has made a bundle and can take risks like writing a book like The Appeal, which should be an eye opener, and should be read by every caring citizen.
Judges should not be elected. When the judiciary are elected, they have to think about their next election, with every legal decision. It taints objectivity. It corrupts objectivity. It eliminates objectivity. Without an objective judiciary – why bother? They will always rule on the side whose interests are the most powerful and profitable.
Here are a couple quotes that tell you where the novel is going. My Kuwaiti friends are going to love this – I have taken so many shots at Kuwait corruption – so here it is, my friends, exposure of the institutionalized corruption in my country:
Barry laughed and crossed his legs. “We do campaigns. Have a look.” He picked up a remote and pushed the button, and a large white screen dropped from the ceiling and covered most of the wall, then the entire nation appeared. Most of the states were in green, the rest were in a soft yellow. “Thirty-one states are in the green. The yellow ones have the good sense to appoint their courts. We make our living in the green ones.”
“Judicial elections.”
“Yes. That’s all we do, and we do it very quietly. When our clients need help, we target a supreme court justice who is not particularly friendly, and we take him, or her, out of the picture.”
“Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
“Who are your clients?”
“I can’t give you the names, but they’re all on your side of the street. Big companies in energy, insurance, pharmaceuticals, chemicals, timber, all types of manufacturers, plus doctors, hospitals, nursing homes, banks. We raise tons of money and hire the people on the ground to run aggressive campaigns.”
* * * * * * * *
The Senator did not know who owned the jet, not had he ever met Mr. Trudeau, which in most cultures would seem odd since Rudd had taken so much money from the man. But in Washington, money arrives through a myriad of strange and nebulous conduits. Often those taking it have only a vague idea of where it’s coming from; often they have no clue. In most democracies, the transference of so much cash would be considered outright corruption, but in Washington the corruption has been legalized. Senator Rudd didn’t know and didn’t care that he was owned by other people. He had over $11 million in the bank, money he could eventually keep if not forced to waste it on some frivolous campaign. In return for such an investment, Rudd had a perfect voting record on all matters dealing with pharmaceuticals, chemicals, oil, energy, insurance, banks and on and on.
I like almost every book I read by John Grisham. He is a man with a conscience, and he is trying to raise our awareness of corruptive factors before our system goes entirely under. I couldn’t put this book down, and I can hardly wait to read the next one.
Enmegahbowh
Yesterday, one of the songs we sang was an oldie but goodie, To Be a Pilgrim, written by John Bunyan, who wrote Pilgrim’s Progress while serving a jail term for preaching without a license. We sang the old fashioned version:
Who would true valour see,
Let him come hither;
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather
There’s no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.
Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright,
He’ll with a giant fight,
He will have a right
To be a pilgrim.
Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
Can daunt his spirit,
He knows he at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then fancies fly away,
He’ll fear not what men say,
He’ll labor night and day
To be a pilgrim.
(Actually, I may have drifted off because I don’t remember singing the part about the hobgoblins or foul fiends . . . or maybe we sang a slightly more updated version . . .)
Yesterday’s reading in The Lectionary had a great prayer, which also included the word “pilgrim:
Almighty God, thou didst lead thy pilgrim people of old with fire and cloud; grant that the ministers of thy church, following the example of blessed Enmegahbowh, may stand before thy holy people, leading them with fiery zeal and gentle humility. This we ask through Jesus, the Christ, who liveth and reigneth with thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God now and forever. Amen.
And it had this wonderful story of an American Saint, Enmegahbowh – A saint from the original inhabitants of our country:
ENMEGAHBOWH
PRIEST AND MISSIONARY (12 JUNE 1902)
[James Kiefer has no bio for Enmegahbowh. Below is a biography from A Pioneer History of Becker County Minnesota by Alvin H. Wilcox (1907). Enmegabowh was the first Indian ordained in the Episcopal Church.]
In 1851, the Rev. Dr. Breck, a great missionary, whose name must be known to every reader of the “Soldier,” [“Christian Soldier”] began a mission at Leech Lake, among the Ojibwa Indians of Minnesota. This mission, from various circumstances, had only a partial success, and in the winter of 1855-56 troubles with the government agents roused the Indians to such madness that Dr. Breck was forced to leave, and the mission buildings were burned.
Two years later the Rev. Mr. Peake went to Crow Wing to establish another mission, and young Indian deacon, John Johnson, his Indian name Enmegahbowh, came to assist him. This man had beeen a catechumen under Dr. Breck, and had been baptized by him. He must have been born to some position in his tribe, as he had been set apart for a “Medicine Man” in youth, and his Indian name, Enmegahbowh, meant “The man who stands by his people,” a significant name, which in time proved to be a true one.
In 1861 Mr. Peake resigned the mission into the hands of Enmegahbowh. Crow Wing was then a settlement of very bad repute on the frontier. In 1862, the year of the Sioux outbreak, Hole-in-the-day, a leading Ojibwa chief, a bad man, full of craft and cunning, collected five hundred warriors, and prepared for a general massacre of the white people. Enmegahbowh, having prevented, by his influence, some other bands from joining these, was made a prisoner, but succeeded in escaping, and, through the midst of great perils, made his way to Fort Ripley, and by his timely information, such measures were taken that bloodshed and a more fearful massacre than that of the Sioux were prevented.
For a few years the mission work seemed at a stand still. From Canada Enmegahbowh received earnest invitations to go where comfort and hopeful work awaited him, but Bishop Whipple encouraged him, standing in the forefront for an unpopular cause and a hated people, and Enmegahbowh would prove the fitness of his name — he would not desert his people.
At last the government made new arrangements, and seven hundred Ojibwa were moved to what is called the White Earth Reservation, a tract thirty-six miles square in northern Minnesota. Of these seven hundred about one hundred and fifty were French half-breeds, or Roman Catholics. Amongst the remainder Enmegahbowh labored earnestly, the government now aiding in the work by encouraging the Indians in civilized ways. A steam sawmill was built at White Earth Lake, where Indians were taught to run the machinery, and from which lumber was furnished for building purposes. Eastern churchmen assisted the mission, and a church and parsonage were built.
At the time of the consecration of the church in August, 1872, quite a party of the clergy and laity, through the kindness of Bishop Whipple, were enabled to visit White Earth.
The consecration was on Thursday. Friday morning, the chiefs signified to the bishop their wish to meet with him in a council, which was therefore held, that afternoon, on the hillside in front of the church. It was a picturesque scene — the lovely landscape, the sunlight glancing through the tall oak trees on the bishop and Enmegahbowh, who sat in the centre, the chiefs and five or six clergymen grouped around. Behind the bishop three chairs were placed for the ladies of the party — the first time, I think, that ladies were ever admitted to an Indian council.
The chiefs spoke in turn, as they had themselves arranged, and were interpreted by Enmegahbowh. — Christian Soldier.
The Rev. John Johnson was born in Canada and died at White Earth on the 12th of June, 1902, at the age of 95 years.
God had someone in mind who was already set aside by his people to serve him, and he had the most wonderful name for a priest – The one who stands by his people. How cool is that? His heart was ready, when he heard the words, and he served mightily.
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