I have been in Saudi Arabia for 17 months now and I don’t think I have written anything about things I have learned since I’ve been here. Well, in honour of it being 2009, I will give you a brief little synopsis of things I have learned since being in the Middle East. Each day, I will delight you with the annoying and funny things that have helped brighten, dull, and bring a few more grey hairs to my life. I give to you, today, the mobile/cellular phone.

First off, I hate mobile phones. Sure, they are practical and handy if you get a flat tire at night and need someone to get you before the hillbillies come out of the woods to give you a good ass-raping, but I just don’t like them. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen too many people driving down the freeway and texting somebody. Or maybe it’s because you’ll see people out walking together, a phone stapled to their ear, completely ignoring the person they are with in order to talk to somebody else. I just find it baffling behaviour.

But here, where a landline is about as useful as a “I love George W Bush” t-shirt in any country in the world, the mobile phone is the way to go. Most landlines here are used to dial the number of the next villa on your compound. I’ve used mine to call my friend’s Peter and Roger who live in my building. I get the occasional call in from home on them; but I have never dialed a number outside of my building. Apparently, and I can’t be quoted on this, the landline rates for long distance calls are triple what I pay on my mobile anyway.

When the mobile phone can be considered your social outlet, it is a good thing that you don’t have to deal with contracts and payment plans, and other incentives when you go and purchase one. All you have to do is walk into one of the thousands of mobile phone and electronics stores here, find the phone you like, find the store that offers it for the cheapest price, and then barter with the bloke behind the counter and get it for even cheaper. You will get a sim card to operate the thing, all the cables and manuals you need, and the reassurance that you haven’t signed your life away. Every mobile phone company here, and there are several, are pay as you go systems. Buy a phone card with a set amount of Riyals on it and phone or text until your fingers or ears fall off.

When buying a mobile phone in Saudi Arabia, the best feature you can have is the ability to bluetooth messages, photos, and other things to other bluetooth enabled phones. For the single person, or the married asshole that pretends he/she is single, the bluetooth feature is your key to the dating world. I have seen this first hand, but it hasn’t happened to me (okay, I have been sent phone numbers but when I look around the only people on mobile phones or within the vicinity are men!). I have seen men and women making eye contact in the mall and food courts, then dropping pieces of paper for the other one to pick up. This piece of paper, of course, is their phone number. It is quite the interesting system. The younger men are all pomp and bravado, strutting around like sexually frustrated peacocks. The women, hiding behind their abayas, are all seductive eyes and tease. Every time they look at you you can tell they are thinking, “I’m not exactly sure what it is called that I want you to do to me, but I want you to do it to me.” It can be quite scary at times. I’ve managed to avoid this (looking at your feet is a great thing over here).

Well, I do recall one time my first month when I had run across to the mall and timed it poorly as it was shut for one of the 5 daily prayer calls. I was sitting on a bench waiting for the bookstore to open and a mother and her two daughters sat down beside me. Okay, so I can’t be sure if it was a mother and two daughters because all I could see were their eyes but for sake of argument let’s just call them that. The mother starts talking to me in pretty good English, asking me where in America I’m from. I tell her I grew up in Canada and am not American. She turns to the girl beside her, says something in Arabic, and then they switch seats and both start staring at me. Mom is doing all the talking, the younger one just looking straight at me. I noticed that she had a son with them who was standing around so I offered him my seat and he took it, thus enabling me to get away.

I’ve stopped having my phone bluetooth enabled because I got tired of all the incoming images and “junk mail” I would get from the phone service providers. Getting phone numbers from strangers is one thing, getting chapters from the Qu’ran is something completely different. Maybe I would appreciate it more if all the messages weren’t in Arabic. Somehow, I don’t think this is the case though.

Phone rates aren’t too bad either to be honest. I can send a text message to my Aunt in England for the equivalent of around 8 pence. If I phone my parents in Canada it costs me about a quarter of the price as it does for them to call me. I haven’t tried it yet, but my phone has two cameras on it so I could actually partake in a video call if the person I was calling had the same system enabled on their phone.

So as much as I oppose the mobile phone, my life here in Saudi would be incomplete without one. It isn’t a stretch to say that most people will buy a mobile phone as their first purchase once they arrive in the Kingdom. When your whole life revolves around it, it is good to know that you have a little choice as well. Because you know me, I’d hate to be like everyone else.

Cheers,
the Penguin
 

I know, I have been gone forever. I’m still trying to sort out why my computer at home will not access writing.com. The page opens up, but the screen is white, it says “Done” in the bar down at the bottom, and no matter how many times I hit “refresh” it stays exactly the same. While I miss the writing; I miss reading the blogs the most. I can’t sit around at work for the hour or so it takes me to read all the blogs I read so I’m kind of at a loss. The nearest Internet cafe to my house is a good trek away too. Hopefully, I’ll be able to figure something out soon enough so I can start being a contributing member on this website again.

But what better way to come back to the blog than to hit you with some random silliness and a view that perhaps I might be the only one to have. So, please, take a seat, grab a cup of your favorite beverage, and enjoy the warped and twisted insights into a mind with too much time to think. I only hope this madness doesn’t scare Kate away.

While we all find the obscure fascinating, I also find ways to fascinate myself thinking about things that probably shouldn’t be thought of. Take for instance, the effect of the cold on body parts. Why is it, that on cold days, a certain part on a boy shrinks, and certain parts on a girl expand? Is it fair that when a woman has her high beams poking out enough to hang your jacket from you have an appendage that looks like a frightened turtle? And don’t get me started on why you stand long and tall when your math teacher wanted you to come to the front of the class to answer a question. Of course you were in sweat pants as well. Anyways, enough of that. It’s time for the real reason behind this blog.

I find yawning a curious habit indeed. When someone yawns, your natural reaction is to yawn right back. Why is that? In fact, I have seen at a zoo where a person was watching the monkeys and the person yawned and shortly thereafter, the monkey who was watching the person watch him, also yawned. Whether or not this is an argument for evolution I’m not going to debate, but I do find it somewhat funny.

I am not alone in this yawning conspiracy either. I know plenty of people that suffer from sympathy yawns when they see someone else do it. I don’t even have to be tired to yawn if someone else has! I wouldn’t jump off a bridge just because they did – but I will yawn because they did. Pretty darn crazy don’t you think?

And here’s another one. This one is a little on the disgusting side but such is life. Whenever I hear, or see, or smell somebody vomiting, I have the natural urge to vomit myself. Most times, I’m left just heaving up a bunch of nothingness, excepting for the stale bitter burning taste of bile and other internal fluids. A few times after I’ve seen people blow chunks, I’ve unleashed a torrent of spew myself.

This is a chain reaction we probably don’t need. Could this just be a case of sympathy vomiting as well? Do we feel so bad for our friends or strangers that have just chucked up a lung that we have to offer one of ours as well? Of course the resulting chain reaction is made worse if the vomit is particularly odorous, chunky, wearing a Technicolor dreamcoat, or looks eerily like Fabio.

Maybe the aforementioned chain reactions have nothing to do with sympathy and everything to do with sensory overload? While seeing someone yawn is a purely focal thing, the vomiting crescendo can be focal, oratory, or even odiferous. Yes, I’m trying out words I don’t normally use in sentences. And I’m probably using them in the wrong context. But I would argue that I’m talking about barfing up the contents of a trip to Burger King and tequila shooters – is there a right context to be used? In many instances, our senses are heightened and are often overpowering. This just might be one of those times. Perhaps we have less control over what our body does in certain situations than we think.

However, I have managed to baffle even myself with this quandary. We have discussed that yawning is contagious. We cannot help but show that impressive sign of boredom or tiredness when presented with it before us. We have also learned that the smell of vomit, the sight of vomit, and sometimes even the promise of the two can lead to other people vomiting. This one I believe is purely sensual (but not in any way sexual). You get a whiff of odor and it could be lights out for your tummy contents. But, try and explain this one to me.

It might be a wonderful defense mechanism or design fault, but it is a bit odd that when we fart, it doesn’t set off the same chain reaction. Could you imagine the fun people could have in elevators, at parties, and especially in the swimming pool? But nope, it doesn’t work that way. In fact, sometimes the next reaction is to vomit (depending on the severity of gaseous product emanating from the hidden orifice). Farting does not now, and might never, lead to more farting from other people.

A good fart is both audible and smelly. A very good fart is really smelly and not audible at all. A super duper good fart will require you to change your underpants as you’ll have a splatter pattern or a twin lane highway running the length of your jockey shorts. The best ones of all of course are the ones where the bear pokes his head out of the cave, but doesn’t completely want to leave because it is still too cold outside or it just isn’t time. Is it just me or is the sense of dread just after you release your wind to the world, and the unwelcome refuse from your body tries to escape prematurely and ends up crowning like some hideous child, the height of horrific climax that can only have one ending? And you know you’ll be wearing a pair of white boxer shorts when this little miracle happens.

I have never once farted upon hearing or smelling someone else fart. The same can be said for belching, unless you are having a belching contest. In regards to the contest, the conditions are different so that isn’t really a legitimate sample of the activity.

I have been on the wrong end of loud and bubbly farts, farts that have created a sonic boom, and little creaky farts almost too embarrassed to announce their presence. I have smelt farts that have had me laughing, choking, and wishing I had a gun on me to put me out of my misery. I have smelt farts that have made my eyes bleed and my throat constrict. At these times, I wish that something would trigger a reaction and I would be able to launch my own attack back. But, the body doesn’t work that way.

It’s kind of sad that this is one instance where the reaction process is null and void. It’s probably even sadder that I have wasted your time by explaining what I am like with too much time to ponder.

Peace out my friends,
The Penguin

 

Things have been in an annoying state of decline since I returned to Saudi Arabia. Now, before you get all worried about my safety here – it isn’t to do with that. But, it is truly testing my patience and my sanity and has me questioning, yet again, what the H-E-double hockey sticks I am doing here.

Firstly, my trusty laptop, a gift from my sister for doing some advertising for her current project, has hit the skids. I was using it in London and the screen just went blank. When I returned here I took it into the shop to find out what was wrong with it. It turns out the motherboard (I’m assuming this is the guts of the beast) is broken and needs to be replaced. It’s a simple procedure really. I could even do it myself (or so I’ve been told). But, being Saudi Arabia it isn’t that easy. There are no motherboards for Gateway computers in Saudi Arabia (or the Middle East). Gateway isn’t licensed to be here, apparently, and although it is not illegal to have a Gateway computer here... once it goes, it’s gone.

The depressing thing about this is that this computer was my life here. I had all my writing on it, all my music on it, and of course used it to talk to Kate over the Internet. It had acted up before (something about Windows Vista – which I hate) so I went out and bought a back up laptop. I’m using that one now. The only problem with this new one is that it won’t let me log on to Windows Messenger to talk to people back home. I can’t even use Facebook chat too often as it always crashes and kicks me out of Internet explorer. Perhaps even worse, is that I don’t have the product key to Microsoft Office with me (I still have 2 user spaces left on it) so this new laptop is pretty much useless for writing projects. I have to come to work early, or stay late, to do any writing (like I am doing now). It is a tough world. In fact, I’ll have to post this on my lunch break tomorrow.

Now, I can get onto the Internet with this new laptop and my dial up connection so it isn’t all lost. However, when I try and log in to Writing.com, I can’t. The screen goes white, says it is done, and that is all. Even when I try and do a direct jump to my blog it shows me the same screen. I can’t even read my favourite blogs or try and review any stories because it just won’t let me see the site. It doesn’t even bring up the Arabic page that tells me a site is restricted so I know that isn’t the problem. This is really making my life here miserable. I don’t have Kate, I can’t write at home, and I don’t even have access to you guys to keep me company. I promise I’m not being anti-social.

I should be celebrating that fact that I’ve had more than 20,000 views on my blogs combined. This is entry number 461, so that constitutes more than 40 views per entry (although I know a lot of views happen on days I don’t blog a single word). That is still pretty cool to think that I have a dedicated following of readers. Looking back at my blog from day 1, I find it interesting that people who read and commented back then no longer leave comments now. Perhaps they still read it, and if they do, I am happy to have them here. If they don’t, it saddens me to think that I’ve lost them somehow. I know there are funnier bloggers out there, more intellectual bloggers out there, and probably bloggers that are fundamentally better writers than I am – but I’d hate to think I’m driving people away because I can’t write.

I know life gets busy, complicated, and all together in the way from time to time. Regardless of whether they read and don’t comment, or don’t read any more, I would not be here without them. They started me on this path to regular writing, this journey into the hearts and minds of those whose work I admire and whose friendship I respect and cherish. Wherever you are, I thank you for helping me become a better writer.

Now, if only I could actually get Word to work so I could help myself be a better writer as well.

Cheers,
Geraint

 

I made some observations when I was in London during my recent holiday. These observations could have been made in any city in any country in the world, but since I was in London (a self-proclaimed fashion capital you know) it struck me just how silly fashion has become. Or, let me rephrase that – it struck me just how silly people get when trying to follow what is supposed to be the latest trend.

I know what it is like to walk past a store and absolutely have to buy something. I also know the bitter sting of disappointment when the “must have” item is tried on and doesn’t fit, looks like crap, or costs more than an off-white baby on the black market in Central America. And in those cases, just like in the instances I’ve been offered the chance to buy babies on the black market (okay, so I never have – but we can all chase a dream can’t we?), I’ve walked away and found something else down the road. I just wish this one poor girl I saw on Oxford Street could have done the same thing.

She strode confidently, probably too confidently for someone under my critical gaze, and I just had to shake my head. She was wearing shiny black, sort of leather pants, sort of vinyl leggings. These things were skin tight, and might have looked good had they been the right size for her. I thought, and correct me if I’m wrong here, that the purpose of the skin-tight clothing range was to wear it so it fit you all over? What is the point to wearing them if they fit tight around your legs but you’ve got about a foot of loose fabric hanging from your crotchal area? Yeah, I just made up a new word. And if you’re worried that buying a pair that fits you the way Valentino or some other designer intended would have you looking like, if you were to lie down, like you could act as a bicycle rack (time to use the imagination here), you should just wear a short skirt and no panties and save yourself some time. But, I digress. I’m not one to judge...

Disturbingly though, I noticed that the Kate Moss look is definitely back in chic. The haven’t been fed anything other than 40 smokes a day and a heroine injection look has never really done it for me. Women, ladies and gentlemen, are supposed to have curves. And judging by my observations on Oxford Street this past week I have ascertained that I know what the must have accessory is this year for all aspiring fashionistas.

It isn’t a scarf. It isn’t a pair of shoes. Hell, it isn’t even a Prada handbag and matching cheque holder. Nope. The must have accessory this year is a very strong index finger. If it looks like ET’s did, all long and spindly (it doesn’t have to glow at the end) that would be even better I suppose. I don’t think any woman or man who is a slave to the fashion headlines should leave home without their index fingers this holiday season.

Granted, the index finger has never really gone out of fashion, except on industrial shop workers and clumsy butchers, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it might be making a huge comeback this Christmas season.

The true beauty about the index finger is that it comes in a matching set (sometimes one unfortunately goes missing when oiling down a carnival ride – somehow goes along with the desire to shower and wear clean clothes). With cruel exceptions, they are always the perfect fit too. And you can dress it up if required as well.

It always looks elegant in a vivid red or luscious pink, and with some alterations can be the focal point of any event. And there is no need to worry about covering an index finger up either. A pair of silk elbow length gloves, tightly wrapped around every disjointed knuckle, can induce feelings of randiness and unbridled sexuality. Even on colder days, a snug fitting leather glove can do little to diminish the natural fit of an index finger.

This must have accessory has been around for years of course, and has even been spotted on celebrities and royalty alike. It is rumored that the late Princess Diana was fond of hers, although I would never make such accusations, as my mom would kill me for saying anything bad about the late great princess. Those in the know in the Hollywood circles will tell you that no matter who they are working with – Dolce and Gabbana, Anne Klein, et al – the index finger is always the one (okay two) accessory brought by the talent that is on display. I’d be willing to bet that the cast of the O.C. has it in their contracts that all index fingers should be taken care of.

And this all-purpose accessory doesn’t look out of place when you’re meeting the girls for low fat lattes and bran muffins at Starbucks either. That same day, tote your index finger for some sushi with your producer or therapist or hairstylist. After a quick refresher, and a little exercise, that same index finger will join you for dinner with that chiseled hunk of man you met at rehab, the one who speaks three words of English properly, and actually looks good in a Speedo. He’ll notice when you take your index finger into the bathroom with you (along with your purse, your Blackberry, your pager, a make-up case, and possibly the waiter) but he won’t mind. He might if you forget to use the complimentary mouthwash after though.

So save your money this Christmas when your girlfriends and nieces and cousins all come asking for the latest accessory must have. Tell them they’ve already got all they need to fit on the cover of Vogue, Cosmo, and Maxim. And if you want to be really cruel and unusual, you could always wrap one up you find at the local morgue. Hey, it’s just a suggestion.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

I got a little bit tipsy last night. I was having a couple of drinks with some people in my building. I was drinking Sid and Coke, and probably had one too many before I decided to venture over to the mall to get my hair cut. As I was sitting in the barber’s chair I felt really sleepy, and then my stomach started to turn a little bit. I hadn’t had any food for hours, so maybe that was the reason for it, but I can’t be sure. I wasn’t sick, and once I had some food in me I felt fine. But it got me thinking to the last time I was as drunk as a fucking monkey. Now, that is an interesting one for you isn’t it? I wonder where that expression came from. And since, my regular readers are only too aware that I never research the stuff I write, I will just make up my own explanation for it at a later date.

I don’t like to drink too much Sid. I’ve heard tales of people losing their eyesight if you get a bad batch of the stuff. And I’m not talking about a momentary loss of vision either. I’m also not talking about the loss of vision that often leads a person to going home with someone you’d have to gnaw your arm off to escape the next morning either. I’m talking about a prolonged state of impairment – sometimes permanent. Thankfully the stuff I get is pretty is good and I never drink too much of it at any one time.

I drank way too much in Africa, but while I was inebriated, I was never out of control and had my entire faculties in check. Besides the one night I woke up with the sweats (probably due more to the double rack of ribs I tried to scarf down in one sitting), I was surprisingly bouyant. I was even drinking shooters and those have never been kind to me. So, in honor of my tipsiness the other night, I shall tell you my three favorite drunk stories.

About a month before I flew out to Saudi Arabia I went on a soccer tournament with some guys from my team back home. On the Friday, a day when we didn’t have any games to play, we had arranged for a round of golf, in a pre-tournament tournament, so to speak. Our round was to start at 10, and after a breakfast we polished off two bottles of beer before heading to the course. While we waited for our tee time, I had my beer of the day, all before 10 am. The goal was to try and drink a beer a hole, which would work out to 18 beers. By the time the round was over, I had managed 16 beers (more than I had drank in total that entire year). I had two more at lunch at the course, bringing my total up to 21 for the day (barely 3 o’clock).

We went out for dinner that night, before hitting a club. At dinner we had two bottles of wine between 8 of us, and another couple of beers. Remarkably, I could still speak, let alone stand. Someone at the table behind us was celebrating their birthday so I decided to find out who. The girl at the end of the table held up her hand and I asked if her husband would mind if I sung her happy birthday. No husband to ask, no boyfriend either. She’d get the special happy birthday. I started singing, ala Marilyn Monroe to JFK, and before the first few bars were over I was sitting in her lap, facing her, shaking my tush. My friends are howling, her friends are howling, and if embarrassed was a shade of red she would have owned it. When the song was over I kissed her on the forehead and headed for the dance club. I believe, I own the night.

Most of my adult life was spent being the designated driver. I was always willing to stay sober to make sure my married friends would get home to their wives and children. One such time, during the rugby world cup in 1995, I was driving 5 people home. We had been out since 7 am to watch the games live on television. The bar started serving beer at 9 my 5 passengers were drunk beyond belief when we headed for home well past midnight. The boys are singing and yelling, and when we pull up to a random checkstop to catch drunk drivers the boys aren’t exactly in a cooperative mood.

One of them in the back looks young. He’s always had a round baby face, he still does, and he is one of the funniest people I have ever met. As the officer is asking me questions, and shining his flashlight on my drunken cohorts, Craig pipes up from the back about being in a hurry to get more alcohol. The officer, not happy to have to deal with situations and people like this doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. He shines his flashlight straight into Craig’s face, sees that he looks about 14 years old, and simply asks, “When is your birthday?”

“September 29”, comes Craig’s reply. He may be drunk, but he’ll never forget his own birthday.

“What year?” The cop is still pressing him.

“Every fucking year you idiot.”

It took us 30 minutes to get Craig back in the truck and on our way again after we had negotiated his release from a none to impressed group of officers.

My best friend Glenn and I were leaving a pub in Edmonton (he had come up to visit) and just after we turned down the main street we noticed the checkpoint. I wasn’t concerned as I had been drinking Coke all night. Glenn was smashed, as usual for him, but he’s a quiet guy at the worst of times.

The officer looks in my truck and asks if we’ve been drinking. I reply I haven’t but he has, pointing to Glenn who is fiddling with the plastic Stormtrooper helmet from Star Wars that used to sit on my dashboard. The officer then asks if we have any opened liquor or anything else in the car and asks me to open the glove box and mid-seat console.

“The only thing I have in here is a bottle of cologne, officer. And I don’t drink that.” I laugh, and he does as well.

Glenn decides this is his chance to shine, grabs the bottle of cologne and turns to face the officer. “It’s always a plan to smell good for the ladies.” He gives the officer a thumbs up and stretches out the “s” at the end of ladies for emphasis. The officer laughs, wishes me well with Casanova, and allows us to drive off.

In both cases I wish I had come up with the killer last line. As a writer, I’m appalled that I didn’t. I don’t know if I’ve ever done anything really stupid while drunk or not. I’m not sure if I’ve even been that drunk to not remember. I know, I’m pretty boring in all reality. But you’ll have fun if you get the chance to hang out with me.

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

I know most of you don't like my sports entries as much as my other ones, but this one will be a sports one with a difference. I am playing football (soccer) in a hospital sponsored tournament for Health Care Quality Week. I'm one of the only non-Arabs playing in the tournament which in itself is a little daunting, but when my whole team starts talking Arabic around me I feel a little left out.

We had a game today that has shown me that the people of this world will just never get along. And please, allow me to explain. My team, none of them working in my department (they needed a guy to play in goal for them as they don't have a single player who isn't afraid of the ball), are a mixture of Egyptians, Lebanese, and one Palestinian. And of course, the Welsh Canadian.

We're playing in our third game, having won our first one and lost the second. And we're playing a team today that we could beat with our eyes closed... if we give it the right kind of effort. And for the first half of the game the effort was very good. I had to make a couple of saves but nothing major. And then the worst thing in the world thing happened to us, the referee blew the whistle for half time.

I never sit down and talk with them because I don't understand them. I do stretching while they talk to each other in Arabic. I usually just assume they're talking about the game and nothing too serious. We take the field (gymnasium) and we have one too many players on the field. The score is tied 0-0 and the referee is telling us to sit one of our players down. None of them leave. I offer to sit down, to have them play without a goalie but none of them are listening. After a minute or so more of arguing with each other, and the people in the stands, the referee stops the game, awards the other team the victory, and my teammates are just left dumbfounded.

I just walk past them all, as they are staring aimlessly, and I clap. I'm shaking my head and none of them can figure out why. I'm taking off my shirt (please ladies, hold your panties) and they all walk up to me. I'm not really looking at any of them. I don't really want to. I'm fed up, pissed off, extremely agitated. I'm in a foreign country where I have learned to keep my mouth shut. I find it is for the better.

"Gary", one of them talks to me (I let them call me Gary because they struggle with my name), "I don't know what happened."

"I do", I'm through with being nice. "You guys decided to act like children."

I told them I used to coach 10 and 11 year olds and that is how they acted - refusing to leave the field to let someone else play. I told them I didn't want to play with kids.

They walked outside and I joined them later, in mid argument. I stand back far enough to stay away from the verbal missiles, but near enough to hear them. It turns out, that one of the Egyptians didn't want to leave the field to let a Lebanese guy play. And that was it. And that is why we will never have any semblance of peace throughout the world.

This wasn't a big deal. This was only a 30 minute football game that meant nothing. Both of these guys are Muslim as well, so it had nothing to do with religion. This was just about two ethnic Arabs not liking the other's country and way of life. They both believe they are better than the other, and this isn't just these two - it is a view shared by many of them.

So, I've given up hope about this whole world peace thing. If this lesson has shown me anything about the stupidity of man it is that man is brutally stupid. And we could have beaten those guys too.

Cheers,
the Penguin
 

I’m a troubled boy today my friends. And I’m not troubled personally – in fact, things are going pretty well for me these days – but I am troubled with what I perceive to be the shit state that the world is still in. And if anyone gets offended easily, they should just back away now. This blog will be racial, and hopefully when I’m done no one will accuse me of being a racist. If you are brave enough to continue please read on.

As nearly 7 billion people are aware, the United States will have a new president come January, or whenever it is Barack Obama actually gets to take over. Watching from afar, in Saudi Arabia, I might not have the best viewpoint to watch a presidential campaign from (and the fact I’m not even American) but I have always rated him as the best candidate (he also picked a fantastic vice presidential candidate). Of course, this is an historic event because he becomes the first black president of the USA. Canada hasn’t had a black prime minister, although we did have a woman for about 8 months. Well, I could be mean and call our second last prime minister and woman but that would be mean to women all over the world.

I never saw race when I watched the interviews and campaign highlights. All I saw was two men trying to prove they were worthy of running the most powerful nation in the world. I think the best man won. But there are some around me, tucked in our little piece of the world in Saudi Arabia, that aren’t so sure. And it has everything to do with race.

I’m not dumb enough to believe that the race problem is over. Is it better than it was? Probably, but I bet there are still pockets of society that are still stuck in the 1900s and earlier. I have some friends who have parents that still see a racial hierarchy. Thankfully, the friends I have managed to make up their own minds on the subject.

A new teacher from America, Texas to be exact, moved into my apartment building here about a month ago and we got to talking about the whole presidential elections. He told me, flat out, that he would be voting for Joseph Biden (Obama’s VP candidate) because he knew Obama would be lucky to see out his first term. I knew what he meant, but I wanted to hear him say it. He said, rather bluntly and without emotion, that he just felt Obama would be assassinated before his first term was over. Who says that to a complete stranger? It’s not cool to think it, although I guess every president or president elect is at risk of assassination, but it’s even less cool to actually say it. And he intimated that it had everything to do with race.

I know not all people think this will be the outcome, and not all people think this same way, but I’m starting to see just how many people actually do. The hospital where I work at is comprised of staff from over 40 different countries. Many of them, probably the highest percentage of staff besides the Saudis, are from South Africa. I don’t have to tell you what kind of turbulent past this nation has had with apartheid and race relations. I have a lot of South African friends here, of the three major denominations as they call themselves – Whites, Coloreds, and Africans. The coloreds are of Indian or Pakistani decent and not of entire African heritage. And these people don’t get along with each other very well.

I know doctors and other educated persons among them that feel it is a grave mistake having Obama as the president because “the blacks aren’t ready for such power.” My new American apartment mate shares the same view. I just shake my head. Let’s give the guy a chance to fuck up before we announce he will. The South Africans, for their part, have a bit of history with this issue though. Most of them were brought up believing that the whites in South Africa were the ruling class, and the others were simply going to kill each before any equality was ever going to be had. Many of them here still think this way, such was the propaganda and lessons instilled in them. In a way, I feel very bad for them. They don’t know that in the grand scheme of things they are wrong and backwards in their thinking. To them, unfortunately, this is right. This is the way their parents and the parents of their parents thought and this is what they were taught by their elders. If you learn it from your elders, the ones you respect the most, how can it be bad? Yes it is infuriating, but I can’t judge because I was never raised in that kind of society. My parents didn’t teach us about races or ethnicity; they taught us about respect and dignity. Ken was just the kid who played forward with me on Royal Gardens Soccer Club – he wasn’t an immigrant from Nigeria. He was a friend who liked Star Wars, the A-Team, and scoring goals as much as I did.

Would I be different if I was raised in a culture as troubled as South Africa’s was? I can’t answer yes, and I can’t answer no either. Unless you are in the middle of it, surrounded by the years of racial tension, you can’t possibly know about it. If my mother and father had instilled in me that the one race was emotionally and mentally inferior maybe I would think this way today. I don’t know. Thankfully I don’t. Thankfully my parents had parents who didn’t feel this way either. But they were raised in England and not South Africa.

And I have to tell you this; I’m living in a country that runs on racial inequality. While religion is still the focal point, Islam is the only one recognized, a person’s nationality, regardless of color of skin, determines his value here. While I find it shocking, when I tell the people I am friends with who are seen as second class citizens here exactly how the rest of the world works they are more shocked than I am. When I tell them that I wouldn’t be paid 5 times as much as they are because I’m a Canadian or a Brit than they would be paid as a Sri Lankan it stuns them. We’d be paid the same, if our experience and education was the same, for the same job. But not here.

They tell me the pay scales work on the value of the currency in accordance to the Saudi Riyal but it still sickens me to see it. North Americans, Brits (and other Europeans), and Saudis are on the highest pay scale. South Africans are next, followed by the Lebanese. In fourth slot slip the other Arab citizens (Egyptians, Palestinians, etc.), and finally the Asians (Filipinos, Indians, etc.). It isn’t uncommon to see some Asians making as little as 800 Riyals a month (slightly more than $200 US dollars). Granted, this works out to a couple thousand a month in their home currency, but it is still disgusting when you think that they have to spend Riyals here to survive. I know one person who makes 1100 Riyals a month and manages to send home 850 Riyals a month to feed his family. He survives here on 250 Riyals a month, well under $100 US. Okay, there are no taxes and he has his accommodation paid for, but could you survive on that? He has to eat (he does get lunch provided at work for free) and has to have some kind of life away from the hospital.

Unfortunately, I can’t see a day when race isn’t an issue around the world. There are too many people afraid to accept something different than what they know. There are too many people too afraid to make up their own minds. And there will always be people too ignorant to care to change. I hear doctors and teachers and administrators telling me that only whites are developed enough to hold positions of power and I see that the future isn’t going to get rosy any time soon.

The voting of Barack Obama as president is definitely a step in the right direction. I just hope the ignorant of this world don’t make it a terrible set back.

Cheers,
Geraint

 

I got an email on this site the other stating that one of the pieces in my port, "Under the Lighthouse"  will appear in the upcoming shortstory newsletter as they do a feature on symbolism. The piece in question was written for the Writer's Cramp competition, which is held daily, and the goal is to write a 1000 word short story with the prompt provided.

I think it is pretty cool that someone has taken the time to go through people's ports to see if there is anything in them to be considered for such newsletters. Or, at least I think that is how this thing works. I have, in the past, recommended some work to people; maybe someone who read the piece recommended it for this purpose as well.

Whatever the history behind it, I am flattered and proud that this is going to happen. I will admit that I am putting more effort into getting stuff published and read away from this site so this comes as a pleasant surprise and a boost to my waning morale. Maybe this will not give me a paycheck, or lead to any literary acclaim and awards, but this is a jury of my peers on this site and that holds an awful lot of weight with me.

When you think that there are thousands of stories on this website and one of my was chosen that is a pretty remarkable feat. Sure, they probably do port raids and get everyone eventually, but when it does happen to you I bet you'll have a pang of pride as well.

So, not much of a blog tonight, but one I thought I should write anyways. For those of you taking the time to step away from Nano for the month... good luck and keep at it. I hold you in the highest of respect. For those of you making your regular visit and who aren't in Nano... sorry this blog doesn't stir up any emotions to comment on.

Cheers,
The Penguin
 

One of my friends here was contemplating buying a pair of jeans the other day. I will admit these were nice looking jeans (really, jeans are jeans I suppose) and he finally opted against it when he came to the realization that he should complete his exercise regimen first. The price tag on these jeans didn’t scare him off, but it would have had me running for the hills. These jeans, in the Burberry store (and I was the one who took him there in the first place), when you convert Saudi Riyals into American dollars, were worth around $920 US. And as I have said, it wasn’t the price that stopped him from buying them.

These are jeans for fuck’s sake. My flight to South Africa when I went cost less than that. Actually, my flight and the 24-day tour cost about $200 US more than that. My return flight to England, which is 11 days away now, cost less than the pair of jeans he wanted to buy.

Granted, it is hard finding a pair of jeans here that I like. Most of them, even for men, have glitter or sparkles or buckles on them. I don’t know about you, but I can’t see me in sparkles and glitter (well, there was that one time but we don’t talk about it). Also, there seems to be a trend in heroine addict chic and the skinny jean is a big seller these days. I think Kate Moss revolutionized this style when she put on the jeans of her 8-year-old niece a few years ago but I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that I will not be wearing a pair of skinny jeans.

First of all, they don’t sit properly. If I wanted you to see my underwear I’d invite you to my bedroom and let you remove them for me. Isn’t it wonderful that I can still talk like this without fear of having to explain myself to my new girlfriend? She knows me well enough to know that I’m full of hot air. But seriously, they don’t sit right. If I was a Calvin Klein underwear model (they still don’t return my phone calls) I could understand it. I’m not an underwear model (I might be in private – none of you know for sure) so the skinny jean doesn’t quite work for me.

Secondly, I want to hide the fact I’m a skinny little bastard. Having said that though, I have been told recently that I have great legs, especially my thighs. I still think I’m a skinny little bastard but I’ll let others pile the praise on. Some of the people wearing these skinny jeans are in dire need of a cheeseburger or twelve. When you’ve seen beefier 4 year olds you know something is a little wrong.

So, my friend almost buys a pair of nearly $1000 jeans and it got me thinking – what is the most I’ve ever spent on a single item of clothing? I have a feeling that I won’t be anywhere near that dollar figure before I’m done.

I’ve had two suits tailored since I’ve been here. These bad boys were made from scratch, took weeks to complete, and the pair of them cost less than half of what that one pair of jeans would have cost. The suits I wore back home, very nice and fitted properly, didn’t come close to costing that much either. It is possible to look like a million dollars and not spend it you know. I wonder if I’ve ever spent $1000 on an entire outfit either.

Let’s say I take my most expensive suit I’ve bought ($550 US) and add the most expensive shirt I’ve ever bought ($125 US – bought I didn’t even wear it with that suit), add the shoes ($220 US – again, not worn with the suit), and throw in a tie for good luck ($65 US) and see where that leaves me. This brings me to a total of $960 US, which would leave $40 US for socks and a drink ticket. If I’m spending that much on one outfit surely I must be going to an event where a drink costs upwards of $20 US.

But suits shouldn’t count in this little exercise. Neither should winter jackets, even though I buy the expensive ones in the spring when they are marked down and just wait until next winter to wear them. I bought a pair of hockey skates for $400 once, but they didn’t look good with any of my dress clothes. Plus, it is really hard to dance in them.

Maybe I’m just cheap. Maybe I just have a habit of finding a good sale and capitalizing on that opportunity. Most of the stuff I buy seem to be on sale these days. I don’t buy them just because they are on sale but it doesn’t hurt does it? You can’t beat a good sale my friends.

So, I won’t be spending $1000 US on a pair of jeans anytime soon. In fact, the only items of clothing I have spent that much on I don’t have and never wore – a wedding dress and an engagement ring. I guess I’m not that cheap after all.

What about you? What is the most you’ve spent on an item of clothing?

Cheers,
The Penguin

 

I have finally applied the edits and suggestions to my synopsis of Aaric that you were all so kind to give me. Your words and wisdom were greatly appreciated and I thank you one and all for your support and motivation to push me towards the next step of this journey we call “growing hair on your peaches to laugh in the face of rejection and risk a pain worse than a rabid squirrel bite to the scrotal region so we can possibly get the chance to send our completed manuscript to a publisher so they can tell us, in all likelihood, that what we have written isn’t good enough to line the cage of gastrointestinally deficient ferret”. Or we could just call it the publishing arena.

So tonight, of all nights, I will read up on my chosen publisher (the first of many probably), and prepare myself for oblivion. I know I have a story that is marketable. I know I have some talents when it comes to the written word. What I don’t know is if I have the stomach to keep going if this publisher decides that my story isn’t good enough. I know there is only one way to find these things out, by actually doing it, but that still opens up my heart, my mind, and my nutsack for a beating I might not be ready for.

And it is time to find out if I have the intestinal fortitude to be a writer. Successfully navigating the NaNo last year gave me a glimpse into my dedication – I learned I could complete a task in a limited time span just by forcing myself to write. My one published credit, also had a short window to get done and I managed it, turning in my manuscript one day after the deadline. I know it won’t be a question of me not being able to meet a deadline or having the grit and perseverance to finish the task outlined before me. No, this will be more about if I have the desire to pick myself up if I get squashed.

I suppose that is the writer’s life in a nutsack, err, nutshell. If it were easy, we’d all be Stephen King. Once you have found your muse that makes your idea come to life and you put that idea on paper you are only a quarter of the way there. You then have to kill your babies to polish it up and get it ready for rejection (most likely). And after months of waiting for a reply from the publisher or agent, you check you mailbox (whether email or little metal one attached to your house) to see a message from the publishing house. And then you wait some more, too afraid to open it (most likely) because the memory of little Susan Polis saying “no” to you when you asked her to dance in grade 7 still stings. And besides a few lonely nights all those years ago, Susan Polis didn’t occupy many of your dreams. Your book does. This is what you have sweated over. If that letter says, “Thank you for your submission, but we aren’t interested” (or words to those effect), that will sting a Hell of a lot more than Susan Polis saying “no” at some dance all those years ago. And it wasn’t even Stairway to Heaven either. Don’t know what her problem was.

I have just returned from the bathroom where I managed to snoop around my under regions and it appears I am mature enough (I have hair on my peaches) so I must just get on with it and try. After all, what do I have to lose?

Cheers,
The Penguin