A Hiatus of Sorts

I have really let the ball drop on my blogging the past couple of weeks. I've been busy, but it's the kind of busy that if you asked me what I had been doing, I wouldn't really have a good answer for you. And I am leaving in 20 minutes to go to the airport, which signals the beginning of my 2-week vacation to Israel, so I imagine that things are going to get worse before they get better. I have been keeping a list of things to post about, so I will get all caught up when I get back. Tonight I get to look forward to spending the night in the Amman, Jordan airport. It turns out that most of the Gulf countries have a pretty healthy disregard for Israel, and it is really hard to get a flight with decent connections in to Tel Aviv. I have to make sure that customs in Israel don't stamp my passport (they need to stamp a piece of paper I have paper clipped inside), because if I have an Israel stamp, chances are that Bahrain won't let me back in. Bahrain and Israel are not friendly neighbors. A few examples: there are many people here who want to ban Starbucks because it supports organizations that are friendly towards Israel, one of my coworkers was told that they stopped carrying her favorite variety of Toblerone in all of the grocery stores because Israel started importing it too, and... I guess I can just think of two examples right now. In other news, Gaza called off their cease fire with Israel last night, so I am hoping that things stay somewhat peaceful while I am there (and after that, too). I hope that everyone has a wonderful Christmas, and I will post all about my adventures when I return!

The Tree of Life

The Tree of Life is probably the most famous tourist attraction on this little isle (if you can honestly consider any attraction here famous). Bahrainis believe that it marks the location of the Garden of Eden. I have my doubts.Wikipedia provides the following information:

The Tree of Life (Arabic: شجرة الحياة; transliterated: Shajarat al-Hayah) is a 400-year old mesquite tree in Bahrain that is considered a natural wonder.^[1] This unique tree stands alone in the desert about 2 kilometres (1.2 mi) from the Jebel Dukhan, the highest point in Bahrain.^[2]

The source of water for this tree remains a mystery because it stands in a place completely free of water.^[3].

The tree is mentioned in the movie L.A. Story.^[4]If you ever visit Bahrain, I would put the Tree of Life last on your list of places to visit. Very last. First of all, let me say that there is no mystery surrounding its water source. It started to die a few years ago, and now they bring in water trucks every night to make sure that it doesn't. It is a bit of a drive to get there, and it is in the middle of nowhere, so make sure that you have plenty of gas. There is no road that goes to the tree, so be prepared for a bit of offroading as you must set off into the desert to get there. And finally, there is very little signage, and that is confusing, so make sure you build in plenty of time to get lost. Once you arrive you will notice that the tree is covered with graffiti, and the ground is littered with trash, but everyone has put so much effort into getting there and listened to so much talk about it being a must-see that they pretend to like it.

Al Areen

Al Areen Wildlife Park is the brainchild of His Highness the Shaikh bin Isa bin Sulman Al-Khalifa, the Crown Prince of Bahrain. I guess that when you're interested in wildlife, and you happen to be a prince, you don't just invest in a good pair of binoculars and a few guide books--you buy a lot of almost extinct animals and put them in a park. Al Areen is home to a tedious variety of oryx, and a lot of other small 4-legged animals with horns (goats, deer, ibex, sheep, addax, gazelle). I think the prince would have been quite disappointed with my lack of interest in these animals, but I did find some animals that caught my attention in the smaller zoo area. And let me just say that zoos are always much more interesting in countries where safety regulations are not really the norm...

Have you ever seen a porcupine? I hadn't. Here is a pile of porcupines for your viewing pleasure--I found them surprisingly cute. I wonder if they prefer to sleep in a heap, or if the fact that it was well into the 100s and they only had one little hut for shade had anything to do with their sleeping arrangements. These are the ostriches. I believe this picture was taken before one of them decided that my hand would be a tasty afternoon treat. I think I can see the culprit planning his sneak attack right behind me. Luckily I escaped without any permanent damage, though I did give everyone watching a good show. Remember how I hate birds? I would encourage you to all go out and buy a lovely pair of ostrich skin shoes. Or a purse.
I loved the fros on these guys. I was secretly hoping that they would make themselves useful and bite the highly annoying boy whose parents were complete morons and let him continue in his unruly behavior despite the fact that he was seriously disturbing both the people and the wildlife. And now that I think about it, my less than charitable thoughts probably explain why I got bit by the ostrich later in the afternoon. Karma. It'll get you.
And finally, me and the Brit mom, standing in front of a perfectly lovely toxic-wastesque watering hole. I can see that I need to stop by the royal palace and let the prince know that his bird sanctuary needs a bit of attention.

In the News (Parts 2 and 3)

I'll tell you what's strange. Going home from work one night, and not knowing if you will be coming back the next day, or if it will be a holiday. Do you finish the spreadsheet you are working on and send it to NYC, or are you going to have a chance to finish it tomorrow and still make your deadline? Because everything here is based on the lunar calendar, you'll never know until the moon-sighting committee makes its final decision. And lastly, another odd addition. Some countries worry about teen pregnancy, and others...
I just want to know--how do you prove that Herdsman X's goat impregnated Herdsman Y's goat? Genetic testing?

The Destroyer

I like tours. I especially like private tours, where you can ask all the questions you want and go to the places that not everyone sees. So when my friend Jeff invited me on a tour of the destroyer in port, I was excited (despite not knowing what a destroyer was). He didn't think I would want to go, and was worried that I might be bored. He didn't know that I love private tours.

A destroyer is a ship that protects an aircraft carrier, just in case anyone is wondering. An aircraft carrier is never left alone in the ocean, and has destroyers with it at all times.

Anyway, I came straight from work, and unfortunately was wearing heels. Heels were not the footwear of choice for this excursion, and if you ever get invited to a destroyer I wouldn't recommend them. First of all, it was a bit of a walk down the pier to even get to the ship. Second of all, it turns out that the ramps that lead up to the ship, the ones that look like they ever so gradually incline in pictures and movies, are in reality about 45 degrees steep. I would have had a hard time climbing the ramp (I'm sure this is not the correct term for it, by the way) even if I was wearing tennis shoes.

Once I made it up the ramp, I discovered that there are small holes in the metal on all of the outside decks, the perfect size for a heel to slip through. I had a few near faceplants, and got a good calf workout from walking on tip toes.

We went to the control room, and sat in the captain chairs. That gun was definitely loaded.
We went to check out the helicopter. The propellors and tail all fold up so it can fit in it's little hangar. This picture was a insult to Jeff's manliness. Apparently Navy guys don't pose for pictures when they are giving tours, but he was a good sport.
The most exciting part of the tour was our climb down the hatch to the inside of the big gun. Jeff's friend was showing us the gun, and decided that the fastest way down was the hatch in the front of the ship. Jeff was not thrilled with this idea, as he said that hatches are not very easy to negotiate (even for sailors) and he didn't think it was safe to take 3 inexperienced girls down one. Aforementioned heels did not help in negotiating this challenge, which again, would have probably been difficult for me in gym shoes. Hatches look so easy in the movies, and I realize now that I have received a poor education on Navy life from Hollywood.

Here we are inside the gun. I forgot what kind of gun it was, but those bullets to the right are awfully large.
It only took me a few minutes onboard to figure out that a sailors life is most definitely not the life for me. But I had fun anyway.

Recent purchases

This is the store where I have spent many an hour and many a dinar. The shopkeepers know me. We're friends of sort now, and they always bring me a beverage of my choice while I shop, since it is usually at least a 2 hour ordeal. But as you can see from the below picture (which is only a tiny fraction of the store)--there are a lot of things to peruse. The man (I am blanking on his name right now) is from Pakistan, and is here working to save money so that he can get married to his fiance, who is still in Pakistan. He talks to his mom every day, and once we had an interesting discussion about whether or not children love one parent more than the other. He says that all sons (including himself) love their mom more. I told him I loved my parents the same, and he didn't believe me.
Anyway, the last time I went in the store, I bought quite a bit, and now I might be having buyer's remorse. I can't decide if the items are really as great as I originally thought they were, and think that maybe I should take some of them back. If you have any opinions, please share.

You should probably understand how the stores here work. There are no price tags, and you can pretty much guarantee that the prices for Americans are going to be marked up at least 30%, because they think we're all rich. And compared to a lot of people, we are. But if you don't like to bargain, you're going to get ripped off.

Here's what to do:
1. Pick what you want, getting prices on individual items along the way. Remember these prices and keep a running total in your head. Bargain a little on the pieces, but not too much.
2. Put everything you have gathered on the counter and tell them that you want the best price, which should be discounted based on volume. You should have a price in your head that you are willing to pay.
3. If the price they come back with is higher than the price in your head, you should continue to bargain. You might have to go through a few iterations of this cycle. It can be time consuming. Don't be intimidated.
4. Once they get close to the price in your head and you can tell they aren't going to go any lower, pick something that you had previously looked at, and say that you will pay their asking price provided they give you a gift of whatever the item is. Sometimes they offer the gift up themselves.

For example, this coral ring was a gift with my purchase. I liked it, but didn't feel the need to have it in my life for the price they wanted.
This is a henna pot (it was used to use the henna for tattoos). I love the henna pot, but I am not sure that it matches my decor. I have eclectic taste, and like to collect things from places I have traveled, but this practice doesn't always lead to a cohesive decor.
This is a silk rug. It was also a gift. What can I say--it pays to be a repeat customer. I think it would look great framed on a wall, but I had a hard time deciding what color and pattern to get. I run into the same problems I did with the henna pot.
Perhaps the most interesting thing about shopping here is the fact that they will give you several hundred dollars of goods on the honor system. The very first time I went, they told me I could take whatever I wanted, and pay for it later. I thought that was quite a bit of trust to be putting on a stranger. For all they knew I could have been flying out the next day, never to be seen again...

Congratulations

Watching the US presidential election from the Middle East has been an eye-opening experience. I had no idea how much everyone here would be interested in the outcome. I heard a range of comments leading up to election day, and I thought I would share some of my favorites:

• "Obama is a Muslim, and Nostradomus predicted that the lion, which is generally understood to be the US, would fall at the hand of Muslim--this could be very bad." I informed my coworker that Obama was actually a Christian, though perhaps an extremist Christian. She felt better.
  
• "Even if Obama wins, if they don't want him, they will just kill him. That's what they do here. That's what happened with Princess Diana. She was pregnant, you know. They killed other presidents they don't like. Didn't you study American history? You should know." Oh boy--a conspiracy theorist. I tried to get her to tell me who "they" were. She couldn't. I tried to explain that there are crazy people who have hated every president ever elected. She was insistent that "they" wouldn't like a black man. I finally gave up.
• "Kimberly, who is going to win the election tomorrow?" My status as American elevated me to a political expert with all of the answers. I answered more questions about how the election worked, how I could vote from halfway across the world, and when the results would be available than I did HR questions.

When Wednesday rolled around, I was greeted at the door by the head of our consumer banking group. "Congratulations Kimberly," he said with a huge smile and a handshake. "Congraluations for what?" I asked, thinking perhaps I had won a contest, received a surprise promotion, or had a baby I knew nothing about. "Congratulations on the election. You have a new president now, aren't you happy?" "But I didn't vote for Obama," I told him. I think I burst his bubble. He had stayed up late into the night to watch the election results on the news. He had listened to Obama's acceptance speech and wanted to discuss what he thought was one of the most powerful addresses he had ever heard. He was shocked and apalled that I hadn't done any more than check the results online before I came in to work.

And I realized that I have been taking my right to vote for granted. I imagine that he would have offered the same congratulations if McCain had won. The fact that I have a say in who governs my country (and also has a huge influence on the rest of the world) is a reason for him to celebrate. Since then, I have had a steady stream of people come to offer their congratulations. I learned my lesson the first time, and now I graciously accept their well wishes. One woman finally asked, "Is it appropriate to congatulate you? We don't know because we can't vote, but we are very excited for you." Yes, I think congratulations are perfectly appropriate.

Where's the bathroom please?

I'm sorry, you must have misunderstood. Where's the restroom? The ladies room? The lou? The facilities? Wash room? Lavatory? Toilet?

Unfortunately, all queries led to this:
If it's any consolation, they do offer this trough-like feature to wash your feet, just in case you...um...splash yourself.
I didn't find it any consolation, either. In the future, I will stick to private restrooms.

My weekend

On Thursday night I attended a birthday party for my HR colleague Sharon's two daughters. Sharon has a knack for making everyone feel at ease, and is kind to people regardless of their social and economic stations. I appreciate that characteristic in a country where the class system is very pronounced, and people are only nice if you are the right color and from the right country. (I happen to be a lovely shade of white and carry the right passport, which makes me immensely popular. I hate it, and am not interested in being friends with people who can't treat everyone with respect.) There were probably over 100 people crammed into her little villa and the surrounding yard, and everyone had a good time. I only planned to stay for an hour, and ended up staying for three. The kids were quite enamored with me, and Sharon told me it was because they had never seen a "Westerner" before. I am glad that my presence was so educational. During the course of the evening Doris from the IT department gave me a lengthy speech about why I should move to Bahrain permanently. When I told the her that I was pretty sure neither my parents nor my boyfriend would be overly fond of that idea, she told me that they should just move here too. Mom? Dad? Garrett?

Latif, who retired from the finance department in August, took Sharon and I to lunch at a traditional Bahraini cafe. And when I say traditional, I mean hole-in-the-wall, maybe someone should call the health department (if Bahrain has one), I-would-never-in-a-million-years-stop-and-eat-here sort of establishment. It was basically a row of rickety tables in the middle of an alley, with sheets tied above as canopies from the sun. There were two cracked, crookedly mounted sinks in the alley for hand washing (as silverware was optional), and Sharon and I were quite out of place considering that we were neither male nor Muslim. But the food was excellent, and it was a good thing we had Latif with us, since there were no menus and little spoken English. Before I came to Bahrain, I had some rules about what sort of meat I would eat: boneless, skinless, headless, and fatless (and breat meat is preferred thank you very much). Those rules don't really have a place in my life now. Latif ordered two types of fish, which included bones, skins, and head. I ordered a chicken stew, which included bones and skin (and no breast in sight). Latif kept putting bits of fish on my plate, trying to give me the best parts so that I fully appreciated the local catch (called hammam). I was trying to pick apart my chicken with one hand so that I could swoosh the flies away with the other. And so it went.

Last night I was invited to dinner by another coworker named Kaji. Kaji's wife Parvi made a huge feast, and I think she must have cooked all day. Parvi is very pregnant, and is not eating sugar or flour until the baby comes, so she couldn't even eat most of what she made, and I felt bad that she had gone to so much trouble (and thus felt obligated to eat everything put in front of me, resulting in my being quite ill by the end of the evening and still full when I woke up this morning). I love Indian food, and thoroughly enjoyed trying some new southern Indian dishes (it turns out that all of my favorite masalas, kormas, and paneers are from the north). Kaji instructed his son Adhavan to call me "auntie," which I found quite endearing. And the conversation was interesting. During the course of the evening, we discussed arranged marriages, cremation, Bill Clinton, housewifery, and the number of official languages in India (15!!--I had no idea).

I am very grateful for the immense kindness and hospitality that has been shown to me, and know that my time here would be very miserable indeed without the people who have adopted me into their lives. I only hope that one day I can be for others what these people have been for me.

The Gym

I decided when I moved here that I was going to take advantage of all of my free time and start going to the gym again. It turns out that my life got pretty busy pretty quickly, so all that free time I thought I was going to have is non-existent, but I have to admit that I am proud of my gym-going efforts. I have gone 6 days a week (every day except for Friday, which is our Sabbath) almost without fail. I have only failed 3 times (when I haven't made it home before the gym closes at 11pm). I forgot how good I feel when I work out every day. The gym here is an interesting situation. First of all, Bahraini women don't work out. I live in a hotel that is frequented by expats, which is the only reason we have a gym. And by a gym I mean a room smaller than my apartment, with 2 treadmills, 2 bikes (one of which doesn't work), an elliptical and a Stairmaster. Even though I have never seen any Muslims work out, their rules still apply, and there are signs all over advising you to wear appropriate clothing. There is not to be any mixing of the genders, and they have seperate facilities for "gents" and "ladies." And just in case you forget, there is a subtle reminder by the door: Here are the facilities in all of their glory. There is a TV in the opposite corner as well. I'm not sure how such a small space warrants a need for 2 televisions.

And just in case you were wondering, the men's gym looks exactly the same. I snuck in one day, because I wanted to see if their gym was better. It wasn't. I felt good about that.

About 90% of the time, I am the only one in the gym. My favorite thing to do is sing along (loudly) to my I-Pod. It makes the time go by more quickly, and I'm sure it's good for my lungs. My least favorite thing to do is have the TV on. Besides the fact that I generally dislike TV, I can see it in my peripheral vision on both sides when I am on the elliptical (my workout of choice), and it throws off my balance. If anyone else ever comes in when I am working out, the first thing they ask is, "Do you mind if I put on the telly?" Yes, I mind. But I never say that. "Sure, no problem." Do you mind if I sing?
And finally, after an hour in the gym, I appreciate a cool drink of water. I'm not sure what they have against normal cups here, but my workouts always leave me craving a snow cone.

Fathiar

Leave it to me to sniff out the best carbs. And if those carbs happen to incorporate cheese, even better. I introduce to you: Cheese fathiarIt's Lebanese. And it's delicious. Have I mentioned that Lebanese might be my new favorite food? Fathiar is flaky like a croissant, but has a completely different texture. It is much more chewy, and much sweeter. It comes in big rounds, and when you buy one at the bakery, they cut it up like a pizza and wrap it for you. It didn't last very long around my house, so I had to ban myself from buying it again. And my self control is very good--I have followed my rule and not purchased any more. Unfortunately, I usually find something else to try. Yesterday it was the most perfect golden raisin (as in the raisins were yellow) bread, and I managed to eat the whole round loaf while I was waiting in line at the car wash. I could promise you a picture next time, but there won't be a next time: raisin bread is now on my list of off-limits foods.

I'm Not Really a Pet Person

In the 2nd grade I got to take Sunshine, the class rat, home for the summer. I loved that rat, and it spent many an hour getting carried around on my shoulder. I remember making my dad take the hurt pigeon in our backyard to the wildlife center for treatment. Pigeons were a huge pest in our neighborhood, and I think he would have preferred to kill it and have one less problem to deal with, but I insisted, and he humored me. In high school, I volunteered at that wildlife center. I loved it. Every Saturday morning I would drive to the foothills and spend several hours feeding baby birds with eyedroppers, playing with the rescued opossum, taking live rats and mice to the Golden eagle (I always felt weird about being the one who decided who in the cage was going to live and who was going to be lunch), trying not to get clawed to death by injured owls who needed to get bandaged, etc. When we went to Wyoming in the summers to visit my grandparents, I would spend the majority of my time catching and taming wild kittens. My first major in college was Pre-Veterinary Medicine.

So how I turned out the way I am is a bit of a mystery. Now I think of pigeons like flying rats. In fact, I rather dislike birds in general. I have no particular fondness for dogs (except Diesel, and I'm not really sure why I like him). I don't see the point of pets like snakes and hamsters and especially not rabbits. And while I still like some cats, I don't really feel the need to have one in my life (or in my house). But when my friend (I am using the word friend loosely here--he is rather shy and a bit socially awkward, and I think I make him nervous, so I am sure that it was a huge undertaking for him to call and ask me a favor) from the Navy base called in a panic because he didn't have a car and needed to get his dog and cat to the airport by 10pm, I was happy to help him out.

I already had plans that evening, and had to cut them short in order to get him to the airport in time. I had gone to a church activity and we were talking about Arabian cultural traditions. And in the spirit of the evening I was wearing this lovely frock:It's called a jalabiya, not to be confused with the mumu, and it is perhaps the most comfortable piece of clothing I own. I should also mention that this a housedress in Arabic culture, and no one would dream of wearing it outside (unless of course they had an abaya on top of it). But you're talking to the girl who used to go grocery shopping in her pajamas, and I was running late and didn't have time to change back into my regular clothes. I figured it would be a quick trip and I would just stay in the car, so it didn't really matter what I wore.

I pick up the man. And his dog. And his cat. And their crates. And their food. And we barely fit in my little car. He keeps the cat in her crate, but lets the dog loose in the back seat. When I question him, he assures me that his dog will be fine outside of his crate, and no, he will not go to the bathroom or do any other damage. Against my better judgement, I believe him.

The man is extremely nervous about his pets and their 24 hour journey to Texas, and their life without him for 2 weeks until he gets released from duty, and whether or not his parents are going to take good care of them until he gets back, and whether the animals are going to be too hot/cold in the cargo area, and whether or not they are going to escape from their crates, and whether or not the animal cargo people are going to be careful, etc., etc., etc. The cat is going into hysterics in her crate. And the dog is hyperventilating in the back seat. It was almost too much nervous energy for one little Mitsubishi to hold.

We finally make it to the airport, but we have to go to the cargo area, and it looks like it's on lockdown. There are gates and security personnel, and I have some serious doubts about them letting us in. We pull up, and I start looking for some ID. "Do you want to come in?" asks the guard. I nod, he says "Okay" and the gate is opened. So much for airport security in Bahrain.

We pull up to the little office and the man starts unloading. I am still planning to sit in the car, when all of a sudden the man gets a panicked look on his face. And I smell something. The dog has thrown up all over the back seat. I can handle blood, I can handle messy diapers, but I don't do vomit. I need to exit the car. Immediately. So there I am, in my jalabiya, forklifts zinging all around me, people staring, hardhats yelling at other hardhats, gagging in the cargo area. The man hands me a towel from one of the kennels. Oh no. Clearly, I am not the one who is going to be cleaning up this mess. I inform him that he is going to have to do it, while I continue dry heaving. I am having nightmares about what 135 degrees is going to do to the smell the next day. I want to sit down and weep. I hate dogs.

I manage to make it through the evening without crying and without throwing up, which is no small feat. I try to be gracious. I tell the man it's not a big deal that his dog barfed all over my car, and that it now reaks. I assure him that his animals will be fine and well cared for. I lie through my teeth.

By now it is late and everything is closed, and I have church the next morning. After church, I immediately go to the car wash. I make the men wash the back seat twice, and prove to me that they are using soap, and not just a wet sponge. I go to the store and buy an air freshener called "Orchard Garden." It is horribly strong, and gives me a headache, and still doesn't solve the problem. Now my car smells like "My Dog Got Sick in the Orchard Garden."

P.S. In the midst of me trying not to cry or throw up, the only thing that made me feel better was thinking that maybe one day I would laugh about the whole thing. And maybe one day it would make a funny blog post. So I took a picture of my back seat. Slightly odd, I admit, but I was having a lousy evening, and I had to take whatever comfort was available. My mom told me I couldn't post the picture, but don't think I don't have one ;)

Horseback Riding

Last year I took the best roadtrip to Amish country. In the course of the weekend, we stopped at a small private farm and had a guided horseback ride. The guide wanted to get to know us all a bit before he assigned us horses, and he gave me the feisty horse with a definite idea of what she did and didn't want to do. He said that he would enjoy watching us battle wills, and said he thought my personality was up for it. I don't know if I should have been flattered or offended...but I was hooked.

Ever since then, I have thought that it would be fun to take lessons. And what better place to learn to ride than the Middle East? So my second week here, I signed myself up for some lessons at Twin Palms. My teacher is a South African woman who is generally pretty rude and brusque, but at least she's consistently rude to everyone. She put me on a horse called Indy for our first lesson, and I probably would have quit after that, except for that I had prepraid for 4 lessons. It was boring, all I did was walk around the arena, and she basically ignored me while she talked on her cell phone. The only bit of excitement came at the end of the lesson when the horse tried to bite me. It had been stubborn the whole lesson, but I figured it was the starter horse used for new students, and was probably old and crotchety and halfway lame. Once she saw my skills, I was sure that I would graduate to a better horse.

And graduate I did. The next lesson I got Treffi, who I loved. Treffi responded immediately whenever I asked him to do anything. Treffi liked to trot. Treffi made me look good. And, most importantly, Treffi didn't bite. My teacher decided that we would do lunge work. (Lunge work is when the teacher puts the horse on a leash and holds the leash while the horse runs in circles.) This was all fine and well, until she decided that I was pulling on the reins too much, and took them away from me.

Anyone who knows me knows that I was not blessed with an abundance of coordination. In fact, my father likes to tell me that I have a coordination deficit. So you can imagine my life flashing before my eyes when I was left sitting on the saddle with nothing to hold on to (proper riding saddles don't have a horn). I did okay walking, but then she decided that she wanted the horse to pick up the pace a bit. And THEN she decided that she wanted me to put my arms out to my sides. I thought I was going to fall off. And I almost did. Twice. But I managed to keep my seat, and I was no worse for wear. I figured I would be jumping in no time.

But then I got Indy again. The other horses were all being used. It became apparent very quickly that Indy remembered me. And he still hated me. The feeling was mutual. He didn't do anything I asked him to do. He ignored my hard kicks. He ignored my teacher until she got out the whip. And then he was really mad and tried his best to get me off of his back. Let's just say that Indy and I have a major personality conflict. My teacher noticed. Sometimes that just happens with people and horses, she said. She assured me that I would never have to ride Indy again.

So you will understand my surprise when I show up for the next lesson and Indy is saddled and ready to go. I inform my teacher that I will not ride Indy. She tells me that he has to be ridden today, and that Treffi has a hurt leg. I tell her we will have to reschedule our lesson then, because I refuse to ride Indy. She gives me a dirty look and asks me to try one more time, and if he is not good then we will reschedule. I agree, with misgivings, and lead him to the arena. He bites me. I tell him exactly what a miserable excuse for a horse I think he is, how I am quite displeased to see him, and how I find his very presence odious. He tries to bite me again. This lesson is not going well and I am very unhappy. I finally get mounted. We do more lungework, except for this time my teacher takes away my stirrups and my reins. For all intents and purposes, I may as well have been riding bareback (okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch). I am very worried that Indy is going to throw me off out of sheer spite. Remarkably, I stay seated. Even more remarkably, Indy actually listens when I tell him to run. Perhaps we are coming to an agreement...and then when I am taking off his reins, Indy bites me again. I would like to announce my hiatus from horseback riding lessons for right now.

This is Twin Palms, the riding stable where I take lessons. Sadly, don't have any pictures of me looking like I am trying to fly. You will have to use your imagination.
This is the horse that started it all in Amish country. And yes, I am wearing a North Face vest on top of my North Face puffer coat. Flattering, no? I only like to ride horses in extreme temperatures. If it's not 35 degrees or 135 degrees, I'm not interested.
This is how it looks when Indy tries to bite me. This is my beautiful friend Cory on our road trip. Don't worry--the horse liked her, he was just yawning. This could quite possibly be my favorite picture that I have taken. Ever.

The Navy Ball

I should have gone with my gut. In fact, I politely declined the invitation the first couple of times when my friend Cristina invited me to come. I told her I don't like dances. Never have, never will. I assured her that I wouldn't be any fun. She kept inviting me. Her friends kept inviting me. I got phone calls. I got texts. I caved. Let this be a lesson to you all about the dangers of peer pressure.

But in my defense, I did not relent without doing my homework. I consulted a trusted source who had attended such functions in the past. I asked her if it would be like prom, only the drinking would be legal. She said she had only attended Marine Balls, but that they were great. Lots of military tradition, lots of distinguished guests, lots of interesting people to meet, lots of fun. I started dreaming dreams. Jane Austen-esque dreams. Dreams of grand toasts and ballroom dancing. Dreams of Navy men in crisp white dress uniforms and women in beautiful floor length gowns. Dreams of MY new floor length gown. My serious reservations forgotten, I got to work.

I found a dress I liked, made a few alterations to it, and took the picture of what I wanted to the tailor, along with 4 meters of a lovely green satin. It would be ready in a week, just in time for the ball.

I ran into my first problem when I went to pick up my dress from the tailor. It wasn't ready. That was not what I wanted to hear after I had been stuck in traffic for 45 minutes to get there, and had walked a good distance into the souk in shoes that were rubbing huge blisters on my feet. Their explanation: they had called me friend to tell her that her pants weren't ready. From that message, my friend was supposed to extrapolate that my dress wasn't ready and call me to relay the message. Excellent communication skills at work. They promised it would be ready the next day.

So I went back. For the third time. I looked at my dress, and it looked kind of big, but I figured that they had spent so much time measuring me that it was probably just me wishing I was skinnier. Why didn't I try it on? The tailor operates out of a fabric store, and there was no place to change. I went back to work, noticed that they had not done a good job on the sleeve or hem stitching, but decided that I could get over it. I tried it on. It fell off. Yes, definitely too big.

Back to the souk. They said they would fix it. They said it would be ready in two days. I informed them that they had one day, otherwise I would be going naked to the ball. They told me they would have it to me the next day, but I had to come after hours. I thought going to the souk after hours was a bit dodgy (as my Brit friends would say) so I brought Cristina. This makes 5 times going to the souk. The dress no longer falls off, but it certaininly does not look like a custome fitting gown. I've bought things off the rack that fit better. Tailoring is definitely overrated. I wish I would have figured that out before I bought all that fabric... But I digress.

I go to the salon. They put my hair in pin curlers so that it has body when I take them out. While the stylist is working on my hair, I get an hour long pedicure for $4.

I get ready. I go to the hotel where the event is to be held. I wait for 2 hours because my friend is late. I am HIGHLY annoyed. I am hungry. My dress is shifting and I keep flashing people.

We go to the ball. Instead of white uniforms I see plaid suits. Instead of flowing ballgowns I see dresses that look like their owners are going to work the street corner after the event is over. I see ugly tattoos. Everywhere. Uglier than the tattoos I saw at the Country Music Festival in Nashville, and that's saying something. Instead of ballroom dancing, I see the limbo and the electric slide and other such travesties. Instead of interesting people I am seated next to a man called Rabbit. I think he might be mute. Rabbit obviously finds me as enthralling as I find him, and he leaves. A new man comes. He tries to look down my dress.

My Navy Ball dreams are shattered. I am tired. I am cranky. I console myself with 2 helpings of Thai chicken salad. And some mashed potatoes and gravy.

Navy Ball Ticket: $45
Material for my dress: $8
Dressmaker: $23 (after I told him I expected a 10% discount when the dress was not ready on time)
Kenneth Cole Clutch: $19
Hair: $8
Insisting that I take my own car so that I wasn't stuck when I realized that the Navy uses the term "ball" loosely: Priceless.

The evening made my senior prom look like a good time. I spent about $103 to go to the event, and I estimate that I derived about $7.55 of pleasure from it (the value of the quantity of Thai chicken salad I ate). Here's hoping that I get more than a 7% return on future activities...

These are my friends Cristina and Kristy. I get their names mixed up all the time, because about half of my friends have some variation of the name (Kristen, Kristin, Christina...you get the idea). They each paid upwards of $130 for their dresses (they don't spend as much time scouring the souk as I do) so my inexpensive dress is something to be grateful for.

A Self Portrait

I like to call this one "Woman in a hairnet, with toothbrush." Oh the pains I went through in preparation for the Navy Ball. What a sad, sad waste of time...

The Grand Mosque

There are mosques in practically every neighborhood here. Depending on which sect of Islam you belong to, they are either plain colored, or covered with colorful tile and paint. The Grand Mosque is the biggest one in the country (and also boasts the largest fiberglass dome in the world--I don't think I was as impressed with that fact as they would have liked me to have been.) They allow visitors in between prayer times, though women must be covered. But don't worry--if you forget your abaya in the car, like I did, they will lend you one.
I think the mosque is beautiful. I love its simplicity and elegance. And I loved our tour guide. He was a very jolly sort of fellow, and had a big beard and an easy smile. He answered all of our questions (even the militant ones from a feminist in our group) and taught us some interesting things. I was taking notes so that I could be sure and share some of my learning on my blog, and I think he was excited about that, because at the end of the tour he gave me a lot of literature on Islam and Christianity, Islam and the treatment of women, and a copy of the Quran in English. I think he was hoping that I was going to convert.
Here I am in the mosque. Notice the lines on the floor. During prayer time, men stand on those lines with shoulders and feet touching. Women have to go to the upper balcony or stand in the back. Unlike men, women are not required to go to the mosque. This is because they believe that a woman can be saved without attendance if she prays in her home. They believe that a woman has the greatest influence on a child, and should be in the home with the children. The tour guide explained that if a child has a drunk father and a good mother, the child will be good. But if the child has a good father and a bad mother, the child will be bad. They believe that it is the man's duty to provide for his family. If the wife works, her salary is her pocket money to do with as she pleases--the man is still responsible for providing for her.

Muslims believe that everyone has two angels riding around on their shoulders. The one on the right shoulder is telling you to do good things, and the one on your left should is telling you to do bad things.

There are 3 rules for a mosque:
1.) There are no pictures of God or any prophets. They don't want people to start worshipping the pictures as idols, or to have a picture of God in their head when they are praying, since they don't know what He looks like. I hate the old religious art that is really graphic (and anatomically incorrect), so I can appreciate this rule.
2.) There are no graves in mosques. Same logic as above, and I think it is also to avoid the politics of who should be buried in the mosque and who shouldn't be.
3.) Only clean money can be used to maintain the mosque. This includes money from interest, gambling, theft, or holdings in companies that are against Islamic teachings (like alcohol).
These are the prayer timings. They are dependent on the movement of the sun and moon, and so the prayer times will change by a couple of minutes each day.
This is the proper way to pray. Part of the prayer is memorized and said verbatim every time, but part of it is open to talk about things that are pressing in your life at the moment. They recite certain verses of the Quran to start out, and I asked the tour guide if they were required to memorize the Quran. He said that it wasn't a requirement, but "It's a bonus." The Quran is 604 pages. I hope it's a big bonus.

It's a Good Thing...

After last week, I decided two things: It's a good thing I don't have naked issues and it's a good thing I don't get offended easily. If I did, I think the week would have done me in. Let me start with a little personal information. I don't know what it is about the hot and humid temperatures here, but they make my hair grow about 5 times faster. I spent the first month and a half shaving my legs every day, and it was starting to drive me crazy. After listening to my complaints, my coworker Deema told me that hairy legs "weren't nice" and that I would never get married unless I had smooth legs. She started recommending places for laser hair removal. The prospect of never having to shave my legs again was quite appealing, and so I decided to humor her. One day she came to the office to tell me that her mom had found a new doctor who did it for about half the price of anyone else. But I couldn't make an appointment myself. Her mom would have to call for me, because there was a waiting list, and her mom knew the doctor and would tell him that I was like her daughter and needed to be seen right away. As in the next day. Her mom was also convinced that I could not go by myself, or I might get lost. She told me to come to her house, and she would have her driver take her to the clinic so that I could follow them. While that was very nice of her, Deema and I assured her that my days of getting lost were over, and I would be just fine going by myself. Her mother finally relented, and decided that as long as Deema met me there, I would be okay. Deema wanted to see the laser that the doctor used before making her own appointment. Unfortunately, the appointment that they worked so hard to get for me was the same night that I was having the Brits for dinner. This was causing me great stress, because the Brit husband does not eat any fruits or vegetables, and the Brit children are extremely picky eaters. I would not recommend trying a new recipe in said situation, and I would classify dinner as a complete failure. Let's just say that I ended up making microwave popcorn for the kids. Anyway, during the course of the evening, the Brit husband asked to see a picture of my family. I showed him a picture from Katie's wedding:He looked at it, and then looked at it again, and then said "Is at ew?" Yes, I told him. "Ew wur a rite lit'l fa'e w'rnt ya," he said. It took me a minute to translate, though I knew it was rude because his wife was giving him a dirty look. (For those of you who haven't figured it out, he said "You were a right little fatty, weren't you".) I would like to know how would you respond to that comment. I was kind of at a loss. He kept going on and on about how he would never in a million years have thought that was me, and how I am so much skinnier now than I was then, etc. I actually think I look almost exactly the same, and I told him so. He disagreed, and then started pointing out differences that he could see. I realized it was a futile argument, and so I finally just told him that I would take it as a compliment that he thought I looked so much better now than I did then. Brits. They're funny. But alas, I had to rush them out of the house in order to get to my laser hair appointment on time. I made it there a few minutes early, with plenty of time to sit and wait for almost an hour and a half. I was more than a little annoyed. And I was the only one coming or going not wearing an abaya and head scarf. Deema looked at the laser, and I expected her to go home after that. But no. She decided to go jewelry shopping at the souk down the road, leaving me with instructions to text her once I was called in to see the doctor so that she could watch. Being a novus to laser hair removal, I was not sure what to expect, but I was fairly certain that it would involve little to no clothing. I was right. But it didn't seem to bother Deema in the least. In fact, she left her spectator position on the couch to come to the table and feel my leg, after which she proceeded to tell the doctor that it wasn't smooth enough. If any of you are looking for ways to bond with your coworkers, may I suggest inviting them to your medical appointments?

The Cat Shirt

When I was in elementary school, my parents went to Texas and brought me back a cream colored t-shirt with forest green cats printed all over it. My love for that shirt was exceeding, and I wore it as often as possible. I am happy to say that I no longer wear any article of clothing more than once in the same week. And lest you think that I wear the same yellow shorts and white t-shirt every time I go sightseeing, I would like it to be known that all of the pictures in said outfit were taken on the same day (I just don't blog in order, or write about everything all at once, which is why you have seen this outfit repeatedly throughout the month of September). My sister was a bit worried that I had relapsed into my cat shirt days when she saw my pictures. Never fear, Katie, for though I have given up wearing makeup and washing my hair every day, I have not sunk so low as to wear the same outfit over and over and over (yet). Now that we've got that cleared up, let's move on to the Bahrain Fort.

This might be my very favorite place so far. The fort is truly beautiful, and I love its its elegance and simplicity. Archaelogists believe that the fort was built by the Portuguese, and have also found the remains of 6 cities built on top of each other in the same area. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site because one of those 6 cities is believed to have been the capital of the Dilmun empire.

They've done a lot of work on refurbishing the fort. It is immaculate! You can see the lights along the ground--it is supposed to be even more striking at night when it is lit up. I will have to go at night before I leave...
More walls.
Trees (other than palms)--something you don't see every day around here...
You can't tell in this picture, but the water here is gorgeous. The bright blues and turquoises are colors you would expect to see in Aruba, but not the Middle East.

Driving = Vexation

"The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above average drivers." Dave Barry

I will be the first to admit that I am not the world's best driver, and I am okay with that. (But I would like to point out that after living in NYC, I am a pretty dang good parallel parker--on both sides of those one-way streets.) Bahrainis will tell you that it is the Saudis who are the bad drivers, and while I will say that Saudis are definitely rude drivers, they don't have a monopoly on stupid driving. Let me enumerate for you why driving here is a source of great vexation in my life:

1. Rules do not apply. I would describe it as a very "creative" driving environment, which means that you have no idea what the person in front of you is going to do, and nothing surprises me anymore. I'm talking about crazy gap shooting, turning from the wrong lane, reversing down a main road when someone misses a turn, stopping in the middle of traffic to let a passenger out, and ignoring road signage. I have to admit that I have really embraced that last one. I only know how to get home from horseback riding lessons one way, and it happens to be down a road that is supposedly closed. I just pretend that I don't see that sign as I drive past.

2. One word: roundabouts. I hate them. I imagine that some of that hatred stems from the fact that roundabouts were not covered in California driver's ed, and I am not well versed in their proper usage. I did, however, pick up some tips based on all of the people honking at me at my first few attempts. I guess I'll chalk that one up to trial and error.

3. The mandatory seatbelt laws here only apply to the driver and the front seat passenger. Children are not required to wear seat belts or sit in car seats. Usually the kids are climbing all over the parents in the front seat, which does not lead to good driving practices. It is also extremely unsafe, and in my opinion not very responsible parenting.

4. There are no maps. I spent the first couple of weeks getting all sorts of lost. Then I started having my coworkers draw me maps. Some days I am amazed that the maps don't get me even more lost.
5. There are no road signs, and if they are, they are in the middle of the road. So if you turn right at the corner where you think you should, you will know if you were correct once you get about 5 miles down the road, and you finally see the sign. If a road does have a name, it is usually either the name of a Sheikh (the ruling family) or a number. But the numbers do not go in numberical order, and the Sheikhs unfortunately have names like Sheikh Mohammed Abdulla Khalifah Hussain IV. This does not make giving directions easy.

6. The traffic signals really throw me off. They use arrows here, and so you've got to pay attention to what direction you are going so you don't accidentally run a red light. They use the yellow light before both the red light and the green light, so when you see yellow, you never know if you should slow down or speed up.

7. I would estimate that about 80% of the roads here are under construction, and there are all kinds of detours and delays. The problem is not that they are trying to improve road conditions, but rather that they make a huge mess of the roads, and then just leave them for months. Here is a simple idea--why don't you finish one project before moving on to the next?

8. I suppose I shouldn't complain about the roads, where there are roads. There is a lot of dessert land, and the expectation is that you will just off-road your way to wherever you are going. My horseback riding lessons are back by those trees, and it is quite the adventure to get there in the dark.

9. The parking etiquette here leaves much to be desired. One day last week I walked out to the parking lot to leave for the day, and found the following. Some Lexus had blocked me in. And this is not the first time this has happened to me. A few weeks before a huge SUV blocked me in at the grocery store. Getting free involves a lot of waiting patiently, or a trip to the security office with the license plate number in hand.

10. I think the parking situation here is bad enough that it deserves a second mention. As you can see below, it is fair game to park anywhere there isn't already a car, including sidewalks. By the end of the day, this sidewalk will be 3-deep.

Some Things Just Can't Be Explained

Sadly, I cannot take credit for shooting this photo, but I thought I would post it as an interesting cultural observation. These are some of the more conservative abayas (which are sometime referred to as burkas, depending on which country you live in), but believe it or not, they are not the most conservative that I have seen. You can still see their hands sticking out, and if they were a bit more modest, they would be wearing black mittens too. If they were a bit less conservative, they would have slits for their eyes, instead of their whole faces covered in the black veil.
While I am glad that I don't have to wear an abaya every day, I must admit that they come in quite handy sometimes. For example, you are in your pajamas, in gym clothes, in a tank top, or just plain don't want to get dressed--put on the abaya and run to the grocery store. Nobody will be the wiser. I wore my abaya to work a few times, thinking that it would make me a bit more inconspicuous. Oh contraire. The men loved it. They gave me these speeches on how "it suits you" and how it made my skin look even paler. The pasty white skin is a real crowd pleaser, and random men (and women) have told me how beautiful I am because of my light skin. Beauty is definitely in the eye of the beholder, and I keep trying to tell them that my skin is not attractive in the US. The just can't comprehend why I would like to go home with a tan.

Dates

Dates are a big deal here. If you are like me, the kind of dates you are familiar with involve dinner and a movie. I don't think I had ever eaten a date, which my coworkers found quite strange. So in an effort to make me culturally acceptable, Deema (my coworker) brought in some dates from a tree in her yard. And of course, they had to be on a silver platter (and set on top of the confidential paper shredder bin for a special presentation effect).
Dates kind of remind me of quince, though I had never eaten quince until I moved to Spain (where we ate it almost every day) and I haven't eaten it since I returned, so I imagine that will not help anyone understand the taste/texture. They are really sweet and have an almost grainy texture, and there is a big seed in the middle that panicked me for a minute. I was not sure of the polite way to remove it from my mouth, and was glad to see my coworker just use her fingers to take it out and set it on the table. Dates are an important part of religious tradition in the Middle East. Muslims believe that Mary gave birth to Jesus all alone. I don't know if they believe in Joseph, or where they think he was at the time, but their story says that Mary was very afraid and weak (she was in the desert and hadn't had anything to eat or drink) and was clutching a palm tree and asking God to help her. They believe that God made some dates fall from the palm tree, and she ate one, and then gave birth to Jesus. They also believe that Jesus came out of the womb talking, with a fully formed intellect, but that's a different story. Women here still eat a date before they go into labor, as it is said to give you strength and stamina for the ordeal.

The palm trees here are very short, and not like the Hawaiian palms we are used to seeing. The one in this picture is one of the tallest ones I have seen, and you can see the dates hanging in bunches (almost like grapes) above me. Besides childbirth, the date is also very important during Ramadan, and is eaten at the beginning of the iftar meal. Muslims believe that after fasting all day, it is best to start with a date, which will help your strength return quickly. There are lots of fancy date shops in the malls here around Ramadan (think temporary kiosks selling Pepperidge Farms gift baskets or Honey Baked hams around Christmas) , and Saudi dates are famous for being especially delicious. You can buy plain dates, dates dipped in chocolate, carmelized dates, and dates that appear to me to be rotten, but I assume are probably just covered in some special spice or cooked in a traditional way. I like dates, but they are not going to be making it to the top 10 list of my favorite fruits anytime soon.

Why I Love Brits

Mostly, because they are funny. Their dry humor is my absolute favorite, and they will tell it to you straight (whether or not that is your preference). For example, I passed on dessert telling them I was trying to lose weight. "You should go to the gym," said the man. That won him a sharp jab in the ribs from his wife. I laughed. I like them because they will invite you to their house for "tea" when they really mean "dinner," and at said event they will serve you yorkshire pudding and you will feel quite proper indeed. I like them because they will tell you to go home when they are ready to go to bed and are tired of having company. I like them because they say "bin" when they mean trash, "boot" when they mean trunk, and sometimes you can't understand what they mean and you have to ask them to repeat themselves. Three times. And then they mutter "Yankee" under their breath. I especially like the 10-year-old variety. They tell you stories about their older sister who snogged her teacher (snogging is like making out). And they have funny conversations with you over text message, like the following:
Holly: Where are you Kimbley (this is how they pronounce my name)
Me: I'm on my way, I had to wait for my laundry to dry (I can't figure out how to use the washing machine in my apartment, so I had to use the common laundry room. I had a small altercation with a miserable excuse for a gentleman, and if I had not been running late, I probably would have gone back to my apartment for a pair of scissors and cut small holes in his underwear. I hope to never see him again.)
Holly: Ok only one person has arrived (it is a going away party for a mutual friend)
Me: (I didn't respond to this message because by now I was on the freeway, and texting while driving has never been pretty for me. Prettier than Blackberrying while driving, though.)
Holly: When you get here do you want to play a board game
Me: Sure
Holly: My mum says we can't
I pull up to their house a few minutes later, and Holly informs me that her mum told her she couldn't ring me, which is why she had decided on the texting. Clever girl. I love the British accent. And even British teeth. And I will forever be indebted to the Brits because they gave the world Cadbury chocolate--more specifically, those little candy coated chocolate eggs that I have to stockpile at Easter. My advice is this: Find some Brits to love. They will edify your life and bring you endless joy and neverending happiness. Especially if you live in a foreign desert and you need a surrogate family.

A'ali Pottery

Pottery is one of the most important traditional crafts in Bahrain. Bahrainis believe that the art of pottery making began here more than 4,000 year ago, when the country was known as Dilmun. A'ali is known as the center of the craft, and at one time, most of the families in the town made their living as potters. Now there are only 7 families who are still in the pottery business, but the techniques and tools they use remain practically unchanged, as they are handed down generation to generation.
I loved how the pottery was intricate and simple at the same time. Clean lines, neutral color, each one unique.

Here I am trying my hand at throwing a pot. They still use the foot-powered wheel, and I think I got the easy job, since the man helping me was doing all of the work to keep the wheel moving. I made one small pot (the one on the very right, in a row by itself), and stood up to leave, and the potter pinched off another piece of clay and motioned that he wanted me to try again. After #2, I again stood up to go, and he pinched off some more clay and motioned me back. I really was done after pot #3--a girl can only have so much potting fun in one day, especially when she is out of shape and has to squat for long periods of time.

I would have liked to see them make this one.

After much deliberation, I finally decided on a piece to purchase. I bought one of the vases on the bottom shelf on the left. It is actually open on the top and on the bottom, so I figure it would look nice with a candle in it.

Church

This is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Bahrain. I thought it might be interesting to post a picture, since it doesn't look like a church. That's because it was a villa and a family lived here until a few years ago. But it was the villa of a very wealthy family, so all of the rooms are huge. And there's a pool in the backyard. Church here is on Friday, because that is the Muslim sabbath. So my workweek is Sunday-Thursday, and I have Friday and Saturday off. It is kind of strange, but I am getting used to it. Bahrain is much more tolerant of Christianity than its neighbors. One interesting fact that I learned about Muslims--they believe in Jesus Christ, but they believe that he was a prophet and not the literal son of God.