On Becoming a Regular
By Marty Rempel
From my seat at the Costa Café in the Dar Al Shifa Hospital located across from the school where I teach, I enjoy the morning Kuwait Times, or the ever popular Arab Times. The man that serves me knows me by now as I am one of the so called regulars. For some mysterious reason the Costa staff seem to thing I am a cardiologist on staff and give me a discount on my lattes. I don’t disagree with them, it just makes me feel that much more welcomed in Kuwait.
I sit at the Costa and people-watch. It still amazes me how many Arab Women cover completely while their western looking husbands are wearing T-shirts and sporting designer sunglasses. At the same time some women are also dressed in western ways. Everything here is in contrasts. At first I was very wary about being close to “covered women” in a grocery store, at a mall or wherever one goes because I didn’t want to offend any one as I was culturally confused.
Perhaps this is all part of the cultural learning curve that all expats experience when coming to a new country. Having lived in other countries prior to my Kuwait experience I know that part of the process is to experience new ways of thinking and doing things that might be totally at odds with so called conventional wisdom. Here, in Kuwait, I am forced to step outside of my own cultural box and see the world in a different way. Some people might come to a new country and complain because things are not the same as they are back home, where ever that happens to be. My personal happiness and success in my move here depends on being flexible and open minded about new experiences and sometimes it can be a stimulus over load. I have had days, especially after driving anywhere, when I just wanted to catch the next flight home.
Yes, driving is a true challenge in Kuwait. At a typical intersection I have 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 the drivers all feel entitled no one would yield and therefore their individual actions negated the need to strive for the greater good and a brief horn honking stand off ensued. It was amazing to watch from the sidelines.
Gas 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. What bothers me at the gas stations 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 always 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 squeegee 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 and a hot wife. 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 vehicles from Lamborghinis, Ferraris, BMWs, to Corvettes and the like. My most memorable near death experiences 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. 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. Some call the wrecks Death Sculptures.
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.
I arrived in Kuwait in August of last year and was totally over come by both the heat and the humidity. When things cooled down somewhat by November I started to walk to work. I discovered that driving in Kuwait is a risk and being a pedestrian often makes driving the safer alternative. My daily walk to work included crossing Tunis Street.
In my perpetual quest to become physically fit I make the 15 minute walk to school each day and walk back most days. Some days I cheat and take the school mini bus. On this morning I wear my bright yellow nylon jacket. I look like a street cleaner, as many wear brightly coloured jump suits, but the point is I feel safer, like wearing white at night.
My thoughts are premature as a white Toyota van carrying school kids to the Pakistan Happy School merrily swerves towards me. I felt that the three inches to spare between the van’s mirror and my chest was another near death experience. The driver probably felt three inches was a wide margin for error.
As I walked on I noticed that an older Egyptian man, warming himself by a fire in front of his parked front end loader, was laughing. He had obviously been a witness to my near miss. I gave a shrug indicating who can explain crazy drivers. He then pointed at his own chest as an indicator that he acknowledged my bright yellow jacket. I ran my hands along the length of the jacket and shrugged again. I felt like a third base umpire as I communicated with my hands. Without language we had shared a moment in Kuwaiti traffic history.
My walk takes me passed many sights and sounds and tactile experiences enough to stimulate any learning style. On the side streets and in the absence of anything resembling sidewalks, dexterity is essential to maneuver around the garbage dumpsters, parked cars and the variety of urban flotsam and jetsam that abounds. I wear very sensible shoes, with good traction and thick soles. I have reflexes like the feral cats that inhabit the dumpsters along the route. I am sure footed and alert. Actually, that’s mainly a crock. It’s 6:30 in the morning. I’m slow and semi comatose and in no mood to talk to another living person. I am walking a gauntlet.
Along the way I must cross Tunis Street one of two main streets in Hawally, the suburb in which I live. Kuwait was never designed for the pedestrian. This is an automobile society. The traffic is thick, continuous, fast and evil. As I approach Tunis from a quieter side street I feel my adrenaline rise, or it might be bile. I begin to awake from my stupor knowing full well that I must soon be at the peak of my game in order to cross this busy road. Life, as I know it, is in the balance.
I tentatively walked on the sidewalk (now there was one) parallel to the constant flow of TATA buses, scooters, trucks, taxies and foul smelling diesel engines. I turned and scanned the horizon for a gap, even a subtle, tiny one, in the line of traffic. Looking for my window of opportunity. Horns blared. I controlled my panic. Knowing I must do this thing. I must get to class my students need me. They depend on me. They hang on my every word. The future of the free world depends on my crossing Tunis. It’s a bogus little pep talk I give myself before launching across the street. Sometimes it works. Today, I think not.
I was about to go for it, cross Tunis that is, when to my utter surprise my mobile phone began to ring. It was Cheryl, my wife, on the cell phone. I was then able to give her a real time narration of my crossing of Tunis at morning rush hour. I felt like my hero Jack Bauer.
“I want you to know that what ever happens I love you. I have to cross the street now” I stepped off the curb. I was dizzy. Grit, from the wind generated by the stream of traffic, was flung into my face and blurred my vision.
“I see a gap.” I cried into the cell phone. “I’m going for it.” I had to dodge left, zig right; there was constant enemy fire from my left flank as mortars and light artillery fired from the northern trench. I feared for my life even as my men exchanged fire. I could still be the victim of collateral damage, a victim of friendly fire on the way to work. I would not have it. Flak had hit my port engine and I was flaming out. Bullets pierced the thin skin of my aircraft like a knife going through butter. There was no time to write a decent simile. I instructed my crew to bail. Hot engine oil was spewing through my cracked windshield. Black smoke screened my visibility. I was losing altitude fast. I had to act quickly.
Immediately, I dropped and rolled and tossed my backpack even though it contained some vital supplies. I was now lighter and could move faster. I had bought a few precious seconds. I lurched forward. “Bogies at 12 o’clock,” I screamed into the cell phone. Smoke again blurred my vision. I saw an opening and went for it. I had reached the median.
Here blue helmeted UN troops patrolled. It was a temporary safety zone. The air grew calm as in the eye of a hurricane. Still on my cell to Cheryl, she asked me to stop by the store and bring some milk back on my way home. I explained that I was under fire, (she may have thought that was a metaphor), and did she want skim or 2%. I stepped off the curb and left the safety of the median.
Tear gas drifted toward my sector. I tore my shirt sleeve off and wrapped it around my mouth in order to breathe. My life did not pass before me but every movie cliché that applied to crossing busy streets in war-like conditions did. There were only three. I shouted out to who ever would listen. “You looking at me?’ You’ll never take me alive you dirty copper.” Finally, “There’s no place like home.” In desperation I quickly clicked my heels three times.
“Medic! I need a medic” and I was on the curb. I had crossed Tunis.
I noticed people on the sidewalk were looking at me oddly, must be a cultural thing I thought. What, have they never seen a person cross the street before? Regretting the loss of my backpack and my torn shirt, I got to work only five minutes late.
I have lived in Kuwait for almost a year now and to my surprise find when I return from a holiday trip I have a feeling of familiarity. Despite the cultural shock and the comic relief I get from describing driving, walking and living in this small desert nation. I am also beginning to feel more like a regular.
Marty Rempel
By Marty Rempel
From my seat at the Costa Café in the Dar Al Shifa Hospital located across from the school where I teach, I enjoy the morning Kuwait Times, or the ever popular Arab Times. The man that serves me knows me by now as I am one of the so called regulars. For some mysterious reason the Costa staff seem to thing I am a cardiologist on staff and give me a discount on my lattes. I don’t disagree with them, it just makes me feel that much more welcomed in Kuwait.
I sit at the Costa and people-watch. It still amazes me how many Arab Women cover completely while their western looking husbands are wearing T-shirts and sporting designer sunglasses. At the same time some women are also dressed in western ways. Everything here is in contrasts. At first I was very wary about being close to “covered women” in a grocery store, at a mall or wherever one goes because I didn’t want to offend any one as I was culturally confused.
Perhaps this is all part of the cultural learning curve that all expats experience when coming to a new country. Having lived in other countries prior to my Kuwait experience I know that part of the process is to experience new ways of thinking and doing things that might be totally at odds with so called conventional wisdom. Here, in Kuwait, I am forced to step outside of my own cultural box and see the world in a different way. Some people might come to a new country and complain because things are not the same as they are back home, where ever that happens to be. My personal happiness and success in my move here depends on being flexible and open minded about new experiences and sometimes it can be a stimulus over load. I have had days, especially after driving anywhere, when I just wanted to catch the next flight home.
Yes, driving is a true challenge in Kuwait. At a typical intersection I have 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 the drivers all feel entitled no one would yield and therefore their individual actions negated the need to strive for the greater good and a brief horn honking stand off ensued. It was amazing to watch from the sidelines.
Gas 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. What bothers me at the gas stations 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 always 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 squeegee 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 and a hot wife. 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 vehicles from Lamborghinis, Ferraris, BMWs, to Corvettes and the like. My most memorable near death experiences 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. 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. Some call the wrecks Death Sculptures.
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.
I arrived in Kuwait in August of last year and was totally over come by both the heat and the humidity. When things cooled down somewhat by November I started to walk to work. I discovered that driving in Kuwait is a risk and being a pedestrian often makes driving the safer alternative. My daily walk to work included crossing Tunis Street.
In my perpetual quest to become physically fit I make the 15 minute walk to school each day and walk back most days. Some days I cheat and take the school mini bus. On this morning I wear my bright yellow nylon jacket. I look like a street cleaner, as many wear brightly coloured jump suits, but the point is I feel safer, like wearing white at night.
My thoughts are premature as a white Toyota van carrying school kids to the Pakistan Happy School merrily swerves towards me. I felt that the three inches to spare between the van’s mirror and my chest was another near death experience. The driver probably felt three inches was a wide margin for error.
As I walked on I noticed that an older Egyptian man, warming himself by a fire in front of his parked front end loader, was laughing. He had obviously been a witness to my near miss. I gave a shrug indicating who can explain crazy drivers. He then pointed at his own chest as an indicator that he acknowledged my bright yellow jacket. I ran my hands along the length of the jacket and shrugged again. I felt like a third base umpire as I communicated with my hands. Without language we had shared a moment in Kuwaiti traffic history.
My walk takes me passed many sights and sounds and tactile experiences enough to stimulate any learning style. On the side streets and in the absence of anything resembling sidewalks, dexterity is essential to maneuver around the garbage dumpsters, parked cars and the variety of urban flotsam and jetsam that abounds. I wear very sensible shoes, with good traction and thick soles. I have reflexes like the feral cats that inhabit the dumpsters along the route. I am sure footed and alert. Actually, that’s mainly a crock. It’s 6:30 in the morning. I’m slow and semi comatose and in no mood to talk to another living person. I am walking a gauntlet.
Along the way I must cross Tunis Street one of two main streets in Hawally, the suburb in which I live. Kuwait was never designed for the pedestrian. This is an automobile society. The traffic is thick, continuous, fast and evil. As I approach Tunis from a quieter side street I feel my adrenaline rise, or it might be bile. I begin to awake from my stupor knowing full well that I must soon be at the peak of my game in order to cross this busy road. Life, as I know it, is in the balance.
I tentatively walked on the sidewalk (now there was one) parallel to the constant flow of TATA buses, scooters, trucks, taxies and foul smelling diesel engines. I turned and scanned the horizon for a gap, even a subtle, tiny one, in the line of traffic. Looking for my window of opportunity. Horns blared. I controlled my panic. Knowing I must do this thing. I must get to class my students need me. They depend on me. They hang on my every word. The future of the free world depends on my crossing Tunis. It’s a bogus little pep talk I give myself before launching across the street. Sometimes it works. Today, I think not.
I was about to go for it, cross Tunis that is, when to my utter surprise my mobile phone began to ring. It was Cheryl, my wife, on the cell phone. I was then able to give her a real time narration of my crossing of Tunis at morning rush hour. I felt like my hero Jack Bauer.
“I want you to know that what ever happens I love you. I have to cross the street now” I stepped off the curb. I was dizzy. Grit, from the wind generated by the stream of traffic, was flung into my face and blurred my vision.
“I see a gap.” I cried into the cell phone. “I’m going for it.” I had to dodge left, zig right; there was constant enemy fire from my left flank as mortars and light artillery fired from the northern trench. I feared for my life even as my men exchanged fire. I could still be the victim of collateral damage, a victim of friendly fire on the way to work. I would not have it. Flak had hit my port engine and I was flaming out. Bullets pierced the thin skin of my aircraft like a knife going through butter. There was no time to write a decent simile. I instructed my crew to bail. Hot engine oil was spewing through my cracked windshield. Black smoke screened my visibility. I was losing altitude fast. I had to act quickly.
Immediately, I dropped and rolled and tossed my backpack even though it contained some vital supplies. I was now lighter and could move faster. I had bought a few precious seconds. I lurched forward. “Bogies at 12 o’clock,” I screamed into the cell phone. Smoke again blurred my vision. I saw an opening and went for it. I had reached the median.
Here blue helmeted UN troops patrolled. It was a temporary safety zone. The air grew calm as in the eye of a hurricane. Still on my cell to Cheryl, she asked me to stop by the store and bring some milk back on my way home. I explained that I was under fire, (she may have thought that was a metaphor), and did she want skim or 2%. I stepped off the curb and left the safety of the median.
Tear gas drifted toward my sector. I tore my shirt sleeve off and wrapped it around my mouth in order to breathe. My life did not pass before me but every movie cliché that applied to crossing busy streets in war-like conditions did. There were only three. I shouted out to who ever would listen. “You looking at me?’ You’ll never take me alive you dirty copper.” Finally, “There’s no place like home.” In desperation I quickly clicked my heels three times.
“Medic! I need a medic” and I was on the curb. I had crossed Tunis.
I noticed people on the sidewalk were looking at me oddly, must be a cultural thing I thought. What, have they never seen a person cross the street before? Regretting the loss of my backpack and my torn shirt, I got to work only five minutes late.
I have lived in Kuwait for almost a year now and to my surprise find when I return from a holiday trip I have a feeling of familiarity. Despite the cultural shock and the comic relief I get from describing driving, walking and living in this small desert nation. I am also beginning to feel more like a regular.
Marty Rempel
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