Free Vuvuzelas

http://www.zazzle.com/vuvuzelas+tshirts

One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

From: http://www.uniquedaily.com/vuvuzela-t-shirt/

Fellowship of the Vuvuzela

Might as well join in the fun.

wrestling within a web of cotton candy

After last night’s amorous tussle, it was hard waking up this morning to shop for lunch. I had recurrent dreams of having done the shopping and saw myself in the kitchen preparing the food. My goodness all those knives! And the maid was making hamburger patties with smiley faces in them drawn with slices of green pepper. She says when in Kuwait, one must eat like Kuwaitis and so serves the driver beef and does not tell him what kind of meat it is and it is all very well. She is a practical person and because she controls the kitchen, the rest of the staff are under her mercy.
Away from my dreams, and into my car. Oh the wonder of driving on a Friday morning! Dare I share this secret? The roads are so congestion free you could probably drive to the border of Saudi and back in an hour and stop on the way for breakfast. Oh? Is that an exaggeration? I’m entitled to a bit of fantasy today. I still have a bit of fairy dust blowing around me from last night.

At the ATM machine, a Sudanese woman is having problems. She wants to deposit cash and the machine won’t take it. I try to assist but the machine won’t accept her card. A man nearby suggests: put in the cash first. We both look at him as though he has made an inane remark. I walk out and the woman follows and I turn around and burst out laughing with her as we recall the man’s suggestion.

In the market, he fish monger flashes a faint smile of recognition. I select the fish and while he cleans it, I pick up the necessary vegetables. I need cucumbers and they are four cartons for one dinar but when I look inside, they are covered in white mold so I turn away. Suddenly in the quiet hub of the market, a loud roar. Aaaawhm. I look around. It definitely sounded like a yawn. Who on earth yawns like that so loudly? Around me Kuwaiti men dressed in crisp dishdashas shop for their homes. Women in black abayas, faces devoid of make up, shop for today’s lunch.

And then again! Aaaaahm. Yaaaaawwwn. Oh! It is one of the Chinese men..the older one. He roars out his yawns unabashedly. The younger man walking behind him passes by and I get a whiff of his just out of bed body odor. I can barely suppress my smile.

I go back to pick up the fish and as I pass the Saudi watermelons, the Bangladeshi assistant asks me: Raggi, Mama?

I smile and shake my head: La, shukran.

Dreams of Flight

I’ve had cats who suddenly left home, despite being well fed and well-loved. I’ve  had birds that left their cages never to return, despite the plentiful water and seeds provided.

Would a cow leave home? Would ants and cockroaches leave home? Children do.

I remember only once wanting to run away from home and I hid in the annexe to our house. It didn’t last very long.

I had a strange desire in the past few days in one of my more introspective, solitary moments. What if I just booked a ticket, stole away in my car first thing in the morning, and boarded that flight alone, without telling anyone that I was leaving.

Would my family understand my madness, six hours later, when I would call and tell them that I was a six-hour plane ride away from them? Would they be forgiving? Would they be amused? Would they be raging with anger? Would they put me under house arrest when I returned?

I have dreams of flight, a desire to break away, wishing that I could safely return to loving arms and the comfort of home; wishing I could break away suddenly with complete understanding of my madness on the other side but knowing that this would not be the case; knowing that if I did that, things would never be the same again.

Buying Iranian Pomfret at ridiculous prices and thinking it is Thursday not Sunday that is what the heat does to my Kayan

I came out of the fruit and vegetable shop at the local Co-Op and found a car parked behind mine. There were a couple of young girls in the back seat and a woman dressed in a black abaya with her face covered.

I took the shopping out of my trolley and placed it in the car boot, clambered into my air-conditioned car and waited. I picked up my camera and toyed with the idea of taking photos of the school boys eating at restaurants before me then thought better of it. I thought of the little scratch on my car door.

I waited. Nothing was happening behind me and the car was still there.

I got out John-Wayne style and knocked three times on the backseat window. She opened it and started to apologize.

“Are you going to take much longer?” I asked “Cuz I have to go home and cook lunch and I have fresh fish in the trunk.”

The woman apologized again and said as she pointed to the restaurant: “The driver has gone in and been a while,”

“They’re very busy with all the school kids out. Do you drive? ” I asked, insinuating she could move the car.

“Oh no, sister! If I drove there is no telling who or what I would crash into?” And she said I could move the car if I wanted as the keys were in the ignition.

I smiled and went around to the driver’s seat. I had a mad moment where I imagined saying  jokingly to them: “I am going to carjack your vehicle and kidnap you guys!” but thank goodness for propriety and good manners on my part. I just reversed their car farther back, inching very slowly, as they all grasped the backs of the front seats in fear – perhaps also thinking I would run off with them or crash. I hit the brakes a bit too hard and they all drew in a joint breath of fear and turned their heads: “What was that?”

Ah, I admire my composure in such moments. I smiled and reassured them. Of course it would have been the ultimate irony to be the one who moved their car and crashed it into someone else’s.

The woman in the niqab thanked me, apologized again, and wished me happy cooking.

I smiled and wanted to wish them good luck on their exams but I just said thank you.

Things to do while watching the World Cup

Craving some fat mushrooms, moist, delicately seasoned with  pungent fresh crushed garlic, and served with gooey cheese.

Chillaxing indoors under the air conditioners – giving the Almighty many thanks for this great blessing otherwise we would be roasting away in the 49+ C heat outside. That is heat and not Cheat

Yesterday I walked into my living room on the ground floor. All was quiet on the western front. And then I see a pair of green eyes looking up at me from the comfort of my beige sofa.

A cat.

A cat had walked in through an opened door earlier in the day to escape the heat (unprecedented temperatures yesterday at 53+ C) and settled itself comfortably in my living room, ensconced on the right hand side of the sofa. I had to gently “guide” it to the door to avoid a mad, frightened attack of my curtains as it could run about in terror trying to escape me if I exhibited an unfriendly attitude. (of course am talking about feral cats here for those of you unfamiliar with Kuwaiti wildlife)

And mangoes are good to rip into now.

Crackled Wood

Abandoned Stage.

The theatre will be closed until Her scripts are flown in on dainty dragonfly legs. When, I can’t tell. She won’t speak, except to smile and ruffle Scruffy’s head, the hairy mutt who guards the Iron Door.

Inside, the stage is dark but for a corner where a rainbow illuminates the sky and Morris splashes about in his pond. he changed his name from Oscar and he feels better about it now. No more ties, no more rules, no more restrictions.

She swings on a wooden seat attached to the ceiling of the darkened stage and the harder she pushes back, the higher she floats into the blue sky.

But the paint and the glitter mask the concrete walls and Her feet push against the limits, forcefully landing Her into the pond with Morris who looks up with droopy eyelids and grins in his amphibious way and splashes deep amongst the cobalt rocks, leaving a spray of air bubbles behind him.

Escape, breathes Morris as his snout peaks above the water’s surface and She looks at him, eyes glazed, seeing only green, seeing nothing in any other color.

Scruffy barks and chases after Meythah, the Persian half-breed with no tail, and one eye.
They stop and look up.

It is inevitably a He.  A masculine source of comfort. He bends over Her and then after a pause, decides not to remove the Green film covering Her eyes.

A resounding lock.

The doors are shut.

Fear

I am afraid of the unknown but not because I do not know it.

I do not know it – the unknown that is.  But I know what fear feels like and that is the frightening thing. To expect the unexpected even though it may never come. To feel fear spread like wild fire through my body and suffer the reactions.

How do I stem the growth of this defective seed that will only grow into a monstrosity?

Do I expect the unexpected to be on the defensive to meet the situation or the events that give rise to fear? But expecting it will not allay fears nor make me stronger. It may prepare me and soften the blow so that my self would say: “See? I knew that was going to happen.”

Can one look at fear as a change of situation where one has to learn how to acclimate to  a new situation? Rather like a baby being born, forced out of the comforting nurturing environment of the womb, into a bright and noisy world where security is lost.

It takes moments to extinguish love

At the stoplight. At an intersection. I waited.

A car passed by with an angry man driving and a glum teenage boy of slight build beside him. The father’s body language reflected his anger. His fist was shaking in the air, and his face was half-turned to his son in rage. The boy looked solemnly ahead with an upset expression.

And in those moments at the stoplight, as they drove past my car, I was overwhelmed with pity for the boy and sadness that such precious moments were used to tear him down instead of to guide him quietly.

Of course parents lose their temper in some situations and there was no way for me to know the gravity of the situation except that as an onlooker, the scene has disturbed me all day.

I dreamt of Muhannad

Five years of blogging and I haven’t earned a fils, a penny, or anything remotely resembling monetary compensation. Should only smart bloggers who have lucrative blogs reign over us non-committed, non-partisan, non-anythings?

I stand alone on a little boat, in an ocean as wide as the space between my eyes and I declare: How can there be so much water around me, and yet my throat is parched? I open my mouth to utter my declaration and only my lips move. No sounds come forth but the words reverberate within my chest, about to burst with the desire to express.

Today I contemplate scurrying off to the fish monger and buying some local fish. I quickly quash the thoughts of raw sewage and other horrible things that are dumped straight into the Gulf, eaten voraciously by our beautiful local fish, who like pet turtles or Koi, gather to eat, thinking the god-like creatures above the water’s surface are feeding them. Poisoning them more like it, and those who consume the sea creatures.

Environmental awareness comes too late. And at a cost.

So what about Muhannad? I dreamt of him two nights in a row, and twice at different stages in his life. Once he was a lithe youth, standing close to me, and smelling of purity and introducing me to his sister, whom I knew but did not know in the dream for she bore no resemblance and for that matter, neither did Muhannad bear any resemblance to the person in mind. But such are dreams?

The second night he was there again but older. Hair salt and pepper. And a nose that filled my dream screen. But it suited him. And I just looked from a distance, observing.

Am I a voyeur even in dreams? Do I look into the lives of others? Perhaps. Perhaps the same way that those unknown strangers look into my life, when I see them intruding upon my slumber, and wonder where and who and what they want from me?

Temperatures are searing beyond the clear glass of my air-conditioned room. Cats sprawl out, tummies flat against cool ceramic tile. Small sparrows with beaks ajar, hide in little nooks and crevices in the building and wait till dusk mercifully descends. Gone are the migratory birds, the butterflies, the dragonflies, and the bees. The white heat is upon us, and dark skins are roasted and blackened by its intensity. White skins are singed and freckled. Green leaves wilt, like a man who walks with his head cast downwards, abused, submissive.

White heat warps logic.  I think of driving up to the chalet and skinny dipping in the middle of the day, in the Gulf. Momentarily.

But all thoughts of sensuality and eroticism are eroded as I recall the raw sewage dumped into what used to be our primary natural and national resource: the sea. Imagining the stench. Images of horrid lumpy festering things floating about.

Shudder.

Giving up something for something else.

Which brings us back to blogging.

I am still on that boat, alone. When I can’t find my voice, I will just keep quiet a while till it comes back. And I will go with the flow, as always.

My Mood

more about “4 Non Blondes – What’s Up “, posted with vodpod

Freedom Flotilla

The Freedom Flotilla recently attacked by Israeli forces, was composed of volunteer aid workers from a number of different countries and persons from a variety faiths and sects, all united in their aim to end the current blockade of Gaza by Israel.

From the Gulf region, seventeen Kuwaitis participated in the Freedom Flotilla, several of which were women.

Haya Al Shatti ( blogs at Hayatti);  Sundus Al Abduljader, Sinan Al Ahmed (active aid worker and volunteer),  Mona Sheshter (KUNA journalist), Mariam Luqman, and Najwa Al Ammar.

Source AlQabas Newspaper

Demonstration in Kuwait after the attack

IKEA converted

IKEA was practically the only big retail store in Kuwait that used brown paper bags to hold customer purchases.

On a recent trip to IKEA, I realized something odd. The trademark brown bags were replaced by large white plastic bags.

Sturdy, yes. Longer lasting, of course. But certainly not promoting the current worldwide trend in reducing the use of plastic bags.

When shopping in England, I got so tired of being asked the question: “Would you like a bag?”  that I started to carry my own foldable shopping bags wherever I went. After that, I would whip out my foldable, reusable shopping bag like a star student and say triumphantly: “No thanks, I have one!” And I avoided being burdened with the guilt of being socially irresponsible.

But in Kuwait plastic is King. No one cares. Strong sturdy plastic bags are distributed freely in the Co-Op supermarkets and one can go home with as many  bags as one desires without being charged one fils for them. Even as I write, I look around me and I am surrounded by lots of plastic in all shapes and forms.

Perhaps it is time to introduce charges on plastic bags and provide an alternative like reusable, and more efficient shopping bags that are widely available.