The Atrash in the Zaffa

(The Atrash in the Zaffa is a Tunisian phrase, it means the deaf man at the wedding or party. He can’t hear the music or understand exactly what’s going on. That’s me a lot of the time. So whenever everyone starts laughing at a witty joke that someone’s shared in Arabic or French that completely misses me, we smile and say I’m the atrash in the zaffa)

Leblebay Christmas:
I have a friend whose opinion I value highly and I have been told that my blog is looking a little drab with its lack of pictures. So instead of giving you a long drawn out narrative of what I did for my first Christmas away from my family, I’ll show you. Just beware after this section I go right back into the long drawn out narratives.

Sunrise Christmas Morning (on my way to 5 hours of Arabic class)

Long day of class completed with coffee and cake at Baba Club, eating sweets is the best part of Christmas anyways. It's not traditional, but it was delicious and I'm a-ok with that.

Playing "Noel" on children's Xylophone, just kidding... no christmas songs this year, it was absoltuely wonderful.

Real Christmas dinner was had the next day with a motely crew of friends at this resturant/fast food vendor. No muss, no fuss, cheap, easy, and awesome.

Christmas meal: Leblebay... it's like if you dumped everything that was about to expire in your fridge into a bowl then mixed it together with hotsauce. In other words fantastic. Stale bread, chick peas, harrissa, tuna, capers, egg, and the hope that you'll survive the bowl. It was really delicious and very reminiscent of Christmas dinner because afterwards you feel like you got hit by a train and all you want to do is sleep.

Cashing in Dharma

If karma is something you earn, like dropping a quarter in a jar every time you do a good deed then when something lucky happens you remove a quarter; I must have jacked someone’s dharma-piggy bank, there must be some inter-cosmic malfunction diverting the flow of other people good karma vibes towards me, or I was George Washington Carver in a past life. I know there are a few people out there who are praying for me and they might like to take credit for all my good luck, but I would prefer to go with me as the former G.W.C. (As I write this I am typing with one hand and knocking on any wood I can find with the other). I say all that because undoubtedly I have been extremely fortunate in my adventures and vagabonding up to this point, but Tunisia has really “taken the cake” as the cliché goes. In fact, I would argue that Tunisia has provided me a bakery (no, I’m not referring to the man in Oman).

To begin with, I immediately fell into friendships with a group of artistic, creative, intelligent, articulate, young Tunisian hipsters. They wear beat up All Stars, drink cappuccinos, extol the greatness of Bob Marley and Fairouz, criticize the government and certain elements within society, recite beautiful poetry, write powerful prose, seek out independent films, and crave artistic expression. In other words, exactly what I had imagined for my project in its infantile stage playing in my imagination. One of the first women I met immediately invited me to a night of 24 hours of poetry in Sousse, I later discovered she is a poetess herself (though she may not readily admit it), and she has a large network of poetic-artistic-warm-hearted friends who have all gladly accepted me, but who knows why.

I feel that I should describe the 24 hour poetry event in some poetic, image-driven style. Also considering the fact that the lack of sleep left me in a distorted haze, so these groupings of small moments are all I can piece together.

Sip sweet hot tea, mint leaves clog the cup

Small auditorium, speaker extols poetic presentation

Our small table, crowded, a personal performance

Young man’s voice booms bass, captivates

Silence surrounds, his words a spell

Interruptions hushed, breaths slow

Darwish reborn within the length of my arm

Move to wooden chairs, observe poetry panel

Men, women, Tunisian, Saudi, Algerian…

Words sizzle, words dance, sparks on tongues

Special invitation for dinner with poets

Stand on chairs in empty restaurant

Recite and embody Mutanabee and Qabanni

March down the street, a spectacle, sing and shout

The road ours, linked arm in arm

Procession of proud kings without cause

Drunk on words, high on passion

Hotel basement, crowded icy cold room

Hours pass in applause and poetic pulsation

45 minute poem leaves heart sitting in mouth
Voice’s vibration, a religious awakening

Sneak away with Sufi poet called “The Groom”

Rainy night, drink pale Tunisian beer in dark cafe

Smokey, haunting woman gravel tone melody

Return to hear oud, complementing verse

4 am exhaust steals consciousness

Awake an hour later to ovation

Plastic chair bed, navy blazer blanket

A blur of poetic battles, imaginative scenes

Holding my breath, uncomprehending

Cold coffee and stale croissant breakfast

Spinning head, dizzy with sound

Café escape with future Tamim Bargouthi

Hear history, beliefs, open babs to bayts*

Discussion deep, sip espresso, sit close, and smile

A day that I must have dreamed

If this weren’t enough I have recently moved to Sousse to live with a professor’s assistant. Our connection’s a kite string, tangled and long. I knew nothing about her except her phone number scribbled on a slip of paper from Oman, she has a daughter, and a room for rent. Though where I live in Sousse so touristic leaves my mouth with a lemon peel taste, I soon discover my hostess is a published author on poetry (concentrating on linguistics and pragmatics), has several radio shows on literary topics and women’s issues, an advocate of women’s rights, ex-husband’s a published poet, has connections in the Tunisian poetic/literary/intellectual community, and if these weren’t enough, if the running hot water, working plumbing, delicious food prepared by her mother still left me unsatisfied, she is also a poet.

But if there is one thing I have learned since the start of my adventure it’s the necessity of balance (BalaunS). Now I am just waiting for this to all bite me in the butt.

*bab = door, bayt literally means house, but it is also used to refer to stanzas in Arabic poetry (other words for house are menzil and dar). Both bab and bayt have been pluralized English fashion because I obviously have no respect for the Arabic language.

Menzil in Maharas

I met Amal* for a late lunch after Arabic class at her favorite restaurant near her work. We tear the baguette in the center of the table, dipping it into oil and harrissa, rich yellow and bright red swirling together. “You know I’ve been thinking, you are far from your family and I think it’s a good idea for you to just come to my house for New Years. You will be at home in five minutes, I promise.” Smiling at the unexpected proposition I immediately agreed having had no New Years plans save perhaps watching an Egyptian comedy then falling asleep before midnight. I immediately agreed. Soon we were on a train headed to Maharas, near Sfax, a four hour train ride from Tunis. We have coffee and chocolate croissants with our friends as we wait for our train to depart Wednesday night. They walk us to the station, hugging goodbye as if we are leaving for four months not just four days. But we have established the habit of meeting almost every night for coffee and conversation at Baba Club and the break in tradition is not something that the group easily accepts. Truly a loving, tight group of friends though they’ve known each other only a short while.

The long ride is spent listening to a mix of different traditional Arabic singers on Amal’s laptop sharing her ear buds, then attempting to fall asleep. The man in front of us is singing to himself (a comical falsetto), the man to our left, a rumbling snore. Three women near the snorer begin to giggle uncontrollably. Amal and I burst, knocking into one another doing the same and attempting to stifle our laughter. We arrive after 1am; her father is waiting to pick us up. We enter exhausted and disoriented to Amal’s home, her mother is in her pastel pink robe waiting to greet us. She sits us at the kitchen counter, gives us small cakes, tells us to eat and hurries off to bed. We sleepily agree to the late night sweets and immediately look for our own beds to collapse onto. Amal’s sister, Rima, is already asleep in the bed, Amal pushes her aside and I sleep on the bed near them against the wall. The blankets are soft and warm, the air biting cold. I snuggle in and fall asleep. Tired, content, sugar still on my lips.

The next morning the house slowly comes to life. We gather ourselves leisurely and sleepily, wandering towards the kitchen after Amal’s mother knocks quietly on the door and whispers her call to the breakfast table. Hot milk, coffee, olive oil, honey, warm bread, homemade jam, scrambled eggs, and suddenly we are chatting excitedly, forgetting we were just cursing the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen table. Rima and I look at family photos from dusty maroon box; Amal departs to find a wifi signal for work. I am walked through her younger brother’s toddler photos (which he loudly protests), birthdays, weddings, including family anecdotes, and beautiful small details (she makes the best salad, I love his laugh) of particular family members that appear captured in time on the yellows scraps of paper. We head to the kitchen to prepare the food for that nights pre-2010 feast. Around eight family members were scheduled to join, but Amal’s mother, in typical motherly fashion, was concerned that there just wouldn’t be enough food so instead of preparing for ten we set on the task of feeding a small army. Rima explained, “my mom is worried that we won’t have enough food, or that the food won’t be done on time, or that the house isn’t clean enough. She becomes very stressed. But it’s just family coming over and she knows her sisters are going to help and that everything is going to get done. That’s the way it always works.” And I remember Amal’s words “you’ll be at home in five minutes” which I had deeply doubted, now seem so true. I am filled with an inexpressibly feeling of comfort, the familiarity of Rima’s words, the character of the family, close, loving and kind… like home.

It’s something about the shape of the rooms that makes me feel so at ease. Leaning on the counter, just so, my hip pressed against the tile. Comfort in the closeness and distance between us as we move about the kitchen. Each with their space, but near enough to someone else that you don’t feel alone. There’s a mood of calm and warmth like lemon tea on a rainy Sunday morning, dad reading the newspaper at the kitchen counter, the smell of lilacs drifting in from the door. Here in this cold tiled, warm-aired kitchen in Maharas, atmosphere simple, pleasant, loving. Feels like home.

Sink water spits to life, rinses the colander of deep purple plums. The son, Mohammad, slices potatoes into strips, knife drags along the wooden cutting board. Glug, glug of oil into the pan and sizzle sound. Casual conversations that warm the room like the smell of coffee brewing. I step into the dinner preparation motions with the family; cutting bread, setting the table, hugged by, but not comprehending all their words as they converse. A mother commands the room, children protest or confirm. Clank, clatter pots. Tink, clink dishes. Schik-a schik-a, slippers on tile. Sounds like home.

Potatoes fry and fill the room with a warm tempting perfume. Chop crunchy vegetables that spray water and summer scents into the air, the red of the tomatoes not a color but a fragrance. Tearing mint leaves from their steam, a calm aroma inspiring expectations of sweet tea. Stewing meats, mixing salads, baking baby pizzas, stirring hummus and olive oil, simmering soup; all send smells of spices that dance in the air, from our nose to our stomachs, urging the clock to move closer to the hour when we can consume the sources of these wonderful aromas. We all enjoy their comforting scent, which warms our senses and satisfies more than hunger. Smells like home.

I feel a sense of belonging without fitting. Despite the fact that I am a stranger, unkempt blonde American amongst traditional and proudly Tunisian I am comforted to know the feeling of home is universal beyond the bounds of culture, country, or time. And as I brush off my curiosity at why they insist on putting tuna on the pizza, I smile at the collectively shared sentiment of home and family, how something so simple and common could be one of the strongest forces in our lives. I’ve read enough poems that can make you cry over a description of the smell of a mother’s coffee to know that home is not a small thing, not something we should take for granted or abuse, it is powerful. So when you ask yourself why we do most of the brilliant, crazy, stupid, ingenious things we do, it seems that there is a good chance it’s because we are doing it for home. To establish or protect our home whether literally or metaphorically. It’s a word we find enough worth to die for, enough worth to live for, enough strength to lift us, enough weight to crush us (see witch in Wizard of Oz). Maybe if we better understood how similar we are on this fundamental level we would sympathize and be more aware of each other. Maybe we would gain new perspective: other becomes m“other” and br"other”. But perhaps this sounds too corny and is a sentiment best left for soap boxes and poetry.

My few days as family member in this household were so incredibly comforting that I both miss my family all the more for the taste of love that I have felt and feel a stronger sense of love for them and all the family’s that have taken me in, sheltered me, fed me, called me their daughter or sister.

Awake with aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, parents, cake and tea. Midnight’s uproar, claps and shouts, excitement and optimism for a year just begun. My confidence that 2010 will be undoubtedly more rewarding than 2009 was short-lived as all the wonderful foods I had consumed brought with them an intruder into my belly. The terrorist spent the entire night leading me through nightmares, awaking me with pounding head and aching stomach. I couldn’t eat or speak a full sentence without feeling woozy. I conveyed only a fraction of my state to Rima who promptly sat me on the couch, turned on typical American cop show** and made me her special herbal tea with honey. The day was a lazy one in general with the whole family slouched on the comfortable couch under soft blankets. After refusing to eat and spending most of the day in and out of consciousness on the sofa, Amal’s mother jokingly stated, “you love to sleep! Eat a sandwich!” Pale faced, disoriented, and shivering I laughed and apologized. She scooted closer to me and did the tried and true mother’s fever test, kissing my cheeks and forehead, which surprisingly was not at all awkward and was lovingly nostalgic. Soon she was in full mom-mode feeding me strange, disgusting medicines, forcing me to eat some bread and yogurt and sending me to bed. But sometimes all you want is your mom’s chicken soup and your favorite blanket. Doesn’t matter if they are nothing unique, the fact that it’s not special is what makes it so significant. Feeling sick in someone else’s home is never an easy thing, but if my luck on maintaining my health had to run out, I’m glad I was there.

As my fever ebbed and broke I scribbled this into my small moleskine notebook:

Maybe my New Years waits for me somewhere. Perhaps this is just a separate time and the realness hasn’t set in. As if the year has not begun, life not quite true unless my mom’s laugh is echoing in the next room, I’m brushing off Leo’s dog hair as I sink into Beth’s couch, the Risk board abandoned, pieces and armies in disarray, or I sit in the back seat, stare up at the moon, dark trees fly by while my dad drives us home, empty Tupperware on our laps. (Of course it wasn’t this neat looking, but I kind of liked the idea though I didn’t recall writing it when I woke up)

The next few days I felt increasingly better though my stomach did not recover completely and my fever greeted me now and again. Rima, her cousin and I went on unhurried walks around the adorable little town along the sea, exploring outdoor art, admiring another of their cousin’s mosaic workshop, and lazing about. Another day was spent browsing through piles of used clothes in their neighborhood freep market (like a flea market and salvation army combined into one… meaning, spectacular), watching the sunset, exploring some seaside, historical ruins, saint's tomb, and additional couch potatoing. By the end of my stay I was puddy, relaxed and comforted in that atmosphere of family that it was difficult to leave. But as Amal and I stepped out of the shared van back in Tunis we both agreed, “feels good to be home.”

*I would like at this point to insert a description of Amal, but it seems that is fairly impossible. But here’s as close as I can get: an obvious intellectual, but not intimidatingly so, loving and warm-hearted by nature, wild curly hair, strong face, articulate speech, and animated greetings. She’s a writer, social butterfly, the keystone of her friends, an open ear, insightful advisor, but she isn’t over-complicated. Competed on Tunisia’s version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, is witty, perceptive, funny, and enjoys life with an open mind and heart. One of those people that I will carry with me like the ring on my hand she gave me. She’s the sister I never knew I had. Her sister is undoubtedly the same in many ways, though not all, younger and on a different path. They immediately adopted me into their sisterhood and made me feel at ease with simply their presence.

** The “typical American cop show” had several references to my home state, including; “the suspect is hiding in Virginia, near Alexandria” or in another show “we discovered the dismembered bodies in Fairfax” to which I responded, “I live near there!” to which they reacted with wide eyes and concern, “oh… Virginia seems nice.”

Call me Tekilla:

I forgot one of my most popular new nicknames since my arrival in Tunis: tequila (usually spelled tekilla because no one knows how to spell tequila… good choice for a nickname, huh?). The origins of this nickname are not what you may surmise. I have not danced on any bar counters or challenged any large Berber men to a shots competition. In fact, I have not been in a bar in Tunisia and the only beverage of this nature I had was a watered down Tunisian beer with a poet. Therefore the name tekilla seems rather curious. The story is simple; upon first meeting Amal, Hasna introduced me and told her my name. Her reaction was a wrinkled nose and the query, “do you have a nickname?” Hasna informed her that her household had chosen layla. “No, layla is no good…” Later she called Hasna to ask if she and I were going to meet at Baba Club for coffee that night. This is how the conversation went,

“Hasna, are you and… umm… kerz, umm, sena, noo, umm, tekilla coming to Baba Club” Amal inquired.

“Tekilla? Do you mean Kelsey?” Hasna responded, slightly confused.

“Tekilla is her new name!” Amal said excitedly.

And that’s how I got my name. This one has stuck more than any other name previously. Most people don’t know my real name; I have been entered in mobiles across Tunisia as “tekilla”. Well, it could be worse… I could be Natty-Light, and really no one likes that. But let’s be honest, quesadilla would be more fitting.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Yay pictures that worked: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034817&id=35501566&l=1c7a1c4e89

PPS-Lots more good pictures soon... my facebook and I are not friends right now. Well, neither are me and Blogspot... sorry for the lack of spacing in between my paragraphs. I am awful with technology, next time my blog is by carrier pigeon. What? carrier pigeons are extinct? Well, harry potter owls then.

Misspelled

“God is the number one cause of death in the history of mankind”

George Carlin

After recent events in Malaysia inspired by the ownership over the use of “Allah” and Egypt’s recent religious violence this is my quick and rather inadequate gut reaction. I'm sure I could make it better if I spent more time on it, but I'm not right now. Here are some NY Times links if you’d care to learn more about each country’s specific situation. And I wish it was something new, some logical reason, an ‘ahh yes’ moment when fire and death are justified, but they’re not and never are. I’m not religious in conventional ways, I’m not an atheist in rejectionist ways. I’m just me so take what I say for what it is, or whatever you want it to be.

Cairo: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/world/middleeast/10egypt.html?ref=middleeast

Malaysia: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/12/world/asia/12malaysia.html?ref=world

If Allah spells arson, lechery, lies, anger, hate… that ain’t allah.

She’s better than your baseness, bombs, and blindness.

She more beautiful and powerful than your letters can enclose.

So when you burn buildings, end breaths, beat your fists- it’s not for her.

If your God is your purpose, your path and your end- don’t make her your excuse

Your god’s not a god if she desires destruction for letters in a name

Your god’s not a god if she craves cruelty towards her creations

Your god’s not a god is she finds favor in you from fluke

When you’re born into your family’s faith- god would not reject you

In your house of worship, communing amongst neighbors and friends- god would not reject you

Wear your star, cross, veil, and symbols on your skin, in your heart- god would not reject you

But it is man in all his reasonless rage, his mind's filth finds fault in pure faith

Faith that can find light in deepest darkness, warmth in coldest winds

Yet man will dirty Allah’s name; but they can’t own her, can’t hold her, can’t capture her

Justify your ignorance, disgust, violence, which inspire devastating tears of love lost

Justify your flames, matches, and smoke, which demolish bricks and obliterate books

Justify your hate with their hate, from your hate, their hate, your hate, their hate hate hate

Justify your ownership over the letters in the name of Allah, though you clutch at wisps of smoke

Allah is not a name, not a name not a name, not a letter, not in a book, not on paper, not born in ink

Give me the Allah of my Grandmother, warm heart pointed in the direction of good by her God

Give me the Allah who brings man together in joyous songs of justice and caring

The god of bake sales for charity and magnificent sunsets, the god of cupcakes and buttercups

But if Allah spells arrogance, lust, lassitude, animosity, heedless… that ain’t allah.

Shukran,

Kelsey

Sugar, Milk, and Olive Oil

Coffee and Cigarettes

I arrived near midnight; the street was wet with rain. My taxi cab driver would not believe that I only know English and would respond to my Arabic in French. After spending the entire day locked in Egypt’s airport unable to leave for not having though earlier to ask for permission for a day’s excursion into Cairo as I waited for my connecting flight, I was so joyous to be out of the airport the cold, wet Tunis drive was a sweet dream. As we pulled up to the dark arch near my hostel I stumbled out of the taxi and into the Tunisian night air. Dim street lamps, an elegant arch, and the smell of quiet city souk. The streets were empty, just Tunis and me. A personal meeting with a city, a history, and a place of such inspiration and passion for so many. Ahlan Bikee Tunis.

The next morning I woke early to the sound of the souk coming to life outside my window. With no destination in mind and only a very general sketch in my mind of how the city was organized I walked down the street and into a different world. Women in high heels, men in fitted blue jeans. Everyone chatting loudly in mixed groups, filling the street at the cafes stacked on top of one another all side by side. Where had I woken up in? Surely this is Italy or France, some European city that I have only imagined. I listened astounded at the Arabic mixing with French, the sound of the call to prayer echoing off the Cathedral, watching the western fashions worn so naturally, where men and women mingled, held hands, shared conversation, welcoming cheek to cheek kisses without reservation. And as I walked up and down the main street of Tunis, eyes wide, nerves on edge I realized that this was my first taste since the beginning of my journey of culture shock. Suddenly waking up in a quasi-European city where baguettes and high French fashion had replaced the flat khobz and conservative abayyas. It was the first time I really felt slightly alienated, but only for a fleeting moment. In Abu Dhabi I rejected what I perceived to be shallow and though the city did not inspire any great love within me, her diversity of people was welcoming in its own way. Though I may not have wanted to stay there she was a city that could consume anyone with ease, as long as you could accept the fact that you would never truly be a citizen. You could still be a part of Abu Dhabi. But I had not prepared myself for such a radically different way of life as I had experienced in the Middle East, even in Egypt life had not been like this. Modern, traditional, religious, secular, European, Berber, and Arab: Tunis is its own world.

I slipped into a café, searching desperately for an empty seat. I just needed someplace to sit, breathe, and take it all in. I had already been entranced by her long beautiful streets and the loud conversing, but swallowing the coffee and cigarettes lifestyle was something I could not do as quickly as I might assume after the more conservative and reserved societies I had been living in. A kindly older gentleman came up to my table and stood. He didn’t hand me a menu and waited for my order. I asked for a tea, as I usually do and he gave me a sideways glance. We stared at each other as I repeated the word slower, perhaps I had mispronounced it, “shaayy?” He smiled, shook his head and said, “café,” left, and returned later with a small cup of light coffee and five packets of sugar. Never having been a big coffee drinker, I stirred in some of the sugar, remembering to breath, intensely concentrating on my cup. The warm milk and sugar was just what I needed to calm me and the caffeine sparked me enough to keep moving. I explored Tunis for the next few hours on foot, tracing the curving metro lines, breathing deeply the smell of coffee and croissants, and attempting not to be run over by the soccer fans draped in their team’s colors hanging out the sides of their cars. Eventually I found the place I would be studying Arabic for the next month and after a few hours of waiting, with much relief, they put me in contact with my hostess Hasna with whom I would be sharing her family house with while studying.

Hasna is the only one in the house who speaks English. She’s a part time teacher in her early 40s, and is an out-going, talkative, and energetic woman surprisingly quick for her height. She’s more like a teenager or a tractor on rabbit. She dashes me through the city, half in English, Arabic, and forgetting herself uses French. We walk to my hostel and retrieve my bag; apparently her house is only a short distance from where I had stayed. As she enters the souk my heart quickens pace and I smile. As we weave through the crowds of people in the old bazaar with its cobblestones, strange smells, loud shouts, and bursting life I begin to feel the knots in my muscles come undone. I can’t keep track of where we’re going or what path we’ve taken, I’m sure that I will never be able to find her house again. We turn down another small alley to two large bright blue and white wooden doors, enter to an open courtyard, climb the broken, crooked, winding stairs and glance into each room with thin mat beds/ couches, curling iron windows, small, bright kitchen, chipping walls, clothes lines strung, and dates drying on the doorframe. I learn about the many family members occupying the house, their Berber-Arab heritage, the broken plumbing, unusable shower, my shared room with Hasna’s 70 plus year old mother (Umm Hajja) and Hasna’s older sister (Khadija). As Umm Hajja shouts something in incomprehensible Arabic at the TV screen, Khadija’s pots clatter, and the laughter of children echoes up from the courtyard - I know, I’m home.

Some like it Harr

Hasna, Khadija, and I sit on cracked plastic stools around the large silver tray amongst the piles of mismatched shoes and empty water bottles stacked high in the windowsill. Bowls of unidentifiable foods fill the table, spicy, unusual scents cut the cold room. Long baguettes are retrieved from a plastic bag and ripped into large pieces. Crispy crust, soft and chewy I rip off chunks of the bread and dip it into the bowl of burgh; hot barely, tomato, and garlic soup with chunks of the Eid lamb stewed in the middle. Spicy, warm, and strong it warms my stomach reaching out to my fingertips.

A large wooden bowl sits in the center of the table, steam rolling off the top. Khadija (also cook, washer, cleaner, server, hostess, shopper, and any other number of the daily and necessary thankless jobs that she does without complaint on two aching knees) has her hand sunk deep into the dish and is mixing the large white something with the soupy red something. It seems to be a mashed potato island with tomatoes and spicy green peppers swimming in the deep red sea. Called Aseeda, the meal is a Tunisian specialty made of thick wheat meal that must be carefully watched until it obtains the right consistency, which is then doused in what they call “salsa” a mysteriously hot and flavorful spicy tomato soup. Khadija splats a handful of the mixture on my side of the bowl, “kulee!” (eat!) she demands. Khadija is a mighty woman, a powerhouse in the family, she may be four feet tall, but she could make the strongest man cower with nothing but a glare. All in all, she’s not someone you question and when it comes to her demanding me to eat something I do so without hesitation. How I love her so. I burn my fingertips on the mixture and unceremoniously shovel it into my mouth. It is the sentimental equivalent of my mom’s meatloaf or a pot of bowling cinnamon sticks. Though I have never tasted anything like this, I feel a strange nostalgia.

After the dishes are taken back to the kitchen where they will sit on the countertop for the next round of family members to devour, Hasna returns with a large pink and tan pomegranate. The fading glow of dusk is our only light as we peel the pomegranate and pluck her gem-like seeds. We crunched loudly, savoring table spoons packed with pomegranate seeds soaked in rose water and covered in sugar. I eat past my full, not speaking, completely consumed by the unusual and comforting tastes and smells that surround me and warm me despite the chill in the room and my place as stranger greeting a new every day.

Scrub Down

After a week and one bucket bath, Bushra, Hasna’s Moroccan sister-in-law and mother of two, invites me to go to the hammam with her. I have avoided hammams up to this point, but I’m starting to smell and it must be better than heating pots of water on the stove and bathing from a small plastic bucket. I gather my shampoo and towel, leaving behind inhibitions. But abandon your perverted thoughts of a room full of scantily clad shapely Mediterranean-styled Tunisian women with olive skin in a low lit steam room. Imagine instead your grandmother’s overweight group from bible study lessons and bingo night; you know Aunty Greta and Miss Maggie, see them? Now imagine them completely naked save see-through knickers. And how gravity is unkind! The entire complex is underground and completely tiled a mosaic of blue and white in floral patterns cracked along the walls. Doorways and hallways are steeply arched, I duck from room to room. Bushra and I continue to the very last corner in the back, only one of the lights seems to be working- al-hamdulillah! (Thank god!). I breathe in steam, everything is hot, wet, and I stare intently at the floor smiling nervously beside myself. Oh I dream of disappearing.

Bushra stands in front of me with two large plastic buckets filled with steaming water. She drops one at my feet with a thump and splash; I hesitate and look up staring at her eyebrows with utmost intensity. The opportunities for awkwardness are reaching a critical breaking point. I’ve refused to remove my underwear and on her face an expression of silent resignation. I was the wrong person to be her hammam buddy. To go to the hammam is not a solo adventure one must be sure to take with them only the most trustworthy and close of friends, but perhaps more so than this it is necessary to have someone accompany you who is the strongest and most ruthless. Your hammam buddy will spend the next few hours rubbing the skin off your bones and drenching you in boiling hot water. She splashes steaming water in my face, rubs a finger along my clavicle like a dusty mantle, ticks her tongue, and tosses a bar of soap into my lap. She leaves to fill more buckets while I rub soap all over me, a fierce looking woman just to my right, I avoided eye contact, still clutching onto my bra which I refused to remove against strong advisements and tugging by both Bushra and old hammam mothers.

Before I could gather my senses enough to protest Bushra had taken hold of my wrist and was, as far as I can tell, attempting to remove my freckles with the aid of a sandpaper glove. My skin came off in black rolls. She stopped, looked from me to my arm in surprise and slight disgust. Apparently, I was in real need of a good scrubbing, my previous bucket bath and sitting on the edge of a tub bathing techniques were obviously inadequate. She pushed me onto my stomach where she began to press my sternum into tiles, unclipped my bra, shouting something that could probably be translated to “get over it!” flipped me over and continued until everything hurt and I had a bright red shine. She pushed a bucket of steaming water in my direction and I washed off the layers of scum and sat in complete unbelief of what had just occurred. I had pictured something similar to the communal showers of American high school movies, the ones I have avoided, the ones of nightmares. But this, this was much worse and so much better. I clenched my teeth and asked Bushra with extreme hesitation, “need help?” She waved me away, to my great relief, and motioned that another woman would be giving her the scrub down. I felt awful for not being able to help her, but from me came a sigh of such sweet relief.

For the next hour I sat, shoulders slumped, in another awkwardly well-lit room surrounded by mothers and their children. I stared at my knees, attempting not to glance at the bright pink flowered bloomers of a bent-backed, white-haired hajja (old mother). From the corner of my eye I saw Bushra’s scrubber extraordinaire rushing over wobbling, attempting not to slip, her hanging flesh and rolls of fat swayed and bounced towards me. I braced myself for the attack. She snickered and began scrubbing me with her soapy outstretched hand then proceeded to dump an entire bucket of water on my head, laughing wildly.

I left, feeling akin to a wet dog, confused, disoriented, unused to such cleanliness, desiring only to cover myself and perhaps roll in some dirt. We walked through the souk and back to the house, my hair soaking wet, pushing through the crowd of shoppers, salesmen, and tourists attempting to go unnoticed but assuredly failing miserably. Bushra bought sweets for me and her two six-year old boys whom I adore. Bushra loved and accepted me immediately and I’ve become extremely close to her and her kids who only recently once went on a hunger strike until I agreed to have lunch with them.

News of my hammam experience has spread all over the house and through my ever-increasing group of friends. I may not speak that much Arabic, but it becomes especially easy to translate a story when someone is acting out my own actions, laughing to tears, and yelling words like “mafi milabis!” (no clothes!) as I had done upon entering the hammam. I’m happy to have provided them with a comical story, like an Egyptian comedy I’ll trip, stumble, and gag- joke my way into their hearts… or at least I hope that’s how it works.

Learning to love breakfast:

The sun was just beginning to slip rays through the window facing the courtyard passed the swirling iron bars. I wake when Khadija begins moving around. The television is still humming as it has been all night. I’m already wearing my clothes for the day; I’m too cold and lazy to attempt changing at night. I wash off my face with frigid water in a small, broken hallway sink that leaks onto the floor. I step into the kitchen where Hasna and Khadija are wordless lighting burners and inspecting the staleness of a hanging grocery store bag of bread scraps. We sit around the large round metal tray and poor creamy and warm milk into each of our cups, mixing in teaspoons of Nescafe and sugar. We rip the cold, slightly stale bread into small chunks and soak it in a small bowl of olive oil and honey. The thick, flavorful olive oil against the rich, sweet honey along with the heavy glass of sugary milk wakes me up in the best way as if to ease you out of sleep and ready you the day. I’ve never been one to eat breakfast especially when it mostly consists of sugar, milk, and olive oil (which seems to be the three main ingredients of every meal) but it’s filling and comforting in a way that no other food up to this point has been. Food contains in it so much history, tradition, love, and life so when the food makes you feel warm and welcome everything else is better without effort.

Adding to my list of names:

Call me Layla- In my traditional Tunisian style house complete with large family, I’ve counted ten in the residence, but I can’t be sure. Umm Hajja, Hasna, Khadija, Bushra, and I sat in the small room with the latest episode of their favorite Turkish soap opera dubbed in Arabic blaring. Umm Hajja with her wrinkled faced lined with Berber tattoos turns to me, searching for my name. “Kelsita!” she beckons, I look up and all present burst into laughter. Apparently Kelsita in Tunisian dialect translates to “socks.” They discuss my need for a new name and come to the conclusion that instead I should be called “layla.” I do not think there was a reason for this name save the fact that it is easier to remember and pronounce. When I knock on the door they won’t open when I answer Kelsey. I’m layla now… though I would prefer Kelsita.

Call me Raylu- Omar and Yaseen are Bushra’s two adorable boys. We’ve become very close. Omar and Yaseen love to color in my animal doodles, play soccer in the small courtyard, kill mosquitoes with stuffed animals, and get lost in the souk. Omar has downsyndrom and the family loves him deeply, his brother looks after him, and everyone gives him extra attention despite the fact that the only thing I think they know about him is that he is “special.” Bushra and I go to pick up Yaseen from his Qur’an reading lessons with Omar in tow. We walk down the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Souk to Zaytouna Mosque while Omar high fives every shopkeeper and old man sitting sipping coffee and smoking his hubbly bubbly. They all know him and smile when he comes by. If a shopkeeper is passed by without a hug or hand slap he quickly calls for Omar who returns in his wobbly run. We turn back home with Yaseen and Omar causing mischief all around the souk, running amongst the jalibayyas, shoe shops, and stores under construction we return to the bright blue and white doors of our house just passed the women’s lingerie and night clothes stand.

Later Yaseen runs up to me, a handful of gold-colored coins in his hand begging me to come with him to buy bread and eggs. With Omar’s small hand in mine we amble down the souk’s uneven stone path, little Yaseen leading the way against the pulsing crowd and loud vendors. We return triumphant with the day’s dinner ingredients in hand. We watch Egyptian comedies and I draw poorly done cats, dogs, and lizards which the two boys rejoice in despite my lack of artistic skills. I bring them chocolate cookies and strawberry wafer treats when I return from class. Now throughout the house I hear the echoes of my name. Yaseen shouts: Layla! Layla! And Omar, who has trouble speaking shouts: Raylu! Raylu!

Got Milk?

Khadija dons her plum colored jacket and zebra stripe headscarf, motions with her head towards the door, “Layla, namshee!” We hit the cobblestone streets. In her gruff, all business, but kind and cordial manner she greets passersby, “aslaama.” We make our dodging through the crowd, Khadija swaying back and forth on aching knees, but with an energy and drive that I can only relate to the energizer bunny and my Aunt Terry. She speeds through her chores like a freight train, never asking for any word of recognition or thanks, never stopping for a breath, I don’t know if I’ve seen her sit for more than five minutes at any given time. She has grown fond of me for my deep appreciation of her cooking and we have made a habit of buying each other sweets and watching Fetafeet, the Tunisian cooking channel.

Pushing passed the crowd she would only slow to ensure that I was still close behind her. When we exited one of the arched gates of the old souk we ran across the busy street as the gates clang to a close on the shops and buses rushed by with people trying to return home. In the dimly lit street we leaned up against a dusty car- waiting. I was not sure what we were waiting for. I had been told we were going to buy milk, but we had passed several small shops selling small boxes of milk. What alternative mission was this? Did Khadija really lead a double life that I had accidentally stumbled upon? I imagined the possible scenarios until I was distracted by a truck with large cans clanking loudly in the bed rumbled into sight. A large group of mothers and old men passed small coins and empty plastic bottles to the man in the truck who would ladle the thick white milk into each bottle. As I watched him wipe bottle lids with his grimy hands, dipping the ladle into the deep milk cans I decided not to think of whether or not this was sanitary, because when the morning comes and I have my delicious warm cup of coffee I don’t much care what fun friends might be swimming around in it. It’s that good.

After we have our bottles filled with milk Khadija takes me down a different path through the fish souk pointing out all the places she buys her food. That night she invites me to come spend the night with her sister Daranda at her house farther into the city. We pick up a few pastries and climb the many flights of stairs to Daranda’s heavily barred door. After putting on a pair of soft, pale pink, stripped PJs Daranda lent to be we turned on fetafeet, a relaxing escape from the noise of the family house. Who knew buying milk could be such a lovely little adventure.

Sun it Rises:

Every morning as I hit the street, my footfall thumps with the bass of the music blast on my headphones. Sky so simple. Every morning reveals a blending of colors on a canvas that's ever-changing, everlasting. How the souk never looks the same from one moment to the next, the aslaamas (greetings) roll of the tongue, singing, clanking, feeling my heartbeat and breath a melody, Fleet Foxes calling tired minds to lift from the pillow. I thought all my late nights would snatch from me my ability to wake, but as soon as that sun starts to warm the cold night air all my cells feel compelled to great the day; glimpse at sun's procession that casts such beautiful and fleeting colors. I’ll choose different streets to see new garbage piles, regulars sipping coffee on plastic chairs, raw chickens in the rotisserie, breads, fresh air, and the entire day will never be as quiet and loud, as fulfilled as the morning walk to class.

Damascus Paper:

I’ve forgotten to share a funny little story from Jordan so why not just throw it in here seeing as this is all rather random and mostly inadequate descriptions of stuff I ate. Well… on my short stint back in Amman between Oman and Tunis I went to stay at my friend’s house to sleep in a spare room. It was free and he makes the best mocha I have ever tasted- how could I resist? “I have a roommate though, will that be a problem?” No of course not, I can pretty much live anywhere or curl up on a concrete floor just as long as it’s cheap. “Oh, and he says he knows you.” Interesting. My friend would not reveal to me how I knew his mystery roommate, but upon arriving at the house my friend called out, “Hani! She’s here.” Hani? It sounds familiar but I know I have not met anyone recently named Hani. Into the kitchen where I am currently searching my mind’s registry of names steps in a man I haven’t seen since riding in a fruit truck bed up a mountain in Damascus over two years ago. If you were a Kelsey in Cairo reader and by that I mean my mom, you will remember one installation where I detailed my Eid journey into Syria where my group of friends and I met another group of ragtag adventurers during our ten hour stint at the border. One of those in the group was Hani, a Jordanian student who I most vividly recall demanding to no avail for the musician to play Wonderwall in a small smoky café on a quiet Damascus night. Now we were face to face once again. “Wait right here.” Astounded and unable to move whether he had requested it or not I stood in the kitchen, mouth agape, processing the unusual encounter. He returned with a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Do you remember this?” I took the paper carefully knowing exactly what it was but still unbelieving. While we had raced off to have our last iftar of Ramadan in Damascus I, though the idea was communal, drew a sign in bubble Arabic letters that read “Nahib al-shams” (we love Syria). The picture of me holding the sign even made a brief debut on the Ursinus website, the most famous I will ever be. Hani had kept this trifle of a paper and now upon our meeting decided to return it to its maker. This may not seem such an amazing story, but to me I am flabbergasted at such strange luck. How the fates work I’ll never understand.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Pictures of Oman and Jordan… slowly catching up: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034178&id=35501566&l=1f0a097141

Grandma's Hands

“Grandma's hands
Used to hand me piece of candy
Grandma's hands
Picked me up each time I fell
Grandma's hands
Boy, they really came in handy
She'd say, "Matty don' you whip that boy
What you want to spank him for?
He didn' drop no apple core"
But I don't have Grandma anymore

If I get to Heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands “

Bill Withers

Grand magnolias, plastic flowers, A Christmas Story on repeat, and a collage and cacophony of antiquity along Tuckerman lane; Perfectly decorated house so much larger than necessary, but never enough space to hold the knickknacks and bric-a-brac, a fridge of spoiled milk and month-old leftovers on Morella Street; Cabinets of chocolate treasures, a matching blouse and skirt hung on the door knob, plastic cup of water and colorful straw, scattered roosters and Santas at Keansburg.

In her houses I would play with handfuls of buttons and thimbles. Strange smells, shelves of snow globes, wonder what I can and can’t touch. I’d stare at ceramic dancing women in magnificent gowns behind glass doors, eating stale packets of peanut butter crackers ever in endless supply. Now, how I crave more than all that the world obtains to hold nothing in my hand, but hers, veined and shaking. For her hands can convey more of love than my entire body. Her eyes that twinkle so make me aware of a love so deep as that I can only glimpse. She accepted me despite faults; she loved me in spite of myself. Though she may have voiced such complaint over tiny things, her heart was bigger than a thousand of like women. The love she had for her family was most expressed in times of quiet. When no one else was around she would breath and convey to me her heart’s devotion to them. The love and commitment of her children, full of patience, strength, charity, forgiveness, tolerance and endurance unlike any others I have seen. Their love shown in both action and thought shared simply by being in their presence is indescribable and my inspiration. And it was from Nana that these wonderful women whose dedication, modesty, love and strength are so rare in this world came from.

But it’s the little pieces I will miss. Her weekend phone calls, like clockwork were a family joke and the best beginning of the day. It’s the Rosalie Wake Up Call. I don’t know how I would feel if I were home and knew that if the phone rings bright and early on Saturday morning it’s not her voice to greet me. How such a small thing that seemed a chore can feel like such a tremendous loss.

I will never forget where I was and what I was doing during the same hour of her passing for it fills me with a strange mix of regret and odd joy. I lament the fact that I was not at her side and it aches in my marrow when I think about the fact that I could have tried harder to make it home to see her. The letter was written, begging the Watson Foundation to allow me a two day leave for a last goodbye. But I never sent it. I thought I had more time. It just wasn’t quite real, she was Nana. She was always there, she would always be there. She couldn’t die before she became a great grandmother. My cousin was about to have twins, and in my mind she would be doting on the baby girls and criticizing Danny’s parenting in no time and I would be back in time to see the best of it.

I had plans. Nana was always a part of them. I will be in Teach for America in Philadelphia that means weekend visits to New Jersey to jog beside Nana as she speeds along in her scooter and sleep on her scratchy red couch in the old folk’s home, eating chocolates on her floor and watching old movies. Buying Italian ice with my aunt and the old bat. But that’s not going to happen. When my mom and aunts called me from New Jersey casually slipping into the conversation that my grandmother was in the hospital, it didn’t seem urgent. She was going to be fine. She had to be. She’s got vinegar in her veins, she’s a bull-ram, she’s the woman who can command the room even if she isn’t in it, shouting orders from a room away. At my Aunt Terry’s house in her slouched position with the television on while we eat M&Ms and prepare dinner in the kitchen, she can make us listen attentively as she complains about the movie or reminisces, we’ll roll our eyes or rush to her side for company.

She’s the one who can make us all jump to attention at a sigh, who can speak her mind, who can express more love with a silent look than a thousand sonnets. She survived polio, wears her leg brace like a sword, has a style all her own, and a strong sense of self and the importance of her family. She is simple, small, unstoppable Nana. But more. She is the best of us, she is our head, our eyes, our origin. We’re nothing without her. And I am not the same without her presence. So when I heard “Nana’s sick” when my father warned with our family favorite joke to ease the pain of death “the cat’s on the roof” I didn’t believe it. And now I’m in Africa so far from my home, my family, and the truly familiar and I have to somehow convince myself that this is all real. That this all really happened. That when I return home my grandmother isn’t going to be there. I don’t understand death, I’ve never been afraid of it for myself, it’s not something I fear except perhaps the pain that is associated with it. But when it comes to the death of someone else it is completely and utterly devastating. This probably comes from never really having experienced many deaths of people close to me. And now I sit, staring at my hands, unable to fathom that they will never again hold my grandmother’s hands. That I will never smell her strong perfume. That every house of my mother’s family where she once sat will be forever empty of such an important force.

For Rosalie Minogue was indeed a force. But when my mom called as I sat in the crowded, smoky café amongst young artists and loud music, large tears splattering into my untouched café direct, when my mom told me it had only been a short while ago that my grandmother was alive I thought about where I was, what I was doing while my family was gathered around her for her last moments. I was in Bushra’s room (part of the family and mother of two six year olds), 90210 dubbed in Arabic blasting, coloring a campfire and doodling dragons for Yaseen and Omar, eating date cookies. And I am so hurt by this juxtaposition of images. And I am so joyful because that’s what my grandmother was proud of me for. I try and justify it all to myself, I try and convince myself that there is no way I could have changed the events as they unfolded. But really I don’t feel vindicated I just feel selfish. I could have called more often. I could have sent more postcards. I could have flown back on a whim. I could have I could have and should haves get lost to me when all the possibilities of mights flood around me. I feel a deep sense of selfishness; perhaps I could contact more of my family and friends more often. Why don’t I go out of my way, spend the money, walk the extra distance to make the call, find the wifi, tell those I love how I feel and find out about what’s going on in their lives. Am I so consumed by my day to day that I am blind to those I care about? I don’t know. But I think right now as I sit a world away on a year of adventure spending so much time on my own with myself I can gain a new perspective on how relationships can and should work. I know this event and my journey is a part of growing up. About learning how to be on my own without my family and friends to lean on when I need them the most.

When the news of my grandmother began to sink in all I could think of was that I needed to talk to my mom because of my own extreme sadness, I barely acknowledged in my mind that she, my mother whom I love more than any other woman on the earth, had just lost her mother. And from here I was filled with a new hurt for her and for my family, but also a new understanding. But considering the pain of my family simply has inspired me with all new reasons to morn for their pain, their loss, and my own. But we are not built to feel more than we can handle. And I keep trying to think of what to write, how to convey in words a proper ode to a woman who means more to me than I or anyone can express- and I can’t. There are no big lessons, there is no sum or conclusion, there is no beautiful verse I can compose or songs my heart can grasp at that can convey how I feel and the tremendous loss. She had a mighty presence in my heart as my rock, my memory, the embodiment of family, a warm home, and sincerest love. Now I feel a stone in my stomach that I can’t quite understand or deal with- I just carry it with me and remember it when my mind has a moment’s rest. All I have is sadness and ache; love and memories; tears in crowded cafes and in cold back rooms; laughter and loving words over skype with my family far away. All I have is sorrow and love. To my family and grandmother who mean more to me with each passing day: I am sorry and I love you.

Here is the poem I wrote that was read at my grandmother’s funeral. I do not think I will ever be so proud of anything I have ever written as to have my cousin, a personal hero and inspiration, reading my poem in front of my family at my grandmother’s funeral. Just wish I could have written something better. Just wish I could have been there myself.

ODE TO THE OLD BAT

I call ye present all aboard to Rosalie’s guilt train

Passed Laurel Avenue, Morella Place, and Tuckerman Lane.

Conductor in chic cotton skirt and perfectly poofed hair

She’s matriarch and queen — so you’d better pay the fare.

Order son-in-laws to do chores, mow the lawn, build a ramp

Scream that resonates in my mind still, “Turn on the chicken lamp!”

Plate or pillow out of place she wastes no time to nag and bore

Knows of our best and our worst days and deeds, accepts us to our core

Her thin, shaky, and frail hands hold a surprising force

Can embrace with tenderness or knockdown without remorse

Never forget how regal you were, upon your throne you sat

Oh lovely, perfumed queen, Rosalie Minogue, the old bat

How you loved your family much stronger than one might surmise

We grandchildren, despite faults, were gems to your kind eyes

How I’ll always miss the feel of your hand and special comforting scent

Carried the weight of the heavy world so your back was slightly bent

You raised your children right, I never felt love so deep and sure

Those Minogue Girls may be loud, but they have hearts strong and pure

I see you in each of them, which gives me hope that I might chance

To see a bit of your spirit in their warm, kind-hearted glance

For if we’re passed a fraction of your spirit, I will be satisfied

I see proof of your strength and love in every tear we’ve cried

My critic, my rock, my support, my muse, and my friend

Your memory can heal us, though we may not fully mend

May we ever be so blessed as to have her ever-lasting pledge

No matter when or where we are to be protected by “The Hedge.”

Mother Goose Remix

Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub... (not in order)

The Baker (or the tale of the Pastry Prostitute)

There exists a cookie unlike any other. A cookie to shame the peppy stay at home mom with her ingredients sorted in clever-looking pots, a cookie to make a girl scout abandon her post outside the Safeway, a cookie to inspire the hardest coconut to melt with pride. It’s possible that the lack of baked goods has led to some exaggeration of the absolute awesomeness of this delectable treat, but for the purposes of this blog and your own imagination it suits you to trust me when I say that this cookie was magnificent. You may still be in unbelief of just how scrumptious this soft, chewy, coconut, sugar, and magic made concoction is, but if you still don’t believe me believe that it almost incited a wedding. Let me explain:

One of my friends in Oman, a former Syrian tank driver, lived near Al Fawaris Bakery, a local and personal favorite. First their crunchy zatr sticks enticed me, then the oversized pound cake hooked me, but once I had discovered “the cookie” (nameless though it be) I became a regular feature of the bakery, as much a part of it as the flashing fairy lights and cabinet of cold lebneh. The day before my departure from Muscat my Syrian friend and I were having some coffee and sharing stories, waiting to meet up with the others for my goodbye dinner. While the heat from our coffee swirled into the air my friend slyly stated, “I know someone who likes you.” I laughed, taken aback. “He like likes you. He luuuuvs you. He wants to marrrrry you.” Were we in Middle School? And furthermore, at what point in my scrapbooking, baby-holding, wadi climbing, desert crossing, Women’s Union attending, and volunteering for the Center for Omani dress (run completely by women) did I have time to meet a guy and make such an impression on him?

Kizab! (Liar) I accuse assuming he is doing this in order to make me blush, which seems to be a pastime of my new Muscat group of friends. When he throws up his hands and claims he’s telling the truth I run through a list in my head of the men I’ve met. 70 year old historian at conference on the rights and reality of Omani Women- no way. 65 year old poet and journalist with close ties to the royal family and whose interviewed some of the most influential people in the Arab world including Yasser Arafat- fat chance. As I look back on it, the only males I’ve had any real contact with seem to be infants or grandfathers. Who could this mystery man be?

As I struggle for an answer he tosses me a hint, “He’s got light eyes…” THE BAKER! Every time I bring a package of zatr sticks back to the apartment the cool aunt I live with reminisces on the baker’s eyes. I never noticed them, too consumed by the scent and sight of fresh baked bread, but she always manages to spend a solid five minutes talking about them. My friend smiles, nodding his head then sipping his double espresso with smug satisfaction. I’m flustered and flushed. Another friend joins us at the table and chuckles when he realizes what I have just discovered. Apparently, I am the last to find out. I begin to joke with them in an attempt to salvage myself after my intense embarrassment. “Well, he is the perfect man. He can bake.” I pause. “I’m sure he’s got a tolerable personality as well, but let’s be honest does anything else really matter save the possibility of endless supplies of khobz? (Arabic bread)” We conclude that I will indeed be the fattest, happiest wife of all time. The wedding will be in Lebanon, where he’s from, and we are certain his family will love me. We’ll make it a spring wedding, no need for catering, and everyone’s invited. The wedding will be done with haste so that we can have more time for the real reason for the celebration, the reception with a large buffet based entirely in baked goods.

We left the café and enjoyed a long, loud, laughter-filled goodbye dinner with shwarma, hummus, and fool washed down with kiwi-orange juice, shared in the company of fast friends. As we left I got into my Syrian friend’s car and daydreamed, gazing out the window. We passed my turn. Only slightly curious I wonder what’s going on. I hear my friend make a phone call, I only catch a little bit of what he is saying in Arabic, “You there?…something something… blonde girl with me…. Can’t translate, mumble, mumble.” I sit up quickly as I realize where we are going. The bakery. Holy helwa. I lock my door and sink into my seat. No no no no no. It was funny to joke about, but I can’t see this guy in person. This is too awkward, please don’t do this, please don’t do this. But before I know it the tank driver and his salsa-dancing partner (yes, the former Syrian tank driver salsa dances, Muscat is a magical place) are dragging me out of the car in front of the bustling shop. The light-eyed Lebanese baker approaches me and stares. He discovers I am leaving and steps closer. “You must return and when you do I will take you on a trip to Lebanon where I will give you such delicious cookies that you will forget about the garbage I serve here.” I laugh awkwardly and stare at the ground. He rushes into the store and returns with a tray of freshly baked coconut cookies. I attempt to hand him some money to pay for them, but he ticks his tongue and waves it away. “Your enjoyment of these is payment enough.” Oh… lord.

Back in the car and on my way to the apartment, I curse my ex-friends from my position slumped low in my seat. As we speed away and are at a safe distance, the smell of butter and bliss make me instantly forget my intense discomfort. I peel away the saran wrap and bite into one of the lovely delights. I offer the cookies to the others who quickly snatch them up. As I smile intensely and pop the last crumb of my cookie into my mouth I ask, “Does this make me a pastry prostitute?”

The Wadi-Dam Maker (or the story of a Desert Thanksgiving)

Barely a breath is taken as I step off the plane from Jordan and I am on a bus bumping down to Wadi Musa for a double Eid adventure. Nawaf, my Bedouin friend who I have stayed with twice when visiting Petra has invited me to stay at his tent in Wadi Araba then to celebrate Eid al-Adha with his family. Taher and I can’t agree fast enough and we are suddenly sitting in Nawaf’s pickup truck as rolls down the street of the Bedouin village, stopping every few feet to greet a cousin, nephew, uncle, or some other family member. Apparently not only does everyone know everyone else here, but they are all related to each other as well. We sleepily stumble out of his truck and into one of his relative’s house where we sip hot Bedouin whisky and dip fire baked bread into a bowl of tan and neon yellow sweet spread whose ingredients and name are lost to me. Nawaf’s uncle have joined us in the truck while his two cousins/nephews (who knows) pile in the back and hold on as the cold wind whips around and we drive recklessly along the curved road into the wadi.

Unsure of where we are going or why, but uncaring in the crisp, fresh air and amongst such interesting company Taher and I follow the group along a path barely marked by old footprints deep into the wadi. Balancing along an old irrigation system, skipping from rock to rock, and scrambling through trees and stones. We reach a rock wall with a thin, worn rope. Nawaf’s uncle, a man pushing passed 70 in a long dish dash, red-checkered kuffiyya and blue blazer is the first to step forward. He scales the cliff with astounding ease. Nawaf’s cousin, a Saudi paratrooper is next, ascending barefoot and stopping halfway to assist me. As I slip and struggle both the young cousin and the old Uncle easily grasp my hand and yank me upwards. I am both astounded and ashamed, but grateful at having made it to the top.

Taher and the other cousin begin gathering firewood to make tea while I cut my hands climbing trees and watch as the men toss large stones down the bottom of the cliff and discuss the building of the dam to store water high in the wadi. The hours pass quickly and we are again descending the cliff and back down the path. When we arrive to the truck I realize that my prescription sunglasses have not returned with me. At some point during my frolicking I must have over-frolicked my sunglasses right off and into the abyss of the wadi. “Wait! My glasses!” I shouted and began to run back down the path into the Wadi. Before I could get more than a yard away Nawaf’s relatives were sprinting past me. After losing the path and turning back, Nawaf honked the horn of his truck and his relatives returned empty-handed. As we left the wadi and the reality of my loss sunk in, I suddenly smiled. I had only just been praising myself for needing so little when traveling; my passport stamped with memories and opportunity, my prescription sunglasses both a safety blanket and point of cool confidence, the sunshine on my face and wind at my back. But when the sun ducks behind clouds, wind slaps cold air into my face, and my glasses are but a tan line on the bridge of my nose I realize that things are just things and places change without warning. What inspires strength is nothing that environment or objects can provide. As I squint against the sun while the warm rays cast shadows on the cool mountains, I think I better sew my passport to my body because despite all this positive thinking that would be a pain in the butt to lose.

Nawaf drops Taher and me off on an empty street. “Walk until I pick you up,” warns that we shouldn’t get in cars with strangers, then sends us hiking down the long and winding road into the setting sun. His cousin/nephews pull up beside us in a long white boat of a car. We pull over on the side of the road to enjoy the view and wait for Nawaf, Akon blasting, the Saudi paratrooper offers me his coat, which I half-heartedly attempt to turn away as the cold night air settles in around me. Nawaf arrives and we rumble down the road, then into the sands, arriving at a lone tent amongst the dunes in Wadi Araba. Taher and the paratrooper run off into the sands while Nawaf and I prepare dinner. With only a few quick slices of his knife and inexact sprinkling of spices in a tin tray cooked over the fire, our fire-bringers return, and we dole out the spicy, tomato, potato and meatball mixture into bowls and eat it with large spoons and soft khobz. Aarak (liquorish flavored Bedouin alcohol of choice that turns white when mixed with water), stories, and off to bed early under heavy camel blankets. I attempt to give back the paratrooper’s jacket, but he waves me away and calls it a gift. I repeatedly remove it and place it with his things, but he’s insistent. As I curl up on the thin mat over under the tent and burrow myself into the sheep’s fur lined jacket, I smile: best Thanksgiving ever.

The Butcher (or the tale of the Bedouin De-Livery Service)

Pink and blue sky over the dark tan dunes, up early to return to the village for the day’s Eid activities, energized by hot, sugary tea as we mill about sinking bare feet into the cold morning sand. Back in the truck, we bumble into town, and unload ungracefully into Nawaf’s house amongst his unidentifiable number of children. It’s Eid al-Adha, celebration of Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son Isaac. All are extremely energized and excited. I juggle my attention between the newborn baby boy, a round bellied wild-haired girl named Ola, and the mother who I ask ever few minutes whether she needs help. We visit Nawaf’s truck bed where a curly-haired ram has appeared. I pet his soft fur and apologize. Bad idea. Never make friends with the animal they are about to sacrifice. Before I am fully prepared three of Nawaf’s relatives including one that I spent the previous two visits at the cave with (the man with the magic oud) were holding down the sheep over a scrap of metal shouting “Bismillah!” and dragging the large knife across Mr. Fluffy’s exposed throat. I flinched closing my eyes for the initial slice, but watched, eyes wide as the animal twitched and continued to spray candy red blood. As the men string up Mr. Fluffy against the iron gate, I am told to go busy myself. “Make a fire,” they command, but that really means “go away we think it’s wrong to have you here” but they don’t have to ask me twice. Back inside I wait as they slice up the meet into large chunks. The meat is divided into three; a third for the family, a third for the neighborhood, and a third for charity. The older daughter and I carry in a large tray. Splat. A handful of white fat falls on the front stoop. I scoop it up with my hands, still warm. I swallow hard. There is no possible way that I will be able to eat any of this.

A little while later we are all gathered around a shallow metal tray simmering with freshly sliced liver in hot, thick olive oil. I hesitate only momentarily, encouraged by the large family and intriguing scent. We eat the slightly chewy liver drenched in oil with salty yogurt. I lean back against the wall with the post-liver meal tea in hand. I glance at my watch, not yet noon. What a morning.

A few more hours spent playing with Ola, attempting to help her mother keep the energetic girl’s hair in order, arts and crafts with the older daughter, a heartfelt thanks. Then back in the truck, returning to Nawaf’s tent in Wadi Araba. Taher, Nawaf, and I head out further into the wadi to gather firewood. I watch as Nawaf jumps back into his truck and drives off into the distance without us. Well, crap. As we sit in the sand, feeling abandoned, I think to myself well, if it’s my time to go, it’s sure a good way to do it. Of course, based on the fact that I am not on any milk cartons, Nawaf returned and we enjoyed a heavy, delicious meal of lamb meat and rice with two new friends.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Currently in Tunis, lovely to say the least. I'll save this for a more articulate moment. Pics also at some point soonish.

Call me...

I reminisce on Jordanian mother who snidely comments on my clothes. Skirt and jeans? Ridiculous. Abu Dhabi mother who tried to throw away my shoes and forced me to get my haircut. Unkempt and smelly child. Sin smirk or smile they call me gypsy and hippie. Here are the newly acquired names I have gained while on my Omani misadventures:

Young Boy

Cool Aunt (the woman I am living with, but I acquire family quickly) and I eat one handed masala dosas with watery tomato chutney. Listen to stories of a life full, yet just begun. I rush off to meet Iraqi family, Abu Mario. Chat briefly on the ride to his home. Greet tall, beautiful, pale-skin and dark haired, Umm Mario, she smiles sincerely. We join the two Muhammads and their families for lunch at the Turkish House. Soft, salt-sprinkled bread, flops over the basket edges, three times too big. Plates of fresh salads picked up perfectly in warm, torn chunks of khobz. Trays of large white fish cooked in a clay oven appear. Sprinkle with spurts of fresh lemon, which burns on my paper cut fingers as I scoop up small pieces, cooked expertly in their simplicity. Devoid of strong spices, let the fish dance without bells. Afterwards we go to talkative Muhammad’s house and enjoy Iraqi tea while discussions of faith ebb and flow amongst anecdotes of their children.

I return to Abu Mario’s home the next day. Big Iraqi breakfast consisting of bowls of olive oil, zatr, and smooth peanut butter-like tahini drizzled with date syrup sweet and as thick as honey. Sip hot tea, but gulp it when it cools. Ready to move for promise of adventure. We toss Lebanese bread and spinach sandwiches into a backpack along apples and oranges. Wife and daughter stay home, laughing at our gumption for a journey. We join another friend and meet more along the way heading to the wadi. Balance carefully, walking rather quickly along the falaj half a foot wide, which becomes a bridge we must straddle over dizzying height that I do not glance. Hug rock walls, scoot along narrow ledges, and crawl on the cement falaj ledge under jutting stone. Don’t look down, forget fear and feel like a child on epic quest. Pass clear blue pools, small waterfalls, as if we’d discovered some hidden secret land of storybook beauty. Consume our small lunches as the water trickles down, watch frogs as they ride the waterslide down the mountain.

We return to the bottom, sharing sweet dates fresh from the tree in Abu Nathaniel’s backyard. Old mother in maroon and gold trim asks if we dirtied her water by swimming, we offer her food, she waves us away not wanting to taste our American dates despite their Omani origins. I smile in satisfaction at our journey. Such thrill as if my soul had been wiped away of all thoughts and cares save those I held when much younger. I raced the boys up and down the mountain, who would be the first to climb up? Who would take the harder route? Do you dare me to jump? “She’s kicking your teeth,” Abu Nathaniel calls out as I slide down the rock wall to the lead. They laugh at our race, but I smile as they call me a young boy.

Mountain Goat

A much different wadi experience from the last accompanied by Kiwis and Auzzies into the interior of Oman. 60 something year old sisters of high energy and spirit, which leaves me far behind; a man like a brain fried hippie uncle who says he was a geographer, but can’t recall latitude and longitude, speaks of the tropic of capercancer; excited child of adventure, rediscovering herself and passion, a new warm-hearted flat mate. A two day trek, camping on desert roadside, bright moon torch that lets us set up camp after dark. We catch up after enjoying our new Indian friend’s food recommendations and fresh juice in our new favorite café in Jabril.

We pursue chance down back streets, follow possibility as she calls us from hidden villages tucked behind thick palm trees in the shadow of the mountains. We stumble from the car and onto the dusty trial, not quite a street, but reminiscent of my beloved back road gravel streets of Lovettsville. Welcoming and unfamiliar. We explore abandoned walled villages, forts tucked into sleepy little towns, mud huts with satellite dishes, and long, winding gravel paths. This is real Oman. We escape car cabin to dash down and up a wadi with hidden pools of cold crystal blue. Dash, skip, jump, and scramble up and down rocks lost in my own world. They laugh and call me mountain goat.

Sister

Sun beams burn my knees through faded black jeans, I sit on the street curb and tap my foot to music unheard save behind my eyes where it plays softly, fading in and out as I am distracted by bright saris and pattern musr (Omani men’s head scarves) twisted perfectly into place. I dart my eyes up and down the street, search in vain for my friend who will never show up. The proposed rendezvous at the Pizza Hut near the Mosque foiled by the fact that this combination of faith and pepperoni in close proximity is repeated in several areas throughout the city. As the hour passes and the twinge of frustration begins to pulse in my stomach and a man approaches me with a smile. He recommends a spot in the shade so I will be protected from the ill effects of sunlight which carries rays that are potentially perilous in their unseen power, which he explains by stating “Remember the rainbow is in the light.” I smile and slip into the shadow. I am lost in daydreams and muddled thoughts, breathing deeply to think away frustration. The man returns and hands me a cold can of orange juice. Dumfounded I attempt to repay him, but he laughs and walks away “for you my sister.” Mouth agape at this uncalled for generosity, I pop the top and any trace of frustration disperses as I sit in wonder at the beauty of small favors.

How such a small gesture can make such an astounding difference. There are a thousand men willing to buy a woman a drink, empty wallets on expensive liquors; but this cheap juice will be the most worthy of remembrance. Call me sister, not baby. Share with me cold water to refresh me on a hot day, not intoxicating spirits that lead me to lose myself on a dark night. Offer me your greetings and advice with open heart, not coarse comments with barely veiled desires. The hundreds of blind advances, lewd words, cold shoulders, and fool’s gold that make me ache and rage are washed away by one simple, good, honest deed. Perhaps it is my ignorance or the fact that I lack an astute mind, but one kind act can clean away months of dirty dealings. One whisper of affection can drown the shouts of a forlorn heart. Brief moments of kind intention make me smile and forget the wrongs. All it took was one man who called me sister.

George the midnight maid

1, 2, 3, -, 5, 6, 7, -… where are my feet, where are my feet? 1, 2, 3… hips sway. 5, 6, 7… arms up, back straight. Shouldn’t stare at his feet, but too awkward to look at his face. He smells like cigarettes. Switch. He shakes his shoulders, overly enthusiastic. Switch. Strong, leads me with a small touch. Stumble, spin, and duck. Smile to myself; room of expats, Omanis, and Indians learning to salsa. Never expected anything from Oman, but certainly my imagination could not have placed me here. Day spent exploring Muttrah, walking Ruwi, ending with thick hummus and fresh fatoosh. Gulp down last bite of chili stuffed falafel, rush out the door, dance wide eyed, “small steps!” the instructor commands. End with a cold drink along the dark beach. Return to wash crusty bowls of last night’s pumpkin soup. Sipped while cuddled on large bed with two sick flat mates (Cool Aunt and Big Sis), crunching garlic bread, children of nostalgia giggling at Matilda.

The next morning I rush from my room as Cool Aunt shouts “thief!” Wide-eyed I look to her demanding to know the cause of the commotion, hurriedly scanning the room for signs of forced entry, wondering how I could have slept through such a crime. “The kitchen!” she screams, “it’s… it’s… clean!” I smile relieved. With amazing acting she sits down as if deeply shaken putting her hand to her head exclaiming how the trash had been stolen, as well as all the dirty dishes and countertop crumbs. Big Sis comforts her, resting a hand on her pink pajama shoulder, “it’s ok, it was probably just George, quite a sneaky fellow.” We giggle and they call me George the midnight maid.

Home Wreaker

Meet Christian mother, Virginia born, Oman-made orthodox. They pick me up in their Middle East version of a soccer mom van, unwieldy SUV, four rows of seats and two wheel drive. The girls are in floral dresses, long blonde ringlets, socks with the lace frills, smile and inspire in me images of the Poisonwood Bible and Mennonites I gawk at in Bob Evans. Car conversation dominated by religious discussion that I dance around. Attend late-night church service with my new American and Iraqi families. Service chanted in Arabic, thick incense fill the room, legs shake from standing, motions and forms somewhat familiar, but forgotten. Light a candle in the back. Surrounded by staring icons in gothic style. Ending the service by tearing and enjoying bites of leftover blessed sweet roles. Sacrilegious? Never mind just delicious. I speak with Lebanese lovers of poetry, smiling old women, and receive a nod from the head of the golden robed, gray bearded Priest.

Difficulties in meeting Omani women on the streets bypassed by Western-Omani mother’s invitation, I impose myself, pursue ungracefully via text message. Enter old woman’s house, she’s wrapped in swirling yellows and orange. Daughters and grandchildren scurry in and out. Greeting, disperse, serve tart kiwi and gritty tang. Dip fingers in water bowl, munch pale pink watermelon, juice drips down my hand. Newborn baby girl, eyes outlined in kohl, wriggles with bright deep eyes in my arms like starbursts. Her sister swings a tight braid, giggles and kisses baby’s forehead, plays in the water bowl, and dances her fingertips over the kiwi skins. Finally inside the home of an Omani family with plans to meet again as they play with my hair. That night I meet another daughter just down the street. We converse about being an Omani woman, scrapbooking, work, poetry, education, and children. After I take a long walk down the beach. Cool water, hot sand, cargo ships lining the horizon. Pick up small, swirling pink shells. Watch hermit crabs swim and scurry on wet sand. Moving from home to home and sea to land. I pick up empty houses, place them in my backpack. Hermit crabs scream up at me as they burrow into the sand while salty waters retreat and call me “home wreaker!”

Aisha

The cold sand kicked up into the dark night lit by a million stars and car headlights. In his baby blue polo and pressed khaki shorts, Prince* (nephew of the Sultan) dribbled the ball towards me and I readied my feet for the defense. As he attempted a sideways fake I remained unphased, leaned in, and slammed my shoulder into him knocking him and the ball out of their forward motion with my bare feet, sending Prince stumbling backwards. I rush by him with a sideways smirk as he steadies himself and rushes back into our desert soccer match on the desolate pitch tucked between sand dunes deep in the deserts of Oman.

The motivation for this was born from boredom and a determination to fulfill my duties as Watson fellow, as my friend reminded me, “eschew the known for the unknown” I wander from my campsite, tired of remaining amongst the half a dozen westerners who have secluded themselves from the group, and went in search of small children playing soccer. I saw Uncle Sayyid (cousin of the Sultan) standing from the top of a dune, back lit by the kitchen crew’s lights. I see him wave and I shout up at him, lacking formality or grace, “Hey! Do you have a soccer ball?” He takes a second to respond not quite understanding my broken Arabic demand. I climb the sand, stumbling as my feet sink and hands vainly seek to grasp something able to assist me. When I reach the top a small group has formed and they are chatting excitedly. You want a soccer match? Well here it is. We find a relatively flat surface, choose teams, around ten to a side, broken sandals as goal posts. Despite the lack of light, distinguishable teams, or proper foot ware, we play for almost an hour in the warm desert night. I play rough. Check the rich rally car driver, side swipe the man with the million dollar jeep, nutmeg members of the royal family, and never forget to apologize after. Our game ends as the goal posts disappear into the sand.

Prince attempts to lead the crowd to our next activity. His body guard stands next to him and booms loudly. All fall silent as Prince waves his hand in the air, speaking slowly and articulating with authority. The next game we soon name Steal the Sandal. Guess what the game entailed? After drawing a large circle into the sand we placed random mismatched sandals into the center with the objective being that the team on the outside had to steal the sandals without getting pinned, while the team on the inside had to protect the sandals and avoid getting dragged outside the circle. Brilliant game, a favorite of Oman children I am told. Within the first three and a half minutes of playing I am tackled to the ground and have a large Omani man sit on me to ensure that I do not scramble away with the dirty sandal. During our next round a few of the body guards have decided to make me their new mission and lock arms with me. When I break away to make a quick sprint into the circle for an attempt at victory I am knocked onto my back on the circle’s edge. A large man with an Omani flag shirt attempts to drag me back in by my feet while my body guard teammate grabs hold of my arms. I am now completely above the ground as I become a rope for this unusual game of tug of war. I cannot breathe from laughing so hard at my unusual circumstances.

Three honks of a distant car horn and it’s dinner time. I snag a cold juice box from the end of the dinner line, stand and attempt to mentally recover from the shock of our recent sporting activities. I hear “Aisha sit,” I realize I am being beckoned to sit near the royal family’s group and settle into the sand near my bodyguard at the feet of Uncle Sayyid. “Tea Aisha?” one man asks. I give him a puzzled look. In a brief moment of silence Uncle Sayyid looks at me, a twinkle in his eye, “Your name is Aisha now. A good name. Very good name.” The group looks to me and nods with approval. The youngest and most favored wife of the Prophet Muhammad (after his first wife Khadija). She is one of the strongest women in history, beautiful and fearless, leading men to battle, present for the beginnings of an empire. I blush unseen in night’s darkness. Previous nicknames have been related to the amount of food I eat or some shortcoming. This name is too big, I’m unworthy of a name that I associate with such grand deeds and romantic images of what it means to be a strong woman. “No,” Uncle Sayyid protests, “that is your name.”

As the younger crowd disperses to the Prince’s camp for a barbeque, shisha, and high class bull shitting; I remain with the blind singer who beautifully plays the oud while the tubla is passed around in accompaniment. I sit amongst the older Omani men as they clap and sing. At first I sit on the outskirts in the dark, but once I am noticed they shout, “Aisha come sit here!” They laughingly discuss my awkward Arabic and I receive a hearty round of applause when I briefly tell them what I am studying. I sit to the oud player’s left and become officially in charge of cracking open his beers and handing them to him. Drinking doesn’t count in the desert. We laugh, sing, clap, and enjoy a few good jokes at my expense in the night air until my new friend retrieves me to walk with her back to our campsite.

We drag our thin sleeping bags out onto the sand and lay under the bright stars. I stare up, unaware that this trip of chance would soon send me flying down Muscat streets in a red Ferrari, revving the engine of cars worth more than my college education and parent’s house combined, sipping toffee coffee with a beach view while exchanging photos with friends of royalty. What taking a small chance will lead to. Risks open roads otherwise unseen. And I with fresh confidence turn over my new name and smile at new desert companions who call me Aisha.

*my nickname for him… he is unaware of this fact.

“Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up and the door of my heart can be left open, the door of compassion” (TNH)

… and in some small ways I feel myself as multifaceted, unable to be confined longer to self-imposed cages of name and identity. Me and maybe more, even if in only by small chances and changes. I start a soccer game with strangers, salsa, and step though slightly shaking outside my self-created norms.

Wait... I feel like this whole thing sounds to heavy... like I've figured something out when I really haven't, let me just remedy this with a new ending thought: OMAN FRIGGIN' ROCKS!

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Some pics (not including the desert trip) http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2033127&id=35501566&l=543e3f49e3

Blanket Burrito

I feel like I can breathe again.

Rocky, green-less mountains border white Portuguese-style verandas, deep teal ocean, salty smells and frankincense drift. The cab rolls over the hills, winds along, my heart beat quickens and I breathe in a joyful calm. I forgot how deeply I could love a city- so busied by forcing acceptance of skyscrapers and traffic jams in the UAE. First impressions are a sentiment that I can carry with me throughout my journey in a country. The happiness that has filled me upon when my eyes first embraced Muscat is enough to instill me with optimism and inspire a sense of serenity without any other justification than to recall my first daylight view. It recalls to me images of Cape Town where mountains and man-made meet in harmony, but all below the rocky peaks are humbled and do not challenge their preeminence.

I caught an orange and white cab along a circle, negotiating the price with one foot still on the street. I was told the most I should pay is three so when he said four after some initial negotiating, I sighed and gave up with a “yulla.” We chatted a bit on the ride, but most of it was filled with my silent awe. As we pulled into Muttrah I handed him a five, waiting for my change. He turns back, handing me two rials in change. I look at him and insist, we agreed on four. He waves his hand dismissively, passing the two riyal in my direction. He drives away and I stare off into the mountains and ocean with a smile and happiness that cannot be expressed. I love you Oman. You remind me what it feels like to love where I am. Goodbye and so long to the sterile, chill, and plastic of the Emirates. (I do not mean to imply that this is completely what the emirates are about or that there is nothing redeeming, but to speak simply, that country does not resonate with me, I do not identity with it and that’s important in finding the bright aspects of a place and feeling that you have some stake in it).

My last night in Sharjah was one perhaps my most carefree, enjoyable night I experiences I had while in the UAE. After tearful parting with my host mother in Abu Dhabi, I hitched a ride to Dubai. It felt surreal as we drove amongst the shiny, imaginatively shaped, buildings that stretched high above our heads. Arriving at 7pm, we sat in traffic and eventually picked up my Marwa friends, marveled at a large meat-filled meal, a quick jaunt into a bar that made me realize how completely awkward I am, wearing salt-stained jeans and a wrinkled scarf amongst women in jeweled dresses and men in pressed shirts, happily returned to our new friend’s apartment, amused ourselves with an exceedingly entertaining looking cat named Lu lu, awoke at sunrise, hopped in a cab, they parted for Muscat, and I for Sharjah. In total I spent less than twelve hours in Dubai and couldn’t have been happier. I saw absolutely nothing of what I am supposed to see except in rushed glances in the hazy distance, but I don’t regret this. No man-made islands, no seven star hotels, or the tallest building known to man- I just got the hell out of there. I filled my first day in Sharjah by visiting many of its wonderful museums, wandering aimlessly alone amongst pottery scraps, ancient Qurans, and artistic Arabic calligraphy. I headed to Sharjah’s University City, which literally is a city unto itself. Filled with grand buildings and greatly removed from the rest of the city. During this time I attempted to hunt down some professors, talk with students, and attempted to sneak onto the American University in Sharjah and Sharjah University’s campuses, but was turned away. I’m quite a sketchy character I guess. Later I met up with Selwa, my former neighbor’s daughter, who attends Sharjah University where she convinced the guards to let me onto the campus and showed me her classes. We parted and I busied myself in the long, extended by traffic by chatting nostalgically about Egypt with the cab driver from Alexandria who had the same feeling about the UAE as me.

I met up with a new friend who took me to an Indian street food stand. Not knowing what any of the things on the menu where, she happily ordered for me. Our small silver dishes were handed to us and we sat at a crooked table on the street. The food was magic. The mixing of flavors, spicy, sweet, powerfully playing on my taste buds as my friend explained to me how each region in Indian is known for specific flavors and meals. I instantly wished that I had instead proposed my project as “street foods around the world” and was filled with a strong desire to take a long trip to India. The night was completed by meeting up with some other new friends while we sat around on a kitchen floor carving pumpkins in preparation for the next night’s Halloween party. Mine was in the shape of a bat. It was a glorious experience and I could not help but laugh out loud to myself as I looked at my hands sticky with orange pumpkin innards sitting in the small kitchen located in one of the most prominent countries of the Arab world. The image was completed the next night in an apartment full of Indians, Pakistanis, and a few British ghouls, draculas, and variously appareled angels who filled the rooms with flickering candles and the smell of spicy potato somosas. We danced, sang, and ate until four in the morning listening to a mix of Pink Floyd, Dire Straits, and Bollywood favorites. With my paper wings ripping from the back of my dress, loosely hanging onto a borrowed fairy wand, I’m tired and content- best Halloween ever.

The next morning I am off on a bus to Dubai then Muscat. Beautiful scenery greets me and makes me happy despite my border crossing troubles. At one point I have to take everything out of my bag, which took me almost an hour to pack properly, because a drug sniffing dog thought I was suspicious. After unrolling all my clothes and awkwardly going through my personal items as the rest of the bus watched annoyed, the guard asked if I had shoes or food in my bag, which would likely throw off the dog. Umm..DUH! And despite the fact the bus driver kept threatening to leave me behind and would not let me properly repack my bag, which ended up meaning my plug adaptor was lost inside the bus’s belly, I was unperturbed. I arrive in Muscat opening sleepy eyes as the bus bulls to a stop at Ruwi Station. I wait for my ride in the warm night air, leaning against a phone booth, smiling at my luck to have someone to pick me up and a place to spend the night. My previous plans for an apartment had come to a doomed end and last minute begging and my luck of having good friends of friends saved the day. My new friend, who I soon come to see as an older, wiser, kickass sister picks me up and immediately takes me to her friend’s house where we spend the rest of the night playing chicken foot dominos (awesome game) and eating butter crackers and spicy jam. Big Sis’s villa is perfect, funky, and unintimidating. She’s got a drum kit in her room, an oven that doesn’t work, and she lives across the street from an amusement park. All in all- wonderful. The next day my big sis and I spend the morning discussing various things including the importance of flossing. She drops me off at the closest circle to her house and I catch a ride to Muttrah Souk where I am meeting two of the Maple leaf girls. Then we are back to the beginning.

The girls and I catch up on new dramas, eat bland hummus that I douse with hot sauce, sip sweet nostalgic watermelon juice, and amble slowly along the cornice and through the souk. I leave them to their prayer and I’m given a ride home by a sweet taxi driver, on old man who, after we take a little bit at looking at a map to figure out where I live, gives me a map and waits until I am able to get into my home before he leaves. The people here seem generous and helpful beyond compare. I know it is perhaps too early to judge such things, but I’ve got a good feeling about this and that can make all the difference. I return back home and head out with my big sis to dinner with one of her friend’s and his co-workers. We chat casually, I impress myself with my ability to not sit too awkwardly, keep up a good conversation, and enjoy a sizzling calamari dish and lackluster mashed potatoes. A cover band plays Billy Jean while one of the tipsy older women and I dance alone on the floor. I drive us home without accident or incident. I floss my teeth with a renewed enthusiasm for dental hygiene and smile at the wonders of Oman. I wish now that I hadn’t bought my plane ticket back to Jordan and signed up for the Arabic class in Tunisia while I was in Abu Dhabi, but at that point I had lost much of my hope. It just means that I will have to hit the ground running here and will hopefully ensure that not a second will be wasted while I’m here.

I almost never sleep under the covers. I lay on the tangerine orange bedspread and wrap myself with the covers like a burrito. Sigh. Happy.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Queen Lu lu and I (photo courtesy of Mara) : )