koo • ki

I'm not eating that

2012-01-23T14:52:00.002+03:00

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

When vowels go wrong:
"Angus Rob Eye Beef Steak"

The case of the misplaced 'i" or the case of the missing "eye"?

Radioactive

2012-01-12T23:40:00.000+03:00

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See that truck? I know it’s a horribly unclear photo but I didn’t want to get too close to it. Why? See that orange rectangle in the middle of the tailgate? It’s an orange piece of paper. Taped to the truck. Can’t quite decipher what it says? Let me help you: "Radioactive Material".

Yes. It said "Radioactive Material". A ploy to maintain personal space in Doha traffic? Or truth? Did I mention the yellow box riding in the back? You know the one with the nuclear symbol on it? Or that I saw this during the school run? Must one extrapolate from there?

First Socks, Then Shoes

2012-01-03T05:00:00.000+03:00

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Some things just can’t be undone. It doesn’t matter if I cook his favorite meal tonight and buy gummi bears for dessert. Or put the children to bed by myself. I could even stand on my head and do naked splits in the air. No matter what I do, it won’t change the fact that this morning when my husband tried to get ready for work, he couldn’t find any clean socks, anywhere. He couldn't find clean pants either.

Nightmares come true.

It’s entirely my fault. On a normal day my husband works almost 10 hours — and that’s before he gets home (he'll contest this number but then he has some explaining to do). On a normal day I work about 10 hours too. It’s just that part of my work involves things like doing the laundry. I usually keep the pile within an inch of my chin. The children will occasionally whine that they don’t have any clean socks but the reason is usually because the socks are strewn across the floor rather than piled in the hamper. Unlike the children, my husband usually puts his dirty clothes in the hamper.

But this week hasn’t been normal. It’s vacation. You do understand that by "vacation" I mean the children’s vacation, right? Which means I’m working more than 10 hours and my husband probably wishes he was working more, but that might just be me projecting. Vacation means I didn’t do the laundry. And haven’t, apparently, for a couple of weeks. It is not helpful that I realize this at 7 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, when I'm enjoying a fresh cup of coffee, when I see my husband standing in front of me in his boxers.

Is it selfish to wish he’d run out of boxers too?

Just last night I was rejoicing that I was smarter than him. I’d scored 26 on Dr. Kawashima’s Brain Age test (20 is best!). I generally feel like my brain functions like a lobotomized monkey so was as excited as a child on her birthday that I scored anything below 70, and that on my first! try. When I saw my husband’s score was 36, the words, “I’m smarter than you,” may have repetitively spewed forth from my mouth like sewage on a rainy day in Doha.

I wasn’t feeling so smart now. I wanted to vomit. Thing was, I knew a few more things my husband hadn’t been awake long enough to discover yet. Not only had I not done the laundry, I hadn’t booked the flights I said I’d book (thanks Qtel!). Also we didn’t have any milk.

Some negligences can’t be remedied.

My husband is nothing if not pragmatic. He calmly asked me to please go to the store and buy him a hamper. I thought that an odd request given the current state of his dress. But he figured if the current arrangement wasn’t working, make another arrangement. He’d wash his own clothes.

My husband knows he can do what he does because I'm in the background doing what I do. He knows this because he used to be in the background doing this. I (& his parents) put him through University - in Switzerland that's a substantial number of years more than in the States. Even after we had our first child and I was at home full-time, I was the in-your-face bitch telling him that I'd already worked 15 hours that day and he'd only done 10 so he had some catching up to do. That usually coincided with elbowing him in the ribs at 3 a.m. when a certain baby was crying. I'm not an easy person to live with and even harder to be married to.

But we are impeccably suited for each other. There are a few reasons for this, one of them being that I also know that I can do what I do because he does what he does — even though I'm not always sure exactly what that entails. All I can see some days are the multiple phone calls on the weekend, as well as running out to some exhibition hall or other, sometimes with a drill in hand, other times, with only his fury. He'll come back hours later. The children will be in bed. Maybe we'll sit out back. He'll smoke and I'll drink. Both of us silently hoping we can keep these coping mechanisms under control and that they won't kill us. Between deep inhalations he'll tell me about the man that was almost electrocuted or the documents that had to be signed five times, by the same person, so that some trash could be removed from the building. He makes it sound like my own private viewing of a Cohen movie. The next day we wake up and do it all over again. Because while he was gone doing what he does, I was at home doing what I do. Except when I don't. And that happens overwhelmingly during school vacations. And then he finds himself standing downstairs with nothing but his underwear.

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

Which is why I did laundry for the next two and a half days. (I may have been a bit further behind than I thought.) I even took laundry duties a step further and considered walking his shirts to the dry cleaner (something he usually does because I resist being two-legged entertainment for the men at the dry cleaners & also I refuse to wield an iron). I went to the store. I bought gummi bears. And I didn’t buy just one hamper — I bought three laundry baskets for optimal pre-sorting.The orange basket is for towels; blue for dark clothes; white for lights. The idea being that everyone throws their dirty clothes into the appropriate basket. When the basket is full someone (I) wash the laundry in that basket. Totally streamlining the whole process. I think.

Any bets on how long it will be until he runs out of boxers too or am I going to have to come up with another way to get him out of his shorts?

Word Search

2011-12-30T04:00:00.000+03:00

It wasn’t until after the sun came up and I’d had my second cup of coffee that I realized what a piece of self-aggrandizement my post yesterday was. Looking at blog stats is not unlike checking to see how many people liked a Facebook status update or the more old-fashioned version of looking in the mirror. My post was nothing more than a public pat on my own back & of little value to you, the people who have been reading all along. I suspect you don’t really care which posts are top — and the stats proved it.

At the risk of making the same mistake twice, I’ve compiled the results of my most absolutely favorite stat. They’re called “word searches”. These are the words and phrases people type into Google, which in turn sends the seeker to my blog. The results have provided much needed comic relief over the years.

My Absolutely Favorite Word Search Ever

☞ atomic lollipop toronto belly dancers ☜

Someone landed at my blog because of this word search! That makes me feel I must be doing something right. Exactly what the search referred to, I’m not entirely sure. But it's a glorious search phrase, no?

Here are some more of my favorites that landed people to my blog. I put them into two categories.

You were searching for what?

lipstick and brace high heels

koo licking fuck

bird call 998

iconocrapy

cheap scorpion lollipops

Did you find what you were looking for?

doha beauty blogger

where do you buy mens briefs in doha

britney spears circus hoops

bah koo ki bird

ki inspiration

Am I a slow learner or are Google searches entertaining?

Year-end Caboose

2011-12-29T06:21:00.001+03:00

Fascinating what people like to read. I'm hopping on the 2011 caboose. Here are the Top 3 posts from this year. Make it to the end and you'll see which post I had the most fun writing and the one that scared me so much I almost had to change my pants afterwards (must I clarify that I mean after the actual experience, not the writing of it).

#3 How hot is Doha?

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

#2 kooki Architecture in Doha, Part 2

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

# 1 Compassion follows Aggression

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

Click here to find out post I had most fun writing.

And here's the post which caused my heart to race faster than a lion on a treadmill.

The post which continues to be the all-time kooki high is a post from 2010: Tiger on the Run.

Which posts have you liked?

We're ending this year safe and sound of body. As for our minds, well, there's a little bit of crazy in us all — some of us just have a little more than others. Thanks for reading and being in my life. I'm all for open relationships so feel free to share Just Kooki with other people in your life.

Home for Christmas - In Qatar

2011-12-24T14:46:00.001+03:00

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

A Snow-Spewing Christmas Tree in Qatar

Home for Christmas - in Qatar

One of the unheralded benefits of living in the middle of the Muslim world is the ability to ignore Western holidays. This year is our 3^rd Christmas in Qatar. While we didn’t leave Europe to escape snow globes, manger scenes and familial expectations, their absence each Christmas could have been listed in the benefits package for sure.

As you may know, throughout history Christmas has been largely driven by four factions; we’ll call them The 4 C’s. Each "C" has successively been encroached upon until eventually being overthrown by the "C" which follows it.

Goddess-worshippers: Ok, not a ‘C’ but, you use your imagination and ‘G” is a "C" with bite. This group is known more officially as Pagans. Almost all modern day symbols of Christmas stem from the pagans acknowledgment that the warmth of the sun is returning. Not only did the 25^th mark the beginning of noticeably longer, sunny days, ancient pagans (like Christians) decided to use the day to celebrate a god's birthday. Unlike Christians they celebrated the son of the queen of heaven [the son was curiously also the reincarnated husband of the queen of heaven, his mother (that’s a long, juicy tangent waiting to be sucked)]. On that note, here’s a little tidbit to help promote jolly mirth this holiday season: it has been suggested that the Christmas tree is an ancient symbol for Nimrod’s fertile, umm, rod. Pagans kind of view Christians as spiritual colonialists who re-purposed pagan symbols.

Christians: If religions had national days, Christmas would be the Christian National Day (just replace national day fireworks with a chorus of angels and heavenly lights). Christmas is the day where Christians ask the world to forget any atrocities performed in the name of Jesus and to remember him, and by extension them, as innocent as babes freely giving fresh joy to the world. Somehow it works and much of the world now pronounces that the “reason for the season” is the birthday of baby Jesus, which is kind of sweet, even though historically inaccurate.

Consumerism: A few un-jolly citizens have given Christmas the stage name “Consumermas”. Like the fairy of the economic world, consumerism hasput some bling on ecclesiastical lights by dressing them up with lots of garland and multi-colored, blinking. You'll hear consumerism sing songs that proclaim merry, merry, merry while you buy, buy, buy. Knowing the most effective change is wrought when you start with children, Consumerism's brilliant marketing strategy says, “Hey, it’s baby Jesus’ birthday! Since he isn’t on earth, why doesn’t everyone on earth buy gifts for each other? Lots of gifts!” Consumerism bends over backwards to be stuffed with a big, thick wad of your money at year’s end.

Comparison: I think of this as keeping up with the Jesus Jonses (although in our family, I also call it keeping up with the Wackers). This is what perpetuates Christmas of both the Christian and consumer sort — although I'd argue that few Christians have the jingle balls to admit that while in their minds Jesus might be the reason for the season, in their actions comparison is the reason for their consumerism. While most people don’t need a generator to keep their Christmas decorations sparkling, most people do feel the need to decorate no matter the visual outcome. Even conservative Christians aren’t exempt from decorating; they just do it with a nativity scene rather than reindeer. And about those Christmas presents. Left to your own devices, would you really buy your children presents on December 25 if the rest of your world wasn’t? An enormous amount of Christmas celebration hinges on keeping children from being ostracized or feeling inferior to their friends. Would you choose to spend a stressful day with every single member of your family, extended, if you weren’t guilted into it? Many people would but a great number of people would rather not which leads an inordinate number of people to go completely off the other side of the scale. They skip the water and go straight for the wine. As Edenland points out with a glaze of very dark humor, drinking is all fun and games, unless you’re an alcoholic.

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

Garden Furniture & Christmas Trees

side-by-side in Qatar

Once you understand the history of Christmas, it’s easy to see why Christmas isn’t widely celebrated in Qatar.

In Qatar consumerism is practiced year round, so there really isn’t a need to boost the economy at the end of the year.
While Muslims do revere Jesus and think he’s an eloquent prophet, they don’t shine ecclesiastical lights on him in December and elevate his status to savior of the world. And as a Muslim friend of mine said, Muslims (& most historians and some Christians) recognize Jesus’ birth as occurring any time between March and September (the time of year when shepherds watch their flocks by night).
Even if you go back to the ancient roots of Christmas, the end of the dark, unfruitful season isn’t something joyously celebrated in the desert where winter is the fruitful, rainy-er-ish season. With temperatures in the 20’s (70’’s F) winter is the swellest time of year here.
In spite of the swell weather, most expat revelers leave the country, making it even easier to not compare since most of the people who celebrate aren’t here. Of course, there are the pre-Christmas celebrations like Saint Nicholas Day on Dec 6, which caused an uproar this year.

Most people, even non-conformists, have a little something they find pleasant about Christmas. I see the wisdom in acknowledging that perhaps we could all stand to be a bit more joyful and kind to one another. I can see how small white lights in the dark of a cold night are pleasant. How joy can be promoted with food. How paying enough attention to someone throughout the year so you can buy a thoughtful gift for them can encourage you to be kind. But the hype and around Dec 25th is unnecessary — and unavoidable — in Europe and North America. In the end I think TalkBackTy says it best, “We’re all hungry, horny and tired. Beyond that, it’s all social pressure.”

Which is why this year we’ll be home for Christmas - in Qatar. It's not that we won't make it a special time; I'm always for making a day special, whether it's December 25th or February 25th. My husband and I perform enough cultural niceties to keep our kids from feeling like total social outcasts. We have a tree; this year my husband pulled it out from under the stairs so the children could decorate it. They did that entirely by themselves while we sat outside sipping coffee with a friend in the warmth of the December sun. That's is the kind of tradition I could get behind.

We also buy a few gifts for the kids. But only for our children; many years ago my husband and I stopped buying gifts for each other and all family members who do not live within a few feet of us, which, for me, pleasantly reduces much stress.

On Christmas Eve we eat something special. If there's one thing I love, it's food. The past two years we invited double-digit numbers of friends to our house for a BBQ, because that's what we/I wanted to do. But this year I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed by daily life and a bunch of people at our house wasn't going to work. In fact a few days before Christmas Eve I realized that the family (of 3!) that we wanted to invite was too overwhelming. They kindly said we could relocate to their place. (Yeah, for friends.) We unanimously decided that cooking, even if shared between us, was too much work. We wanted to do something special this year. So we did — we ordered lasagna from Fabio's — it was delicious. And we laughed, and it wasn't the alcohol laughing, it was us because we were genuinely pleased to be doing what we were doing with people we were genuinely pleased to be with —it also helps that our children had scampered off to bat a balloon around the tennis courts.

Here's wishing you have a delightful day doing something that pleases you with people who make you laugh. Merry Day to us all!

Qatar Wedding, Part 4: Pomp

2011-12-24T12:38:00.000+03:00

Photo courtesy of Monique Grzelska

Place setting at a Qatari wedding which allowed cameras

(but photos could only be taken on one side of the room)

Women's Wedding in Qatar, Part 1: Invitation & Advice

Wedding in Qatar, Part 2: Wedding Preparation

Wedding in Qatar, Part 3: Circumstance

Wedding in Qatar, Part 4: Pomp

This particular marriage was arranged. The bride and groom had been legally married 3-6 months earlier. Rosa* wasn’t entirely certain when they were married but it seemed important because the entire evening she kept coming back to it. Out of the blue she would say, “No, no they have been married for 3 months. I think.” And 30 minutes later she would say, “No, 6 months. It’s been 6 months.”

Whether it was 3 months or 6, the English word ‘engagement’ clumsily describes this stage of the union. Legally, the couple is married but they still live in their parents’ homes. At this point, if the couple chooses to separate, they will be legally divorced. Keeping in mind that up until the papers have been signed, the man and the woman will (likely) have not seen or spoken to one another even once, not even when signing the papers which legally bind them together.

You must understand a bit about the culture to get a slight grasp on this. Traditionally Qatari men and women do not speak to each other. If a woman looks a man directly in the eyes, it is considered a sexual invitation. Men and women do not interact with the opposite sex outside of family members. Even in the house men and women are largely separate. Men have their own room to visit and women their own. If a non-family male comes into the women’s section the women will cover their hair and clothes with black cloth. To speak to someone of the opposite sex is to provide fodder for speculation. Imagine what a handshake can mean in this context.

As a commenter on Mimiz Blog said, “you never select your brothers/sisters but you love them and live with them, and u will never imagining living without them. (cant this apply to your wife?)”.

I try to understand. But admit, I can’t come even close. My experience is limited; my reasoning one-sided and my mind bangs against cliches. But for the moment, that’s all I have to work with. And so I try. I try to not directly translate their traditions onto my life; I don’t try to imagine what my life would be like if my father had scoped the field for someone compatible for me. His choice would never have been mine. I do understand that parents usually want their children to marry someone who is from the same background. I can comprehend that parents feel more confident in their child’s marriage partner if their child chooses a partner that has the same religious background, grew up in a similar part of the country (the closer, often, the better), and even better if the parents know at least one person from the other family (no matter how far removed). Parents aren’t always the self-giving lot they’re made out to be. They don’t only want their children to be happy; they want their own happiness, as well. Few parents rejoice if their child marries someone from a different culture.

Only about 1% of Qatari’s marry foreigners. Of that 1% most are men. Qatari women are less likely to marry a foreigner because children acquire citizenship from their father not their mother. So if a Qatari woman marries a Mexican man, their children will be Mexican citizens, not Qatari, which means the children will not receive any of the substantial benefits that Qatari nationals receive, such as a piece of land from the government when they marry.

Rosa is in the 1%. She met her Qatari husband when they were both students in the United States. His parents did not accept their relationship. They wanted him to come home and marry a Qatari girl. He’d been together with Rosa for 8 years . He told them either Rosa came with him or he wouldn’t come at all. As Rosa says, “They had no choice but to accept me. But I am not Qatari and although they include me, among Qatari's I will never be an insider.”

Unlike Rosa and her Qatari husband, most arranged marriages are initiated when someone “feels that it is time to get married”. The family, usually the mother, begins to subtly ask around if there is someone else who is also “ready to get married”. The age when this happens is increasing. Rosa says, “People are waiting until they are older. Now woman will wait until they are 23 to get married.” When she says this I almost choke on my chocolate praline. 23 is older?

Increasingly, men are looking for women who are “more mature” — around 27 or 28. The older women have the reputation of being more settled and less flitty. Many women delay marriage until after they have finished a University degree and perhaps have worked a few years. Before the next wedding season begins most of them will have a baby.

During the engagement period and the couple is legally married they are permitted to see each other. Depending on the family, they might be able to be alone together. She may cook him food. They will talk. I know you’re wondering, so I’ll tell you, they will not touch during this time. Depending on the family, the two parties (can they really be called a couple?) will not go out in public. They usually see each other in the bride’s home. It is very private, like staid dating, except legally if they decide to break up at this point, it is a divorce. Which happens. This leads to what Mimiz Blog calls a “false divorce”, a divorce between two people who have done nothing more than speak to each other for a few weeks.

During the engagement period, if they decide they can stand each other, the families begin to plan a public announcement of their marriage (not that everyone doesn’t already know about it). This happens anywhere from 6 weeks to 6 months after the legal documents are signed. That is where the party I am attending comes in. It is the public announcement from bride and groom’s families that their two families now have a legal connection to one another.

At 10 pm we are still waiting for the bride to arrive. For two hours I’ve watched the women in my line of vision work the room. Far as I can tell it involves lots of cheek kissing, hand shaking, pleasantry talking. Even though it's kind of monotonous, I’m glad I can just sit. Except after sitting a couple hours I need to stand. Not knowing where else to go I excuse myself to walk to the bathroom. As soon as I stand up a couple hundred women turn their heads and watch me walk halfway across the room. I can tell they are talking about me by the heads nodding in my direction. I focus on keeping my feet firmly on the floor, my shoulders back, and my stomach in.

Although keeping stomachs tucked in doesn’t seem to be valued nearly as much here as in the States. You can’t help but notice that the dresses the women chose accentuate all their curves. I don't know where curves fit in the Qatari fashion scale. Is it a case of the more the merrier or is it more a matter of saying take it or leave it?

The bride finally arrives at 10:30. She looks completely strained. Rosa says all brides look like that. Not because they are unhappy but because they’re concentrating on walking. She walks down the runway with hundreds of eyes on her. The point is to impress. It is quite impressive — she doesn’t trip. When she finally reaches the end of the runway, she stands facing us. All eyes are on her. That takes nerves. Then comes something I would have never imagined. As she stands, friends and family take turns coming to her. They stand so close to her that I’m sure she can feel their breath on her face. The women open their golden bags. They’ve haven’t filled them with lipstick or toothbrushes. They’ve filled their clutches with money. Pulling out handfuls of riyal bills, the women congratulate the bride while throwing the money directly at her face or sprinkling it on top of her head, then put their hands in the clutch for more. The bride doesn’t flinch. Around her assistants stoop to collect the money as quickly as they can and stuff it into a bag. The money goes to the band. Depending on the contract, the band’s only payment is the money they collect from the floor. This goes on for what seems like 30 minutes.

She finally sits on the sofa placed center stage. The congratulations continue. Now women dance on the runway for the bride either before or after congratulating the bride and raining money over her head. The dance is a smooth sliding walk. The women’s arms move like snakes through the air. When they dance they don’t look at each other; just glide past one another, sometimes pausing to sync with another woman but they never touch. It is curious how they all dance alone yet move as a group with almost identical steps.

The bride continues to have money rained down upon her face. The women that approach her while she is sitting are her closer friends and family. Some have their photo taken with the bride. Such lengths had been taken to keep all cameras out of the room but the entire proceedings are being filmed and photographed by a professional. I am told there is often another photographer at the wedding so guests can pay to have their pictures taken with their friends as a souvenir. There isn’t one here, which clearly disappoints Rosa and some of the other women at our table.

Around 11:30 women start leaving the hall. They return with their abayas. The groom is arriving. He comes with his father and brothers as well as the brides father and brothers. The bride stands and she too covers her hair with a veil. The transformation is jarring. Within minutes the room that had been filled with a dancing rainbow is a still, black mass.

I know I shouldn’t but I find it insulting that hundreds of women must cover themselves because a few men are entering the room. It feels like the men are intruding. If they aren’t supposed to see the women, well, fine but couldn’t they be made to wear blinders instead of making the women cover their glorious clothes and hair? The groom enters and walks down the runway towards his bride.

As he walks women come up to congratulate him and throw money on his face. In spite of the women standing just one step ahead of him, he never stops but continues at a stately pace. They stand so close I expect someone will trip and cause the whole entourage to collapse. It takes him almost five minutes to walk from one end of the room to the other. There he stands next to the bride. They do not look at each other. They do not touch each other. They stand so far away from each other that a baby would fit in the space between them. It’s family photo time. But, of course, only the official photographer is taking photos.

Eventually all the men leave except for the groom. There are no official words spoken. No vows exchanged. No jewelry changes hands. The groom and the bride sit on the sofa together, still not touching, still not looking. At some point the bride has removed her veil. For the first time she is uncovered when with a man who is not her father or brother. I wonder what that feels like. Besides the 3 of us non-Muslim women, she is the only woman whose head is not covered. Although this is significant it was not done ceremoniously. Or maybe it was and I just didn’t notice. That’s the thing with weddings (& other celebrations), the symbols are only significant in the culture which creates them.

It is almost midnight when the buffet is opened. At the buffet guests pile food on their plates, tasting the dishes as they go along. Since the groom is still in the room the women remain veiled. He doesn’t stay long. Soon after the buffet is opened, the bride and groom leave, walking back down the runway, this time together. They will go to a hotel room and be completely alone for the first time. They may look each other in the eye. They may touch. Talk about pressure.

As soon as the groom leaves the women unveil again but somehow the atmosphere doesn’t return to it’s previous color. Within 30 minutes, half of the room has left and the party mostly over. We finish eating, say good-bye to Rosa with one-kiss and leave. I hadn’t made a fool of myself after all — far as I know, anyway.

Dear Faithful Reader,

I figure if you've made it this far you deserve to see a photo:

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

Not what you expected? Told you the photo was bad and you couldn't see anything. Here's a re-enactment without the Versace scarf and the beaded clutch because they'd already been returned to their owners. Also without my glasses and braces showing because then I look like a clown; I'm appreciative of the no camera policy at the wedding.

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

*Name changed

Wedding in Qatar, Part 3

2011-12-22T17:07:00.000+03:00

Wedding in Qatar Part 3: Circumstance

(Please read Wedding in Qatar Part 1: Invitation & Advice and Wedding in Qatar Part 2: Wedding Preparation).

Directly behind the black security curtain is a long corridor. The Three Wives gasp multi-lingual variations of the inarticulate sentiment, “Wow.” Between the three of us we have lived 130 years. Between the three of us we have attended many weddings. Among the three of us, the transformation of this congress hall is wholly unexpected.

I can’t remember every detail but the overall feeling is of walking through a secret door in the back of a closet and entering a magic cave, a rather elegant one at that. Every inch of wall and ceiling has been hung with luxurious black cloth, which is overlaid with intricate latticework cut from huge sheets of metal. Blue floor lighting up-lights the fabric at wide intervals creating chasms of blackness between rods of blinding light which beams towards the ceiling where bolts of fabric billow across the length. Each centimeter of wall and ceiling is draped in what looks like a close cousin to silk.

We stop. Two steps into this magical world, are 6 female security guards. From here on only women are permitted into the building. The guards ask for our purses. It’s like an airport check, only more thorough. Each bag is examined. And not just a quick peek inside; no, they finger each item in the bags as if digging for buried treasure or weapons. I feel ridiculously under-sophisticated when I’m outed as someone who packs a mini-toothbrush rather than ruby lipstick.

All photographic devices are confiscated — including cell phones with cameras. We are entering an evening without connection to the outside. In the same manner as a coat check, you exchange your phone for a ticket. When you leave you claim your phone with your ticket. [Although, later in the evening I’m delighted to discover what happens if someone’s cell phone rings: the owner is asked over a loudspeaker to claim the phone call at the phone check.] With no cell phones, it’s like the 1990’s; boredom and social discomfort can not be disguised by fiddling with a phone. We have to get through the next five hours with our own social skills.

We move to the next security station. If you’ve been counting, you’ll realize this is the fourth security check point. We lift our arms so a metal detector can be run over our bodies. They stop short of a pat down.

What you need to know is that these families are not royalty. You need to know they are average Qatari citizens. Security was in place to ensure that 1) only invited guests enter 2) no men enter and 3) that no camera enters. Just as it would be foolish to make generalizations about all US American weddings based on my sister’s wedding, it would be foolish to do the same here but from what I’ve heard this is a typical Qatari wedding.

Once past the bright lights of security, abayas and shaylas are carefully loosened and undone. Some check these outer coverings but many take them into the ballroom to hang over the backs of their chair; they will be needed later in the evening. The three of us, having nothing we could possibly disrobe, walk down the corridor towards the grand hall. We are immediately engulfed in darkness made darker by the floor lights that completely blind us every few steps. Each time I’m blinded I worry I’ll totter into a fabric wall and pull the whole thing down.

We turn a dark corner and find ourselves at the edge of an inner hall as large as a house. Chandeliers the size of arm chairs sparkle with crystal and golden finishings. We are momentarily stunned by the mental whiplash of leaving cozy darkness for this majestic hall.

To the left and the right are a line of women; I have no idea who is who and what to do. The women ahead of me shake hands with some of the women in the line to the left. A handshake seems benign; I follow suit. I’m relieved no facial contact is involved; however, having no internal context system in place, I’ve no way of judging whether I am committing a faux pas or not. It is possible I have just walked past someone whom social etiquette requires I greet or that I’ve clasped the hand of someone whose hand is to be only lightly grazed.

Weddings in any country are straight-laced with etiquette and social requirements keeping guests strictly in place. Even the most relaxed weddings have social protocol. For example, in the United States it is a requirement that all wedding participants and attendees are happy. It’s also understood that the couple would never openly state that they are marrying simply because she is pregnant or that two people are marrying simply because they get along well enough and are lonely and don’t want to wake up alone in the morning; the only acceptable reason for getting married in the States is for Love. It is strictly prohibited to say otherwise and should you openly dare to say otherwise you turn yourself into a social outcast (although, arguably, if you dare openly speak what others privately gossip, you intrinsically display that you are indeed already a social outcast).

Once we hobble through the social niceties of the greeting line, we are standing in the middle of the room. To the left and right are rows and rows of tables filled with dinnerware and hundreds of red roses. They are impeccably fresh, not even a trace of wilting at the tips, something you don’t see often in the desert. Since Qatar produces very little itself, everything in the room must have been imported. The roses alone must have cost a fortune.

Straight ahead of us dividing the room in two is a runway just like is used in fashion shows. The runway leads to the front of the room where a white leather sofa with gilded gold trimmings takes center stage. But the main attraction is clearly the runway; all chairs face it. Later when the bride arrives through the doors we have just walked through, she will walk alone down this runway. Two Philippino assistants will tweeter around her making sure her gown remains perfect and that it doesn’t get swept under her feet. The bride will be busy attempting to remain bipedal, a feat which requires her entire concentration due to the weight of her dress and, one suspects, the highness of her heels. Later the runway is where women will dance for the bride. The slight elevation of the runway also allows a better view for the older women who are scouting out prospective wives for their sons.

We aren’t looking for wives, but amiably start checking out the other women anyway. Since almost all Qatari women choose to wear a black abaya and shayla to cover their hair and neck* in public places, I predicted that I would be surprised by the lack of coverings. When I’m not, I’m slightly disappointed in myself. It is simply a room full of women wearing really, really high heels with colorful and, I assume, fashionable dresses.

Which, of course, means there is cleavage. In fact, probably the only time I’ve seen more cleavage has been on a beach in New Jersey. I can’t help but wonder how tantalizing it must be for the men at the mens party (happening somewhere else in town) to know that somewhere in the city a ballroom is filled with women in strapless dresses. There are also a lot fewer shiny metals and jewels than I thought there’d be. Of course, the diamond on the hand of the person sitting beside me is so huge that it is wrapped with bands of gold rather than set in gold, which leads me to believe I’ve simply become acclimated.

Participating in this wedding is easy - the music is just shy of excruciatingly loud, preventing most conversation. Dancing doesn't begin until the bride arrives and that is still hours away. All that is left to do is sit and nibble on divine morsels offered from silver platters. I am quite fond of nibbling and can perform quite well given the chance; I might not make a donkey out of myself after all. I quickly discover that the milky tea with small, gooey pods is gag-inducing (Does anyone know what that is?) but that sipping hot Saffron Tea is an entirely pleasant (Does anyone have a recipe?).

Rosa^†, the wife of the brother of the sister-in-law to the bride (or to put it more Westernly: the bride’s sister-in-law) comes to greet us. I have met her twice before. She’s one of those people I feel instantly comfortable with. I suspect she feels the same but that may be brazen of me. We do the customary hellos and how are the children and is the family well and isn’t it a lovely reception hall and what a lovely dress you have, etc, etc. A few minutes later she returns and asks if she can sit with us. Everyone else in her family is busy helping the bride. Rosa’s pregnant state apparently absolves her of duty, although I do suspect that sitting with us might be her duty. She is married to a Qatari but is from North America, it’s like hitting the cultural insider jackpot.

I was in this position in Switzerland. There I wasn’t an expat but an immigrant, which is a wholly different category to expat. As a US American married to a Swiss person, I had knowledge that I had gleaned through osmosis (and tears) that expats didn’t have. People would constantly ask me to explain a social nuance which they experienced as a social grievance. They would ask why in your own apartment can't you shower after 10 p.m. They would ask why do women over 60 always tell me to put a hat on my 2 month-old when it’s 22°C outside. Keeping these exchanges in mind I proceeded to grill Rosa about weddings, marriage and life as an immigrant in Qatar.

to be continued...

(Only one more time, I promise. Having the kids home on Winter Break & a dog in the house is seriously crimping my ability to finish a thought let alone a paragraph.)

*Many also cover their entire face and many wear sunglasses to cover their eyes even inside shopping malls. This is a post in itself. The fashionistas among you can check out this blog post to see a few of the abayas typical for the Gulf. Everyone should click on this link to see a fairly good representation of what an average sighting of women in public in the Gulf would look like.

† Name changed, duh.

Wedding in Qatar, Part 2

2011-12-13T12:11:00.000+03:00

JustKooki.Blogspot. com

Wedding Preparation

[If you missed the first part you can read it by clicking here Part 1: Invitation & Advice]

Over 2,000 guests were invited. In spite of the advice I’d received, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up with the Qatari’s. Not even a slim chance. Middle Eastern women, especially from the Gulf, keep the haute couture industry alive (do read this article by Reuters). Some fashion designers have reported that Gulf royalty will buy up to 40 dresses for one wedding season. This refers to the upper echelons of society, but the sentiment trickles down to the less wealthier levels (keeping in mind that ‘less wealthy’ is relative).

This is the stage: I am white. I am so white even my hair is white. My makeup repertoire is eyeliner, and concealer because I drink too much coffee and alcohol and my body stores the toxins under my eyes. I am the kind of person who keeps the tags on a gown so I can return it after I’ve worn it, as I did for the dress I wore to the Time Out Awards. It turns out I am also the kind of person who is too lazy to drive across town to return a gown, so, conveniently, I have a gown. Thankfully, I also have no qualms about wearing that gown until my waistline outgrows it or all the sequins fall off.

Against all advice I do not go to the beauty salon. To prepare for the wedding I borrow my daughter’s eye shadow, my neighbors beaded clutch, and a friends Versace scarf (she bought it when I declined to spend QR400 on a piece of fabric. 400 is the sale price; the full price was about the same as my gown, which is not haute couture). I put on 3 times as much make up as usual. My hair does not curl so much as frizz. When I look at the finished product in the mirror, the name Cyndi Lauper is emblazoned on my head.

My 6 year-old tells me I look like a vampire. And she wants to know what I’ve done to my toes (they’re painted red). I fail in other areas too. I have nothing resembling cleavage; I can’t fit a flask into my beaded clutch; nor do I have anything to strap it to my thigh, which would have been fun even though it would have ruined the line of the dress. Since my main goal is to not offend, I sigh and walk out the door. No fairy godmother has appeared to turn me into a princess wearing haute couture.

I go with two other wives. They don’t wear haute couture either but, as opposed to me, it looks like they’ve combed their hair. We arrive at the Sheraton around 8:30 p.m. We recognize the entry to Dafna Hall by the line of really, massive SUV’s waiting their turn to drive as close to the entry as possible so their passengers can disembark. We haven’t got a driver; we park and walk. A guard stationed outside the building collects the tickets that allow us entry. A large black cloth has been hung just inside the glass doors so no one from the outside can see in. Two more guards stand just in front of the black cloth. There’s no possibility of slipping into this event unnoticed.

You know how you sometimes read things like, “beyond the black curtain, a fantasy world arose”? Those stories must originate in the Gulf...

to be continued...

(You know what's more annoying than 'to be continued'? Having to pick your daughter up early from school. So bite me and come back tomorrow.)

Women's Wedding in Qatar

2011-12-12T14:47:00.000+03:00

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

Qatari Wedding Invitation

Part 1: Invitation & Advice
Live in Qatar long enough and eventually you will be invited to a Qatari wedding. The basics of a Qatari wedding are this: there is no public exchange of vows but rather there are two parties, one for the men and one for the women, which occur in separate places but simultaneously. The party for the women is more fun.

My husband was invited to a wedding within 2 months of moving here. I’ve lived here two years and got my first invitation last week. It is an honor to be invited. But it did take me awhile to decipher why I was invited. I didn’t know the bride. Most certainly not the groom.

The only time in my life that I’ve been to a wedding without knowing either the bride or groom was my first summer in Switzerland visiting my then-boyfriend. His sister, mom, and sister-in-law were invited to a church wedding ceremony; they let me tag along for the cultural experience (& so that my boyfriend could play soccer without a guilty conscience). It is safe to say I made a cultural donkey out of myself.

Being the cultural savant (donkey) that I thought I was, I closely watched how they greeted each other. The first person his sister greeted, she gave three cheek kisses, as was custom to do with your very close friends. I proceeded to greet everyone I met based on this. It turns out that kissing an older Swiss woman (whom you’ve met approximately 2 seconds ago) is far from culturally appropriate. (The only thing that could be more inappropriate would be 3-cheek kissing a 50 year-old man interviewing you for a job opening; this might be acceptable in France or Italy but not Switzerland.)

With the wedding in Qatar I got confused. I was invited through my husband to the wedding of someone I’d never met, by someone I’d never met, but who my husband worked with, but it wasn’t he who was inviting me, but rather his wife.

I’m dense; I’ll be the first one to admit that. But it wasn’t until a few days after the wedding that I was able to figure out that the bride was the sister of the man who often goes on business trips with my husband. His wife, the one from whom the invitation officially came and who is the sister-in-law of the bride, is the only Qatari woman that I have seen without an abaya and who I would consistently recognize in a sea of abaya wearers. On the 4-kiss Qatari greeting scale, we’re on the one-kiss level — I think.

Why the details weren't presented to me like that is one of the clearest insights into Qatari culture that you’ll ever get. I was invited because of my husband. I was invited because I knew the bride’s sister-in-law. I was invited because social relations in Qatar are intertwined. A person (even an expat) never stands alone but is engulfed within an intricate scaffolding of who you are related to, who they are related to, who your relatives are friends with and who you are friends with. Which is why only once was I told, “Mohammed's sister is getting married.” That conciseness came, predictably, from my Swiss husband.

The official invitation came a few days before the wedding. It looked like it came from a head of state. Creamy and golden and lush. For the first time in my life I felt acutely that if I mucked up, not only would I look like an idiot but my behavior would reflect on my husband, as well as his colleague, his colleague's wife and anyone involved in inviting me to the wedding. This is a generous society and expats are given much social leeway but it is also a society where everybody knows everybody and who they are connected to. It was clear I’d need some advice if I wasn’t going to make a donkey out of myself at this wedding.

Here’s the advice I got:

Buy a floor-length gown: A long dress or a skirt will not suffice; it must be a formal gown. Weddings in Qatar - ALL weddings in Qatar - are formal affairs.
Show cleavage: wear a Wonderbra. If you don’t have cleavage, consider an operation.
Wear heavy eyeliner: In fact, get your hair and nails done professionally. Book an appointment immediately to ensure you get an appointment on the day of the wedding.
Wear bling: if that needs to be explained, you’ve only lived here for less than a week.
Consider ear muffs: the music is loud
Take a hip flask or know where the nearest bar is: Qatari weddings are dry
Wear your wedding ring: Qatari weddings are scoping grounds for brides
Arrive an hour after the stated start time: the bride will arrive 2 hours later
Eat a snack before you go: dinner starts at midnight
A few days after the wedding give a gift for the bride to the person who invited you, perfume is appropriate

I do what I usually do in situations which involve a beaded clutch and high heels: I borrow from my friends and my daughter.

...to be continued

*for those of you unfamiliar with Qatari weddiings see:

For general info:

http://www.qatarvisitor.com/index.php?cID=412&pID=1420

For a female Qatari’s perspective of the women’s ceremonies:

http://mimizwords.wordpress.com/2009/06/29/qatari-weddings/

For first-hand account of the men’s ceremony:

http://qatarskeptic.blogspot.com/2010/10/qatari-wedding.html

Ashura in Qatar

2011-12-05T12:14:00.001+03:00

JustKooki.Blogspot.com

“To celebrate the killing of Hussein!” our neighbor proclaimed as he handed over two plastic containers. We’ve experienced some unexpected things since moving to Qatar: escaped pet tigers; chilled swimming pools ; and absurd signs. But celebrating the murder of a person, no matter how many atrocities that person committed, seemed a bit unusual. I hoped something had been lost in translation but, am incredibly embarrassed to admit, my white brain wasn’t entirely sure.

The whole exchange was so far out of the realm of anything I could possibly anticipate that I couldn’t fathom what the actual occasion might be. But it must have been important because we’d never talked to this neighbor before. In fact, up until now I’d thought of him as the guy whose 3 kids played (directly) outside (our front door) until 11 p.m. The middle child I chillingly thought of as “Car Honker”, the oldest as “Car Chaser” and the youngest as “Car Respecter”. Had I ever taken the time to remember their real names, I wouldn’t appear like such a self-centered idiot (racist bigot) right now.

As our neighbor handed over the containers, the smell reminded me of Umm Ali, a dessert that weighs down every buffet table and female hip in the city. Between my husband’s rudimentary (pathetic) Arabic and our neighbors faltering (put us to shame) English we got enough sweeping generalities to understand that it was an eventful day. Our neighbor kept saying, “Hussein”, “Assura” and “New Year”.

Here’s where my brain takes me with those words. In Switzerland “Assura” was the name of our health insurance company. Enough said. “New Year” often involves me falling asleep at 8 p.m. Not much celebrating there but I recognize my culture’s connotations of partying. And when you say the name “Hussein” to a US American, the name Saddam unconsciously appears before it. I don’t think our neighbor knew he was speaking to someone originally from the United States, which, had he known and had he been referring to Saddam Hussein would be a topic for another post. At any rate I didn’t take it as an offering of thanks to me personally or my birth nation collectively.

Meaning is so easily lost in translation when there isn’t a translator. Take yesterday. (Stay with me on this tangent, it is relative, I mean, relevant.) Doha News Twitter readers were greasing feathers and heating tar when they came across a photo of a very white expat colored in black paint wearing a checkered head scarf and leading Santa Claus on a camel.

photo Radio Nederland Wereldomroep

There were many attempts to interpret what was going on by lots of people who had no idea of what was going on but wanted to know what was going on. The procession was called:

“culturally insensitive and racist”.

People said things like:

“What can one say about these clueless expats who find blackface so amusing.”

“That's quite the weird mash up of culture and customs there.”

Europeans, of course, instantly recognized that it wasn’t Santa Claus but Saint Nikolas (Europeans will be quick to set you straight on the differences) and Schwarz Peter, his helper (who, being a Moor, has intrinsically heavily pigmented skin or, depending on which tradition you look at, has skin which is blackened by the soot of a chimney from which he has just dropped through). A camel is not in the tradition but seems a rather harmless, if unnecessary, substitute for a horse. Nonetheless, the photo caused religious tolerance in Qatar to be put into question. Boycotts were called for. One post compared the publicness of the procession to human fecal matter (or perhaps camel feces, they didn’t specify). It was all quite rousing.

I imagine if I were Arab I would have wondered about the origins of such a procession and questioned the wisdom of publicly re-enacting it in a Muslim country. Just as I, even as a US American/Swiss/Qatar-dweller, questioned why someone would publicly celebrate the killing of Hussein. It didn’t make any sense.

We trusted the workings of the universe (Google) to revel the truth to us in it’s own time. As soon as the exchange with our neighbor went as far as a conversation can go between two people who speak 130 words in common, we went straight to the internet. Without Google we would have probably developed the assumption that a large portion of Muslims are really happy that Saddam Hussein was killed.

Here’s a rough reworking of the key words:

celebrate = commemorate

killing = martyrdom

Hussein = Husayn, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad

assura = Ashra = tenth day of the Muslim New Year

That puts a different spin on the whole situation. From what I understand Ashura, the tenth day of the Muslim near year, is today, December 5, 2011. The day where Muslims commemorate the martyrdom of Husayn. For many Muslims it is a reminder to struggle against injustice, tyranny and oppression. And share sweets with neighbors.

Saint Nikolas Day is tomorrow, December 6. While Black Peter is hotly controversial in some parts, for many Christians Saint Nikolas day is a reminder of Saint Nikolas who, legend has it, gave gifts to well-behaved children, fed the poor and fought injustice.

The two celebrations might be different languages but, no matter the translation, one can’t help but see the similarities, no? Happy Ashura. Happy Saint Nikolas Day. Happy Monday.

Granted, since neither tradition is mine, it is possible I've slightly misunderstood both traditions. In which case, let the tarring and feathering begin. Although, if I may be so cheeky as to ask, could you use honey and red glitter instead of tar and feathers? Then I can at least look a lot like Christmas (topic coming soon) when I deliver chocolate to our neighbors, just because.

P.S. After I put this post up one of my regular readers gave me more insight into Ashura. That's truly one of the things I love about living in the Middle East - any misconceptions and misinformation about the Muslim religion are quickly set straight. Like most US Americans I have a bit of baggage in that department. It weighs heavy and I'm happy to be rid of. Ashura as I described above is a day some Shiite Muslims commemorate with fasting, etc. For Sunni Muslims, who are in the majority, this is the day that Moses parted the Red Sea. They don't do much in the way of festivities on this day. Thanks Nancy for setting me straight. Did I get it right this time round?

Hamster Sitting

2011-12-03T09:21:00.001+03:00

You call these pets?

I refuse to allow animals in our house. I know animals help children be compassionate and all that good natured twispy wisp. But I also know that animal hair is unavoidable. And I like to wear black. And I don't like cleaning. And I like having a clean house. And I work from home. I could not possibly ignore the begging eyes of a dog or the warm, furry body of a cat. I'd never get any work done.

But mostly I don't want another baby. And if animals are anything, they're babies. Just thinking about having another breathing being to take care of makes me want to move to the 15th floor of an apartment tower without an elevator where no child or animal would willingly walk the steps. Yes, I'd rather walk 15 flights of stairs, than get an animal.

But the kids love animals. And having animal companions is one of the joys of life. I finally came up with a solution. Actually, finally remembered a solution that we discovered in Switzerland. Guess what? It transfers beautifully to Qatar and any country really. Read our solution to the animal debate on my guest blog at Doha Mums: Hamster sitting

When I write...

2011-11-15T11:26:00.001+03:00

My desk when I actually am writing
This post is an assignment for a writing class I'm taking through the Writing Center of the College of the North Atlantic Qatar. Each semester they offer free classes, aimed primarily at beginners. The dearth of such offerings in Qatar make them attractive to other writers who just want to be in a workshop atmosphere again or try out a new genre.

The assignment was to write 100 - 150 words about your writing process. You can begin with "When I write.." or some variation thereof ("My writing process..." "When I want to write...") Try it yourself.

When I want to write, I first make a cup of coffee.

Then I stare at the blank blue sky,
My cup

firmly,
reverently, held between two hands.

My pen remains untouched.
The page still blank with possibility.
I snarl at anyone who disturbs this moment;
I’m writing.
I am
Like a yogini quietly spreading her body to the universe,

inhaling the pulse of the unspoken.

National Novel Writing Month in Doha

2011-10-28T19:04:00.000+03:00

NaNoWriMo Month

National Novel Writing Month is here. Doha Writer’s Workshop and the Doha Mums Writing group have organized some writerly activities. Here’s what’s happening.

Write-Ins

Sit down and write and write and write. All writers welcome: non-WriMo’s, non-novelists, non-conformists alike. Drop in and out at your convenience. Bring a full battery on your laptop or an adaptor so you can plug in.

When: Wed, November 2, 2011

Time: 7-9 p.m.

Where: Caribou Coffee on Salwa Road

Organizer: Doha Mums Writers

When: Tues, November 22, 2011

Time: 6-8 p.m

Where: Bread & Bagels in the Diplomatic Area

Organizer: Doha Writers Workshop

When: Mon, November 28, 2011

Time: 7-9 p.m.

Where: Caribou Coffee

Organizer: Doha Mums Writers

Group Meet-ups

Regularly scheduled monthly meetings this month.

When: Tues, November 8, 2011

Time: 6-8 p.m

Where: Bread & Bagels

Organizer: Doha Writers Workshop

Topic: Manuscript critiques

When: Tues, November 15, 2011

Time: 9-11 a.m.

Where: Caribou Coffee

Organizer: Doha Mums Writers

Help Make a Book: Cast Your Vote

2011-10-24T10:53:00.003+03:00

I’m notoriously indecisive, which is one of the main reasons Qatar and I get along — any who, if you've ever wanted to help make a book, here's your chance. Hop on over to koo • ki’s Facebook fan page and help decide some of the minutia for the next book.

Paragliding in Qatar

2011-10-18T15:14:00.000+03:00

One way to avoid traffic jams in Doha

Doha surprises. Every day. Some days... how shall I say this, the surprises are not entirely desired: cockroaches in the dishwasher; roads closing overnight; ‘protocol’ so flexible it could be a professional contortionist.

Other days the surprises are on the other end of the scale - these are the moments that keep us here. When I keep these moments in focus, I find that I am living in Qatar not ‘in spite of it all’, but rather ‘because of it all’.

The month of October has more surprises than usual. It’s easy to forget that half of the world is currently steeped in the chill rains of autumn, while here in Doha it feels more like spring. Well, sort of, as much as a desert can feel like spring. Flowers are planted in traffic circles. Festivals come to town. Energy and desire are revived.

This morning doing the school run, I spotted three paragliders floating near Al Waab Street. I’ve never before seen any in Qatar - for the obvious reason that high precipices are usually required for flight. Doha is completely flat. Did they jump from the Aspire Tower? Were they dropped by helicopter? Who knows? But it was a picture perfect surprise. For a moment I focused on the sky, rather than on the traffic jam on the ground below.

Qatar: Live Work Explore

2011-10-09T09:27:00.000+03:00

394 page book. My photo on the author page. Not much beats the exhilaration; except maybe flying through a corkscrew roller coaster but then that would also be accompanied with a heart attack. I’ll keep getting my thrills writing books.

Qatar: Live, Work, Explore. Explorer Publishing, 2011. 394 pages. ISBN 978-9948-450-22-1. The go-to book to figure out if you want to go to Qatar.

Exhibitions: Behind the Scenes

2011-10-05T13:48:00.000+03:00

Arab Games Exhibition

I imagine putting an exhibition together is kind of like a really intense, extreme remodeling of a living room. Except with a strict deadline and the result is open to the scrutiny of the media. My husband* might disagree but he’s never shown any inclination to remodel anything other than an exhibition hall, so his opinion is of no consequence here.
Work on this exhibition started something like an elephant’s year ago, but didn’t really get going until July — just in time for my husband to take it with him on our yearly vacation. This has to be; it’s part of the official Exhibition-Making Code of Conduct.
Then there was a lull. There always is. My husband and I were on different continents during this time so I didn’t see any of it. I’m still not convinced this wasn’t planned.
Then work on the exhibition picked up again — just as I returned to Doha with the children. For about 4 weeks the only time our kids saw their dad was for 2 minutes in the morning when he said hello, and good-bye, and again in the evening for an hour. But, what a sweet hour that was. For me, anyway. While he put them to bed, I could clean up supper in peace enjoy a mojito in the backyard. Then he went back to work and I went to bed. Good times that.
There was another lull. That one was like living in a rainbow. All barbecues, whispered conversations and undivided attention. But there’s never a rainbow without a storm and that storm slams in 36 hours before opening night.

Every one on the exhibition team is a ball of constipation. Except for one of them. Why there’s always only one who remains calm and confident is a mystery. Maybe it’s the bran.

This is when the only thing a casual observer can see is a chaotic exhibition hall. Why, you may ask, does set up only begin a camel’s spit throw away from Opening...I do not know. Maybe it’s good for team spirit to achieve the seemingly impossible. Although I must admit it does give me perverse delight to see full grown men get excited over something other than a ball.

My role as supporting spouse in these 36 hours is clear. Do not speak. Unless spoken to. And then there are taboo topics: menstruation and family reunions being primary among them.
I only contact my husband in case of an emergency. Emergencies do not include anything for which an ambulance, a babysitter or an engineer are better adept at resolving. FYI, this is not the time to “keep him informed”. He does not need to know that the kids need new shoes or that I finally got that interview I’ve been trying to get for the past year.
There are other things he doesn't know. I don’t tell him about how that evening after what seemed like months of being a solo parent, that I stood at the kitchen sink and sobbed for what must have seemed like an eternity to our two children who stood by and watched. He doesn’t know how our oldest daughter stood next to me, resting her head on my shoulder and rubbing my back. Or how the younger shouted, "I hate you!" before stomping upstairs. He doesn’t know how at that moment, when I was so completely and totally done that the only thing I wanted to do was run to Goa, but that I didn’t, I mopped the spilled milk off the floor instead.
There's other things he doesn't know. How when I heard him come home much, much later at 5 a.m., I didn’t speak a word. I simply moved our daughter, so he wouldn’t land on her head when he flopped into bed. I did not speak. I kissed his back and turned away so he could sleep.
When he left the house again 3 hours later, I told him he could call me if he needed anything: a drill, some coffee, an ear. He laughed. We both knew that last minute ‘help’ was the worst kind of help. I was already doing all I could by staying away and being silent.
When he left I noted that he took his suit with him. That’s how I really know how it’s going at the site. They were obviously much further behind schedule than anticipated. He didn’t expect to have time to come home and change before the dignitaries arrived for the opening in 11 hours.
So I made sure I was super-duper polite in those last 11 hours. I didn’t call. I didn’t text. I even paid for my massage in cash in order to avoid the automatic bank notification being sent to him**. Nothing is more frustrating than not having slept more than 3 hours in the past 36 and having an SMS disrupt your focus, especially when that message says that your wife has just got an oily rubdown from a stranger.
Eventually, the Opening happens. It’s unavoidable. Either the exhibition is done, or it isn’t. That is of no consequence because everyone, even those only peripherally involved, is done. Thankfully, this Exhibition was finished...to the casual observers eye anyway. And they even had 2 hours to spare for a shower and a change of clothes. As compared to one exhibition that went up with only 2 seconds to spare; the finishing touches were being put on the back end just as the dignitaries walked into the front end.
And that’s the thing about openings. There are dignitaries. If you screw up, you might as well start packing. In this country that is not a figure of speech.

This opening was a colossal success. And not just because of the flying gymnasts, jousting fencers and bikers performing on the edge of the roof. Heads of This and That attended, which attracted media from Here and There, who heard words such as ‘superb’ and ‘innovative’.
All that means is tonight my husband will be home and we will put the kids to bed together. We will drink mojitos together. Tonight we’ll talk about red shoes, fig newtons and swings. We’ll talk about walking in the rain and kissing in stairwells. Or, maybe, we won’t talk at all.
* Printed with my husband's permission
**The bank notification system makes a No Communication Pact difficult. For those of you who aren’t from here, every time you use a credit or debit card, the bank sends a message to the account holders cell phone. Since an expat wife can not get a bank account, my husband is notified every time I use the card. Extremely inconvenient at times like these.

⎯⎯—⎯—⎯

The Arab Games Exhibition
5 October to 23 December 2011
QMA Gallery
Building 10, Katara
Doha, Qatar
Hours: Sat - Thurs 8 a.m. - 12 p.m. and 3 p.m. -9 p.m., Fri 3 p.m. - 9 p.m.
Free entry

I’m not interested in sports but in my highly-biased, but certainly not singular, opinion this is the most interesting exhibitions in Doha. Touch screens for the short attention spanned among us. Photos on the walls put the sports events into the context of the time, for those uninterested in sports among us. Video interviews of athletes. Color, movement and objects galore. An Education Corner with spiffy materials is set aside for school classes. Go before this traveling exhibition moves to the next city.

Check out the QMA You Tube channel for more behind the scenes of the opening of the Arab Games Exhibition

Shops at Rumailah Park

2011-09-27T14:02:00.000+03:00

Serene on the outside,

an illogical jumble on the inside.

Plastic vampire doll meet bedouin necklaces

Memories of the Gulf is one of those shops beside the Rumailah Park water canal that always seem to be closed. They're not; it's just a matter of timing.

99¢ store meets antique shop meets thrift store. There’s no other way to describe it — and I love it for that.

Everywhere you look is unintentional juxtaposition. 200 year-old trunk and cheap red lipstick. A 500 year-old coin stored in a shoe box surrounded by plastic rings and halloween masks.

For five years, Qatari owner, Ali Ahmed al-Tamimi, has done a brisk business selling things collected from Indonesia, Korea, Philipinnes, Bangkok, India and the Gulf. Which is why you’ll also find delicate perfume flasks, wooden camels, swords, coffee pots, mirrors and artwork. He claims to be one of the first in Qatar to collect antiques.

He has limited mobility and is no longer able to travel. Now people bring things to him. He’s happy to buy from you. He’s happy to sell to you. Bargain for half the price he quotes.

Memories of the Gulf is one of the joys of Doha.

Details:

Memories of the Gulf

Khikrayat al Khalij

Rumailah Park Shops

Building#11

Tel: 5552 3614; 5586 6358

Hours: 5:30-10:30 pm (Local time, it is understood)

For Kids and Nannies ONLY

2011-09-25T11:10:00.003+03:00

After all this time, signs like the one taped to the wall still startle me. I hope they always do:

"Toilet For Kids and Nannies ONLY"

Where do the children play

2011-09-23T16:08:00.000+03:00

Where do the children play? Now, that's an excellent question. It's easy to precede any answer to that question with, "Well, where I come from we..." If you find these words coming out of your mouth, may I gently suggest that you go for the full affect and pitch your voice an octave higher and add a rusty squeak to your words...

Click over to my Guest blog at Doha Mums for the full post.

Interview with Blog Expat

2011-09-12T19:23:00.000+03:00

I'm very excited that BlogExpat.com chose me.

Read my interview to find out what role Sugar Daddy's and incestuous relations have in my life and the thing I find most strange about Qatar, which is completely unrelated to Sugar Daddy's and relations of any sort.

My interview at BlogExpat.com

Things I Can't Live Without in Qatar

2011-09-09T15:40:00.000+03:00

All daily life supplies can be found in Qatar. Chances are, if you can't get it, you can surely live without it. Yes, this may require adaptations to recipes. It also means you must live with an alternate reality — a reality where furniture and housing are designed with priorities different than that to which you may be accustomed. But you will have a bed, a roof and an endless supply of carrots, cucumbers and chickpeas.

I know people who strategically pack sausages and strong pain killers in their suitcases. While we don't stockpile many things when we go back ‘home’, a few items do remain steady on our List of Luxuries.

Books:

Top Of The List! Each visit we return with about 30 kilos of books, English and German.

School supplies:

While I don’t think the world ‘school’ should be anywhere near the word ‘luxury’, school supplies remain a steady. This year we had 2, single-spaced, pages of supplies to hunt down and purchase. Another 20 kilos.

Espresso Pot

The old-school Italian espresso kind. Even though in Qatar the coffee of choice appears to be instant Nescafe Red, you will be able to purchas drip coffee machines, French presses and Nespresso machines. What you will not find is a simple italian espresso pot. If you love em, bring one — and the replacement rings. Bring more if you have the propensity for leaving them on a burner that you forgot to turn off. This may have been learned from experience, more than once.

Contacts:

I’m referring to the eyeball kind not the professional, human friend kind, although some highly placed executives have been known to bring along as many of their cronies as possible. Optometry is one field which is still developing; don’t leave it to chance. We get all our eye care needs taken care of in Europe.

Ant traps:

I understand ants fill a vital niche in the world, I just don’t appreciate it when their habitat is my kitchen. And I’m wary of spraying the poison available here in my kitchen on a monthly basis.

Thomy Mayonaisse Light:

4 tubes. The things we buy to please our children.

Children’s shoes:

Anyone looking for a wide-open business niche in Qatar would become very rich by filling this gaping hole. Hells, I mean, heels don’t work for 5 year-olds. Ditto sneakers with wheels attached and inflexible soles.

Multi-vitamins:

Is it just me or do you also question the quality of products which are placed on metal shelves made hot from shelf lighting.

Micro-faser cleaning cloth

My affection towards these may out me as a freak.

Birchermusli:

One final hurrah to be enjoyed on the airplane.

Compassion follows Aggression

2011-08-06T18:18:00.002+03:00

Long story short, I was robbed. Driving in the middle lane, slowing down for a red light, not even stopped yet and some fucking bastard ran up behind the car, smashed the passenger window and grabbed my purse out of the car.

Is it possible that for every act of aggression, there is a counter act of compassion?

There I sat. Shaking so hard my foot was visibly moving three inches. Everything was in the bag. Passport. Credit cards. Drivers license. Cash. Phone. If your phone was stolen and you were in the middle of a city where you know no one and had not a single piece of ID, would you have any phone numbers memorized? I didn’t. Not a single one. All the phone numbers were on the phone. I didn’t even know where to begin to find the police and I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t possibly drive.

A bystander walked over to the car. I think he was checking if there was anything valuable still there. There wasn’t. I asked him to help. He ‘didn’t speak English” I said, “Salaam malaikum”. He understood. He laughed and said, “Salaam malaikum. No English.” I wanted to tell him to tell his friend that it’s Ramadan and Allah would surely not look kindly on this act of violence nor his accomplice either. I think help and police are universal.

It wasn’t until many, many hours later that I realized how racist my thinking was.

A woman walked past. If I believed in angels, she would have been my angel. I don’t believe in angels; but I do believe in people acting with compassion in the face of fear. Isabelle stayed with me for the next 9 hours.

She called the police. She stayed when it was starting to get dark and the police didn’t come. She stayed even though a gang of men were within sprinting distance. She called the police again. She talked to the police. She went with me to the police station. She talked me through finding a phone number so I could call my husband, call the rental car agency, etc. etc.

She went with me to a hotel and helped to check me in. She wanted to pay. She gave me dinner. She gave me the slightest of hope that for every act of aggression there is an equal act of compassion.

Things I’ve Learned

A little compassion goes a long way. So does an offer of coffee & croissant.

A lot of compassion, dinner and 20 Euro go even further.

Keep all documents in a belt attached to your waist and under your clothes.

When no one will help you, you need to help yourself.

Stepping out of your comfort zone is uncomfortable.

Always keep some cash in a pocket.

Memorize the phone number of someone you can call in an emergency. Actually, forget that - write down the number on a small slip of paper and tuck it into your jeans. By the time you’re sitting in the police station, and they want a phone number to call, the initial shock will be wearing off and your long-term memory will be insufficient to the task.

For every act of violence there is a coinciding act of compassion.

Random Acts of Violence

2011-08-06T15:13:00.004+03:00

Let me start by saying that I’m okay. Apart from a few surface scratches from the exploding glass, I wasn’t hurt. My psyche is another story but I’m confident that eventually I’ll stop trembling internally; see - I’ve already stopped visibly shaking. One day I’ll sleep through the night and I won’t crinkle my forehead and burst into tears. Shards of glass will stop appearing in unexpected pockets and linings. I'm sure sharp, loud noises will probably always make me jump. Paris and I are just not getting along.

[I know I wasn’t going to be online until Sept but I’ve got a few hours to waste and the only thing I’m capable of doing right now is sitting. And I have access to wireless and this is the only story I can tell right now.]

A few weeks ago my husband and I, along with three children, were transferring train stations, from one side of Paris to the other. Being Paris, this transfer involved series of stairs that would put even Rocky to shame. We’d packed light but after a few hundred stairs, we were struggling with the hectic of keeping all five of us together and with that one suitcase (which, in retrospect, seemed outrageously heavy). A man helped my husband lift the suitcase, and simultaneously helped himself to my husband’s wallet.

We were lucky. The thief (we are told) took the money that was in the wallet and threw the wallet on the floor of the metro station. A woman (/accomplice?) saw it and returned the wallet to my husband. All his ID cards and credit cards were still inside. We shook our heads and laughed. What else was there to do?

We were lucky indeed. We were only out 50 Euro and some innocence

— but apparently not enough innocence.

Yesterday I drove back to Paris. I knew I was leaving my comfort zone. Not because of the stolen wallet. This shit happens all the time. I knew to keep my money close and hold on tight. But just in case I’d emptied my wallet of everything but the essentials and snugly zipped it in the inside pocket of my bag, which I’d cross over my body and hold onto for dear life while I wandered the streets of Paris.

I headed to Paris because my mom is flying in from the States. My husband suggested I go a night earlier and visit Paris for the day. Fantiastique! I’d sleep there two nights and have 36 hours in Paris. By myself. Only my two feet and my own whims would make demands on me.

My whims can be unpredictable and I never know where they’ll take me. In all the traveling I’ve done so far, they’ve taken me to exactly where I’d want to go (except for that one time in Barcelona but that’s another story). I would avoid tourist sites, as much as that is possible in Paris; my only goal was to (eventually) make it to a bookstore. My sister-in-law, who lived in Paris, advised I at least step inside the Notre Dame (but only if there wasn’t a line). She also thought a bakery should be a top priority. Anything with chocolate or apples was not to be missed. That’s my kind of trip.

I never reached my destination.

I’m sorry, I have to stop writing now. I’m shaking again and I can barely type. I’m safe. Have 9 Euros in my pocket and my in-laws are on their way to rescue me. I know that's a cliff-hanger but I'm done for now.

Follow Your Bliss

2011-07-24T22:19:00.005+03:00

Remember when vacations didn't have Internet access?

That's my vacation this summer. I'm offline until September 1 or maybe 15th. We'll see how the Internet genie rolls.

I'm following my bliss.

Surviving Doha Summers: Water (Bottle) Play

2011-07-13T11:18:00.013+03:00

Just because it’s too hot to swim outside before 4 p.m. doesn’t mean you can’t have some old-fashioned-y water play. Harness the power of all those water bottles you have stashed in your cupboards.

Action Games

water bottle pyramid
bowling
juggling (keep a towel & an ambulance handy)
throw a bottle in the bucket
spin the bottle
ring toss
water drinking contest
bottle pinata

Experiments

In the morning place an open bottle of water outside. In the evening measure how much water has evaporated from the bottle.
how many ice cubes can one bottle of water make?
what happens if you just place the full bottle of water, tightly closed, in the freezer?
&, hey, wouldn’t it be interesting to know how much slamming-on-the-floor force would be needed to make a full bottle of water explode?

This is where my children’s imagination ends and your imagination begins...

How hot is Doha?

2011-07-11T10:49:00.019+03:00

It's so hot, cheese left on the kitchen counter melts, in May.

In Doha it's so hot, signs melt.

In Doha it's so hot, the sand cracks.

So, how hot is it really?

July 7, 2011 1:30 a.m. 29°C, 94% humidity.

July 9, 2011 10:30 a.m. 44°C, 29% humidity

I hereby verify that all of the following are not exaggerations.

In Doha it’s so hot...

• cold water burns

• pools are cooled

• people don’t go to the beach

• fish swim to another sea

• SPF 150+ seems reasonable

• winter in Calgary seems preferable

• indoor saunas are an oxymoron

• you wear long-sleeves outside

• it’s illegal to work outside at midday

• opening a window is worse than ridiculous

• the roads crack

• the sand cracks

• sometimes people do too

• sending your children outside could be considered child abuse

• parking lots are shaded

• barbecues seem like a bad idea

• going to the mall seems like a good one

• signs melt

• hotels offer summer discounts

• wearing jeans in July is like wearing a ski suit in Athens

• there are no mosquitos

• you always carry a bottle of water

• you can bake cookies in your car; perhaps grill a steak on the roof

• you save the women and children by sending them abroad

• cafes place air conditioners outdoors

• you turn the air conditioner up so you can enjoy your morning cup of coffee

• cooling an entire stadium seems a plausible use of resources

• even die-hard environmentalists turn the air conditioner on

• you pre-chill the car for 5 minutes so the metal of the seat belts doesn’t burn your child’s skin

• you burn your hands when you touch the steering wheel.

• you sweat in the car with the air conditioning on full blast

• you’ll complain about the heat

• you never, ever set the keys down on a car seat while buckling your child in their seat for fear that you will forget them and the automatic car lock will activate and lock the car while you are walking to the driver’s side.

If this should happen, you will panic. You will try to break your car window. Regardless of your religious leanings, start to pray. And call an ambulance for your child will be severely dehydrated by the time you get the car open.

• It’s not surprising that it won’t take too many summers before you adapt the local custom of leaving the car running with the air conditioner on full blast while you pop into the grocery store

• Soon after you’ll nilch running into the store completely. You’ll ,just honk your horn, wait for someone from the store to run out. You’ll place your order and wait in the (running, air-con car) while they get your things. You may give a tip.

• you don’t ever consider walking...

...if you’re privileged

Workers

• walk to work, maybe with an umbrella for shade

• or maybe they get an inadequately air conditioned bus

• opening the bus windows may be preferable to leaving them closed

• don’t wear sunglasses

• wrap a scarf around their heads, leaving a slit for the eyes

• Sunscreen? I don’t think so.

• move as slowly as they possibly can

• Do they work?

• wash cars in the parking lot of mall for QR15

• bake Iranian bread in a fire-hot room, which is sold 5 for QR1

• balance on scaffolding

• build the city

• hope for the morning shift

• hope they are provided with enough water

• hope for more than a palm tree for shade

• hope for an ethical boss

• hope the government enforces the summer work laws

Qatar does not have a minimum wage even though the Emir has the power to set one.

A construction worker, a nanny, a bagger at a grocery store typically (depending on their country of origin) receive QR700 ($192)

...a month

...payment is not enforced

...more often than not, they'd be worse off in their home countries

It's hot in Qatar.

Surviving Doha Summers: Imagine!

2011-07-07T15:12:00.004+03:00

This is dedicated to all you parents hanging by a thread in Doha...

Welcome to Imagination Playground!

As Qatar Museums Authority (QMA) continues its work towards welcoming more children and families into the museums of Qatar we are writing to invite you to try out our Imagination Playground. Imagination Playground is a play space designed to encourage child-directed, free choice play which helps children learn through doing. QMA hopes to include one of these playgrounds in its future museum plans but to ensure that it is designed specifically for families and children in Qatar we need your help.

On the following dates and times we will be hosting an Imagination Playground at Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art – and we invite you and your family to come along and try it out. There will be members of the Imagination Playground creation team at hand who will be keen to hear your thoughts as parents on the playground and your children’s enjoyment of the experience. There is no charge for attending but registration is required. Complementary light refreshments will be available at the conclusion of each session.

Tuesday 12 July: 3 – 4:30pm, especially for children aged 2 – 5 years.

Wednesday 13 July: 3 – 4:30pm, especially for children aged 6 – 12 years.

Additional information:

· Shaded parking is available immediately outside the main entrance into Mathaf.

· All playground sessions will take place indoors.

· All sessions will be bilingual.

· All sessions are fully accessible for children and/or parents with additional needs.

· These sessions are designed for children and their parents/caregivers together, therefore children may not be dropped off at the Museum unattended.

· Please note: all sessions will be filmed by the Imagination Playground creation team – this is for research purposes only and no footage or stills will be used in any other way. By filming the sessions the creation team will gain a valuable insight into how children play which will greatly assist them in creating an Imagination Playground specifically for Qatar.

To register your interest in participating, please complete this form: http://www.jotform.com/form/11824055702

A Mathaf team member will be in touch to confirm your registration

Need directions to Mathaf?

http://www.mathaf.org.qa/assets/pdf/map.pdf

For more information on Imagination Playground:

http://imaginationplayground.com/

Surviving Doha Summers: Hula Hoop

2011-07-07T09:00:00.000+03:00

Surprise them.

This is easier done if you’re Mean Mom most days. You do things like make your children eat fruit before they get chocolate. Or you only let them drink coke at BBQ's and birthday parties, or when their dad takes them out. Nutella is definitely reserved for camping trips. And that's just the food.

There's also the tightly-controlled limit on television time, Nintendo time, and you may have even alloted a specific amount of swimming time which can earn back tv-viewing points. Yes, you distribute 'points' as if you're playing a family sport. You probably even have a chart.

To surprise requires an arduous set-up strategy and the dividends are small. But when you're stuck in a desert in the summer, everything is measured in minute units. It’s the small things. The exact degree of firmness you have recently employed dictates how spectacular your current surprise move will need to be.

That a hula hoop gets my kids excited gives you an idea of where I ride on the hard-ass mom spectrum — although let’s be clear, I do not have a chart.

Do you have any idea the things that can be done with a hula hoop?

jump hoop
one of the many spots in an obstacle course
diving target in the pool
umm, hula hooping
dance partner to the new Britney Spears CD (oh my good goats, we’ve got a pubescent girl in the house)
circus hoop for dolls to fly through
tug-of-war
flying projectile to whip your sister’s ankles
flip the hoop on your sister’s nose

Hula hoops are not good for wiping up nosebleeds.

QR18 at Carrefour.