The post I've been meaning to write for a long time-thanks Dale
Dale Lonis, the main conducting instructor at the CWCDP course I have taken the last two summers, once asked me if I would please write him about what morning is like in Kuwait. He said it gives him a sense of the place one is living. At first I dismissed the idea- I get up, get ready, go to school. Then I began to think of this whilst driving to school, noting all of the goings on around me that have now become normal but were once everything from bizarre to gross to shocking. And then there are Friday mornings...(remember, weekends here are Friday and Saturday).
The mornings truly do give a strong sense of place and have now become my preferred time of day. For those of you who are unaware, I am a recovering night owl. In Saskatchewan, I loved the night time because I was so productive while others slept. As a teenager, there were many a weekend night I would get home from babysitting around midnight and move into a two hour piano practice session. It was the best feeling in the world to me. I was alone, no one was looking, listening, judging. Until I moved to Kuwait, staying up until 11 or 12 was normal for me on a school night. Since our days here begin so early (must be at school by 7) and it is really a night culture in the Arab world, I take solace in the quiet of the mornings. I could stay up until almost four and still many folks would be awake.
I will describe for you my typical weekday and weekend mornings.
It's 4:30 in the morning and my alarm wakes me if I haven't already woken. I brush my teeth, drink a glass of water and put on my walking clothes. I take the elevator 8 floors down and meet up with my friend Flor. We walk out the gate of the apartments into the desert area surrounding our buildings. We comment on the weather, the moon cycle, muse over the beauty of the slim crescent moon, the madness of the full moon. As we walk towards the sea, we encounter a few cars and buses and other pedestrians. We talk about our school, our students, her little daughter and our upcoming trip to Sweden. We speak of the past, present and future, learning to better understand one another and revealing a little more of our personal histories. Sometimes a taxi drives by, beeping the horn to get our attention, see if we want a ride. Sometimes there are people on the public beach at the turning point of our 35 minute walk. We suspect they have been up all night. Occasionally, they speak to us and we have learned to ignore lest we be followed or harassed. Walking back toward the apartments, the traffic is increasing- more buses collecting workers, more people walking through the desert. We wish one another a nice day and get ready for school.
Back in my apartment, the usual routine of shower, dress, coffee or tea, music (including Alison Krauss singing 9-5) ensues. I am usually one of the last people to head to school. Often my friend Christina and I smile sheepishly at each other as we leave about 5 minutes later than we should, knowing we may get stuck in traffic but that the perfect outfit or cup of coffee was worth it.
On the road, there are busloads of Philippina nurses, Indian security guards, school children of various ethnicities. Drivers (usually Indian) transport students to school, often accompanied by a nanny (Indian or Philippina). There are local women wearing hejab (headscarves), men in gutras (the red and white or plain white head coverings) speeding along the freeway in BMWs, Mercedes, Pajeros, Prados and so on. Expat teachers most commonly travel at a more modest speed in Mitsubishi Lancers and Peugeots. The left lane is the fast lane and it is expected you travel over the 120km/hour speed limit. Drivers who disapprove of your speed will indicate this by flashing their high beam lights until you move to make way for them. Sometimes they pass on the emergency lane, sometimes in the middle lane and, most often, by weaving through three lanes to get ahead as quickly as possible.
On the days I leave early enough, I see Bangladeshi men in yellow jump suits removing garbage from the said freeway. The 15-30 minute drive (depending on traffic, which is directly related to departure time) is full of other sights. Drivers picking their noses, talking and texting on mobiles, passengers falling asleep, kids moving about the car or SUV, completely unbuckled, often hanging their heads or hands out the window. Safety first.. I arrive at the final turn off to school and sometimes get caught in what my dear friend Ted describes as a "cluster fuck". This is a poorly designed exit in which people do not slow down enough to merge across the required two or three lanes. Horns honk, people gesture to others to let them in, shake their hands in the air at stupid driving moves. The most common hand gesture- is the "shway shway" (be patient) sign of the four fingers and thumb together (sort of like an Italian "delicioso").
As I pull into the secure area of the school, guards walk around the car with a mirror, checking for bombs, except they don't really look. I park and am usually greeted by a few students and alas am ready to start my day of teaching. Repeat.
Friday, oh glorious Friday. I wake up early and head over to teach yoga to an older woman from work. Around 8 or 9 o'clock, Indian, Bangladeshi and Sri Lankan workers meet in the desert area outside our apartments for their weekly cricket matches. They play until around noon, when it's time for Friday prayers or earlier when the heat starts to beat them. These same men who I see falling asleep on the way to work, who pick up garbage on the side of the road, who live in small apartments with many others and send most of their pay home, raise their voices to cheer for points and good plays. The saving grace of their lives, this open space in which to play, to be human. The saving grace of mine, time to think, breathe and relax while listening to the happiness of those who seem to have so little. I sip my cappuccino, sit on the cushions by my window, watching the match, reading a book, thinking about the past, present and future. I smile at the blessings of life, appreciate my charmed life and the opportunities it allows. I am at peace. Often I take my privileged self to the gym at the Hilton and enjoy my membership by exercising, swimming and sitting on the beach.
This Friday morning, I am off to brunch in celebration of a first birthday. I will spend time with some of my closest friends in Kuwait and I will be grateful to be surrounded by kindness and comaraderie. Someone just scored a point in that cricket match outside. YAAAAAAH!
The mornings truly do give a strong sense of place and have now become my preferred time of day. For those of you who are unaware, I am a recovering night owl. In Saskatchewan, I loved the night time because I was so productive while others slept. As a teenager, there were many a weekend night I would get home from babysitting around midnight and move into a two hour piano practice session. It was the best feeling in the world to me. I was alone, no one was looking, listening, judging. Until I moved to Kuwait, staying up until 11 or 12 was normal for me on a school night. Since our days here begin so early (must be at school by 7) and it is really a night culture in the Arab world, I take solace in the quiet of the mornings. I could stay up until almost four and still many folks would be awake.
I will describe for you my typical weekday and weekend mornings.
It's 4:30 in the morning and my alarm wakes me if I haven't already woken. I brush my teeth, drink a glass of water and put on my walking clothes. I take the elevator 8 floors down and meet up with my friend Flor. We walk out the gate of the apartments into the desert area surrounding our buildings. We comment on the weather, the moon cycle, muse over the beauty of the slim crescent moon, the madness of the full moon. As we walk towards the sea, we encounter a few cars and buses and other pedestrians. We talk about our school, our students, her little daughter and our upcoming trip to Sweden. We speak of the past, present and future, learning to better understand one another and revealing a little more of our personal histories. Sometimes a taxi drives by, beeping the horn to get our attention, see if we want a ride. Sometimes there are people on the public beach at the turning point of our 35 minute walk. We suspect they have been up all night. Occasionally, they speak to us and we have learned to ignore lest we be followed or harassed. Walking back toward the apartments, the traffic is increasing- more buses collecting workers, more people walking through the desert. We wish one another a nice day and get ready for school.
Back in my apartment, the usual routine of shower, dress, coffee or tea, music (including Alison Krauss singing 9-5) ensues. I am usually one of the last people to head to school. Often my friend Christina and I smile sheepishly at each other as we leave about 5 minutes later than we should, knowing we may get stuck in traffic but that the perfect outfit or cup of coffee was worth it.
On the road, there are busloads of Philippina nurses, Indian security guards, school children of various ethnicities. Drivers (usually Indian) transport students to school, often accompanied by a nanny (Indian or Philippina). There are local women wearing hejab (headscarves), men in gutras (the red and white or plain white head coverings) speeding along the freeway in BMWs, Mercedes, Pajeros, Prados and so on. Expat teachers most commonly travel at a more modest speed in Mitsubishi Lancers and Peugeots. The left lane is the fast lane and it is expected you travel over the 120km/hour speed limit. Drivers who disapprove of your speed will indicate this by flashing their high beam lights until you move to make way for them. Sometimes they pass on the emergency lane, sometimes in the middle lane and, most often, by weaving through three lanes to get ahead as quickly as possible.
On the days I leave early enough, I see Bangladeshi men in yellow jump suits removing garbage from the said freeway. The 15-30 minute drive (depending on traffic, which is directly related to departure time) is full of other sights. Drivers picking their noses, talking and texting on mobiles, passengers falling asleep, kids moving about the car or SUV, completely unbuckled, often hanging their heads or hands out the window. Safety first.. I arrive at the final turn off to school and sometimes get caught in what my dear friend Ted describes as a "cluster fuck". This is a poorly designed exit in which people do not slow down enough to merge across the required two or three lanes. Horns honk, people gesture to others to let them in, shake their hands in the air at stupid driving moves. The most common hand gesture- is the "shway shway" (be patient) sign of the four fingers and thumb together (sort of like an Italian "delicioso").
As I pull into the secure area of the school, guards walk around the car with a mirror, checking for bombs, except they don't really look. I park and am usually greeted by a few students and alas am ready to start my day of teaching. Repeat.
Friday, oh glorious Friday. I wake up early and head over to teach yoga to an older woman from work. Around 8 or 9 o'clock, Indian, Bangladeshi and Sri Lankan workers meet in the desert area outside our apartments for their weekly cricket matches. They play until around noon, when it's time for Friday prayers or earlier when the heat starts to beat them. These same men who I see falling asleep on the way to work, who pick up garbage on the side of the road, who live in small apartments with many others and send most of their pay home, raise their voices to cheer for points and good plays. The saving grace of their lives, this open space in which to play, to be human. The saving grace of mine, time to think, breathe and relax while listening to the happiness of those who seem to have so little. I sip my cappuccino, sit on the cushions by my window, watching the match, reading a book, thinking about the past, present and future. I smile at the blessings of life, appreciate my charmed life and the opportunities it allows. I am at peace. Often I take my privileged self to the gym at the Hilton and enjoy my membership by exercising, swimming and sitting on the beach.
This Friday morning, I am off to brunch in celebration of a first birthday. I will spend time with some of my closest friends in Kuwait and I will be grateful to be surrounded by kindness and comaraderie. Someone just scored a point in that cricket match outside. YAAAAAAH!
posted by Granola Girl at
11:18 PM
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