Big Diamond and Little Diamond
Today is my last day here, before I leave to go back to Kuwait. This morning, I packed everything except what I am wearing today and tomorrow. I know myself too well. I have to go to one of my favorite stores today to buy my father some soft cotton gardening gloves. I will have to face one last temptation.
No, I did not make it out of the store without buying something for myself. It’s the smell. . . You walk into a hardware store and something in the air gets to you. I love hardware, I love new bathroom ideas (glass block makes me shiver in anticipation) and oh! a new magic tool! A storage solution! Hardwood flooring! New countertop options. . .! New shades of paint! steel wool! Oh! Oh! Oh! The problem is I know I still have a little room in my suitcase. . .Yes, I am a hardware junky.
My sister, Big Diamond, is in town and called me to ask if we could have lunch together with her daughter, Little Diamond. They like Vietnamese food too – I have to have one last portion of Vietnamese salad rolls with shrimp, and a “small” bowl of vegetarian Pho. I picked them up nearby. I know you have a lot of curiousity about me and my family. Here is my sister and her oldest daughter:
Last Minute Upheaval
As I looked at my two suitcases, two days from travelling, and then at all the things that needed to get into my suitcases, I had a bad feeling. I figured out what I would need for the next couple days and started packing all the rest. . .good thing, too. It was never going to fit.
Fortunately there is a Staples next door, and I could run over and buy a box. When I got there, a clerk was putting out computer paper, and he had some sturdy boxes he was going to break down, so I didn’t even have to buy one, he just gave it to me.
That’s the thing about addictions – they take up space. Books, shoes, fabrics, clothing, cooking supplies . . .
Got the extras packed into the box and mailed off, even had just a tiny bit of room to spare when my parents gave me six cans of Alaskan canned salmon. Oh Yum! But that is it. Cannot even allow myself to wander into a store, no! no! no!
A Visit to Williams Sonoma
I am visiting Williams Sonoma looking for the elusive white truffel butter required in The Equalizer’s recipe for Pumpkin Risotto. Can’t find the white truffel butter, but I did find some very lovely things – things we can get a lot cheaper, maybe even better, in the Middle East.
First is what they call a Greek pepper grinder, for a mere $79.
I bought the same, beautiful pepper grinder in the Diraa souk in Riyadh for $10 – and I believe it came from Turkey. It grinds peppercorns beautifully and stores the grindings airtight in the bottom until you need to use them.
Then these two pots. The first one is $200, and the second ranges from the low $200’s to $320, depending on the size . . .
they are beautiful, hammered copper from Italy . . .and we bought beautiful, heavier pots with beautiful handles in Damascus for a fraction of what these cost. If I had to choose, I would choose Damascus any day for shopping, over Dubai. š
Is there anyplace in Kuwait where you can get copper pots re-tinned? Or has that, too, gone by the wayside?
(And a BIG shout-out to Joan of Arc who patiently taught me how to link pretty)
Dubai 2010
My niece (Little Diamond aka adiamondinsunlight) doesn’t have her own blog yet. Until she does, I get to share all the information she shares with me.
This one is from New Left Review and is a fascinating article about the Dubai of the Future, a playground for the rich and idle, with unimaginable luxuries – but at what cost?
“How Can I NOT Help You?”
Today I was steamed. I don’t get really steamed often, but man, I was red hot steamed. It is my last week here. I have been focused on family business, but now it is time to scurry, to take care of business.
I remembered that the battery on the Apples around the time when I bought my Mac laptop has been recalled, so I went, first thing this morning, to CompUSA nearby. There isn’t a customer in the store. A guy asks if he can help me and I tell him I need to know if my computer should have a new battery. He blah blahs saying I need to contact Apple. He takes me to the customer service guy. He says blah blah I need to contact Apple. He also says there is an Apple tech at the other CompUSA, three miles away.
I know where it is – that’s where I bought it. So I drive the three miles and the Apple tech says blah blah blah you have to contact Apple.
EXPLETIVE DELETED.
I could have contacted Apple from Kuwait! I bought the computer in THAT store, but now it’s all “go away, we can’t help you.” I remember when you bought Apples at Apple stores and they always knew what you were talking about when you walked in and they could fix anything.
Rant. Rant. Rant.
But it’s a good reminder. We always complain about indifferent customer service in Europe and Kuwait. It’s nice to be reminded that we also have great customer indifference here, too. (sarcasm, in case you don’t recognize it because I use it so rarely. I really am still steamed.)
Hiking with Robin Pope in Zambia (3)
Thereās a lot of world to see, and we never intended to repeat a trip. The Robin Pope camps are so exceptional that – we made an exception. The very next year, we are back in Zambia, and eager – we are going hiking with Robin Pope himself.
Who is Robin Pope? He is a native African, and a staunch Zambian. He knows so much about wildlife that he probably doesnāt even know how much he knows. He is quietly and dryly funny. He started guiding as a very young man, and then, together with his wife Jo, began building a very particular kind of tourist experience. When you reach the Robin Pope camps, Nkwali, Nsefu and Tena Tena, you become like family. Well, family who live very luxuriously – the cabins are large and spacious, and beautifully appointed, with fine linens, mosquito netting, shelves, toiletries, all the comforts – a million miles from anywhere.
Each camp holds only a very limited number of campers, supported by enthusiastic and knowledgeable staff. They grow their own vegetables, or buy from local farmers. They employ people from the nearby villages. Black and white people work together equally.
One of the things we were able to do was to visit Kawazaa village, to visit the schools re-built and supplied by Robin Pope Safaris, to visit the local clinic, to visit with local villagers. We canāt wait to go back. The second trip, we bring one big suitcase full of school supplies – calculators, books, paper, pens, pencils . . . it was fun for us to find these things, having met the students who would use them, and the teachers who would benefit by having resources. Everywhere we go, we have to sign a book – the villagers get specific monetary credits for every visitor they entertain.
There are six of us who will trek with Robin Pope, and we meet in the Land Rover that picks us up at Mfuwe International Airport. I love that name – donāt you just see big jets flying in and out? In reality, it is a tiny little airport, handling only small planes. There is one small arrivals gate and one equally small departures gate. Because it also gets an occasional flight from Malawi, it can call itself āinternational.ā We arrive at Nkwali, enchanted once again to find the hippo pod right under our window.
Lunch – how do they do it? Fish cakes with lemon mayonnaise, leek quiche, potato salad, avocado salad, green salad, cheesy corn rolls and butter, finishing with coffee and tea.
On our game drive the next morning, Jacob takes us out to see Thornicroft giraffe, and we see lots of elephants and baby elephants, and a herd of over 300 buffalo. After lunch, it is hot and we fall into a dead sleep, awakening in time for our afternoon game drive which starts with a boat ride across the river.
And what a boat ride! The hippos have spread out, and we THINK we are safely past when one of them lunges at the boat, missing us by a thread.
Thank God, it is hot for another hour, as we are all totally soaked, but also energized by the huge jolt of adreneline shooting through our veins at escaping unhurt from that lunging hippo. On our drive, we see leopard, genet cats, civet cats and a great big lumbering porcupine.
We have dinner down by the river, under the stars, with napkins folded like guinea fowl. It starts with spinach soup, and then there is pork tenderloin, pumpkin, mange-tout peas, cauliflower with a cheese sauce, lentils and for dessert, butterscotch pie. Somehow, we manage not to gain weight – we canāt figure out how.
Some Things Just Don’t Translate
Three sets of eyes looked at me with disbelief, mixed with horror. I was explaining to my three students that I was having a group of American university students at my house for Halloween. We would all welcome the Hallowe’en trick-or-treaters as they came around in our compound. We expected hundreds – children from far and wide throughout the city came to trick-or-treat where the westerners lived. Even if the children didn’t “get” Halloween, they liked the costumes and the candy.
It wasn’t the trick-or-treating my students didn’t get. It was that I had said we would all be dressed as pirates. We would have patches and capes and bandannas, some would have hooks, others would have swords. We would say things like “Ay matey!” and “Aaargh” and “Pieces of eight.”
They didn’t know what pirates were. They had never seen Peter Pan with Captain Hook, they hadn’t seen Johnny Depp in his fey performance as Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. I started off with enthusiasm.
“Oh, pirates lived a long time ago. Hmmm, no actually, there are still pirates today. They sail old ships, and then they stop and capture ships on the high seas and like hold people for ransom. They sing songs and drink grog and some of them have peg legs, or hooks for hands . . .” even I could see that this was not going well.
“No no!” one cried. “Why would you want to be a pirate?”
“hmmm, well you’re right, REAL pirates weren’t very nice, I guess. They raped and stole from others, but for some reason we just dress up and PRETEND to be pirates. . .”
Now, it’s even starting to sound lame to me.
“There were some good pirates, too. . .”
“What did they do, khalti?”
(I am totally blank. I have an image of a deer in the headlights; the deer is me with no where to run.)
I don’t know. Were there any good pirates? Why do we think pirates are so much fun? Is it the costumes? As kids we would make each other walk the plank, and swashbuckle around, it was a good break from cowboys and Indians. Seeing it through my students’ eyes, though, it just wasn’t working.
Some things just don’t translate.
Hiking With Robin Pope in Zambia (2)
The days pass too quickly. Our bags catch up with us on the third day – one day to get from J-burg to Lusaka, one day to get from Lusaka to Mfuwe, and one day to get to the camp at Nkwali. We never had a momentās concern; they kept us informed every step along the way.
Here is what the day looks like – early early you hear a knock on the door and someone says āGood morning!ā and you struggle out of bed. It is still the middle of winter below the equator, so it is cold. You jump into your clothing and head for the campfire, where breakfast is served. Toast is being heated on the grill, there is hot cereal and cold cereal, and some mornings there is even bacon. There is always hot coffee and hot tea. You can socialize or not, as your morning nature indicates, then grab your gear and load up. Usually it is you and your traveling partner, maybe another couple, and the guide. Every day you take off to a new area, sometimes for the whole day so you can see outlying areas, and sometimes just for three to five hours.
There is never a game drive where you donāt see something. Most of the people who show up at the Robin Pope camps are good safari travelers – good at spotting movement, as excited to see a bat eared fox as another lion, people who will sit and watch giraffe, or hippos, or storks . . . people who know when not to talk, and people who are considerate of one another when shooting photos or movies.
We move on to Nsefu, where the cabins are round! There is a big outdoor BBQ that night, lots of fun, down by the marsh where there is always something happening. We saw a huge Pellās Fishing Owl, a great thrill, and several varieties of eagle. Watching the raptors is a huge thrill.
And then – our favorite camp – Tena Tena. They put us in the very end cabin, and oh, we like that very much. Tena Tena is rebuilt every year – you get there by boat. Tent-cabins are rebuilt once the rains stop and the floodwaters recede. The cabins are fabulous – during the day, they are totally open to the outdoors. Big huge king sized beds, flat woven carpeting with pile carpet accents, a large dressing area with shelves so you can really unpack and move in, and a huge outdoor shower and toilet and sink area to be shared with the stars and moon shining down on you. At night, the tents are closed, and an electrified fence prevents too much chance of invasion. The marsh area in front of the camp teems with life – after dinner one night, we have to wait until the leopard leaves before the guide will take us to our tent.
On our very favorite game drive at Tena Tena, we were out on the night of a full moon, and came across a pride of lions hunting. We spent nearly an hour just watching breathlessly as the lions tracked their victims, spreading out, sharing the responsibilities in the pack. There is no ambient light at all, so the sky is black as ink, and the stars are sparkling brighter than the finest diamonds. The moon casts a ghostly glow on the surroundings – enough light I can shoot photos without a flash. It is magical, and unforgettable.
My husband tells this story of Tena Tena:
āOne night, I heard a loud sound and I couldnāt figure out what it was. I opened the tent flap and not two feet away was a hippo, eating a bush, and it was the loud chewing that I heard. What a thrill! The hippo was huge! I watched spellbound; I woke my wife. . .it was awesome. Two feet away! And then, the second night, he was back. What a thrill – he chews so loudly! The third night he was back again – āthat damn hippo! I canāt sleep!āā
“We Don’t Judge You By Our Standards”
It’s never a good thing when a sentence starts with “we don’t judge you by our standards.” You know that whatever comes next isn’t going to be good.
It was our favorite time during Arabic studies. We were sitting around in the majlis room, sprawled against the cushions. We had finished all the lessons of the day, practiced new verbs, done all the dialogues to death, and we had a few minutes left before classes ended. Our teachers were really special women, and during these last minutes it was always question time, when we could ask them anything, anything, and they would answer, even if sometimes to laugh and tell us it was none of our business. We had so many questions!
“When we go downtown, ” I had started, “we have a good time. We laugh and we talk and chat among ourselves as we shop. But when we see local women shopping, we see you in groups, but you aren’t laughing or chatting. Is there some prohibition against it?”
There was a long silence. I really liked this teacher, and she really liked me. I knew, as the silence dragged on, she was seeking for a way to be kind. Finally, she spoke.
“You know, we understand you have other ways, not our ways. We don’t judge you by our standards. . .” and she gave a little sigh.
“In our culture, for a woman to laugh out loud in public . . .it would be taken as lack of self control. People could criticize. It could keep a young woman from making a good marriage.”
You could hear the collective gasp. Although it was said with great kindness, it was a serious blow.
When you are first learning a new language, and a new culture, it can be intimidating, but mostly, if it is well taught, it is fun, exciting, and stimulating to be mastering a new skill. The women at this language center went to a lot of trouble to insure that we were entertained while we were learning. They taught us Ramadan customs, they prepared an Iftar supper for us, they brought in all their jewelry and produced a bride. They henna’d our hands, and poured us tiny cups of qa’wa and chai with milk and spices. They took us on field trips. They treated us like sisters, or daughters. They were so kind, and babied us along as we struggled with the new language.
I give this teacher a lot of credit. She could have finessed the question, but she didn’t. She considered her answer, she knew it could offend us. And she chose to answer us honestly, trusting we would deal with it.
I had a physical reaction. I wanted so badly to “get” Arabic, to understand all the customs . . . but to give up laughter? I went through all the stages of grief, staying longest with denial and anger. I thought of all the times I headed for the souks in a gaggle of laughing women, and I felt ignorant, and ashamed, and also angry. It was a real struggle for me, a blow to my pride, an embarrassment. I felt sick to my stomach, and stayed depressed for a couple weeks. I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to have to give up laughter.
And then one day, somehow, it stopped mattering so much. Time did its work. Life went on. The teacher kept teaching, we kept learning. I no longer go downtown in groups of more than three, and we keep our voices down. We’re still our loud, noisy selves most of the time, among ourselves, but in public – we don’t want to be thought of as women who lack self-control.
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