Price Moans
This is for my stateside and European friends who have no idea what we are paying for food. Remember those Nestle chocolate chip rolls you can buy and keep in your fridge for those emergency times when your kids come home and remind you that they have to bring cookies to school the next day? Remember when they were expensive – like three dollars or something for a little roll, but you bought them anyway because they are such a Godsend when you are desperate?
I reached for them as I was shopping the other day, and then stopped myself:
Look at the price. That is not dollars. To get dollars, you multiply by about four. (The dollar is sinking in Kuwait, too.) TWELVE dollars for a roll of instant cookies. I can’t do it. I can’t make myself pay that. There are some things I will buy and never even look at the price, but instant chocolate chip cookies? I can’t do it.
I sent my Qatar friends a couple rolls of freezer paper, plentiful in the stores in Kuwait, but non-existent in Qatar. I’ve asked my husband to look for Parchment paper / baking paper, because it used to exist in Kuwait – and it is nowhere to be found. (You bake meringue cookies on it, or you use a paper bag – when was the last time you saw a paper bag in Kuwait?)
I am not complaining. I can find most things I need and even things I don’t need. Some of the shortages, when they hit, are just a hoot!
Very Funny Jeep Commercials
You have to watch this all the way to the end, when the music – and the mood – changes!
And them watch this one, I think it is called Sandbox, which was the one I was looking for first – reminds me of Qatar and Kuwait:
Fashion Nightmare
One of the classic worst nightmares you can have is where you dream you have shown up somewhere naked. No, I didn’t show up naked. But I can tell you that it was the next best thing, and there was nothing I could do. And I survived it, and I never had that bad dream again.
The priest in our church had asked me if I would take a visiting nun around to show her some of the local spots in Qatar. She was doing work in Afghanistan, getting schools up and running for Afghani girls, and I was eager to hear about her work, and show her some projects in Doha. I had gladly agreed, and had a plan outlined for all the places I could take her.
When I arrived at the church house, wearing my rattiest jeans skirt and cover-up shirt, so as to be inconspicuous as we visited various places in the poorer sections of town, the priest came out and said the nun would be out in a minute, and why didn’t I come in, that there had been a “slight” change in plans and that another woman would be coming too, and she was taking us to a Palestinian project.
I don’t hold it against the priest. He lived in another world, a world so full of God and his glory that he didn’t really have any understanding of the world of women.
The other woman arrived, and she was gorgeous. She was wearing Issa Miyake, she was perfectly and subtly made up, and we were not going to a charitable project, but to a charitable fund-raising breakfast. I had thoughts of killing the priest.
The nun arrived, and she was dressed in a decent pants and shirt; neither of us appropriately dressed but off we go, to a clubhouse filled with dressed-to-the-teeth women and their daughters, raising money for popular causes on a Saturday morning. We were severely underdressed. All we could do was hold our heads high and pretend we didn’t notice. Inside, I was torn between laughing and crying.
Our hostess didn’t seem to see the fact that we were poorly dressed, and was very gracious to us, and in future days, the two of us became good friends. We often laughed about the priest, his goodness of heart and his blindness to some of life’s realities, like giving fair warning of what you are doing so you can dress appropriately. It all turned out OK.
When people come to me and tell me something terribly, horribly and publicly embarrassing that has happened to them, and ask me how they will survive, I tell them what I believe to be true – that most people are so absorbed in their own lives that they barely notice much about others, and that people have short memories. What may seem to be a huge deal today, will be yesterday’s news by tomorrow, and barely remembered in a couple months. By the time a year has gone by, some people will even think it might have been someone else who committed the faux pas.
On the other hand, in the small German village where I lived, there were two families who never mixed because their grandmothers had a huge fight many many years ago (people can’t remember exactly what it was about) but the legacy lives on.
So I wonder, how does it work in Kuwait?
Kuwait Camels
When we used to drive around Qatar, we would see camels out roaming everywhere. I imagine it used to be that way in Kuwait, too, until the Gulf War, when the retreating Iraqis seeded the deserts with explosive devices. Even now, every month a shepherd or two loses a limb to an unexploded piece of ordnance in the desert. We don’t just jump in the car and go out exploring here – sadly, it’s not safe, or it’s only safe when you are with people who know where it is safe and where it isn’t. We have friends who tell us, with a sigh, about the beautiful places they would go to see the wildflowers, but no more.
Now and then we will see a camel in a large, empty nearby plot of land, under the sparse trees, sometimes a mother with a baby. Most of the time, I only see camels when I go to shop at the Sultan Center in Al Kout. There is also a very large fresh vegetable, chicken/egg, meat and fish market there, and when I see these unsuspecting and unconcerned camels in the back of a truck, I have a bad feeling that they are destined for the meat market.
Stop Honor Killings.com
I used to send out e-mails to close friends about my adventures travelling and living in “exotic” places. When you live your entire life in one place, the smallest things that may seem trivial to you are interesting and different to those who have never been to your country. I would get letters back saying “you don’t know me, you don’t even know the person who shared your e-mail with me, but (that person’s) former wife is related to one of the people you sent the e-mail to . .”
If someone makes an interesting comment on a blog I follow, sometimes I follow that comment, which I did today. On the blog of a person I don’t follow, from a comment from another blogger I don’t follow, I found this fascinating website:
Stop Honor Killings.com
Here is what I would describe as their mission statement:
INTERNATIONAL: International Campaign Against Honour Killings
Posted by Ginger on Wednesday, September 05, 2007 (12:56:46) (187 reads)
Over 5000 women and girls are killed every year by family members in so-called ‘honour killings’, according to the UN. These crimes occur where cultures believe that a woman’s unsanctioned sexual behaviour brings such shame on the family that any female accused or suspected must be murdered. Reasons for these murders can be as trivial as talking to a man, or as innocent as suffering rape.
I’ve lived in countries where honor killings happened, and we knew about it. It would be in the paper. We saw it in Jordan, in particular, where there is now a huge effort to put an end to the killings, and in Qatar, where it was never in the paper, but the kids would tell their teachers about it, and word travels fast in a small country.
I never hear a word about honor killings in Kuwait.
Is that because there aren’t any?
“Madam, Too Many Words”
We were working together in the garden, and I was explaining what I wanted done with the bougainvilla starts I had collected from various colored shrubs on the compound. It doesn’t take much to get bougainvilla going, but you have to do it right.
When I was done explaining, I said “was that clear? do you understand?”
He shook his head sadly and said “Madam, too many words.”
Ayam Zakat
My niece, Little Diamond in a comment on a previous post reminded me of the “cat containment center,” also called the cat house, that the Qatteri Cat once inhabited so that he could spend time in the garden when we weren’t outside. It had three levels he could climb up to and sleep on, and a long run to the exit. He didn’t like being contained, but he liked being outdoors enough to put up with it.
Little Diamond helped me put it together when it arrived. Little Diamond has a great big brain, she can find anything on the internet in four seconds flat, including all the lyrics to Put the Lime in the Coconut. All we have to do is mention wanting to know something, and she finds it. She also forwards all kinds of fascinating reading for me. She is SMART.
She is not so smart about putting things together. Like she said we didn’t need to look at the instructions, which were sort of in Chinese anyway, but I am a read the instructons kind of woman. Our first try was not so good. We had to resort to looking at the instructions. We finally got it together, but it never was quite right. It worked, however, well enough.
It even had a flag for the top.
Little Diamond speaks Arabic fluently. I only stumble around, but you know how when you are learning a language there are words that sound like other words, or you make jokes about the language that would make no sense to the people speaking that language but make perfect sense to the learner? (I have heard that the English word “unique” will send you into gales of laughter). Little Diamond and Adventure Man love puns, especially in Arabic. We can be rolling on the floor over things that will make YOU native Arabic speaker roll your eyes.
“On the flag” suggested Little Diamond, with a perfectly straight face, “we need to write ‘Ayam Zakat'”! and then we both laughed so hard we rolled on the grass with tears in our eyes, howling with laughter.
In Arabic, Ayam Zakat makes no sense at all. Ayam means something like times and zakat is charity. When you say it in English, however . . . it is the perfect flag for the Qatteri Cat’s house.
You can find the Cat Containment Center (condo) and all kinds of other items for entertaining and transporting cats at Midnight Pass/Kittywalk
“Madam, This is MY Job”
I had all kinds of ideas for my new garden – new climate, new challenges. Yes, I had been told that the climate was too hot for orange trees, but I want to give it a try. Yes, my gardening friends haven’t had much luck with lavendar, but maybe I will have better luck. I toted huge pots and bags of fertilizer, clipped bougainvillia and started more plants, wanting that half/half color, rising early to work in the cool of the day. Rosemary! Basil! Lemon trees! As soon as the weather began to cool, I planted my seeds to see what would sprout, what I could transplant, what would thrive. I’m willing to risk a little failure, but I was hoping for some spectacular results.
Inside once the sun had risen, having a glass of water, my front doorbell rang. Who could it be at this hour of the morning? I checked the security peephole, and it was the compound’s chief gardener. With him was the man assigned to take care of our house. He really didn’t know a lot about gardening.
“Madam,” the chief gardener started, with a wave of his hand indicating all the new potted flowers on my entry stairs, “this is MY job.”
I stood there, looking stupid.
“Madam, your job is to tell us what you want. You don’t want to take our work from us.”
I was stunned. People who garden, all over the world, share a sheer love of getting our hands dirty and watching gardens grow and thrive, we love the patterns, we love the floozies who get all the attention, we love the characters who give depth and texture, and we create the backgrounds, the stage, on which they dance.
Slowly, slowly, we worked out an arrangement. I would bring in pots and plants, the gardener would actually pot them – but I would show him exactly how I wanted it done. From time to time, I would pot one up myself, late at night when no gardeners were around, and he would pretend not to notice. I would do the starts from seeds, he would tend them. On a hot afternoon, he would occasionally drop by and take a rest in the garden, and I would pretend not to notice.
I didn’t achieve spectacular. I had some failures – lavendar and orange trees. I sometimes wonder whether we form the garden, or the garden forms us? My results were not what I had envisioned, but it had its’ own beauty.
Working together, the gardener and I created a lush paradise, a backyard retreat where my husband and I would sit in privacy and enjoy the bougainvillia, and the lemon trees, the pots of rosemary and basil and jasmine, making the garden aromatic as well as beautiful. The Qateri cat would enjoy the marvellous smells, and track the occasional bird who dropped by.
With the cooling temperatures in Kuwait, my hands are just itching to get dirty. 🙂
P.S. Those are illustrations, not my real garden.
Qatari Cat Plays With Adventure Man
When we got the Qatteri Cat, he was about 8 months old, a gangly adolescent. I had been looking at another cat, but the vet showed me this one and said “he looks like you.” It made me laugh, and I took the cat.
He had been adopted by a family where the man in the house really liked him, but his wife and her mother did NOT like him. The Qateri Cat cringed every time I came near, he would hunker down on the floor, his ears would flatten and he would growl.
The minute Adventure Man walked in the door, the Qatari Cat fell in love. He followed AM around the house, rubbing on his legs, looking at him adoringly. As he calmed down and I would pet him, he would allow me 30 seconds and then he would bite me – hard, hard enough to draw blood.
We ran into his former owners at an art exhibit. “Is he still such a naughty boy?” the M-I-L asked us. “Oh no!” we lied, “He is NEVER naughty.”
Qatari Cat would occasionally get out of the house, and I would have to try to find him. All I had to do was to wait a few hours, and then I would hear his plaintive wailing from behind somebody’s wall, and I would have to go knock on the door and ask if I could get my cat. I learned to take his cat cage with me, after being seriously scratched a couple times because he was tired and scared and his natural instincts came into play. I still have scars to prove it.
Slowly, slowly, he came to trust me. Even when he bit and scratched, I never hit him, never kicked him, I would just pick him up and put him in a bathroom for ten minutes or so – or until I got over being angry with him. His little brain couldn’t remember three minutes later why he was in “Time out”, but sometimes I had to keep him there for his own protection!
He still bites when he is scared. He was born on the street, and those instincts will always be with him. I keep him away from little children and people who would move too fast in his direction. For the most part, he is tamed. He hasn’t bitten me for months, and even then, even as he was biting me, hard, he remembered, and let me go without a fight. He even had the decency to look a little ashamed.
Why am I telling you all this? With Adventure Man, he is a totally different cat. He has NEVER bitten Adventure Man. Adventure Man comes home from work and the QC is waiting in the hallway for him. He slings QC over his shoulder and takes him on a walk around our home, then he slings him down on the carpet and give him a big rub on his tummy. The QC never bites, never scratches, just goes belly up and lets his “dad” rough him up. As soon as AM lets go, he does this amazing flip to get back on his feet and he runs away just a little, looking back and saying “C’mon, aren’t you gonna chase me?” and I hear the two of them roaring off down the hallway.
I think the QC thinks AM is another cat, a really fun cat. And I think he thinks I am his mom. Definitely he thinks I am his feeder, waterer and warm spot. But I will never hold the same place in his adoring little heart that Adventure Man holds:
PS Adventure Man didn’t like the photo I posted last week called DementoCat. He said it made the QC look dead, and it hurt his heart to see it. I am sorry, Advenure Man. 🙂
Friday Fishin’ and New Weekend
The fish must be running today. When I got up, there were about 25 fishing boats, the old fashioned shuwi. just off the coast. Sorry, they are about a kilometer off the shore, so I can’t get a great photo. I found a photo at agmgifts however, that shows what the boats look like:
Weather Underground says it’s going to be 118° F/ 48°C today – how can they bear it? Some of the boats have no cover? How can they be out under the hot, scorching sun with no cover?
For my non-Kuwait readers, this is a very special weekend, a Thursday-Friday-Saturday weekend, to celebrate the shift to a Friday – Saturday weekend. It has been a long time coming; Kuwait is one of the last countries in the Gulf to make the shift. We were also living in Qatar when the shift to Friday – Saturday happened, but in Qatar, there was no uproar. Here, some people were outraged, saying that Saturday was the Jewish day, and it was a fire-and-brimstone kind of sin to take a day off on the Jewish day.
The government announced the weekend would switch to Friday-Saturday, and then the National Assembly announced that no, it wouldn’t, it would remain Thursday – Friday. Then the government offices started sending out notices to the people working there, and to customers, etc. giving new working hours, and here we go, Friday – Saturday. I am hearing rumors that even Saudi Arabia is considering the change, the last great hold out.
It brings the working week into closer alignment with the rest of the world, having more business days in common. It will make the traffic in Kuwait even worse than it already is.
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