Newsletter 20
On Thursday my friend Bonnie and I are going to Dubai. She has a
doctor's appointment and then we're going shopping in the big city!
On Friday, the last one of the month, our church group meets in Abu
Dhabi, which will be very nice. I certainly hope the weekend (Thu,
Fri) will be a refreshing and much needed break for me.
The big excitement here is that it rained this morning! Extremely
unusual for this time of year and not much of it but enough to make me
thoroughly thankful it's usually sunny and warm with cloudless blue
skies, which is my kind of weather.
I woke up the other morning and for some reason thought, "I wonder if
it's raining?" I dreaded the idea of having to bundle up and walk
outside while water dripped or poured over me. Then I remembered
where I was and got right up to enter the day. I didn't
realize it was actually raining until I stepped outside the door of my flat. I
started to lock my door when I realized I could smell rain very
strongly. Amazed, I walked down the stairs and looked out the open
double doors of my building and saw the wet brickwork driveway
outside.
I felt chilly all day and the sky was grey so I felt depressed and
grumpy. I sort of grouched at a couple of my coworkers, who just
looked surprised and then avoided me for a while. Finally the sun
came out and I started feeling better. I ended the day chatting
amiably with the one coworker who'd kept her distance most of the day.
I sincerely hope tomorrow will be sunny!
If your winter is colder, greyer, wetter or whatever, I feel sorry
for you but hope you are enjoying it.
Enjoy the newsletter!
15 Aug. 05 – Monday - Part One
Well I have just survived the “hump day” of the work week. It is strange that I am home from work with two work days ahead when folks in the US are just gearing up for the beginning of their work week! I am still without my cooker table. I called the curtain man on Saturday (first day of the work week) after work and he said he would come but sounded vague and distracted and muttered something about the table being ready or something about marble for the table. I didn’t think he would come and he didn’t. Over night I made the decision to just wait it out. I would not call again about the table. If I never heard about it, I would chalk it up to experience and write it off. So yesterday instead of following up on the table, after work I come home, gathered up my landline phone and headed off to the store where I bought it.
I had two goals to accomplish. I wanted to replenish my mobile phone’s calling time and wanted to know why the handset on my phone had suddenly stopped working. It wasn’t the phone line, which I knew worked because I could access my dialup Internet service; the electricity worked because the light on the phone base was on. But there was no sound, no response from the handset. I put all of the phone parts back into the original box along with the directions for use and I took my sales receipt along. I had doubts about whether I’d get receive any customer service because that is not a strongly understood concept here. Uzbekistan was worse, though; I admit it. I caught a taxi and went to Al Falah Plaza, a hyperstore (sells a little bit of just about everything including food), which is where I’d bought the phone.
Most big stores here require you to turn in any bags you are carrying and take a token with which to retrieve it upon leaving. I’d had to surrender my bag there before. But this time, maybe because it was a very, very slow time of day for them, I walked in without being stopped; in fact, no one was at the security counter. So I took escalators to the second floor (third floor to Americans) to the electronics section. Just inside the area were two clerks standing waiting for customers. One was near the phone area and the other was just across the aisle by the cashier stand. I went up to the one by the phones because that is where I had acquired mine. I greeted him and asked him in English if he spoke English. He did speak some. I told him the problem and he opened the box and started taking pieces out. He looked at the handset, then said, “How many days?” I reflected on this for a moment then said, “Do you mean when did I purchase it?” He nodded in agreement. “July 7,” I said and pulled out the receipt. He spread it on the glass topped counter and studied it.
Apparently he decided I’d had the phone a short enough time that the warranty was still good and he could do some investigation, so he plugged in the base and hooked it up to the store’s phone line. After being satisfied that everything else worked, he began examining the handset. He opened the battery compartment and the 9-volt battery inside, hooked to wires, sort of popped out and hung in mid-air. He studied it, prodded the wires, repositioned it in its area and replaced the cover. Then he pressed the Talk button. It worked! He tried making a phone call with it and it went through. He spent a few moments talking to whoever had answered then hung up. He asked me to try using it. I took the handset and heard the dial tone. He encouraged me to make a phone call so I called my mobile number. Sure enough, the mobile’s ring sounded from inside my purse but I didn’t answer it.
I thanked him and was about to hand back the handset. He was ready to start returning the parts to the box when the handset started to ring as I held it! I was startled and just looked at it. He took it from me and answered it, talked for a minute or so and hung up. I asked what had happened. That’s when I learned that he had hooked it up to the store’s phone line. The call had been someone calling the store! He opened the handset and showed me what the problem had been. I think he said the wires had been squashed or caught under the battery or something – I didn’t quite get it - but the phone was working and if it goes dead again, I’ll just fiddle with the wires until it (hopefully) starts working again. He replaced everything in the box and placed it in the bag I’d brought it in, sliding in the sales receipt, too. I thanked him and left.
Then I went down to the basement level, which has household goods. I was hoping to find a small plastic chest of drawers for the master bathroom. I saw one the right color but it was too tall to fit underneath the ceramic soap dish that is affixed to my bathroom wall. So I just wandered around looking at things and came to a place where there was a display of table clocks. My goal is to have clocks in all the rooms I regularly use and I needed one for the majlis. I spent quite a bit of time looking at those on display and was wavering between two possibilities when a helpful sales associate came up to me. Actually, I was starting to walk away from the display to a distance from which I could look at the two clocks and see which one was easier to read from afar. He was quite agitated at thinking I was walking away because I was not going to make a purchase, but was polite. He didn’t have much English but I tried to tell him what I was doing. The one I thought was a better match for the majlis cost more than I actually wanted to pay (21 dh) but it was very sturdy, with a square silver frame, a white face and large black hands and numbers – easy to read; so I got it. It requires a AA battery but I don’t have one and forgot to buy any before I left the store. I asked if they sold batteries and was told they were on the main level with the food. But first I had to go through the checkout on the basement level. As I was forking over my dirhams, I saw a sign above the cashier saying that they sold phone cards for a discount price (27.5 dh rather than 30), so I bought two of them. That caused me to forget about looking for batteries.
I went back to the main level and walked out of the store and down the steps to street level. I started walking toward Khalifa Street, the main road in town and half a block away, to catch a taxi when I suddenly thought about getting some “take away” food. The Middle Eastern food place I had used once before was nearby so I decided to go there again. I crossed the side road and there on the corner was a restaurant Rebecca had told me served good grilled chicken. I decided to try that instead so I sent inside. There were two young men wearing blazing white shirts and black slacks; one spoke almost no English and the other one spoke just a little (“shawaya, shawaya,” – very little - which is how much Arabic I speak) but we managed to communicate and fortunately the menu was in both English and Arabic (that way, we could each read half of it). When I inquired about the grilled chicken, I pointed to the English words on the menu. He turned the menu slightly, lined up the English words with the Arabic ones beside it and nodded comprehension. I also ordered stuffed grape leaves and hommos. He invited me to sit at a table and wait while they cooked it.
As I sat admiring the décor – lots of brown pottery displayed on small shelves mounted on the walls; at least three fireplace-looking alcoves that couldn’t possibly be for fires in this climate; lots of tile on the walls; interesting circular and almost flat woven baskets in bold, brightly-colored patterns hanging on the walls; an overhead trellis with trailing philodendrons running along it; and fancy, almost Chinese-looking lanterns hanging from it. I studied the lanterns and realized that although similar in shape to Chinese ones, they were distinctively Middle Eastern. Curious, I looked around further and discovered mounted on a wall near the doorway a Lebanese flag and brilliantly (!) deducted that I was in a Lebanese restaurant so the decorations must be Lebanese, too.
Shortly after I’d begun my observations I noticed an area of the restaurant with glass cases filled with nicely displayed mounds of various fruits. I realized that it must be a juice bar and that they probably sold freshly squeezed fruit juices. About that time, the waiter returned bearing a small plastic cup of red liquid. He offered it to me graciously and said something that sounded like “Pomegranate.” I sipped it and found that it was indeed pomegranate juice. I thanked him and sat sipping and enjoying it as I looked around. Then I stood up and went over to the cashier stand and took a menu to look at. I wanted to see what kind of juices they sold. Pomegranate was not on the list but lemon was, so I ordered a large lemon juice. Then the quiet waiter with no English spoke in Arabic to the one who had more English and I thought I heard the word Pomegranate again. Then the other man went to the fruit display, removed a pomegranate and brought it to me and pointed to it saying, “English?” I deduced he wanted to know the English word for the fruit. I smiled and said, “Pomegranate.” He looked amazed and asked, “Pomegranate? Only pomegranate?” I said yes, only pomegranate. He walked away, amazed, and shared the information with the first man.
A few people walked into the restaurant from the street during my wait. One was a short, slender young man with dark features who placed something on the cashier’s stand that looked like a bill or receipt and then went to talk to the man who had less English. They stood very close to each other, almost nose to nose as they talked and at first I was taken aback, thinking they were being intimate. In public! Then I realized I was thinking like an American and remembered that in this part of the world, personal space is almost non-existent; people stand in very close proximity to each other to converse. After that visitor left, a boy about 10 years old came in and walked over to the same man, who very courteously bent his head and gave the boy his full attention. They talked briefly and then the boy left. I had the feeling they might be father and son or possibly brothers. Then a man wearing a white dishdash and head scarf came prancing in. He was very animated and he walked up to the same man and started a conversation. Then a man in a white shirt and black slacks came in the door, went directly to the cash register that was located just inside and to the left of the door, facing the main part of the room. He punched a couple of keys on the register, the cash drawer slid open and he reached toward it. I was appalled, thinking that someone was about to rob the till. Then I saw that he was placing money into the drawer, not taking any out. Then he closed the till and walked to the back of the room and into the service area.
Soon after, the man with more English came out, bearing a brown paper bag horizontally across his hands. He stopped briefly at the fruit juice area and picked up the bagged drink which had been prepared and was waiting there and came forward toward me. I stood and went to the cashier stand and paid for the meal, 48 dh. The bag seemed awfully large and heavy for the things I’d ordered. As I was trying to juggle holding that bag horizontally, shoulder my purse and hold the bags from Al Falah Plaza, I said to him. “Is this food Lebanese?” He looked mystified and said, “What?” I tried again, “Lebanon?” I was going to point to the nearby flag but he smiled and said, “Yes,” paused, and then added, “Food, Lebanon. Me,
I balanced my loads carefully as I walked to the corner, crossed a narrow side street and walked to the taxi stand. Since it was on the main road, I didn’t have to wait long and soon I was back home. I broke out the food and saw that there was a large dish with grilled chicken topped by a pile of flat, circular Lebanese bread, a container of hommos with a large stack of flat Arabian bread to go with it, a larger container of stuffed grape leaves and a huge platter of assorted greens, olives, pickled red-colored turnips, tomato wedges and cucumber slices. The latter seems to be something that is automatically given with meals, like tortilla chips and salsa in Mexican restaurants in America. I served up and enjoyed a great meal but couldn’t eat all of it. It will probably last me three days.
Now back to the cooker table story. I resisted calling about the table all day Sunday and then this morning at work, the curtain man called and asked me if I would be at home tonight at 5:00 or 5:30. I said yes. “I will send them,” he said and added something about the table and a marble top, then said, “I will come. Tonight. 5:00 or 5:30. Will you be there?” I said yes, I’d be there, doubting that he or anyone else would be.
So I came directly home from work to wait and see what would happen. It is now 6:42 PM and I’ve neither seen nor heard from him/them. I guess you could say the night is young and anything could happen. After all, businesses here make deliveries in the evening. Sharon told me that one time something she had purchased was delivered to her at midnight. I will be retiring at 9:30, though, so if they show up after that, they will have to turn around and go back.
A taxi just for me? Something interesting happened this morning as I left the apartment complex for work. I was walking out the driveway to the street, heading for the dumpsters on the street to toss in some trash when I saw a taxi pulling away from the traditional-type house across the street. There is a section of these houses between two small, fancy modern apartment complexes. Expats live in them as far as I can tell and there are often one or more taxis parked near them overnight. I assumed the driver of this taxi lived in one of those houses. He saw me walking, swerved from his original direction going toward the main road and headed right at me. I held out my hand to indicate I wanted a ride but kept walking toward the dumpster. After I’d tossed the bag of trash inside it and said, “Good morning,” to the trash man standing near it, I walked over to the driver’s door. He lowered his window and I said my usual, “Assalom alaykum,” to which gave the traditional reply. Then I said, “Maktaba Zayed?” (MAK-th-buh ZI-ed, which in Arabic means Zayed Library). I’ve learned to ask about my destination before getting into a taxi. That way if the driver has no clue as to where my destination is, I don’t have to climb out and wait for another taxi. He nodded and said in English something like, “Yes, of course.”
I got inside and as he started driving, I thought about what he had said. He had spoken only a few words but had almost no accent at all; it was very clear English. I started an internal debate with myself. I’ve been thinking that once I start working at Maqam nearly full-time it would be useful to have a regular arrangement with a taxi driver to pick me up at my building at a given time each morning, take me to Maqam and then pick me up after work and take me home or wherever every afternoon. Bonnie recommended any of the group of taxi drivers she discovered, Rebecca introduced me to the one she uses and my downstairs neighbor recommended another. But here was one who lived on my very street so it wouldn’t be out of his way (i.e., he wouldn’t have to drive any distance at all to get to my place) in the morning. Should I speak? Should I look the gift horse in the mouth? Should I let it slide and go with someone who had been recommended?
I decided to speak. “Do you speak English?” I asked after he’d turned onto the long, long street leading to Zayed. “Yes, I do,” he said in almost unaccented English. Silence. I debated with myself some more, mostly about how to approach the subject. Finally I said, “Do you live there?” And pointed back in the direction we’d come from. He paused, digested it, then said, “Yes, I live there.” I was silent again. Then I said, “Soon, not now, I will work at Maqam campus – Jama Banat. Do you know it?” “Maqam – girl’s university?” Yes. “Yes, I know it.” “Could you give me a ride there every day to work?” “I could maybe, yes.” And so it went. I had the feeling that he was reliable – at least reliable enough to give the ride thing a try to see how it worked.
I asked, “Kam? How much.” (Kam being the Arabic.) It was his turn to pause and think. Then he said, “Let me try it and see.” I figured he wanted to drive the distance with his meter on and see what the regular cost would be. He asked if I would want a ride there and a ride back. I said maybe. I asked his name. Hakeem (that’s the Uzbek word for leader – mayor or governor - so I have a fighting chance of remembering it). Do you have a mobile? Yes, he did; he gave me the number. I said I would call when I knew when I’d need the rides and we would discuss it. This is quite exciting. I might have found my very own taxi driver! Of course it depends on what his price will be. Omer offered to do it for 10 dh each way; that is what he said he charged Bonnie before she got her car. So at least I have an idea with which to judge whatever Hakeem comes up with. I do know he should charge less for the morning ride because he will not have to drive any distance to get to my place. We’ll see.
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