In Search of the Real Kuwait

After being in Kuwait only 10 days I can hardly expect to be an expert on the city.  My first days have been taken up with shopping and preparing to start a new job.  I travel back and forth and see little of what I expect is the heart of the city.  I am exhausted and have retired to bed when evening comes, and miss the life that starts here at sundown.  I pass buildings that show little evidence of being in use, and the school where I work is still empty of students. So I still have little feel for what I call the "real Kuwait".   This is not the western style shopping malls with their food courts full of chain restaurants and international brand names. I know the locals shop and eat there, but where is their food?

What stores sell their clothing, the white robes for men, and the black burkas for women? Where are their antique stores, handicraft and souvenirs of Kuwait? The Arabic language makes everything look quite authentic and ethnic, but the signs usually advertise a western company.  This sign is TGI Fridays.  And even the local fast-food places sell Lebanese, Indian or Chinese.
A teacher pointed me in the direction of yet another mall that she said sold cheaper products. I stepped in to the large multistory building and gazed at the racks and racks of what seemed to be the same item of clothing. I assumed they must be uniforms for school. One alcove displayed bows of all kinds, but of only one color...pink.

As the hour got later, the mall filled up. All the women shopping were in black and the men in white. There was a call to prayer and the men took up their position in the center of the shopping area to pray. I not only felt out of place, I felt like I was intruding. This was not my culture, I was dressed in too much color and showing too much skin.  We left.
The city of Kuwait, where I live is similarly colorless. The landscape is sandy, with sand colored buildings and no variety of paint color.  The majority of the cars and buses are white. The sky is a hazy white.  The little bit of greenery is baked dry in the sun or is covered in dust. There are no window boxes or washing hanging out to dry.  I find myself looking for color.
One way to get an insight into a people is to go through the process of applying for a visa in that country. It is a gruesome ordeal which consists mainly of standing in lines for hours on end. (The longest I stood in line was for my US visa - 7 hours.)  You must stand before workers behind windows, be patient, follow directions precisely, not ask questions and be

 ready for the process to break down at any step.
As a new teacher I went on a bus at 6 am to do necessary medical exams.  We were marched in, lined up, divided into men and women, and gestured at.  It seemed like we were going to the front of the line, and hurried through.  One room took my picture, and stamped my passport, another gave me a vial, and stamped my passport, then in another they took my blood, and stamped my passport... then I undressed, posed for an x-ray and had my passport stamped one more time. There really wasn't much time waiting in line, but I did find the time to examine one office.  This worker obviously liked his job and had decided that the place needed some decorations. I was intrigued by the collection of antiques and tacky souvenirs: old coke bottles, a 50 year old TV, radio and telephone, a tin of powdered milk and an huge rat trap.  A delightfully colorful collection of meaningful stuff! It reminded me of someone's grandmother's house, full of history and memories.  Not bad for a place that deals with blood and form stamping.

The truth is that, where I live most people are transplants like me.  I live in a building with other teachers who have moved here to work in the American School.  The neighborhood is home to workers from India, Bangladesh, Pakistan and the Philippines. We have all come here and brought a bit of our own culture with us, our food, language, dress and religion. And foreignness has crowded out the true Kuwait.  I will have to venture further out, away from home, and scratch the surface of the flat, colorless landscape to find the real culture here... the culture that was here before all of us foreigners arrived.
But I do appreciate their allowing us in.  The sheer number of people who are going through this visa process with me is testament to the size of the Kuwaiti welcome.  I am also aware that I have it easier than others. My school has "wasta", an Arabic word meaning clout.  And that "wasta" will open doors for me and allow me in to places that would normally be closed to foreigners. But it is up to me to take advantage of those open doors and pass through and find the real Kuwait.

Middle East Reboot

I recently moved to Kuwait.  Other than a quick visit to Egypt 25 years ago, I have little Middle East experience and didn't know what to expect. I knew it would be hot, but I wasn't prepared for the kind of heat that hits you like someone has lit a furnace and is blowing it in your face.  We arrived at night, but that made little difference to the temperature outside the plane.
The airport of Kuwait City is a mall with some some officials sitting behind desks ready to stamp you into the country or sell you a visa.

I found myself trying to take in the new sights and reconcile them with the very familiar. Burger King, Caribou Coffee and Cinnabon sold to elegantly robed Kuwati men strolling by holding hands. The women awkwardly perched their sunglasses on the veils of their burkas.  Ben followed a sign to the toilets, only to come back confused..."There is no stool."
The next day started early with a call to prayer at 3:30 am.  I got my first view of the city with its sand colored buildings and mosques.  I can hardly bare to go outside, it is so hot.  But we need groceries and phones.  So we head to the biggest mall of the city, the Avenues.

They have all our needs inside a covered area made to look like small streets complete with palm trees and cafes.  Many of the women are clad in black, but that doesn't stop Victoria Secrets from displaying their underwear.  We look at cable TV packages which include all the channels we have in the US, but the man who sets up our new phones is clad in traditional dress and head cloth.  But most of the people working here are not Arab.  The lady getting our turtle mocha is Filipino, and many of the small business owners are Indian.
Everyone speaks excellent English except for our taxi driver. We had just come from IKEA, which has a prayer room right next to the toilets. Jon was confused why they required you to remove your shoes to use the bathroom.  Outside a man was anxious to take us home by taxi.  We agreed on a price and he led us down into a parking garage.  There we climbed into a brand new vehicle and set off towards our neighborhood.  As we approached it was obvious that the driver did not know where to go, and neither did we.  We had to drive around until we saw the palm trees that border our apartment complex.

This is the only green in the neighborhood.  Of course, the driver had no change and so we ended up giving him far too many KD$.
It is not the first time I have been overcharged by a taxi.  After that, shopping seemed easy.  We went to the familiar grocery stores with western products.  I was surprised to see bacon, but everything is beef or chicken.  Then I came upon the dried food all laid out in open containers: dried fruit, nuts, grains and rice.  I might get up the courage to try them all out, but not today.

We were anxious to get WiFi and went across the road to see what the local shop had to offer us.  Unfortunately all the new teachers had the same thought.  There are about 30 new hires who all arrived the same day, and live in the same apartment complex.  So the store was crammed and the Indian owner was doing his best.  In excellent English he dished out tech advice, took cash, offered us all Red Bull and joked that his wife was waiting in the car.  I noticed his son hovering outside the door. His wife entered and pointed out that they were late for a party.  As the store cleared out, she entered again and waited with an impatient face by the door.  I felt her pain, and told her husband that we would come back another day.  The WiFi could wait, he could go to his party.
It had been a long day for us, and I couldn't begin to write about all the new we were seeing and experiencing. But I make the effort to recall the details, because soon those same experiences will become mundane, and I will no longer see the point of recording them.
The next day we visited the American School where we will

be teachers.  Now I am quite at home in international schools, and have visited many. For this reason I felt I had the right to judge and compare, often not favorably, what I saw.  This is not nearly such a satisfying way to approach a new experience or job.
Later that night I decide to try the washing machine in our apartment.  I turned it on, but nothing happened.  There was no manual to read, no one to call, and I jiggled buttons and tested taps. Finally I simply turned it off and restarted the machine.  It came on with the sound of water running and proceeded to wash my load. This is a great way for me to approach my new home, with fresh eyes, and without bringing too much baggage along.

Celebrating Rio

Watching the opening ceremony of the Rio Olympics last night brought back so many memories of the city where I was born and where my children spent their first years of life.  During the 5 hour show there was plenty of time to share thoughts and memories with others who were also watching.  We'd reach out with "Do you remember?" and respond with, "Yes, I'll never forget."
After the delegation of the Marshall Islands walked in, the online posts showed an ex-student and colleague of ours proudly representing the small island community,  "Did you see?" and "Yes, I wouldn't miss this!"

I confess that I am approaching these Olympic games with mixed feelings.  I am eager to see Rio again, but am fully aware of the challenges the city faces in hosting these games.  I lived in Barra, taught in the school in Gavea, sailed down the coast to Ilha Grande and experienced the joys of trying to get from place to place in a city that is as geographically impossible as it is beautiful.  If any had asked my opinion of holding the games there, I would respond that it is impossible.  But this is what is being attempted, and without the support a stable government or financial security.
The traffic and water quality are undesirable.  One New Year's Eve we attempted to sail our boat from Botafogo around Sugar Loaf and see the fireworks off Copacabana Beach.  We got stuck in traffic and barely got out of the marina before midnight.  Later we moved our boat down the coast in search of cleaner water.  The boat was a constant worry, with kids and engine problems, but it was a huge part of our memories of that time.

So I watch the opening ceremony with anticipation. Will they pull it off, or will it be embarrassingly poor in comparison to past performances? After it was all over I found myself looking for articles that told me what the media thought of the show.  This is like reading a review for a movie or book after enjoying it yourself. We want to know if we are on the same page.  The articles agreed with my opinion of the ceremony, and I could satisfactorily accept that Rio's directors had got their point across;  despite everything, the games will go on and they will move us.  The most memorable moments of the games will be those that were achieved despite difficulty and against great odds.
Living in Rio was not easy.  Just getting to work every day on time was a challenge.  We were not so much bothered by crime, but by the amount of time it took to get anything done.  The city has little flat areas, making buildings hang on cliffs, and roads go through small tunnels.  We lived within site of the beach, but couldn't get there without sitting in traffic, and during the summer there is absolutely no parking available.

Yet we were outside all the time, at the beach, pool or in the forest.  The children were probably not the best age for sailing, but most of our pictures of them at that time were on or around the boat.  Looking back now, I realize that our
lifestyle would not have been possible without good childcare and good friends.
The friends we made in Rio are now all over the world, making the lives of others easier and brighter.  We move from place to place and take some of the sparkle of Rio with us.

I waited for the lighting of the Olympic flame, in anticipation.  I had heard that Pele had canceled his appearance only days before and there was a lot of talk of how this part of the ceremony would compare to others.  At first I was disappointed in the size of the small ball of flame being raised into the air.  And then a beautifully intricate chandelier unfolded and twirled, reflecting light around the stadium.  I was moved to tears by its unexpected beauty and I felt it was a fitting end to the show, leaving us with the memory of light being scattered in all directions and forever burning bright.  Well done, Rio!

Pigfection #onlyinamerica

Surely I am not the only one who did a double take when driving past this Arby's sign.  After my initial thought that it was a misspelling, or some over ambitious fast-food worker's bright idea, I realized that this was part of a nationwide campaign based on the saying "roasted to pigfection".  For those unfamiliar with that saying, the sign seems to be spreading swine flu, my family's unfortunate take on it. If infection does not immediately come to mind when you read this, then you start drooling while imagining pigging out on perfect bacon. I love this: an idea that doesn't really work, but the US has taken it and run with it, knowing that, amidst the jeers, tweets, cringes and disapproval, the idea will spread like wild fire.  (How else can you explain Trump's nomination and following?)
The local county fair is full of ideas that anywhere else would never have taken off, but in this rural farming community have become more popular than corn-dogs (another unfortunate name for food).

 On Sunday the entries start to pour in. Anything and everything is accepted, just find a category to register it in.  I stood for quite a while puzzling over the grasses and some other items in jars resembling weeds. Each stem was carefully labelled and ribbons awarded.  I'd love to meet the person who entered the champion corn stalk.  Did they grow it from seed? Or did they pull it out of a neighbor's field?  And what criteria does a judge use to choose a prize green bean?
Of course, the fair is not only for judging entries, and there are plenty of vendors and special interest groups represented.  The Conservation building is just as puzzling to me.  The first time I entered I expected a ecological green message, but found only fishing and hunting booths.  Mounted heads and stuffed fish decorated the walls and you could get everything you needed to start killing wildlife.
I'm sure you can imagine the political booths.  Minnesota is traditionally a Democratic state, but that doesn't stop the Republicans pushing their candidate for president.

A TRUMP poster is not enough, and they have a larger than life cut out image for people to take selfies with.  The truth is that, where I would simply ignore a poster, I can hardly resist the opportunity to take a selfie with the man himself! Bad idea or not, it's a draw.
Half of the car-park is given over to campers.  The fairground campground has grown in popularity each year.  The obvious question is "why camp out here when you only live 20 minutes away?"  I decided to stay the night and find out for myself.  I stayed in a ghetto of relatives and friends of relatives.  The children run wild, and tend to the animals they will be showing tomorrow. The expensive campers are decorated with strings of lights and we spend the evening eating and talking under the stars.  About 10:30pm I seek out the shower house before bed.  The place is overrun with families trying to get their children clean, and the hot water has long since run out.  I give up on showering and head for bed.  The place still resembles a playground with children getting lost and found in the shadows and neon lights.

As I try to fall asleep, I am still mulling over the 4H rabbit show.  I was looking forward to this; the rabbits pose, get bundled about and generally look cute.  The kids showing their beloved pets are just as cute.  I'm smiling after watching the "Cloverbuds", then I hear the next category announced as "Friers",  Excuse me? What?  Apparently these adorable pets will be eaten as soon as the fair is over.  I find out that I am the only one who doesn't know this.  These kids are raising meat and no one even so much as raises an eyebrow.  I wonder if a blue ribbon tastes better than a red.
In the morning I wake up and the fairground is all business. It is pig day and senior citizen day.

They both get started early.  The seniors have difficulty getting around, so some of the animals come out to them. A young girl and her llama cross my path.  He is there for the seniors to pet.  Whose idea was that?  I resist getting bitten by a llama because I am late for the pig show.
I am no longer under the illusion that these are pets.  In my ignorance I assume the biggest, beefiest (porkiest) pigs will win.  I join the grandparents and parents in the stands to watch the kids bring out their enormous pigs.  The driving tool resembles a whip that is used to make the animals walk around the ring.  The whole thing resembles a circus with the judge as the ringmaster.  He expertly discusses feet, balance and hind quarters.  I wonder who first had the idea to have children choose a pig at random and then compete to which one turned out the best at the end of the summer. It seems like a variation of the biggest pumpkin growing contest. When this week is over, the prize pig will become bacon, and congratulations will be given to the child who watched it grow. Hardly fair, in my opinion.

But, of course, my opinion is irrelevant here. There is no denying the attraction of the pigs at the fair.  I join the crowd and watch the ringmaster define pigfection.

Horseradish Wine

I have been coming to the Freeborn County Fair every summer for the last 25 years.  Around here people have been going all their lives.  After working all year, they get together to celebrate their hobbies, interests and pleasures.
At first I didn't get it.  I had never heard of the country band playing on Friday night.  I am not in love with pigs enough to watch them waddle about an echoing shed.  All the fried food is hard to stomach, and the caged area referred to as the "beer garden" is a bit intimidating. I am already planning on avoiding the political booths this year.  My children have no exhibits in the 4H building nor do I have friends to bump into and catch up with.  Every year I go... and feel foreign.
Then this year I was asked to help out with the homemade wine judging. Interested, I showed up early ready to work.

Nothing was happening yet, so I cornered one of the judges about her wine making experience and asked how the judging worked.  She expertly explained the categories, the spitting and the use of electric light bulbs in judging clarity.  She also told me of how the jalapeno wine last year had ruined her taste buds for the rest of the evening.
I then perused the wines; dessert wines like black cherry and chocolate raspberry sounded good.  There were other fruity wines: plum, peach sangria, pear and lots of apple.  I wasn't sure about the tomato, potato and rhubarb.

I found out that my job was to wash the wine glasses between rounds of tasting.  I rolled up my sleeves and listened to the other ladies talk.  They spoke of past fairs and exhibits, their flowers and baked goods, animals, gardens and grand-kids.  I joined in... and we bonded in the time it took to wash and dry over 1000 wine glasses.
The formal judging over, it was our turn to start tasting the wines.  Everyone had an opinion.  The green apple was too sweet, and the French Merlot lacked body.  The horseradish was surprisingly good if you weren't put off by the smell.

I sat down to eat with another glass of chocolate wine, between a lady Lutheran pastor and a special ed teacher.  I found I could follow their conversation, recognizing the names of teachers and the pastor who married me all those years ago.  It could have been the vodka wine (the winner, by the way), but I had no trouble fitting in.
The county fair brings people together who have similar passions and, just like the horseradish wine, it is surprisingly enjoyable after you get past the awkwardness that goes along with being different.