Implements of Mass Destruction

Seat J17 : The Implements of Mass Destruction


It was a cool desert day at the Amman Queen Alia International Airport. I had a revelation while travelling on Royal Jordanian Airlines this past Christmas holiday. First, I really like airline food. Not the stuff they feed you on third world airlines like Jazeera or Air Canada, this was actually quite gourmet.

Going through security in any airport is always an adventure of sorts what with all the new threats to public safety. We now have to be concerned about gels, shoes, watches, belts, nail files and the like. I once saw a display, in a small airport in Regina, showing many of the samples of items that could no longer be taken on a plane. Razor blades, sharpened screw drivers and six inch nails were in this display and are now all band substances. “Honey did you pack the screw driver and the nails?” The sacrifices we must make.

Times have truly changed in the airline industry, at one time passengers were allowed to smoke on flights and people made love in the bathrooms as part of the so called “Mile High Club” Oh wait, people still do that which may explain some of the turbulences we all experience on flights and the scar on my left calve about half way up, but that is another story. I got distracted back to security in airports.

I do get a little nervous in airports such as the one in Aswan, Egypt where sleepy looking soldiers in baggy black uniforms walk around carrying ancient looking automatic rifles casually slung over their shoulders, with curved ammo clips and bashed up wooden stocks. There I am passing through a security check with my belt off and my shoes in my hand feeling perhaps a tad vulnerable. I can’t run because my pants are about to fall off. I can almost envision a spray of automatic rifle fire as one of those sleepy armed airport guards snaps out of REM sleep and accidently discharges his weapon. Everyone was having a good time until Nasser woke up!

Approaching the Aswan airport is really like entering a military base for the simple reason it is one. I would estimate about seven jets, or a third of the entire Egyptian air force is stationed, and somewhat hidden from the general public, in large sand covered bunkers at the Aswan International Airport. Any Israeli tourist travelling under cover as say a middle aged teacher from Kuwait could confirm my observations. This combination of military presence and domestic commerce makes for an unusual juxtaposition of land uses and economies. I don’t mind so much paying for parking at an airport, but my driver actually had to pay the guards something to gain entry to the airport. In turn I had to pay my driver a little something for getting me to the airport. I think in this case I am on the bottom of the economic food chain.

These same guards while located in tourist’s spots, such as the Columns at Karnack or at the Pyramids, are given the euphemistic title of “Tourist Police.” When I first read that title over the entrance to a guard house I wondered if they were there to harass me or protect me. The answer is a little bit of both. Often their little scam is to offer to show you the best angle from which to view a particular relic. They even offer to take your picture and with little puppy dog smiles and expression give the little thumb index rub like a puppy lying on its back in anticipation of a belly rub. I just didn’t have the heart to say no to a cute little Egyptian soldier with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder with the safety catch off.

Despite my keen awareness concerning the carrying of gels, liquids and other miscellaneous banned substances I usually manage to screw up somehow. I don’t know how many times I have bought a bottle of water and/or coffee immediately prior to going through airport security only to have to either drink it really fast, dump it out, or give it up to security. I am no doubt a slow learner. Going trough security in Cairo on our way to Sharm el Sheik on the Red Sea I was guilty of caring (again) a bottle of water, four small bottles of perfume from the souks of Cairo and a large quantity of “spices” wrapped in newspaper that, with the exception of the Saffron and Paprika, all looked suspiciously like something else found legally on the streets of Amsterdam.

Naturally, the astute, well trained and highly observant customs and immigration official drew me to his side and pointed to the frozen picture on his computer screen showing my array of contraband items. Busted. I could apologize. I could run, but he still had my belt and shoes. The customs official drew me closer and because I was slow on the take (pun intended) he almost whispered in my ear with a twinkle in his eye, “Pay me something.” I pulled out a 100 pound note and gave it to him slow and easy. I wished him a wonderful day and slowly backed away while trying desperately to put my belt on, retrieve my backpack and hopping on one foot in an almost vain attempt to get my shoe back on. The speech bubble above the guard’s head seemed to say, “Step away son and no one will get hurt.”

Once I had breezed through security and still had my perfumes, “spices” and such on my person and out of sheer nervousness, I desperately needed to seek out a washroom. People only laugh when we etiquette prone Canadians ask for a washroom ot a restroom. Like we really need to bathe or sleep. Most signs just say toilet or WC.

As is the case in many European salle de bains (grade 9 French) be prepared to pay for the services you are about to receive and don’t take that the wrong way. I may be a pampered North American but I really do not need and often resent someone following me into the washroom to tear of the toilet tissue for me, turn on and off the water tap and then provide me with a tiny scrap of paper towel to dry my hands when the whole process is finished. It makes me feel like I am three years old. Of course a tip is required at the moment of completion. It is then that I made the chilling realization that the smallest bill I had, I had just generously given to the customs official as a bribe in my bid to support corruption in this desert country. I had no small bills left to pay the still smiling faced attendant who strategically managed to stand between me and the exit. I began to panic, but managed to hold my calm as I weighed my options.

I could run because I finally did have my belt and shoes on. I could hide, but in the end I opted to pay the attendant what probably amounted to a full weeks wage for the freedom of leaving the washroom. I was fully cognizant of the fact that just outside the door and within shouting range was another armed guard; probably the washroom attendant’s cousin. I really had no choice but to pay the toilet attendant. I was nervous and had a great urge to pee again.

Waiting at the gate and killing large quantities of time in an airport form an important skill set for any cosmopolitan traveler. Often flights are delayed. Once I had read, or maybe heard an urban myth about a flight arriving early, but I’m sure it was exactly that, a myth. On this day and for this flight Cheryl and I were to wait at gate 16 for a flight scheduled to leave in about another two hours. We each knew the drill and fumbled through our respective purse and backpack to pull out our novels. Instead of reading I love to watch people. They come in so many fascinating shapes and sizes, take the Russians for example.

My conclusions about Russian tourists are not positive. In fact why don’t you just skip to the next paragraph so no one takes offence, especially if you happen to be Russian. I suppose there is lots of new wealth in this former Soviet Republic and I theorize that like many people with new wealth-noveau riche-they don’t know how to act, how to dress or, generally for that matter to be in public in a civil way. Many of them are loud brash and over bearing. Around the hotel pool I was grossed out by a rather rotund Russian man spitting into the water, loudly and constantly. I didn’t go into the water that day.

At the airport I watched several young Russian couples as they waited for their flight back to the mother country. Many of the women have big hair reminiscent of the 50’s and 60’s, several of the guys were wearing muscle shirts, tattoos seem to be very popular, but that’s in our culture too. There, the lady four rows up, third from the left. I noticed her when I took a stroll to the washroom (see above paragraph). She was wearing a mesh and very see through type skirt with abundantly visible black panties underneath. I thought how sheik in a cheap vulgar sort of way, great if you happen to be a hooker. My ideal trophy wife looks more like Pamela Anderson, wait, no; she looks like a hooker too.

Finally, on the plane, I always like sitting next to the window during take off in case anything goes wrong during those critical ten seconds of lift off. I would be one of the first to know if something was going tragically wrong with the plane and yet be totally helpless to do a single thing about it. Knowledge is power none the less, even if temporary. I enjoy the moment, and often try to predict, that precise instant of lift off as the massive spinning wheels are airborne and are soon retracted safely into the under belly of the jet.

Shortly after take-off and with great efficiency out come the attendants with their food trolleys. As I said I like airline food. I was in awe at the way the caterer was able to package and fit onto such a small tray all of the beverages, serving dishes and utensils. I marveled even more when I untied my napkin containing a metal fork, knife and spoon. I idly recalled that recently some group somewhere had managed to hijack a plane or two using only cardboard cutters and then flew the plane with reckless abandon into the side of a tall building and here I sat with such powerful implements of mass destruction in my hand. I trembled with power as I ate my curried chicken and fruit cocktail deep in thought.

As a Geographer, with almost a total lack of spatial sense, I revel at the sight of the vistas and landscapes below me and often take numerous photographs at take off only to notice that I am likely the only guy with a camera. I then turn my attention to the in flight magazine (rip out a favourite article for later reference), read the card with the emergency exit (deplaning) instructions, remove the life jacket under the seat and inflate it, just to make sure it is actually there and in working order, and then start pressing the buttons on the seat handle, adjusting the knobs controlling the air and lights and of course pressing the button to draw the attention of the flight attendants. I don’t recline my seat until the person behind me has his meal tray or beverage on his tray. Flying is such child’s play.

I like listening to the in flight safety instructions and try to mimic and mime the same actions as the flight attendants as they bring the bright yellow oxygen mask over their face and demonstrate where the emergency lighting is and eureka show me how to do up my seat belt. On Middle Eastern airlines you have the added bonus of having an in flight pre-flight prayer in Arabic. I asked the Arab/Islamic looking couple next to me what the prayer meant and in perfect English they told me they were Christian. I’m still working on the translation. I think they were still a little ticked at me just because my inflated life jacket had spilt their drinks. Some people are so touchy about things and how Christian is that I ask?

Actually my favourite seat is the one midway along the fuselage where the emergency exit door is located. Just before take off a flight attendant in a conspiratorial tone asks whoever is sitting next to the emergency door if they feel capable of removing the door in an emergency situation.

I have always harboured the fantasy of, on cue after being asked that same question, actually grabbing the door handles firmly and rotating them precisely at 90 degrees in a counter clockwise fashion and then forcefully pushing the door out toward the wing in one fluid motion while rotating it and thrusting it out on to the runaway below letting it bounce at least once somewhere along the wing.

Deep down I know that would be wrong, but imagine what a laugh all the passengers would get, especially those harried business men in first class on tight schedules as the air marshal takes time to remove me from the flight and the maintenance team retrieves, repairs and replaces the door as everyone deplanes because of the damaged wing. It’s just a fantasy. I would never do that because I would be too busy strategizing over what to do with all that metal cutlery. That was my revelation.

Would you please return your seat to the upright position and fasten your seatbelts…

marty

The Five Pillars of Islam

Five Pillars: A Religious Observation

I spent a life time, or at least a full childhood, attending a Mennonite Sunday School and church services often conducted in a language, German, that I did not fully understand. I am confused and greatly conflicted when it comes to organized religion.

I began to question the world around me as I became more aware of the bigger issues in life. Why is it, for example, that both old order Mennonite women and Muslim women cover their heads and wear black? Why is it that I totally suck at cards and have such a low capacity for alcohol and feel guilty when I watch a movie? I sought answers to these and other deeply rooted and complex theological questions. I had issues. I moved to Kuwait.

In addition to containing the basic beliefs of Islam, the Quran tells Muslims in a very specific way and in classic Arabic how they should lead their daily lives. For example, it forbids the eating of pork and pork by-products especially if they contain MSG, which is also very bad for water retention. It also explains why, as I now live in an Islamic country, I am forced to buy pork, an illegal commodity, from a contact of a friend who knows someone on the American Base. As it turns out American Military bases are often the land of “milk and honey”.

Islam has five pillars or foundations to the religion. The first pillar of Islam is the basic confession of faith, or Shahada. This requires Muslims to believe and say that there is only one God and He (definitely not she) is Allah and that Mohammad is the messenger of God. One should not shoot the messenger. One should name his first born son Mohammed.

Follow this math calculation. Given that there are now over a billion Muslims in the world, in fact there are now more Muslims than there are Catholics in the world today, from a billion Muslims roughly half will be males, (a little more now that they do amniotic testing to determine the sex of a child before birth and thereby able to terminate a pregnancy if the fetus is a girl), out of half a billion males; given that the first born male is to be name Mohammed there could be as many as 100 million Mohammed’s in the world today. And I thought Smith was a common name.

The second pillar of Islam involves prayer. Apparently, Muslims must pray five times a day-at dawn, noon, afternoon, sunset and evening. Prayers can be offered anywhere, at a mosque, in the fields, at a mall, at home, in the office and I think some do it while driving. To offer prayer a believer must kneel, bow and touch his or her forehead to the ground symbolizing the submission of ones will to God. Those more fanatical worshippers can be easily spotted due to the bruises on their foreheads.

Muslims of course face Mecca as they pray. Arabic mathematicians, during their Golden Age (900-1200 AD), developed trigonometry making it possible to calculate the exact angle and direction for the proper prayer orientation toward Mecca. Today, those believers, who are also techno savvy, can buy a cell phone that will alert the listener, complete with custom selected alarms, as to the five prayer times. A GPS will locate Mecca, so one can face the correct direction. Through the marvels of mass production and advanced technology, structured, ridged liturgy is now made easily accessible. It’s a miracle!

I live next to a mosque, (ironically, I did in Canada too), but so does every one else. Mosques are spaced about every 200 yards apart and are far more common than most fast food franchises. In fact when I first moved here I thought they were part of some sort of franchise. Most of them are situated close to a dirt field for parking. Therefore, if I should give directions to get to my apartment for an example, I can’t say I am next to the mosque with the dirt field. It is useless information. It’s like saying, in Canada; I live by Tim Horton’s. We all have our cultural icons.

Living next to a mosque for me is not a religious experience. Five times a day the call to prayer blares out of large speakers mounted atop the minarets. In my neighbourhood, (the tourist capital of the world, Hawally), because of the location of the mosques and the numerous apartment buildings we get a loud, yet incomprehensible broadcast in an echoed stereophonic effect. Not knowing Arabic I can’t really tell you want is being said, but it is after all a call to prayer. I am told that during the early morning prayer the announcer is saying something along the line that it is better to pray than to sleep. I do know that the message always ends the same way with an announcement about Friday night bingo.

Depending on the time of day one can see scurrying believers in their sandals and dishdashery heading directly to mosque central. They leave their sandals at the door and enter the large open area of the mosque. There is a small anti room for women, but generally, like all things else, this is a male bastion. The numerous prayer mats are laid out in neat rows giving a wall to wall carpet effect. Often air freshener in a spray can format is provided because while praying the believer must lower his head to where, during the last prayer someone had his feet located. It can be problematic.

Walking by a mosque during prayer I have often had the uncontrollable urge to shuffle the pile of sandals waiting by the door for their praying masters. I know that would be wrong and I pray for personal strength and guidance.

Because of the irritating quality of the call to prayer I really think it is time to get Cat Stevens back to the Middle East sometime soon to make some urgently needed CD’s that could be played from every Mosque to repleace the uninspiring local talent who are just plain and simple, irritating. They sound too much like Kareoke-want-to-be’s. I really think that a little acoustic guitar in the background to the call to prayer would go along way to improving this essential Islamic ritual.

The third pillar of Islam concerns care for the poor and the needy. Any Muslim with an income must give some money, or sachet, to charity each year. For some the amount was set at 2.5% of pre tax incomes. Muslims who can give more are asked to do so. However, as I recall from my own church background the fraction of a tenth comes to mind, but like the Pirates of the Caribbean that is just a guideline. In the recent hostilities in Gaza, the Kuwaiti government was generous with its donations of food and medicine. Probably, the most generous time is during the month of fasting called Ramadan.

The ironic thing about Ramadan, considering it is an entire month of doing without food during daylight hours, amazingly lots of fasting people put on weight during this holy time. When the sun sets and the fast is broken people tend to more than over compensate for the fasting portion of the day. To me it has the appearance of a national eating disorder. This is the fourth pillar of Islam, fasting. The Eid celebrations after fasting is also an important family time in which day after day hungry and irritable relatives come together for joyous quality time. It is also a time to give to the poor.

My remembrance of Ramadan is based in our own western tradition and survival technique which we affectionately called Ramadan Picnics. During these times, while out in public, we would retire to our parked car, preferable in an underground parking lot, and with bunker mentality feast on food and drink all the time being wary of patrolling guards. Eating in a public place during Ramadan, in the worst case scenario, can get you a jail sentence until the fast is over; that could be up to a month if you get busted on day one. If in jail they don’t feed you and you had better hope that your friends and relatives will bring you food.

Naturally, during the fast pregnant women, children, travelers, those who are ill, diabetics, people with a cleft pallet, or those that just don’t feel like it can get a waiver providing they make up for lost time during a later day. Therefore, it could be months after Ramadan and you may meet some poor soul with low blood sugar who is doing a make-up fast. It is these late fasters who always make Kuwait an interesting, challenging and life threatening place in which to drive. Religion in motion.

The fifth pillar is the Hajj, or the pilgrimage to Mecca. All Muslims who are able are expected to make the pilgrimage at least once in their life time. To be able to do so is a high point in a Muslim’s life. While in Mecca Muslims pray facing the Kabah, a large cubicle that sits in the centre of the courtyard in the scared Mosque.

I have already seen pictures in National Geographic magazine in which over a million of the faithful descend on the holy Muslim city to fulfill their duty of faith. The trip has to be made before the feast of sacrifice, which commemorates Abraham’s offering of his son to God. Sometimes it is just eerie how similar Islam and Christianity are and that a Mennonite woman can look Muslim from ten paces behind her man, or sitting on the opposite side of the church, but I think those are more cultural divides than religious ones. Tricky business this religious thing!!

And really what’s this thing about multiple wives, this is just another confusing ethical conundrum, with the exception of Mennonite males, both Muslims and Mennonites, according to the Koran, are allowed to have up to four wives. Why in God’s name would a man want more than one wife? Are they Mormon?

My students tell me that Bahrain would not exist if it were not for the multitude of Saudis who come in to sin and indulge before going back to Saudi in time for prayer and on to the Hajj to have their sins forgiven. Every vice that you care to think of is available in the Middle East, but usually not as open or advertised. Anything that can be done in Los Vegas can be equally indulged here. Like Catholics who can say a few “Hail Mary’s” and return to grace, so can Muslims by completing the Hajj, the fifth pillar of this ancient religion. I can only ponder on what Samson did with pillars, how Biblical.

My quest for answers continues.

mr

Driving as a Subversive Activity

Driving as a Subversive Activity

This is actually a fascinating article about driving in Kuwait; so let me tell you about Red Adair.

According to my secret sources in Wikipedia, “Red Adair began fighting oil well fires after returning from serving in a bomb disposal unit during World War ll. He founded Red Adair Co., in 1959, and over a long career battled more than 2000 land and offshore oil well, natural gas well, and similar spectacular fires. Perhaps, the most famous was the Devil’s Cigarette Lighter, a 450 foot pillar of flames. The 1968 John Wayne movie Hellfighters was based upon the feats of Adair during this 1962 Sahara desert fire. At the age of 75, Adair took part in extinguishing the oil well fires in Kuwait set by retreating Iraqi troops after the Gulf War in 1991”. I could go on because Wikipedia does.

Here is a guy who probably held down (he’s dead now) the most dangerous job imaginable. In the movie version of his life he was played by macho actor John Wayne. My point is this: when Red Adair was fighting the hundreds of incredibly dangerous oil well fires here in Kuwait a reporter asked him, “What is the most dangerous part of your job. He replied, “Driving to work.”

I share this feeling with Red Adair. We are kindred spirits when it comes to the roads of this desert domain. It is hell and it is dangerous. Some days I would rather be fighting fires. Highway 30 in Kuwait, a road I travel on nearly each day, is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the most deadly roadway in the world. I guess that’s what makes it a world record.

A sad tale, as the Iraqi soldiers were retreating Kuwait after their ill fated invasion American forces easily found them and destroyed long convoys of their trucks, soldiers and stolen goods while stalled on the ground. They may have in fact been on highway 30. Because of adverse rush hour traffic conditions in Kuwait thousands of these soldiers were killed while waiting for the lights to change. Never trust the road system here if you want to make time and distance. Hussein made a huge mistake and paid for it dearly, or I guess his troops did.

To understand driving here it is important to understand a little bit about Kuwait itself. As my students love to point out: “What do the last four letters of Kuwait spell?” Yes, that sort of sums up part of what I want to say here. The other part is a big thank you to the French for designing the road system in the first place. I think that if the French did not like the Kuwaitis there were much simpler ways to get revenge than designing the road system in the way that they did. A simple thermal nuclear device, or other means of mass destruction may have been sufficient, but a constantly clogged and congested road system seems to be having the same effect.

Grant it I am being harsh on the French because while still a student a French security guard once kicked me in the ribs while I was resting on the grass near the Eifel Tower, in my hasty over reaction I tend to blame the entire French nation and took a cheap shot. The over all Kuwaiti road system is patterned after a spoke and wheel model. From Kuwait City a series of six roads radiate outward like concentric ripples on a pond created after throwing your prayer beads into the water after hours of futile prayer seeking solutions to the almost seemingly incurable road system. These ripples are the ring roads one through 6, seven is still under construction. We currently live near ring road #4. It’s a loud busy highway.

Running in a more or less north/south direction are the spokes starting with the Gulf Road (where you do not what to be on Liberation Day) and then numbered in multiples of five moving from east to west are roads such as the previously mentioned and infamous 30, 40, 45 etc. These are the roads which form the main transportation infrastructure and in and of itself make a pretty good design.

Within each area defined and bounded by the hub/wheel/spoke model are the numerous commercial, industrial and residential areas Each section is divided into areas, blocks and street numbers. Usually, in the better neighbourhoods, but not ours, a large street sign will show you all of the areas so that one can easily find their way. As one Kuwaiti guidebook worded it, “It is easy to find your way in Kuwaiti providing you do not get lost.” I live in Hawally (frequently confused with Hawaii) which likely holds the honour of having the worst traffic conditions in all of Kuwait. Kuwait, like America, is based on the premise that public transportation deserves lip service and real men drive cars, although recently women too have been allowed to drive here. Not to be overly sexist, but truly the issue of women drivers here takes on a whole new dimension. Ever hear of a hijab? Veil? Visibility? On coming traffic?

My neighbourhood also has the distinction of containing many schools and government buildings, including a large and modern maternity hospital (Dar Al Shifa). Each school generates incredible volumes of traffic as each kid is delivered by personal driver to the front gate of the various schools. The roads are narrow, cars park at all angles and driving is more like negotiating a labyrinth.

Another factor causing the huge traffic jams are the long lunch hours and short work days of the average Kuwaiti. Generally speaking many people work a four hour day. By 2:30 the roads here are snarled with congestion. Many of the intersections are uncontrolled (no lights or signage) and the concept of yielding has not yet entered the culture of driving here.

At a typical intersection I watched as four cars approached each other at about the same time. None of the drivers were willing to yield; so they all moved into the intersection quickly followed by car number five and six. Perhaps, because they all feel entitled no one would yield and therefore their individual selfish actions negated the need to strive for the greater good and a brief horn hocking stand off ensued. It was amazing to watch from the sidelines. Driving is truly an aggressive art form and guide lines of general courtesy are sadly lacking.

I avoid driving in Hawally (commonly called Hawally World, but just by me). When the work day ends for me, “I sneak out the back Jack, start a new plan Stan,” and start the fifteen minute walk home. My students revere me in stunned silence when I told them I walk to work and that I walk in Hawally. Actually exercising in this small way and on a regular basis renders me a super hero, or a fool in their eyes. I will say this about walking; it is only marginally safer than driving. Had the Iraqi troops walked out of Kuwait in their massive retreat more would have survived, of that I am certain.

I have become an aggressive pedestrian. If people cut me off, or nearly clip me with their mirror I, in an expressive example of sidewalk rage, kick, slap or punch the offending vehicle while at the same time rendering up equally expressive hand and/or arm gestures which transcend most linguistic and cultural divides. Because I am a white westerner in an Egyptian, Pakistani neighbourhood I tend to stand out, especially if I happen to be wearing gym shorts and my “I Love NY” T-shirt after leaving the school having played squash. At those times, as a pedestrian I am likely more of a target. This could be construed as ethnic cleansing and I am the victim of my own folly.

Enough of walking. Nobody walks. This is Kuwait. It took me only 6 months and about $300 dollars to get my drivers license here. First, one needs a job and a temporary work visa, following that the next step is a permanent work visa and a civil ID card which entitles you to legal protection under Kuwaiti law and Health care, once that is obtained, along with your passport and a translation into Arabic of my Ontario drivers license, and several trips to various government offices, I received my Kuwaiti license. I am now legal.

I had been driving on my International license which is temporarily legal until you receive your civil ID. At that point you are expected to have a local license. I only drove illegally for two months, but I was told by a Kuwaiti friend the solution to that problem is to never tell the police that you have a civil ID card when you show your International License, or tell them you are a member of the Royal Family.

Under that advice I braved the streets of this foreign land sans mishap. I will add that my neighbour also used my International driver’s license and was stopped on a few occasions. He is much more swarthy and suspicious looking than I am, like comparing Popeye and Bluto. I’m Popeye. When stopped Duane simply held up my license conveniently located in the glove compartment and he was waved on by the police. Being Western expats we are not under the same level of scrutiny as are other expats, one day I’ll tell you about social hierarchy.

Just to irritate everyone in all other parts of the western world who are totally dependent on petroleum and their by-products, gas is as cheap here as sand. Camel dung is more expensive. I drive a five year old luxury Hyundai with no options except for a tape deck. What is a tape deck useful for any more? I think I got rid of my tapes in High School. To fill the tank I pay about 2.5 kd. Today, as I write a KD coverts to about 4.2 Cnd dollars; so doing the math a tank of gas cost about $10 Canadian dollars, and our winters here aren’t cold like yours. Take that!

I’m sorry, that was another cheap shot. I’m petty that way, but I’m still the one that has to drive here, so that sort of balances the over all equation. There is no such thing as competition here when it comes to gas stations. Back in Canada we have the illusion of competion, but we still get screwed by the global petroleum giants, but that’s just me being paranoid. The trick here is actually finding a gas station. I am told there are about 100 gas stations in all of Kuwait which means they are out numbered by mosques in about a five to one ratio. I lament the fact that mosques don’t sell gas.

Having located the nearest gas station, I pull in. The stations are called Oulla and I don’t have a clue what that stands for, if in fact it is even an acronym. It could be Arabic for monopoly. I’ll have to get back to you on that one. Pulling up to the pumps you will notice a number of things. Some of them are alarming while others only create mild anxiety. Some drivers smoke and do not always turn off their engines while refueling. I think they are under the false assumption that if they blow at a Oulla they are still entitled to the 70 virgins, now that may apply to a premium fill up, but otherwise I’m guessing all bets are off when it comes to those virgins. Inshalla.

What bothers me at the gas stations, other than it is usually a near death experience, is that despite all the cheap labour in Kuwait, no one has ever asked me if I want my oil checked or has offered to clean my windshield. I have feelings too! Once your gas is pumped the driver in the car behind you typically begins to incessantly honk, in a friendly way, as a reminder to get your ass out of the way. Quickly, I remember to give the gas attendant a tip which amounts to about 20% of the cost of fill up. These guys make so little, they have to survive on tips, but would it hurt them to just once clean my windshield. Where are those squeegie kids when you really need them?

One of my senior students recently told me that all a young Kuwaiti wants is a fast car a free ride. Now I ask by any standard is that asking too much? I think as a student I too wanted a car and I got one. A VW bug. These kids are talking something more substantial. It is very common to see a range of Lamborghinis, Ferraris, BMWs, Corvettes and the like, pick-up trucks are popular and these drivers tend to be true hell raisers. My closest calls have been with high speed pick up trucks which approach from the rear at warp speed 5 or 6, often it seems with Klingon cloaking devices, so you don’t actually see them until they flash by, weave in front of you and do a lane dive from the far left lane to the far right lane in mere nano seconds. I blink. Its over. Did it happen?

U-tube has a delightful section of Kuwaiti road accidents of incredible consequence for those lovers of carnage and senseless destruction. There are video clips of cars that have been totally destroyed and serve as exemplar accidents in that often only one single vehicle is involved. Drivers are perfectly capable of killing themselves without the aid of another vehicle. A lonely way to die. Typically the Kuwaiti police leave the remnants of wrecked vehicles at the side of the road, for all to see, for several days or weeks perhaps as an object lesson to those speeding by. Death sculptures. It doesn’t seem to work.

A friend here has actually witnessed a road worker getting killed after being hit and thrown a great distance. The accident, if you can call it that, occurred on the shoulder where the victim had been working. The driver was looking for a quick way to pass on the right and hit the worker instead. The driver did not stop. Like the sign on the highway here says, “High speed Equals Prison and Death.” I’m not sure in which order those events would happen, or if they are cumulative, but it doesn’t sound promising. Just go to U-tube.

This brings me to Wasta. Wasta is an informal system of privilege and influence, much like we have in Canada, but honed and fined tuned to get anything done that needs doing as long as you know the right people. In the example of the hit and run I just gave (previous paragraph pay attention) if the driver were Kuwaiti and of the Al Sabah royal family, likely he would not be charged. Forget what I just said about likely. The reasoning would be that there would have been no accident if the man had not been in the country and therefore in the way.

Likewise if any Western expat is involved in a road accident he/she would be to blame for that accident. Using the same reasoning, if we weren’t in the country there wouldn’t have been an accident in the first place!

Yesterday, as I strolled to the Dar Al Shifa Hospital, where the cafeteria staff still think I work in cardiology, I happened to see an ambulance speed right by the emergency entrance where I was standing. Security people were wildly scrambling to clear the entrance way, at the moment typically blocked with many parked cars. Oddly, the ambulance sped by to the amazement of everyone, including myself. Obviously, the ambulance’s mission was a pick up not a drop off.

However, I speculated that given the current levels of congestion on the roads today, I literally fear an accident because all or any emergency vehicles would be totally incapacitated by the traffic. Think about Iraqi troop movements.

I have frequently witnessed police cars with sirens whaling a mournful tune sitting helplessly in traffic as other drivers completely ignored them as they too had no where to move. In turn the frustrated officers got on their bull horns to say other mournful things to the increasingly agitated drivers, speaking in loud angry Arabic. It can be a shouting, but often static culture at times.

Liberation Day celebrations are coming up at the end of February and the roads promise to be cluttered with tanks and Hummers and everything in between. I plan to get several current pirated movies and hole up in my apartment until the rush goes away. Although, I do confess to a certain level of pride in myself as a driver, that despite my initial panic filled drive on the streets of Kuwait I have prevailed, now if I could just find my way.

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