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 |  My second blog. Enter at your own peril. |
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This is my second blog on writing.com and I thank my loyal legion of fans (thanks mom) for leading me to this. Enjoy the banter, join in when needed, and send all the people who need a little abnormal dose of reality my way. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| “Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far write twaddle or anything, anything than nothing at all.” Katherine Mansfield. I was laid up with the flu the last few days and thought it would be a great time to try and write. Alas, I didn’t manage to write more than 500 words. I did, however, start to edit my advice book. A special thank you to Scarlett   for her tedious effort in trying to make it presentable for me. She’s been working her way through it, on my port, chapter by chapter. I owe you one.The quote I started with seems to be the story of my writing life; and I’m sure I’m not alone. I started writing at an early age, mostly for school, and I don’t have a single thing written before I became a legal adult. The jury is still out on whether or not I am an actual adult now... but I think I am and that’s all that matters. I do have one story and a couple of poems I had to write when I was in my final year of high school (or at least I did before I moved here – not sure where they are anymore) but those don’t count either. If I only concentrate on the time I started to believe that I wanted to be a writer, that I thought I might have an idea or two that could turn into a book, I have written 2% mediocre and 98% twaddle. I’m probably being generous as well. And as much as I think that I can write (believe me when I tell you that I think it is the one thing I do well), I think I am writing what amounts to lining for the bottom of a birdcage. And you know what? I’m okay with that. For every thousand words I might spew on these or any other pages, maybe a sentence or two can deemed good, and perhaps used again or remembered elsewhere. And is that so bad? Sure, it might take a while to weed through the twaddle, to don the hip waders and gas mask and fight off the urge to vomit as the incredible stench roils up from the septic pages of the literary un-masterpieces I am producing, but if there is anything that can be used, that can be turned into something altogether different and better, then I have succeeded. You can’t get to the good stuff, the words worth carving and moulding, without writing down every word you think of. Okay, I can’t get to the good stuff without writing 90-odd percent crap. My blog is different though. I don’t edit my blog. My blog is uncensored and raw. I post it exactly the way I type it. This is just me allowing my brain cells to splatter against the soft underside of my cranium. I then hope my fingers can keep up with what my splatter patterns are saying. If I was vocalizing this, out loud for you all, this is where my stutter would take control and make me feel like a fool. My brain works very quickly, sometimes too quickly for me to realize that what my brain is saying will get me in trouble or is utter and useless bullshit. Such is the life for someone who is “always switched on” as one of my friends here puts it. I don’t turn my mind off. The hamster is always running on that rickety old wheel inside my head. Some of the stuff that has graced the pages of both of my blogs has made me very proud. Naturally, some of the stuff is here because I feel the need to write everyday. At times I’m very afraid to go back and look at what I have written because I know that some of it will give me nightmares. Would a proud man delete the twaddle? Or would the deleting of such work be the act of someone who doesn’t want the rest of his writing world to know that he is still just an infant when it comes to this whole process? I’ll continue to write twaddle. I’ll probably continue to let you see the twaddle I write as well. Most of the stories in my port are incomplete, not quite ready for primetime. I have a knack of writing a first draft very quickly, and most of those first drafts are pretty readable. And then I leave them alone to gather dust. I’d rather, in my own little world, let something done get dusty, and write more so my fingers don’t get rusty. And yes, that last sentence was absolute twaddle. But that is the gist of it I’m afraid. Once I’m done something, I lose interest in it, and feel I have to move on. And in my haste, I write literary crap. But I’m writing, so that should be celebrated. When I was without the Internet for a while, and my old computer had conked out, I couldn’t write because my new laptop didn’t have Word. It was a terribly long month for me. Throw in the fact I couldn’t talk to friends back home and it was worse. But now that I have access again, and am feeling better, I should get back to my ways of writing everyday... or at least 4 or 5 days a week. And maybe it will be just the blog, the random twaddle that has made me quasi-famous on this site and in my own mind. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll work on that short story I have started, or finally think I might be good enough to tackle the next novel on my agenda. Yes, I am proud to write twaddle. That twaddle will lead me somewhere special. And that twaddle is better than writing nothing at all. Cheers, The Penguin |
| This is going to be my shortest blog entry ever. I had a training course at work today and was over in the in the teaching building. During our required 15 minute break I decided that my bladder was too small and I had to go to the bathroom. I entered the cubicle, an actual toilet and not a hole in the ground, and when I closed the door I nearly wet myself. There was a handwritten sign on the door of the cubicle and it simply said, "do not flush used toilet paper down the toilet". You'll be pleased to know I didn't check the garbage can that rested beside the toilet. Cheers, the Penguin |
| I'm in a weird kind of mood today. For some reason I've got some odd thoughts running through my head. And don't worry, I'm not thinking anything bad or monumental. I'm just in one of those moods where I feel I have to look at things from a different angle. Today's angle, is music. Beyonce has a new song out called If I was a Boy and I have a problem with it. I don't have a problem with her vocals. I quite like Beyonce's voice. I don't even have a problem with the fact that Beyonce makes us boys seem really bad. Apparently, if she was a boy she'd go out drinking with her male friends, pick up women, and not worry about her girlfriend finding out because her other male friends would keep it secret. I should object to this. As a male, I should find this very bad and troubling. Sure, there are some men out there that do this sort of thing. I'm willing to bet that there are plenty of women who do this as well. So, besides Beyonce telling the world that all men are evil I don't mind the song too much. I've even seen the video and she's the one being the bad one, as is expected I suppose, but this still doesn't have me as worried as the one major thing wrong with the song. Beyone goes on about how boys and men do this, that, and the other, but she forgets one vital thing as far as I'm concerned. In all her wisdom, Ms Beyonce, has omitted something very important about being a boy and it is this point and this point alone that gets me irritated. If, she was a boy, she would definitely know that despite being able to do all the boy things we are allegedly doing, she would also be able to pee standing up without worry. I know, how silly of her to miss that point. Let's move on to Canadian songstress Alannis. She's been rather quiet lately, and hasn't made quite the impact musically since her first album Jagged Little Pill revealed to the world that she was an angry white female. She has song on that album titled Ironic and it really pisses me off. Maybe it's the writer and editor in me, but I fume when I hear this song. I won't go into great lengths copying out the lyrics for you, but Ms Alannis states a bunch of different things that are supposed to be ironic. Rain on your wedding day, a whole bunch of spoons when you need a knife, that sort of thing. The song isn't even catchy, but maybe it's because I find her angrier songs so much better. Ironic is too slow, and doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the album. But my main problem with the song is its blatant abuse of the English language. Normally I'm pretty good when dealing with this sort of thing. I have friends that refuse to send me emails because they are afraid I'll rip them apart. I'm not like that to my friends. My emails are always full of spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, and are syntaxically (yes, I made this up) messed up. However, when singing a song about irony, shouldn't at least one of your comments be somewhat ironic? Or maybe that is the irony of the song? Maybe the ultimate irony is that the song is not about irony at all. Perhaps that is her intention when writing the song? Even if that is the case, which I doubt it is, I still don't like the song. And since this is my blog I will think that my opinion is the right one. I could go on, but I won't. I need to go make some dinner tonight and do some research into what I think will be my next career. I'm hankering for a change and I think I have found one that I will be perfect at. Cheers, the Penguin |
| I was going to continue with my life over here series but I have been moved to write about something else instead. By now, I’m pretty sure most of the world knows about it so I might be wasting my breath, but, perhaps I can offer an insight that is truly original. And besides, when I have I ever not wanted to put my 2 cents into anything? Hamilton Island, off the coast of Queensland Australia might just be one of the prettiest places on earth. And right now, until February 21st, people are invited to create a video application so they can go and live on the island for 6 months starting in July. Sounds easy doesn’t it? Did I mention that you would be living rent free in a 3 bedroom villa with a private swimming pool? Oh, and they’re willing to pay you for your duties as well. The website says you’d be expected to work 12 hours a week for the 6 months, for the paltry sum of $150,000 Australia (roughly 70,000 quid or $100,000 US). Granted, it isn’t tax free, but it’s a sum that even after taxes you’d be doing all right. Basically, you would be paid to explore the area, and tell the world about it. I heard about this little venture from someone at work who knows I have a blog. They told me the key to this whole thing was being able to write, but after a visit to the website, the writing would be the least attractive part of this ordeal. And I’m saying this as a person who absolutely loves to write! Around Hamilton Island you will find a series of hundreds of smaller islands, all waiting for you to venture from your villa and explore. After a hard day’s effort of sailing, swimming, snorkeling, and hopefully chasing small aquatic animals around, you’ll have plenty of tales to tell people on your state-of-the-art blog with video links and photos. You’ll arrive at Hamilton in time for winter, there had to be a catch after all, but winter temperatures are mild and the water still delightfully warm. Besides, it’s not like you’ll have time to enjoy yourself with your 12-hour workweek! Just think of the stress and the pressure you’ll be under as you snorkel around a reef, taking photos of colorful fish, spooky looking eels, and maybe a shark or two. I’m sure you, like me, would get back to the villa in time to watch the sunset and dread waking up and doing it again the next day. But, if you like spending your days in the sun, possibly finding one of 2900 different species of critter that will be your neighbors, and generally like getting paid heaps of money for doing something out of the ordinary then this is the opportunity for you. You would have to be, in my opinion, a pretty messed up individually mentally to find anything remotely exciting or uplifting about this position. Personally, it sickens me to think that millions of people will be sending in a video application for the chance to be the final 11 people chosen to sit the interview, on Hamilton Island. Seriously, what kind of personal growth can become of you exploring a series of idyllic locations and letting the world know that in times of violence and despair there are still places worth seeing for their simple beauty? NONE! And you just know that the winner of this gig will work his/her 6 months and then get invited onto every talk show known to mankind. You’ll soon be rubbing shoulders with Regis and Kelly, Oprah, Dr Phil, maybe even Tyra! You’ll sit countless interviews, will probably get a book deal, and might even meet Natalie Portman as you get to go backstage at the Academy Awards as you are presenting the award for Best Documentary. Yeah, it sickens me to think that some people would find anything remotely good about this. As a writer, you’d probably have hours of solitude to capture your own thoughts. Even if you were allowed to bring the spouse or other half, I’m betting you could go hours without seeing each other as the water stretches out all around you and you explore on your own. Not sure how romantic it would be to paddle out in blue waters off some secluded island, perhaps a water fall trickling down a grass covered mountain side, as all the little fish flit about like curious onlookers. And then when the sun sinks belong the ocean, casting an arc of orange against the gentle dark of the sky, and the softer hue of the water, capturing a thousand years in a moment, leaving you as breathless as your very first orgasm, it might just be as romantic as that first time you splurged and took your girl to a restaurant that had waiters. I’m sitting here, struggling to find any reason whatsoever to add my name to the masses of people who are going to apply. If a six month job in “paradise on earth”, which will probably lead to countless other opportunities, sounds like your thing then go for it. If, basically, getting paid for writing sounds like a good thing for a writer to be doing then go for it. If spending your days forgetting about all your worries that you left behind as you hike up a hill sized dormant volcano just to see the miles of blue stretch out before you sounds like a good way to kill an afternoon then go for it. I’ll be here in Saudi Arabia wishing you well. I’d hate not to have anything to complain about. Of course, I could just be developing my script for my video application as we speak. Cheers, The Penguin |
| I shall continue my series of my views from Saudi Arabia with what I would like to call “good-bye holidays”. I could just leave this entry now and I think you would understand, but seeing as though I am very long winded and like to talk, I will just keep typing. I came out with the knowledge that Eid and Hajj were the holidays that would keep me from work. Eid is usually three days, Hajj four, and they come before and after Ramadan respectively. Saudi National Day is typically in line with Eid, so you have that day off as well. All told, it works out to eight days a year, which isn’t too bad I suppose. But, when you think that they are all clumped together and if they fall on a Friday you don’t get a day off in lieu of them you get screwed. However, it’s not the holidays you get that are important. No, it’s the ones you don’t get that seem to weigh heavier on you as an ex-Pat. I suppose the obvious one is Christmas. Forget about it. It doesn’t exist in Saudi Arabia. Sure, the ex-Pats will have their dinners, and certain restaurants on Western compounds will have a special feast as well, but you won’t see trees, lights, or hear any Christmas songs in the shopping malls. I haven’t decided if the lack of Christmas music in the malls is a bad thing yet, but it is noticeable. This year, like last year, I was working on Christmas day. I was working on Christmas Eve day as well. And not a half day either. I worked a full 9 hours on both days. At the end of my shift on Christmas Day I was thinking that back home in Edmonton, my niece and nephew probably were just about to wake up in a bundle of excitement. This year, Christmas fell on a Thursday, my half day at work, and I did get a phone call from Aunt Babs just after I got home wishing me a Merry Christmas. It would have been about noon her time (3 hours behind now). Even worse than working on Christmas Day is working on New Year’s Day. I worked on New Year’s Eve Day as well, a full shift, and was out celebrating the New Year with my friends here (on a compound). We rang in the New Year; I stayed up until 3 am to call Aunt Babs and wish her and her family a happy new year, and was up at 6:30 to go into work. Not exactly the way I remembered New Year’s Eve celebrations though. All things being equal, I had hoped to be in England for New Year’s but it didn’t work out that way. Knowing that Islam is the only recognized religion in this country you wouldn’t expect a big deal to be made about Easter either. And don’t worry; a big deal isn’t made about it. You will see no parades, no television commercials with clucking bunnies hiding chocolate eggs. You will not see any images of crucifixes (you don’t anyways), and there will be no midnight masses. I’m told Aramco, the big oil company who have there own mini-city here has a church and they offer a service, but that is a rarity. I was never a church guy anyways. I have been to church 5 times that didn’t involve a wedding. I’ve been to church 10 times if you include going to a wedding. It’s just weird not seeing any of the comforts or sites you’re used to seeing in the Western world; particularly for non-religious holidays. You won’t find any poppies any here come November 11th. I don’t know for sure if they don’t recognize Remembrance Day or if it is just of no concern to them. I do know that some people here have an affinity for September 11th though. I wasn’t here when it happened, but many of my friends were. One of them was working in a hospital in Riyadh when the attacks happened. With the time difference, it would have been mid-afternoon here. He tells me that the CEO of the hospital had to get on the paging system and tell staff to stop cheering in the hallways. Now, I’m hearing this second hand, but he’s a pretty honorable guy and has been in Saudi for 12 years so he likes it here and has no reason to make stuff like this up. They have an affinity for it, but they don’t celebrate it in any way. Well, not in public at least. Who knows what happens behind closed doors (you can say that about any country, town, community in the world though and is not meant as an attack on Saudis) though. Thanksgiving Day, either Canadian in October, or American in November, is not recognized either. Gone are my days of having turkey for a week in early October. We did manage to rent a community hall here on one of the compounds and have a big feast for American Thanksgiving Day but that was organized by us. It fell on a Friday, the day I returned from England, and I wasn’t really in the mood to be entertained or entertain. I had flown all night and just wanted to sleep (I can’t sleep on planes). Ultimately though, it was a good day. Birthdays of Kings and Queens aren’t celebrated, no day off for Martin Luther King Jr either. Naturally, they don’t celebrate my birthday either. I’m working on this though as I think that is important (although I won’t be here for my next birthday anyway). So, if you think there are too many holidays and you want to work all the time; come to Saudi Arabia. Believe me, you won’t forget that these days exist. And you won’t forget that used to get them off either. Cheers, The Penguin |
| The life over here series will be back tomorrow... I am in wonderful spirits today. I could be in better spirits if they’d just hook up my internet connection so I could have high-speed access instead of my tortoise like dial-up (seriously, it takes me 10 minutes to open a single blog entry), but I have even better news than internet concerns. I have managed to successfully rescue all of my old files from the hard disk of my old broken computer and transfer them to my new one. This means, that I have all of my writing back, all of my photos back, and I have all of my writing back. Yes, I know, I mentioned the writing twice. I’m just that happy about it. And because I am that happy about it, I will tell you all a story that not even my parents know... until now. I was a month past 15 years old and in grade 10. This, in Alberta, was the first year of high school. This is when the real learning started. And I’m not talking about in the classrooms from the teachers. I’m talking about the teachings of life, and the lessons to be learnt that would forever shape my fragile mind. And on this warm September day, shortly after 9 o’clock in the morning, I got my first real bitter taste of reality. When I graduated from my junior high school, it was assumed that I would go to the high school just down the street from me. Well, I didn’t. My older sister went to that school and I wanted to forage my own path. I left grade 9 on a bit of a high really. My grade 9 class had 23 people in it (only 7 of us went on to graduate from high school – 3 from university). The entire junior high portion of the school had around 100 people, thanks to the new German curriculum that brought in another 30 students studying first year German. That year, we sent a total of 8 people to the annual track and field competition. I ran the 100, 200, 400, 800, and 1500-meter races. I also ran the 4x100 meter, 4x200 meter, and 4x400 meter races. All in the course of one day I might add. For about 37 minutes, I held the city record for 800 meters at my age group. As the star athlete of my class, I entered high school on a high. It mattered not to be that I had George Harrison’s haircut (he was a member of the Beatles for my younger readers). It also mattered not that my self-esteem was non-existent based on what I saw as serious deficiencies to my personality and appearance. I was bow-legged, was pigeon-toed (not to mention pigeon chested), and above all, I had a terrible stutter. And it was the stutter that would nearly ruin my life. My status as the athlete in my junior high school made it just about impossible for people to ridicule me about my stutter. Or maybe, because most of us had been in the same class since we were 5 years old, we all knew each other like brothers and sisters. Whatever the reason was, my stutter was never an issue. After that summer, it soon would be. The halls of my new school were teeming with people. Over 1700 students attended my high school, and I knew only one other person on that first day. And he was in a program for gifted kids so I never saw him much after orientation and photo day. Basically, I was on my own. Even the kids I had played soccer with that year had cast me aside and were too busy hanging out with other kids from their previous schools. Apparently, coming from a small school has its disadvantages. I was about to enter the domain of cliques and groups, and I didn’t belong to a single one. Back then, I also didn’t really know what I wanted to do or be. I enjoyed writing, but didn’t do it as an everyday thing. I would have loved to have been a professional athlete, but knew that I would never be good enough. And if I wasn’t good enough to be an athlete, when that was the pinnacle of my youth so far, just how good was I at anything else? Teenage years can be a bitch can’t they? I’m sitting in Mr Wurman’s English class that fateful morning, waiting impatiently for what I know is coming. The class was barely 2 weeks old, our fourth class of the year, and we would each have to take a turn reading a passage from the textbook we have been assigned. When it gets around to my turn I’m sweating buckets. I know what is going to happen. Any word that starts with a vowel sound will trip me up, no matter how slow or deliberate I take things. I start, and within the first sentence I’ve managed to mangle my very existence until there are no holes in the ground big enough for me to crawl in. I struggle on, even though every eye in the class is on me. To be fair, I’m thinking some of them are staring awkwardly at their desks trying not to laugh. Too late, one snicker is heard. And when I don’t think it can get any worse; it does. Sitting is the back of the class is one of the most popular girls in grade 10. She is pretty, athletic, from a wealthy family. What she doesn’t remember is that we used to be lunch buddies back in the second and third grades. She moved to a bigger school and was the princess. From deep within her pampered little lungs the words, “Oh my God. I can’t believe they put a retard in class with us” echoed throughout the classroom for everyone to hear. I finished up my passage, amid a hushed din of laughter. When the class finished, I handed in my textbook to Mr Wurman and told him I wouldn’t be back. I walked over to see my guidance councilor and missed my next class waiting to speak to him. When he finally managed to see me, all that remained of the tears were big puffy cheeks and eyes so red you could have propped me on top of an ambulance and people would have seen it coming. This had been the third time since school started that I had seen him. He and I were probably closer than he and his wife at that moment. I told him that I was dropping out of school, that I was too “damaged” to be of any use, and that I would just make a living doing anything I could. I walked out of his office leaving the rest of my books behind. He knew where my locker was (stupid alphabetical system) and was waiting for me when I got there. We marched back to his office and he pulled up my schedule. After an hour, and a phone call to the teacher of my next class explaining my absence, he had devised a new schedule for me. I had swapped English classes (my new teacher was a quirky Brit named Ms Snuverink who is still one of my favourite teachers) and he had me drop typing and take drama. I vehemently fought against taking drama. How could a kid with a stutter be expected to speak in front of all those people I argued? Was he trying to make my life Hell? He just looked me in the eyes and said, “I want you to meet Mr Agrell-Smith, the drama teacher. If, after meeting him, you don’t want to take drama, we’ll get you in something else.” I met him. Within a month I was cast as Puck in A Mid Summer Night’s Dream. He is, to this day, the biggest non-family influence on my life. I saw the girl from English class many years later at a bar when I was looking particularly good. She hit on me. I told her I didn’t turn out too bad for a retard and walked away. I was going to thank her for helping change my life, but didn’t. It’s funny how things happen. It really is true that all things happen for a reason and the people we meet we meet for a purpose or reason. Without her, I probably wouldn’t be who I am today. I definitely wouldn’t be who I am today without my drama teacher. Cheers, The Penguin |
| I wasn’t sure which aspect of life over here to cover next so I deliberated all day yesterday, hence no blog topic, and I’m still not really sure if this topic will be interesting enough for you guys to read all the way through. But, you take the good with the bad I suppose. Today, I will talk about mosques and prayer call. The first time you hear the prayer call, at whatever time you hear it (5 times a day) it sets you back a bit. Basically, some little dude climbs into the tower on the mosque, turns on the speakers, and begins belting out the call. Some of them sound really fascinating; others just sound annoying and grating. The call itself will last for about 15 minutes, but when you are woken at 5 am to the dulcet tones of the prayer call; it seems to last for days. Only once have I heard the early morning prayer call. It was the first night after I moved into my apartment from staying in the company provided hotel. It took about a month for them to find me adequate housing once I got here. My contract says Western Style accommodation, and the first few places they showed me were far from Western. They gave me a line about not allowing single males to live in the town houses on the compounds and that there were no single male accommodations available on any of the compounds. Seeing as though it took them 7 months to get me out here, and I came despite not hearing a word from them for 3 months, I decided that I was going to request a plane ticket home if something wasn’t done. The boss of my division stepped in, told them not to jerk me around, and I’ve been at my apartment since (no armed guards, easy access to grocery shopping). It is also just down the road from two mosques. I moved in on a Thursday, my half-day at work (we work Saturday to Thursday – 48 hours per week) so I had the next day off to acclimatize to my new surroundings and pick up any items I might need around the house. It usually takes me a few weeks to get used to sleeping in a new bed, sometimes less, but I can recall my first night being particularly restless. I suppose, looking back on this, the first night in the new apartment could have been seen as the day I officially became a worker in Saudi Arabia. Living out of a suitcase in a hotel still felt like I was only there on business leave. But once I saw my own shower, my own stove, my own washer and dryer, well, I had arrived as a full-time ex-Pat. The clock had barely slipped past 5 am when I rustled from my fitful slumber. Somewhere, I couldn’t quite make out the direction, came a voice ringing off the buildings and bounding down the streets that surrounded me. He went on for an eternity, or 10 minutes, and long after he stopped, and I had dropped my head back onto my relatively comfortable pillow, I could hear his incantations ricocheting inside my head and vibrating my ears. By 6 I was wide awake with no where to go. The shopping mall across the street didn’t open until 4 in the afternoon, and the grocery store, normally open at 8, didn’t open until 11 am on Fridays. I didn’t have an internet connection yet, didn’t have a DVD player despite the apartment coming with a television, and I had read all of the books I had brought with me. It turns out this prayer call came from the mosque down the street from me. There is a larger mosque right behind the mall, but at that time of the morning, the prayer call is quieter for some reason. During the day, and especially the last prayer call at night (and the longest of the prayer times), the echoic singing can be heard from Bahrain I’m thinking. I’m told that there is one mosque for every 150 families in a particular city or region but I’m not entirely sure if this is true. In some neighborhoods there seems to be 5 or 6 mosques, literally a block apart. In others, such as mine, there only seems to be one mosque, despite the multitude of apartment buildings that make up my district. And you know I would never bore you with scientific or truthfully researched facts so I’m just going to assume the number of mosques per family ratio is close enough to be considered right. I have been inside one mosque, the Grand Mosque in Bahrain (which does allow the non-Muslim public inside). I have peered inside the mosque at the hospital, and the one inside the mall across the street, but that is it. Inside the one at the hospital and the mall, it is pretty non-descript, which is how it should be I suppose. You do go to pray to offer your penitence and humbleness. It’s hard to be humble surrounded by gold and diamonds. Generally, I stay clear of them when prayer time is on. I am not a religious guy myself, but don’t begrudge anyone theirs, so I don’t want to be a hindrance or disturbance when they are praying. It is frowned upon to walk in front of them when they are praying, on their knees facing Mecca. I came over here not wanting to get arrested or worse, and so far so good. Now, I will tell you that I was disappointed with my friends for not wanting to stand outside the mosque at the hospital and sing “Jingle Bells” on Christmas Day during prayer call. I guess they don’t want to leave this place as much as I do. Cheers, The Penguin |
| Today, I want to take you onto the streets. I want you to feel the excitement and fear that comes with sitting in a car and risking life and limb on the roads of Al-Khobar, Saudi Arabia (and other regions as well). In terms of a driving experience... you will be hard pressed to find anything remotely close to it. Before I came out here I did what everyone should do and I read a little bit about what I was getting myself into. You soon realize that women aren’t permitted to drive in Saudi Arabia (among other things – but I’ll discuss those in another blog entry). My first thought of course, was how Middle Ages of these people. But after I got here and survived a few days on the road I changed my opinion. I really think they are doing women a favour by not letting them behind the wheel of a car. I don’t drive here (primarily because I’m poor) and I haven’t really wanted to either. I am provided transport to and from work as part of my contract (like all contracts here) and every workday I wait outside my apartment for the company bus to come and pick me up. What usually follows is 15 minutes of terror, four right and left turns of agony before I finally see the doors open and we spill out of the bus. And then I repeat the process the next day. Try as I might, I have yet to find anything that tells me there are traffic laws here. I have seen the occasional police jeep parked against a curb near a busy intersection – but there is no police officer to be found nearby. Speed limit signs are purely for decoration, or should come with a little blurb at the bottom of them – “manufacturer’s suggested speed only”. I have seen the buses that carry me to and from work hit speeds of 80 miles per hour down a residential road. Thankfully they slow down to about 60 to drive over the speed bumps that seem to be the only deterrent to people driving around like Michael Schumacher all day. This is the only country on earth (possibly) where a three lane road suddenly becomes suitable to drive five lanes wide, and you’ll get an earful of Arabic and honking if you don’t comply with these ass-backward ideals. And everybody here is in a hurry to get somewhere more important than you are. Honking is a reflexive action here, all cars should have a good one, and if you can hide behind the tinted windows that most of the cars have here you can honk in relative anonymity because you enjoy being a gutless fucking coward and think that because you are driving a Porsche Cayenne with fake Burberry interior you are better than me and everyone else on earth. Well, I’ve got news for you – you aren’t. So, why don’t you go back to sitting behind your desk doing nothing, all you are good for, and let the Westerner that you despise do the work we were brought over for because you can’t do it. Okay, back to the traffic problems. It still shocks me the car in the far right lane makes a left hand turn, which doesn’t appear to be against the law, and the car in the far left lane makes a right hand turn. I have seen a couple of accidents since I’ve been here, but how I haven’t seen a couple a day is shocking to me. The driving problems sum up what I think is the general problem here. This is a culture that appears to have no sense of community, no sense of togetherness. It is a common occurrence to see a car straddle the curb on red lights and drive to the front of the queue and pull out in front of the other cars so they can be first across the intersection. Of course, this car is soon second in line as another car has to be in front of him. Then the lanes just start shrinking and more cars than lanes are present. The traffic lights here work differently than they do in Canada as well. Back home, the lights of cars travelling in opposite directions would both be green, with a blinking arrow for cars making left turns either at the start or end of the light. Here, only one direction gets to go at any given time. This is handy because this is the u-turn capital of the world. On major tributaries, there are few turning lanes so you have to do a u-turn at the first chance you can to get back to where you want to go. Of course, it becomes fun when four lanes of traffic all try to do a u-turn into two lanes. Again, I don’t know how more people aren’t in collisions here. The shoulders of the road appear to be just extra passing lanes, both on the inside and outside, and you can never let your guard down while behind the wheel. I have been on the highway going 100 miles an hour and had cars zip past me, half on the road, half on the sand, leaving a cloud of dust and probably a brown streak somewhere I don’t want one. It is absolutely crazy at times. And you know what makes it worse? I have checked everywhere, and even asked around, but I can’t find out what the official driving age is over here. It is not uncommon to see 10 year olds pulling up outside the grocery stores or malls, and dropping off his mother and his sisters. I’ve seen kids barely old enough to count body hair cruising the streets in BMWs and Mercedes’. I have heard that the oldest son, of any age, is allowed to drive but I’m not sure if this is true or not. A lot of this country is shrouded in mystery, covered up, and never revealed. This might be another one of those cases. I haven’t seen a driving school either, although I am told that they do exist. What they learn at these driving schools is beyond me though. But hold on, it gets worse. I can understand this bad driving behaviour from the Saudis, but when I see Westerners doing it I am completely baffled and appalled. Sure, when in Rome do as the Roman’s do, but do you have to check your brain cells and common sense at the door to do it? It might be a little different if you’ve been in Saudi for 20-odd years like some people I know have. By that time, you are pretty much Saudi, having adapted your life so completely that your return to the Western world cripples you and you come back here (I’ve got more on this later). But if you’ve been here a year and you’re acting like a twat you deserve every derivative I abscond you with. And then to show up at work and complain about the driving? Maybe it’s not the driving that irks me so much but the people! Cheers, The Penguin |
| Part 3 of our series takes us back into the shopping malls (seems like I spend a lot of time there doesn’t it?) and into the stores and boutiques that make up these overpriced and overblown monstrosities. And yes, they are monstrosities. Having come from a city famed for the West Edmonton Mall, one of the largest on Earth, even I am shocked by the amount of splendour they try and give these things here. This really is a culture where the rich and wealthy show off just how rich and wealthy they are. From the chandeliers hanging from the arched roofs to the fountain spouts that shoot water in a rhythmic pattern, there is gaudy to extreme for the eye. You will find all the designer stores here. All of them. On any given day I can have a browse through Tiffany’s, Cartier, Burberry, to name but a few. Thankfully, for the poor and penniless like myself, there are also plenty of opportunities to buy “fakes” so realistic that the proprietors of the real stores in London can’t tell the difference. Now, I’m not condoning wearing a fake Breitling watch, but if I can get it for $2000 US cheaper then I will. Hey, I’m frugal. Besides, I think people would kill me if I spent that much on a watch. The first thing you will notice about any store you go into here is that all of the service staff are male. For the most part, they are Filipino, East Asian, and of course Saudi (primarily in the jewelry stores). Throw in a scattering of Lebanese and other Arab nationalities and you have got yourself a shopping experience. Did I mention that they were all male staff? The all male staff burden isn’t much of a problem for me. In fact, it’s probably a blessing in disguise as I have a bad habit of being a sucker and buying something from any store that the sales girl smiles at me. I seemed to have kicked that habit recently, as on both of my trips to England I have shown remarkable restraint. My last trip to England (in November) saw me a little preoccupied with what I was thinking about (gotta love it). As you all know, Saudi Arabia is a country that caters to men and the shopping is no exception either. Most stores don’t have change rooms, and those that do, have only a tiny little curtain up to prevent people from peering in. I’m rather fortunate in that I haven’t changed pant or shirt size in 20 years so it’s easy for me. Also, you can return items here without much hassle if you have the receipt and don’t wait more than a week. Naturally, this can be a problem for women though. For some reason, and I used to sell clothes as a part time job, women’s clothes sizes all seem to fit differently. It is virtually impossible for a woman to take something off the shelf and buy it without trying it on first to see if it fits. I used to think this was women just being difficult, but having worked in retail, and tried to buy enough clothes for them (mothers, sisters, ex fiancés) I know that it is a crapshoot. And I refuse to buy jeans even if I know the exact size. Is it just me or do all jeans seem to have a different cut? Anyways, moving on. Where I see the most problems or inconveniences for women are in the lingerie and make-up stores. Again, there is only male staff. And I’m not sure what training the guys at the Mac counter have had. I don’t know if they know their lip-gloss from their eyeliners. I don’t know if they know their winter shades from their summer shades. It can be pretty daunting in a store that just sells make-up. I have been in them as a curious onlooker. I have to admit it though, these girls, or the few guys that do this for a living in the real world, really know their stuff. I’m not so sure if it is the case out here. Out here, I just think it is a job. I’ve been told by several of my friends here that they would rather spend the money and fly some place else to buy make-up than to buy it here. They feel like they are being stalked and gawked at when in these stores. I can see it happening too. This is a culture that limits men/women interactions so this is the perfect situation for a guy I suppose. It would be hard to sell a girl lipstick without having to look at her face. And if make-up is bad, how do you think a woman feels when she’s trying to buy something lacy that is meant for only her husband to see? I once applied to work at a lingerie store back home when I was younger. I knew I wasn’t going to get the job, did it more as a dare, but thought it was funny when the store manager came out to try and dissuade me from applying. I could probably get a job here at one of them in a heartbeat, although they don’t pay that well I’m guessing. The real conundrum with this situation is – this is a country and religion that does its best to remove temptation (fitness and fashion magazines have all the photos with exposed legs, cleavage, and stomachs drawn over in black pen), and here are men selling bras and panties to women. I have never been in a lingerie store, but walking past them is a hoot. You know that the younger Saudi women love the attention they are getting when they hold up a thong and the men selling them just stand back and stare at them all glassy-eyed and expectant. In a culture not known for subtlety, just having men selling frilly under garments is a contradiction to the great measures they take to keep men from ogling women. I feel icky when they gawk at me; and I’ve never held up a 38C bra and matching panties in front of them. I can only imagine the stares that follow when that happens. Actually, I don’t even know if I’m allowed in a lingerie store here. Hmmm, I don’t think I’m going to find out either. Cheers, The Penguin |
| Part two of this exciting series about life in Saudi Arabia is brought to you by Odor Eaters. Odor Eaters, keeping your feet smelling not like feet for a very long time. And using that as a brilliant segue, I shall continue with the horrific tale of one man, a pair of sandals, and an unpleasant surprise. One of my first trips to a major shopping center here also led to a big surprise for me as well. I was wearing shorts (passed my knees so as not to offend), a t-shirt, and sandals. Naturally, I wasn’t wearing socks because socks and sandals is just stupid and you deserve to be hit by a car if you are wearing them together. Seriously. If it is too cold to leave your house without socks; it is too cold to wear sandals! Deal with it. And if I have offended, why don’t you stuff a handful of granola down your throat and hug another tree! I’m walking through the mall when nature decides that my bladder is too small and I have to “dismiss the spirits” as it were. I’m close to the food court, where there is always a toilet, so I make a beeline straight for it. A big door with golden handles greets me and I walk inside. An employee is dutifully mopping the floor, shiny enough to apply make-up if you wore it, and I ventured deeper. Noticing that there were no urinals to use (I guess lifting a thobe above your head might be difficult) I entered the first stall available. I quickly walked from it as well. A quick cursory look at several other stalls left me little options but to immerse myself in an aspect of Saudi culture I didn’t expect. The toilets, the porcelain thrones that man can sit and conjure up his best thoughts from, were non-existent. Instead, I was greeted by an upscale, somewhat evolved, outhouse. The tile floor gave way to a porcelain chamber. Okay, it was a small trough below the surface of the tile, with a hole cut in the middle of it. On either side of the trough were ridged porcelain chunks, presumably where you keep your feet while you straddle the floor, hike up your thobe, drop your undergarments, and relieve your bowels. Since I only have to go number 1, my task should have been easier. The floors in the stalls are soaked, with what I can only hope is water. Each toilet, whether the hole in ground or the standard porcelain throne, is equipped with a hose and spray gun. I have never used one of these attachments, but I believe it is the poor man’s bidet. Judging by the flooded mess that sometimes occupies the stalls of the toilets in the hospital, a lot of people opt for the cleansing power of water rather than the frictious irritation of paper on butthole. I have never used a regular bidet for that matter. If I wanted colon hydrotherapy I’d go the whole nine yards and get someone with a degree to stick a pipe up my ass and do it properly. I have asked several of my female coworkers what the ladies toilets are like and they have said it is much the same scenario. Water covers all of the stalls, and for some reason, the women like to find a comfortable dry spot in the washroom and sit down and converse, thus creating an obstacle course for the women to try and manipulate before subjecting themselves to the humility of crouching. Of course, I am told, that because the floors are soaked in water, the bottom of their trousers will soon be as absorbent as a Jiffy brand paper towel. Fun stuff huh? Part of the prayer process, and it happens five times a day, is to clean your feet before you pray. Shoes are not worn in the mosques, so the hose attachment is also used to spray down your feet after you use the pit in the ground. This does explain why the floors are always soaked; but I can’t believe this makes your feet any cleaner than they were before. Another thing that completely shocked me was the first time I walked into a washroom at work and saw someone hanging out of the sink washing his feet. On recollection, I do remember hearing the prayer call from the mosque outside the hospital and this guy was just doing his part to cleanse himself before going to pray. Unfortunately, he is one of the many people that seem to live here that sees bathing as a luxury and not an everyday occurrence. The stench coming off his feet was... well... I can’t find words for it I’m afraid. That isn’t the worst part of it of course. He finishes up, puts his socks and shoes back on, washes his hands and face, damn near drowning himself, and leaves the washroom. The place resembles a swimming pool now. Water is cascading off the counter tops, the floor is glistening like a mountain lake in the early morning sun, and I’m doing my best not to impersonate bambi the first time the poor fawn stepped on ice. Naturally, I’m peeved and have to talk, err, yell at somebody about this. I argue that there is a sign on the door that says people are permitted to do what was just done in any of the hospital bathrooms but my argument is countered by the “it is my religion, not yours” argument. I counter by saying that all mosques have areas for people to cleanse themselves before they go and pray, and technically, you are supposed to wash just before praying so you don’t get dirty again. A long journey from the sixth floor of the hospital outside would contradict that very requirement. I really don’t care that he’s washing his feet in the sink; I care that I have to tiptoe around the bathroom and end up getting soaked every time I approach the sink. He’s still doing, even though he has been told not to, and I really hope that the “wrong” person sees him doing it and he is sent back home to think about the benefits of following one little rule. I do have a funny story about the toilets that I am involved in. I was out running on the corniche with Chris about 6 months after I had been here and with the copious amounts of water that I drink here I needed to stop along the way in one of the public toilets to go. I enter a stall and Chris just uses the trough against the far wall. When I walk out, Chris has finished, and an Arab man walks in, goes to the trough along the wall where Chris has just relieved himself, turns on the little tap, which starts a small trickling of water running down the entire length of the trough. He then proceeds to wash his face, hands, and feet. Needless to say, Chris and I exit rather quickly, Chris totally embarrassed about using a cleaning station for a urinal. I couldn’t stop laughing for the rest of the run though. Cheers, The Penguin |
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We've all had a moments like that...oh, and variations on the other one you mentioned! 