Two mysteries solved

Between our family vacation in the middle of nowhere (which was lovely) and our long plane ride and subsequent killer jet lag, I just haven't had a minute to post. However, in my time of absence, I've managed to solve two cultural mysteries I've wondered about for months.

1. The mystery of the black abaaya: Over the summer, I saw a documentary by MTV's True Life about young people in Saudi Arabia. (p.s. let me know if that link works. I can't access that page from over here.) The show follows four stories of "revolutionaries" in Saudi: a death metal band seeking a place to rock out, a man shunning arranged marriages and looking for love on the Internet, a man fighting for women's rights to attend city council meetings, and a woman starting up a business selling colored abaayas.

At one point on the show, the female entrepreneur asks, "Why black? Why is black the prescribed color? Why only one color?" I always wondered the same thing.

So two days ago, I hung out with Saudi and American friends of mine. I'm not shy about asking all my cultural questions, so I asked my Saudi friend, "Why black?"

"Why do you wear black to a funeral?" she asked.

"Because black is a color for sadness!" I said.

"Then why does a man wear it on his wedding day?" she asked. Ay-yi-yi.

"I guess it's the color of formality" (then I realized she doesn't have the word "formality" in her vocabulary) "...uh, like, a color for being serious."

"You see? Black is the color of respect. We wear it because it's the color of respect."

Then my American friend piped up that she read somewhere that traditionally the black abaaya came about because, in ye old Bedouin days, when everyone ran around on camel-back, the women wore black because that made them visible against the backdrop of sand. If they wore white, they might get left behind when the caravan took off.

The mystery of why it's so hard to buy lingerie here: Buying lingerie here has got to be the most awkward and frustrating situation on the planet. Lingerie stores only employ men. There are no dressing rooms. And there are no returns.

So you go. A strange dude sizes you up and recommends a size, color and style. You buy it (quickly, I imagine, so you can get out of there) without even trying it on, and if you get home and it doesn't fit, well, too bad. Money and time wasted.

Okay, so quick side story that I swear relates: Last year, I was visiting an Omani friend, and she complimented my purse. She asked me how much it cost (not a rude question in the Middle East), and I told her $1. She marveled and exclaimed--until I told her that I'd bought it used. She then looked at me like I'd just said I'd picked the purse out of the dump. She went from saying my purse was "nice" to saying it was "dirty." (This particular friend doesn't exactly tiptoe around your feelings.) I refrained from telling her that nearly everything I own/wear comes from a thrift store.

Okay, so the tie-in: Here, used clothing is considered dirty, apparently. So, if a woman buys a bra and takes it home to try it on and then returns it, it's seen as "used." If a store were to accept returns, they'd go out of business because local women would not trust that what they were buying was actually new.

For an American parallel: It'd be like finding out that a store re-packages underwear that's been returned. Ewwwww.

But why lingerie stores can't be staffed strictly with women is still a complete mystery.

Six Things to Stock Up On Before Moving to the Middle East

The thing about moving overseas is: You never really know what you'll miss until you get over there. This time around, I've wised up. I'm bringing:

1. Neutrogena's benzoyl peroxide face cleanser/mask (or whatever): Because you will probably not find your exact product--the one that took you six years to find and fall in love with--over there. If you need benzoyl peroxide the way boy bands need teenaged girl fans, you better bring a few tubes with you.

2. All-natural peanut butter: In Saudi, people prefer processed products (I can envision that phrase slapped on a billboard downtown--probably with a picture of a turbaned man happily pumping hydrogenated vegetable oils into Skippy jars.) One of our suitcases currently holds about 8 pounds of the natural stuff. That's right: I've devoted 8 percent of our weight allowance to mashed peanuts.

3. Condoms: Let's just say: If you want condoms in the Middle East, you will need a prescription. And then you will only receive six at a time. And those six will be banana-flavored.

4. Deodorant: Because it is dang expensive there, leading me to believe most people still rely primarily on cologne, not Secret. I refuse to "go local" in this regard.

5. Journals: Yes, of course you can buy them over there, but they open (dur) from right to left. For some reason, I find my creative processes hindered if I feel backward before I begin.

6. Women's workout clothing: Finding breathable women's pants and a good sports bra in the Middle East is, in my experience, about as easy as finding pork in Saudi Arabia. You have three options: Wear jeans, buy men's workout clothes, or bring a bunch with you. I've done two out of three.

Choose It/Lose It: A flick and a read

Choose It: The Book of Eli
It's the story of Eli, a "walker" wandering in the ruins of a future world, carrying the only known surviving copy of the Bible with him. Of course the forces of evil are bent on getting their hands on the book, which leads Denzel Washington to bust out some Batman-esque butt-kicking. (I always like it when fight scenes rely on swords instead of guns--although this flick had both.) I kind of expected this movie to either be cheesy or a ridiculous distortion of writings and events in the style of The Da Vinci Code. But it was neither.

It's got a post-apocalypse meets old-school Old Testament story line, a mixing of genres that I found pleasing, probably because the biblical allusions weren't disgustingly overdone (as so often happens when people try to "make Christian art"). Granted, Eli quotes Scripture at every turn--but he also shoots arrows through a potential rapist's crotch and steals shoes off dead bodies. I like that kind of tension in a character. Besides, it's got a good shot of mysticism and mystery and a twist at the end. Good work, Denzel. I'd watch that again.

Lose It: Twilight book series
I've been saying for some time now that Twilight had potential to be a good book--but instead, it is a second-tier piece of airport-novel trash. I say this because I don't think there's anything wrong with the story line--hey, who doesn't love a good vampire romance injected with werewolf fight scenes? The problem with Twilight is the writing itself--rambling passages that could easily be cut and never affect the main story line, lazy characterization that relies on physical description, too many adverbs, too much sloppiness in passages that say "very beautiful" instead of "dazzling." I knew it by the first paragraph of the book--four out of the five verbs in the opening are "was." (I maintain that you can tell a good writer very quickly by their verb choice. Good writers know precise, action-filled verbs. They only use "was" if absolutely necessary.)

Stephenie Meyer's fatal flaw was only ever writing one draft. What kind of writer only writes one draft? That's like a filmmaker submitting his raw footage to an audience without ever letting it hit the editing room. Only a hack would do something like that. And where were the editors on this thing? Couldn't they have seen a diamond in the rough and sent it back to Meyer for some polishing?

I don't know what makes me angrier: That Twilight actually could have been a good book, or that it made so much money as a bad one.

A Road Trip List

Husband and I climbed in the car at 5 a.m. and made the epic journey to Midland, MI, to visit his family before we get on a plane, again.
Here's how the trip went:

Theme song: The Longest Road, which I think is by Morgan Page. As if the 22 hours in a car were not enough of a reason to choose "Longest Road," the lyrics are fitting, as well:
Giddy up and gold mine
Different place, different time
All the stars are in their prime

Fast food eaten: Just a couple of grilled chicken sandwiches and a "Real fruit!" smoothie from McD's. This was at probably 2 a.m., and I was having a "yo quiero Taco Bell" moment, but nothing but McD's was open.

Caffeine ingested: A venti skinny vanilla latte, 16 ounces of diet pepsi, and half a can of diet Doctor Pepper. Yeah, I was super wired.

Books read: Only a little more of Jeffry Eugenides' Middlesex, which is, if nothing else, an epic that must have taken 15 years to research.

Phone calls made: Five.

Political opinions discussed: Health care reform, primarily. I spoke with my friend Dawn on the phone. She works for Social Security, and said that if people would spend just one day working her job, they'd all support health care reform. This is because she regularly meets people who, for instance, have a kidney problem, need a test to determine what kind of problem it is, can't afford the test, don't have insurance because they're self-employed, and could literally die any day because they can't get treated before they get diagnosed.

Philosophies discussed: Determinalism, i.e. your lack of free will. This is the idea that our "state" completely determines which choices we make; therefore the choice itself is an illusion. What's previously happened to you has already determined which choices you'll make. This is something I'm writing about in an essay, currently, because blogs are not the place for such complicated dealings.

Work done: Nada. First I felt too hyper because of all the caffeine, and then I felt too exhausted by all the driving. My self-control could use some work.

Post-script: Apologies for not posting pictures of Africa yet. My laptop is having issues and not letting me upload anything to the Internet right now. Once I get that fixed, I'll post some. While we're on the subject, if anyone knows what my laptop's problem is, you could be a dear and leave me a comment.

Choose It/Lose It: Writings

Welcome to Choose It/Lose It, my latest excuse to praise or condemn aspects of culture that have caught my eye lately.

Choose It: Half the Sky by Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn

I read a good chunk of this book on the way to Uganda, and I honestly can't wait to finish it. The premise: The ongoing violence and discrimination against women worldwide--including sex trafficking, honor killings, mass rape and mother mortality--are tantamount to gendercide. Kristof and WuDunn have done a beyond-incredible job of interviewing hundreds of women who have been affected by gender-based violence and providing a platform for their stories. The book provides graphically detailed descriptions of the realities of forced prostitution, rape as intimidation, and women who have been cut up or burned with acid or beaten into sexual slavery. Eye-opener is not a strong enough word.

And while the authors do not wish to sugar-coat or downplay any aspect of this gendercide, they do not leave readers without hope, either. They interview dozens of women, many of whom are former victims, who have taken courageous actions to provide medical care and education for women in those areas where gender discrimination is at its worst. Probably the most worthwhile book I've read in years.

Lose It: A Girl's Guide to Saudi Arabia by Maureen Dowd
I feel like I've read this article before, perhaps more than once. It's your typical single-gal-goes-to-Saudi-Arabia-and-gets-pissed-off-because-she-has-to-wear-an-abaaya. Dowd whines on and on about the dress code, the driving laws, the edited Hollywood movies, the lack of Cosmopolitans..."I'm so repressed!" she says. "Poor me! Poor all women in Saudi!"

But my main problem with the article is the Dowd only manages to talk to one Saudi women--who commented on how nice the malls and restaurants in Saudi are. All the other people talking about women's oppression? Western. If you're going to travel to another country, especially if you're going to write about it, it is your responsibility to ask questions and, as much as possible, see things from another perspective. Dowd just remains stubbornly in her own shoes and lays her pre-conceived notions over everything she sees. She's too busy with her pity party to do her research. Smacks of Orientalism to me.

This is what I do

Last weekend I took my 12th plane ride of the summer. I was coming from Nashville and heading to Denver. In the seat next to me was a skinny guy reading a physicians' magazine. I was dead-tired and wanting mostly to sleep, but he struck up a conversation.

"So," he said, "what do you do?"

I hesitated and looked at the seat back in front of me.

"This," I said. "This is what I do."

That question, "What do you do," has tripped me up constantly all summer. Normally, that question can be answered with three or four words: "I'm a _______."

My answer is slightly more complicated: "Well, I've been living in the Middle East, where usually I teach English and learn Arabic and hang out with people a lot, but right now I'm home for the summer--except I'm not really home too much, I'm always off somewhere--and I've been doing a lot of writing, but I also started a volunteer job for this non-profit called Coburwas, but also I've just been going a lot of places, and..."

People like me just don't fit here.

Uganda: She wants to stay in the refugee camp

Bridget is the only person I meet in Kyangwali who says she never wants to go back to the Congo. Naturally, I wonder why. Most of the people here are still tied to their homes, even though their homes were burned and abandoned 15 years ago.

But I never find out why she doesn't want to return. Bridget has maybe a 100-word vocabulary of English--still markedly better than my Swahili, obviously, which covers "how are you?" and "fine." But what I manage to glean from our conversations is this: She's 22, left the Congo 5 years ago, and has a four-year-old daughter named Ketti, who is probably the sassiest girl in the camp. (Sass, I find out later, runs in the family.)

This means that Bridget arrived in the camp pregnant and alone at the age of 17.

Now Bridget receives a modest salary to do all the cooking for the Coburwas school--making breakfast and lunch for 97 kids every day over a wood fire. By employing her, Coburwas is not only giving her a way to provide for herself and her child, but hope and a family.

At night, we can hear Bridget's voice piercing through the thin walls where we're staying. "Ket-TIIIIIII!" she yells, her voice jumping up a couple octaves on the last syllable. Ketti emerges, dripping wet and naked from her bucket bath, giggling as she chases one of her ever-present companions around the camp and dodging her mother, who waits with Ketti's pajamas. This happens pretty much every night.

One night I decide I'm going to befriend Bridget. I invite her to sit on my bed and make friendship bracelets with me. Giving instructions turns out to be harder than anticipated: I don't realize until then that she does understand the word "under" or "last." She resorts to doing it her way, then says, "I make food now."

"Can I help you?" I say.

"No, no."

"Yes, yes, I'm coming."

Bridget goes to the food store room (kept under lock and key) and emerges with a tray of rice. She hands it to me and I literally sit staring at it for probably 20 minutes while she bustles around, stoking the fire, shucking corn, washing dishes. Finally she returns and I ask, "What do you want me to do with this?" She takes the tray from me, holds it tightly and tosses the rice about a foot into the air, which reminds me a little of a pizza chef tossing dough. The rice flies up and lands neatly back on the tray with a satisfying rain-on-the-roof sound, while the chaff scatters onto the ground. I think about the bags of already-cleaned rice I normally cook at home. No wonder cooking is a full-time job for most women here. She hands the tray back to me. I hesitate, then try the tiniest toss. The chaff doesn't fly, and I almost drop all the rice into the dirt. Bridget, in the way of most Congolese, just laughs--not maliciously, just in the way you laugh with your friends when they do something dumb and harmless. I laugh too. I get a tiny bowl and take maybe 1/4 cup of rice to try to practice. Maybe I hadn't had enough confidence. I throw it high in the air, and it would have gone on the ground except that Bridget wisely holds the tray beneath to catch it. We laugh hysterically, bent double at the waist, at my ineptness for half an hour. Sometimes you don't need language to bond.

I follow her inside the mud hut where she cooks. Pretty soon she hands me a bunch of tiny onions to peel and chop. How hard could that be? But I have literally never done this without a cutting board before. The knife she uses is broken: The handle is broken, so that the blade swivels dangerously like a switchknife. Bridget, however, is basically an African Iron Chef: She has enough potatoes for 20 people peeled and chopped in about 20 minutes, while I meticulously hammer away on the onions, using my fingernail as much as the knife. I'm having trouble: It's dark out now, and mud huts don't usually feature electric lights. I consider it a successful venture when I finish without chopping off the tip of my thumb.

Pretty soon, I'm asking for Swahili lessons, and Bridget multi-tasks. She tells me the words for corn, firewood, pot, fire, arm, leg, hair, about a dozen others. I only really retain the ones that are cognates with Arabic words I already know. Apparently, Swahili evolved from Arabic, and the words for "tray" and "church" haven't changed.

Dinner, as it always tastes when Bridget has done it, is fabulously good.

How to be an insomniac

10 p.m. The day feels over, as far as projects go: I don't have the discipline to work while my neighbors sleep. But the projects will hover indefinitely in the air: I have e-mails to write, friends to call, research to do. Instead, I watch videos on YouTube, or something equally unproductive.
I finish up the dishes, or leave them in the sink for the next morning. My dad used to go to bed right after he started the dishwasher for the night. His dishwasher used to make a low humming sound; mine clunks and roars like a monster.

11 p.m.This is when my husband will begin to make comments like, "When do you plan on going to bed?" Going to bed, however, has always felt like punishment to me. As a child, people made me go to bed when the clock struck. As an adult, I just crashed, sometimes over a book at the dining room table, sometimes on the floor of the newspaper office where I used to work. Don't get me wrong: I love to sleep; I just hate going to bed.

11:30 p.m.This is when I've brushed my teeth and washed my face and lamented over how cluttered my bedside table is. We use a nightlight because my husband likes total blackness, and I used to sleep with the overhead lights on. So we compromise. For months after we got married, I'd half wake up in the middle of the night, feel him next to me, and physically spazz out: Arms and legs would jerk; I'd gasp like someone had just tried to drown me. He would put a hand on my hair and say, "It's me. It's me."

Midnight I can hear my husband sleeping beside me. His breathing gets deeper and his arm around me feels heavier. I almost always feel annoyed by this fact: He has left me behind in the world of consciousness, gone on without me. I feel as though I have been left on the shore as he rowed silently away. I watch him disappear into the dark.

12:30 a.m. I try to relax my jaw. I have a tendency to grind my teeth in my sleep. At 26, my gums are already receding. I work on relaxing my jaw, and my shoulders, and the muscles in my forehead. I try to physically smooth them out with my fingers.

1 a.m. My mind whirs. I think about the schedule for the next day. I think about something I said to a friend last week. I think about running: when and for how long. I think about writing: what and how. I think about God. I think about my husband. I think about my family. I think. A lot.

2 a.m. If I'm not asleep, I might as well get up. Sometimes I get a snack: leftovers, usually, or chocolate. I bring my pillow down to the couch and pop in a movie. The house sometimes clicks or creaks. This is the time when I feel most alone.

5 a.m. If I'm still not asleep on the couch, I'll probably go back to bed. We are the only married people I know who don't have "a side of the bed." Sometimes I sleep on the left, sometimes the right. Last night we switched halfway through: My husband went to the bathroom, and I rolled over onto his pillow. We traded pillows and sides comfortably, in the way of habit.

6:30 a.m. My husband's alarm goes off. Depending on whether I kept him up all night with my sleeping problems, he gets up or hits snooze. He likes getting things done in the morning. He feels lazy sleeping in. I think maybe he has "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise" ingrained in his conscience. I try to get back to sleep, sometimes with success. This is the time I'm most likely to actually get rest: at the time when everyone else is waking.

8:30 a.m. This is the time I got up today. I dragged myself into the kitchen to fix coffee and oatmeal. I spent a lot of the morning rubbing my eyes. I thought about napping and decided against it. So I read and pray, and write and research, and run and cook and eat.

Before I know it, it's night again.