Newsletter 17 - 4 August 2005

Dec 16, 2005 5:42 AM

Newsletter 17

(Continued from Newsletter 16)

Now about the pharmacy. There is a little pharmacy in the tiny shopping center that is about half-way between my flat and Mega Mart. The building has a largish grocery store which I have patronized twice, a tiny café patronized only by males, a barber shop, a men’s tailor, two tiny grocery stores, an appliance shop, two “automatic” laundries – here that means you take them your laundry, they wash it, iron it or whatever and you pick it up when done. (I think it’s like my father’s “automatic” dishwashers; when dishwashers first came onto the market, my sister and I tried to convince Father to buy one – it would save us two girls untold hours washing dishes for 9 people every day – but he always replied, “I already have two automatic dishwashers, why should I pay good money for another one?”), a watch shop, a repair shop of some sort, and a Muslim prayer room, along with a pharmacy. I’d looked through the glass walls of the pharmacy a few times when I’ve walked past the building and it looked very clean and orderly but I’d never gone inside. I should explain that to approach any of these shops, one has to mount about five steps because the building is built up, step- pyramid style, on a foundation of steps that go all around the building.

One of the negative results, probably the only negative result, of having always been extremely healthy and having had extremely healthy children is that I know very little about medications, medicine or ailments. However, I recently acquired a small open wound on the back of my left hand, about an inch below, and located between, the pinkie and the ring fingers. I think it came about because that spot is difficult to get completely dry after I’ve washed my hands and over time the skin there became very dry and sensitive and finally cracked open. I realized it was there when it began itching and I found that I had unconsciously been scratching at it – maybe it was the scratching that made it open up. Anyway, a scab had formed, surrounded by pink – I think either infection or the results of my immune system fighting the infection. I thought an antibiotic salve might be what I needed (I might be wrong; I just don’t know about these things!). So one night on my way walking from Mega Mart to my flat, I decided to stop in the little pharmacy and see if they had anything I could use.

There were three male customers and one worker in the shop when I entered. They all stared at me down the length of the glass counter separating the customers from the worker. Attached to the wall behind the worker were a series of narrow glass shelves holding neatly stacked and very clean medical products in containers. Around the perimeter of the room were displays of various products, all well laid out and very clean and shiny. The shop is long and narrow and I entered from one narrow end, parallel to the long counter; the men were further along the counter. I got about three feet inside the door when another male, obviously a shop employee, came through the door behind me, greeted me and slid behind the counter. I greeted him in Arabic and asked in English if he spoke English. He did! Our conversation of greeting included national backgrounds - he is from India and was interested to learn I am an American; where do I work, is my husband here (I gave my “just me” answer and quickly added, “my children and grandchildren are in America”); are my children students (my son is); is his family here (no), that must be very difficult (yes), etc.

Then we got down to business. I asked, “Do you have antibiotics?” (My handicap showed immediately – there are other types of antibiotics than salve but I wasn’t thinking.) He didn’t understand the word and asked me to repeat it; when I did, he moved down the counter to where the other worker and the customers were finishing a sale, grabbed something and came back to me. He handed me a piece of paper and a pen and asked me to write the word, which I did. “Ah, ahn-tee-bee-ot-teek!” He exclaimed. Then I showed him the spot I needed it for. He eyed it solemnly then asked, “Do you have others?” I was confused; then wondered what he thought it was – something awful like ringworm or maybe even smallpox? So I said, “A cut.” “Ah, a cut,” he said, then added, “Creme,” and walked to a shelf, selected a small rectangular white box with a narrow red stripe circling it about an inch from one narrow end and brought it back to me. I looked at the box and the unfamiliar medicine name, “Fucidin,” then saw the word “anitbiotico.” Inside was a small metal tube of medication. It was exactly what I was hoping for.

Although the box, on the other side, which was in English, said “Prescription Medicine (NZ),” it was dispensed without a prescription. Before clinching the sale, he said, “Use it two times each day; two times.” He sounded just like a doctor in the US giving directions for using a medication s/he has just prescribed. We talked for a while about where he’s from in India and about the horrible monsoons that are occurring there, causing hundreds of deaths and about other things (where did I live? With a wave of the hand, I replied, “Over there.”) This was repeated and he gave up pressing me for an exact location.) When I left, after praising his shop for being clean and very nice and he expressing deep honor at my words, I left. I took care to walk clear to the corner of the building and out of sight before taking the unlighted dirt path between two buildings to get to the street where my apartment complex is. I tried to be sure I wasn’t followed. I wasn’t afraid; I just didn’t want anyone working nearby to know where I live.

I’ve been using the “antibiotico” for a few days now and the wound definitely feels better, is smaller, itches less and seems to be healing, still slowly but faster than before. Hopefully it will soon be well.

August 6, 2005 – Saturday

This is another episode in the ongoing saga of the curtains. When I got to work at Maqam campus, about 9:00 AM I called Omer, English speaking taxi driver, and asked him to arrange for a driver to pick me up at Maqam after work and take me to the curtain shop, wait and then take me home. He said either he himself would come or another man would. I waited until after 10:00 to call the curtain man to give him a heads up about my impending visit and said I‘d be there about 5:00. Omer was waiting when I reached the gate to the campus after work (only authorized individuals can get onto the campus). His car is a private car, not a taxi so it was as if I had a private chauffeur! He drove me to the shop and waited in the car while I went inside. It was 5 minutes before 5 and the curtain man was not there yet. A young male was the only person in the shop and he spoke as much English as I speak Arabic. I asked for the curtain man by name and was told that he would be there in 5 minutes. I was invited to sit on the chair in front of the desk and wait. I sat for a few minutes and then got up to inspect the furniture on display in the shop, all massive bedroom sets. The young man told me the furniture had been made in China, except for one piece – the one I liked best – which was from Egypt, where he himself was from.

About ten minutes had passed and the curtain man wasn’t there so I got out my mobile and called him. He said he would be there in seven minutes and asked to talk to the young man, so I turned over the phone. The young man talked and listened and then handed back my phone. I put it to my ear and the curtain man told me the young man would show me a sample book for “chiffon.” He said that he was on his way and that I was to choose the colors for the majlis and master bedroom in the meantime. The young man found the sample book and handed it to me. I saw the sample book of blackout nearby and asked him to hand it to me, too, which he did. I then held up the chosen blackout colors to the colors of chiffon while he sat on a chair several feet away (unrelated males and females do not get close to each other here) and we had a fun time, he commenting in Arabic and I in English) as I held up each blackout color in turn to various chiffon colors. When I put the dark green blackout against a strong magenta chiffon, he laughed out loud and so did I.

By the time the curtain man had arrived and was greeting me. He sat down across the desk from me. I had narrowed down my choice for the majlis to two similar colors and had no idea about the green. He approved one of my selections, a yellowish cream lighter than the blackout, to be for the majlis and then guided me to a similar but lighter color to go with the green. Then he asked what I wanted to drink. When I said water, I really wanted water! I had forgotten to take some to work with me today and didn’t have a way to get any so I had gone all day without. Anyone who lives in this dry climate needs to drink a lot of liquids and more especially in this heat (110 degrees F. or so).

He kept pressing me to choose a soft drink but I said I wanted water – didn’t he have any water? Yes, yes, he had water everywhere, he said, and gave in, telling the young man to bring me water, which he did, in a plastic cup. I practically drank it in one gulp! Then the curtain man handed the chiffon sample book to the young man with instructions to take it to the curtain man’s curtain shop where the seamstress was even then sewing my curtains in the upstairs workshop. The young man left and the curtain man and I were alone in the shop, which has glass walls and is on the street; my driver was in his car outside in plain view and the curtain man wanted to talk. I didn’t want to stay much longer not only because I was paying for the driver’s time and I had to get home to pay the cleaner of my flat, who was at my place working at that very moment, but also because it isn’t culturally acceptable here for an unrelated male and female to be alone in a room together. If it hadn’t been for the glass wall and my driver being just outside, I would have left immediately.

I chose to steer the conversation to business, confirming that he would come on Monday at 6:00 PM to install the curtains, asking him if my table would also be delivered. He called the table maker to inquire and after speaking to him in Arabic, said it would be ready and be delivered on Monday. He showed me the vertical shades for the office, and the holders for both vertical blinds, which were ready to go. I asked how many people would come on Monday to hang the curtains; he said just one and later amended it to be “some, maybe two, three.” Then he began talking about how anytime I wanted anything made for my home, just call him and he would make it for me.

But when he started talking about bringing handles and ropes when he came with the curtains, I called a halt, saying I could not pay more than our agreed upon price. He told me he wanted the curtains to be beautiful for me. I said that would be too many dirhams. He said something that I took to mean his professional reputation was on the line and I finally realized we were not communicating, so I started talking numbers. I said, “2000 for the curtains and 200 for the table;” he agreed it was so and wrote it on a piece of paper. I said, “300 for the four [take note – four, not three] chiffons,” he agreed and wrote it down, then added it up – 2500. I asked what about the handles and ropes, he said no problem; he wanted it to be beautiful. I said I would only pay 2500. He said for you, no problem; then expanded on his theme. From everyone else he required a down payment of half; from me he had required nothing; he trusts me. He likes the fact that I am always smiling and “light comes from” me; he has said this before, several times, and it only then dawned on me that he meant something like “you have a shining countenance.”

Well, this was getting a bit personal and when he said I would be so happy with the curtains I would come and kiss him, I stood up, said, “No, but I might shake your hand,” and proffered him my hand to say goodbye. He held it a bit longer than necessary and after he released it said something about me being his “Habibi” [something like that]. I hadn’t heard that Arabic word before but it rang a bell and I remembered Mary Kay calling her very darling 10-year-old son something like “Habib” even though his name is Kareem and realized it had to mean something like “dear one.” I backed up a few steps (he was still seated on the other side of the desk from me) and he asked if I knew what it meant. I said no. He said, “You know many Arabic words but you don’t know that one?” I said no. He said it meant (here he placed both hands over his heart), “someone much loved.” I backed up more and said, what about saying, “My sister?” He emphasized, “It is for family, for ones you love. I call my sister, ‘Habibit’ [something like that].” I said, “Okay, my brother, I will wait for you to bring the curtains on Monday at 6:00.” Still seated at the desk, he assured me he would be there on time, “Inshallah [God willing]”. I thanked him, “Shukren” and said goodbye, “Maasalema.” He said “Maasalema,” as I went out the door.

In this culture, people use the term, “my sister/brother” as Americans would use “my friend” to refer to people of the opposite gender that you aren’t related to but whom you like.

I am going to try to have someone else with me in the flat when he and the curtains come on Monday and sincerely hope that at least one other person comes with him for the delivery and stays the entire time. I don’t feel the situation is out of hand but I want to keep from getting that way. I don’t need a married man thinking he’s interested in me or thinking I’m “easy” because I’m an American female.