"Welcome to Kuwait!"

"Welcome to Kuwait" is a phrase I keep hearing from other expats. It is equivalent to me saying, "Welcome to the world of rational numbers!" to my Middle school math students. It is more of a warning that the most bizarre and incomprehensible is still to come.  When I make a comment about some aspect of Kuwaiti life that seems unreasonable, the response is always, "Welcome to Kuwait!"
Since we arrived we have been working on trying to understand how our phone plans work.  This involves a trip to the main shopping mall to track down a representative at the phone store. We choose a plan, pay and leave.  A week later we get a message..."Activate your phone". ???
So we go back to the mall and to find out what we need to do to be able to use the phones we were under the impression we had paid for.  The representative looks at us like we are old and senile, "Put money on it!" he says.  We question the need to put more money on an account that was only just opened and activated. "Just put money on it!" We have no other choice than to use the cash machine to put more money on the

account and our phones work.  A few days later our data is cut off. We receive another message telling us we need to choose another internet plan. As we trek back yet again to the phone store in the mall I start to appreciate the wisdom of the unlimited plan. This time we are told, "Use the machine to recharge your phone."  Didn't we just do that???? Again the representative does not understand our reluctance to simply pay the suggested amount and walks us over to the machine and guides us through the payment options. We accept defeat and pay the money.  As we walked away we received yet another message warning us that we didn't have enough credit for our data plan.  This time I took a seat while Jon sought the help of another representative.  "Just pay more money, sir."
I accepted a drink served to me from a silver coffee pot. The unusual karak tea temporarily distracted me from the fact that we still had no idea how our phone plan worked and why we kept having to add more money.  When I asked my colleagues they simply smiled and said, "Welcome to Kuwait!"

We had the same reaction when we told people of the difficulty we were having getting our shipped items cleared through customs.  Most people were amazed we had even attempted a shipment to Kuwait.  Our main frustration was that our shipping company seemed to have no influence when it came to obtaining the correct documents, dealing with customs officials, or generally gaining audience with the right person who could make things happen.  The shipping company, of course, did not employ local Kuwaitis. So, over the course of a month, we became accustomed to receiving text messages in broken English late at night with a request for an unheard-of document, large sum of money or an appearance at some mystery location early the next morning. Well, what did we expect, people pointed out... "Welcome to Kuwait!"  Just as we were giving up all hope of ever seeing the inside of our boxes, and had all but forgotten the contents, one early morning visit to the port resulted in a container-load of our belongings being delivered to our door. And I have spent the day unpacking all those unnecessary items like corkscrews, umbrellas and other promising white elephant gifts.

So the phrase "Welcome to Kuwait!" is more in tune with "You're not in Kansas any more!" If you move to the Middle East, then you can't expect everything to work like it did in the west. I am having to adjust my reaction to these differences and expect something completely unexpected.
"Welcome to what will be!"

Tang, Tea and Tradition

It never fails... I go somewhere new with my own mundane expectations, and find so much more. I went with a group to the Al-Mubarakiya Souk in the center of Kuwait City anticipating an afternoon of experiencing a market place like many others around the world. I wanted to feast my eyes on the colors of the local artisans, poke around in shops full of culture, and eat some local delicacies in a vibrant setting.
If I had read the travel guides beforehand, I would have found that I was going at the wrong time. Three in the afternoon during the summer is simply too hot. Many of the shops were closed and not even the cats were stirring.
The market covers a large area, so we did our best to visit it all. Most shops had cheap clothes, but nothing I would wear. There were brightly colored blankets, (in this heat??) but no sign of the carpets we were hoping for.  The fruit and vegetables were stacked in a beautiful array, but the smell of the fish market next door was off-putting. We wandered around the meat market and saw lots of offensive sheep parts, but most were unmanned, as if their owners had taken the day off.

We walked past a small counter behind which a man was brewing a large kettle over a wood fire. I found I was too hot for coffee, but I was able to buy water.  Only then did I realize that all the coffee drinkers were men. No women sat on the pillowed benches of the coffee houses. And the businesses were run by all men.
We went in search of cool drink in the food area where  families were eating. Others had already ordered food and we sat down to a plastic covered table strewn with small plastic plates. There was fresh, hot pita bread, hummus, tabbouleh and cucumber yogurt. Nothing too out of the ordinary.  Then I realized there were no forks, knives, plates or napkins.  I was brought up in a culture that does not touch its food and will even eat a sandwich with a knife and fork.
So I nibbled on the bread dipped in hummus and tried not to think of the mess I was making.

When it was time to leave I found I was not ready.  I suddenly realized that I was not seeing all there was to see in this market, dwelling instead on how it wasn't up to what I wanted it to be.
Curious as to how the delicious bread was made, I walked round the back side of the kitchens and found an open door. The bakers must have been taking a break from shaping and slapping the flat bread to the inside of the oven. Instead they were busy grilling the kebabs and kafta. Not something I'd like to be involved with on such a hot afternoon.
Going further we seemed to find places we hadn't been to, or maybe they just looked different now the shops were opening for business. I found all the shops with piles of spices in bins, the shelves loaded with boxes of tea, and every other available space was taken up with towers of TANG. Why the space-age orange powder? It turns out it is a tradition, as almost everything is in this place. The shops sell the same things they have been selling for decades.  It is the oldest market in the city, and the crudest. No efforts have been made

to modernize it.  Hence the terrible smells that follow you around, and not only near the fish.  The water taps don't work, and even the cats look worn down.  This is the opposite of the modern malls that have taken over the rest of the city. Instead of ATM machines they have a whole street of money changers. These men sit at a glass counter above a case of piles of paper notes. I've heard they run a good business because they offer competitive rates.
Encouraged by the new business activity, we went in search of some carpets. Although most were opening up about 5:00 pm, we noticed that there were piles of carpets lying about in corners and alcoves with no one caring if they were carried off. Carpet theft must be unheard of here.
Mohammed welcomed us into his Persian carpet shop called "The Three Brothers". He gave us a short lesson in carpet quality, thread-count, and labor time. Thankfully he was happy to instruct and did not try to sell us anything.

As we hurried to get our ride home we realized that we hadn't bought anything. We felt like we should have come away with something!  But there wasn't anything we really needed other than some exposure to tradition and some instruction into what makes tradition so valuable.

What You Won't See in Mahboula

When describing my neighborhood, it is more effective to discuss what you won't see here. Mahboula is a 'suburb' of Kuwait City which has become a housing complex for immigrant workers. I use the term 'suburb' loosely because it conjures up images of quiet residential streets outside of the hustle and bustle of the city's business center.
Mahboula is not that. This brings us to the first noticeable absence: Kuwaitis.  The residents are a melting pot of workers from the Indian subcontinent and East Asia, with some westerners thrown in.

The nearby hole-in-the-wall restaurants advertise "Arabic, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Filipino and Chinese Food." There are many from other countries in the Middle East who speak Arabic, but mostly they get by with English. If I was more knowledgeable about these cultures, I would be able to tell them apart by their dress. Their traditional clothing is strikingly different... from each other and from the local Kuwaitis.
You will not see grass in this neighborhood.  Of course this is the desert and nothing was here before the buildings sprung up in the last ten years. But no one has bothered to plant grass or do any sort of landscaping. The cricket players and footballers play on the open sand lots.

The building entrances are right on the dusty road giving them an unfinished look, like their residents are living in a construction zone.
You won't see sidewalks or pavements in this neighborhood.  Everyone drives, takes a taxi, or is transported in a company bus to their work.  The buses take workers out to the oil fields, or in to the city where they work in the service industry or construction, then back home late at night. There is no one out for a pleasure stroll and my family stands out as we walk about, dodging cars, looking for a eating place.
I also stand out because you don't see women in my neighborhood.  Most of the immigrant workers are men, but there must be wives and families somewhere.  I haven't seen any out on the streets.  Women don't venture out alone, nor do they work in the small businesses here.  All the salons, or as one was signed: "saloon", cater to men only.  I've been told that if I want a haircut here I will have to find a place three floors up behind an unmarked door.  All the local gyms are also "men only". There is no wonder the women stay indoors.

After a few days here I noticed other basic businesses that were missing.  There are no bookstores, newsagents or magazine kiosks here.  This is not a culture that reads, except on their phones.  There are two phone stores on each block.
I also began to wonder why there were no banks, ATM machines, or gas stations.  Surely these are facilities that are both necessary and lucrative.  My only explanation for why there are none is that Kuwait wants us to remain foreigners and not feel too much at home.  This is not our home, we are not Muslim, do not speak Arabic and have no part of the oil wealth.  We must live here as strangers in a foreign land, and not forget that fact.  Life can't become too comfortable. We must be made to feel some hardship and lack of convenience.
'Mahboula', literally translated, means "mad woman", and that is the mentally ill meaning of mad.  True to its name, the area is chaotic and without order.  However, it reminds me that I am no longer at home and truly overseas living a life experienced by thousands of others who up until now were only a headline to me or a picture in a magazine.

Lavatory, Restroom, WC or Toilet?

We visit public restrooms in the the places we travel, and they tell us something of the culture we are in.  I have been in inviting ones, ones I'd rather not use, and those super modern hi-tech featured ones.  I sometimes have to watch the other users of the facility in order to pick up necessary information.  While in some airports I find that whatever triggers the water or towel dispenser is a mystery. In Frankfurt I had to watch the other passengers before discovering the soap dispenser disguised as a water tap.  And, perhaps the most necessary clues I gleaned were from the users of Europe's oldest toilets in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I couldn't read the signs and had to watch into which door men entered, and then followed behind the women.
Ben had his first Kuwait restroom experience in the airport as we were awaiting the arrival of our luggage.  He followed the clearly marked TOILETS sign, but didn't make it in because of an attendant who might be charging an entrance fee at the door. Since we didn't have any local currency I encouraged Ben just to walk on in. Later he came back with the report that they seemed to be under construction because there were no actual toilets. I laughed at the idea that Ben had never before experienced the hole in the floor type of facility.
Jon was the next to experience the mystery of the men's room while shopping in IKEA. He followed signs to the toilets and wondered why everyone was taking their shoes off to go inside. It turned out that the men's room was actually a prayer room.  Fortunately the restroom attendant directed him to the right door and allowed him to enter with his shoes on.

My first Kuwait restroom experience was in the huge Avenues mall which draws quite a crowd on the weekend. I followed the international sign depicting a woman, and found myself in some back hallways leading away from the main shopping area. An attendant jumped up to usher me into a mirrored room where some other ladies were waiting. After several minutes I was curious to see what I was waiting for, and ventured through the room into another area with doors. In a space that could have fit 10 to 15 stalls, there were four glass doors.  Although the glass was smoked, I could clearly see what seemed to be four women and lots of black material being flapped about. This went on for quite a while until finally one burka clad woman came out. Another lady who was waiting, instead of taking her turn, called another attendant to come and clean out the room before she entered. This took a while, and we all waited for the cleaner to finish her job. I was getting tired of waiting, so when another room became vacant, I darted in, not caring if it was cleaned before I entered. The room was large, with high-end fixtures and a very wet floor. A shower hose coming from the wall had been used for washing, which is probably quite difficult to manage in a burka. I washed my hands in the polished bowl set into a granite counter, but couldn't find any towels.  Leaving, I found a blow drier in the first waiting room.  The awkward placement of it was just one of the unanswered questioned I had about that facility.  I still don't know why there is an attendant sitting outside. Not much can be revealed in the toilets of a Kuwait woman's restroom.