tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5571718273109630492023-10-09T12:07:56.642+03:00this cat's abroadThis Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.comBlogger379125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-75729358906108169862010-12-16T13:37:00.026+03:002010-12-16T18:45:53.844+03:00Whipping up a Little Excitement for the Holidays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TQonsDdrDrI/AAAAAAAAAms/FrE23wNfByo/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 172px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TQonsDdrDrI/AAAAAAAAAms/FrE23wNfByo/s320/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551293128485047986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">The little window flap on my advent calendar assure</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">d m</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">e,</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">moments befor</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">e I </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">popped a plum pudding-shaped choccie into my mouth (for t</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">his is what advent is all about for h</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">eretics like me: chocolate) that we are "9 sleepies" away from Christmas. And although the very fact that I was able to buy an advent calendar in Iraq is newsworthy enough, I find myself in a somewhat contemplati</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ve mood as today is </span><s style="font-family: verdana;">yet another</s><span style="font-family:verdana;"> a holiday. I do feel behoved to mark it in some way since my normal fashion of acknowledging holidays here (i.e., sleeping in) w</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as wrested from my grasp </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">this morning and replaced with the very wet nose of a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> very alert border collie unacquainted the niceties </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(i.e., sleeping in) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">of Islamic holy days and hellbent on a walk.</span><div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">So today is Ashura: what for Shia Muslims is a Day of Mourning for the martyrdom of the Prophet's (pbuh) grandson Husain ibn Ali some 1300 years ago </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">during the Battle of Karbala - which just happens to be in Iraq which in itself may or may not be interesting. Or to put it in a slightly less charitable light, it's</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> National Self-Flagellation Day. Because the Reason-</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">for-the-Season is a somewhat sombre one, and although this practice has been widely and loudly condemned by Muslim (including Shia) clerics, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>nutjo</s></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>bs</s> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Flagellation Fanatics</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - considered heretics by moderate Muslims - sl</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ash themselves quite enthusiastically with sharp pointy things like swords and razors, or if you are among the</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>nutjobs</s> Flower of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Flagellation Fan</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TQotIN8P8DI/AAAAAAAAAm0/HkvxO-bgxRQ/s1600/z.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 113px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TQotIN8P8DI/AAAAAAAAAm0/HkvxO-bgxRQ/s320/z.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551299109892124722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">atics</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> a </span><span style="font-style: italic;">zanjeer </span>(see left).</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />I have no bone to pick w</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ith individuals </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">who want to shred their skin to t</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">he consistency of pulled pork, as it seems that most main-stream religions have had to contend with flagellants in some form or another (not</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hing will drive the bubonic plague from your dhithole of a village like a hundred lashes to the back) at one time or another, but I do take exception to seeing pictures of these individuals - and their bloodied <s>abused</s> children - on the internet.<br /><br />You may thank me now for not including any photos of</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> these <s>nutjobs</s> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Flagellation Fanatics</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> in action. You're welcome.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Now the Muslims in our region are either Sunni or they are not Muslims at all; nonetheless, today is a national holiday. My Kurdish students were </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">rather keen on their holiday today - not because they have any great rev</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">erence for what happens among the sword-wielding <s>nutjobs</s> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Flagellation Fanatics, but because they are Kurdish</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and any excuse is excuse enough for a holiday - or more accurately, a day off from work.<br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I once firmly believed that the </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Spanish </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">had already nailed </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the much </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">coveted </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">A</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">nything-for-a-Day-Off</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Crown. (They have even gone so far as to make Eid al-Adha [a.k.a. the Great Sheep Slaughter] a public holiday - oi vey!) But I have since been disabused of that notion. What is true, however, is that the Spanish have </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">raised to an art form </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">their uncanny ability to establish a <span style="font-style: italic;">puente (</span>literally a "bridge") which links the day off in question - regardless of what weekday it falls on - to a weekend, which as we all know normally begins at noon on Fridays, thereby creating a Ridiculously Long Weekend. Surely apart from the sheer existence of Anton</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">io Banderas and Javier Bardem, this is Spain's greatest contribution to humankind.<br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">So back to the Kurds. Quite simply, I have never encountered a people who have so many holidays - and they seem to have also figured out this <span style="font-style: italic;">puente </span>business all on their own. And because </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the Kurds </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">form a minority in thi</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">s Arab country, and the Christians <span style="font-family:verdana;">Kurds form an even smaller minority in this Kurdish region which </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">forms a minority in this Arab country</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, holidays - both civic and religious abound. Case in point: the Kurds celebrate three New Year's - Muslim, Western and Kurdish, all replete with days off from work and <span style="font-style: italic;">puentes</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My Christian students tell me that among Iraqis they have it the best except when they get ticked off about being unduly persecuted and then go running to France seeking asylum - but that usually happens in the south. Not only do they get every Muslim holiday off, but here in Kurdistan they are also give</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">n Christian holy days - and of course Iraqi and Kurdish civic holidays. It doesn't take a mathematical genius to figure out that they work about 2 and a half days a week. Compounded with the fact that most white collars work unti</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">l 2 or 4:00 in the afternoon, when quittin</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">g time comes (picture Fred Flintstone sliding down his brontosaurus' neck at the first toot of the 5:00 whistle-cum-screeching-bir<span style="font-family:verdana;">d)</span>, the<span style="font-family:verdana;">re is nary a gainfully employed employee to be found. I would add that I<span style="font-family:verdana;"> wouldn't be surprised if, at quitting time, there were hundreds of abandoned phones left on desks forlornly emitting sounds like 'helloooooo, are you there?", but </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the truth is, those on their other end </span>of the line have long buggered off</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Needless to say, things take a very long time to get done here.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I can't help but notice that next week (December 11th in fact) is Establishment of Kurdish Women’s<span style="font-family:verdana;"> Union</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span>Day, but I don't think it's a holiday. I'm terribly disappointed.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">I have no doubt that someone will take it off.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />By the way, I asked all of my students yesterday </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">what they</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> would be doing to mark Ashura. They looked at me as if I were feeble-minded. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sleep in</span>, they said. <span style="font-style: italic;">And watch those nutjobs slicing themselves up on TV.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></span><sup style="font-family: verdana;" id="cite_ref-17" class="reference"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=557171827310963049&postID=7572935890610816986#cite_note-17"><span></span></a></sup></div>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-23722663695109421152010-11-21T12:23:00.030+03:002010-11-22T18:22:39.654+03:00Oktober in November<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TOj5ZEpkNpI/AAAAAAAAAls/d-_ITeWrDVA/s1600/walter.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541953550619522706" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 207px; cursor: pointer; height: 180px;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TOj5ZEpkNpI/AAAAAAAAAls/d-_ITeWrDVA/s320/walter.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">It would seem that once again I have been remiss keeping this blog up-to-date</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, so I have set aside some quality time </span><s style="font-family: verdana;">because I'm bored and have nothing to do</s><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to do just that. After several fleeting moments of rummaging through my brain for some Entertaining Tidbit of Life in Kurdistan, I offer </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">you, dear reader, this:</span><br /><br /><u style="font-family: verdana;">Oktober in November</u><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ooooh, did you notice the </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">k</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> in October (or rather Oktober)? That was intentional. But why you ask? - because I am very clever and because the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Entertaining </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Tidbit of Life in Kurdistan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I wish to offer you is no less than this year's Oktoberfest. Or what might be more accurately called, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Oktoberfest à la Kurd.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Oktoberfest</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> à la Kurd</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Seriously? Indeed. Not only is Oktoberfest celebrated in Kurdistan but it is celebrated at our very own German biergarten (Yeah! - we have a beer garden! Booo! - it serves the most expensive beer on the planet!), the Deutscher Hof. In our neighbourhood of Ainkawa, the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Deutscher </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hof is a bit of an institution </span><em></em><span style="font-family:verdana;">because of its convivial outdoor venue (safely hidden behind high concrete walls) and the </span><em style="font-family: verdana;"></em><span style="font-family:verdana;">draught always on tap - thanks to Austrian Airways, which regularly </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">flies in kegs and kegs of beer at presumably extortionate rates, if the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">biergarten's equally extortionate prices are any indication (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">and is wont to hang its paraphernalia up everywhere in an effort to help us forget what an expensive airline it is).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But I digress.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Yes, for one extended weekend this October, stein after stein after stein of arguably the most expensive beer on the planet (15,000 dinar - or $13 per litre. To put it in perspective, I can buy a litre of Crown Royal rye whiskey for $15 here) was served to a raucous crowd hellbent on getting drunk (this is, after all, Erbil and there's little else to do here)</span>. <span style="font-family:verdana;">So really, it was no different than any other night in town. Apart from the fact that</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> it was more surreal than usual.<br /><br />Surreal you ask? - I mean, apart from the fact that we were celebrating Oktoberfest in Iraq?</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">When the temperature was still in the mid-40's Celsius? You'd think that would've been enough. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Indeed not.<br /><br />Did I not mention the Ethiopian waitresses decked out in dirndls? No? It would seem that these waif-like creatures were expected to navigate their way</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> through the garden's </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">raucous crowd (hellbent on getting drunk) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">bearing massive trays of equally massive litre-size glass steins. Needless to say, they didn't - or rather, they couldn't. Beer was trotted out one, or if you were lucky, two at a time. Did I not mention that these dirndl-clad Ethiopians were not only expected to make change (silly that), but also to change beer kegs (even sillier still)? Did I not mention that Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) was pressed into switching kegs when it became apparent that he wasn't going to get a beer until someone - namely His Royal Nibs - did?<br /><br />No? What about the</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Oom-pa-pa band</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Did I not mention the Oom-pa-pa band comprised of locals - all wearing lederhosen of course - led by a gentleman named Ramadan? Did I not mention that said Oom-pa-pa band only knew two songs which, over the course of </span><s style="font-family: verdana;">our very very expensive</s><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the evening got old very very fast? That <span style="font-style: italic;">The Too Fat Polka</span> (..."I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's Too Fat For Me - </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Oi</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >!!!!</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">") was tragically missing from their repertoire?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> That of the two songs in their "repertoire" (really, I had to put that into quotation marks), t</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">he only words the band actually knew were </span><span id="search" style="visibility: visible;font-family:verdana;" ><em>Ein, Zwei, Drei, Suffa!!</em></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Where o where was Walter</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" > Ostanek</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">? How can one even entertain the idea of having an Oktoberfest without the Grammy-award winning accordionist with the jack-o-lantern smile? And must the local staff wear dirndls and lederhosen? Weren't they embarrassed enough having to wear<span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">German national football team</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> jerseys and Dr. Seuss-like hats during this summer's World Cup when they were all clearly cheering for Spain and Argentina</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> And whose bright idea was it to serve waterpipes through the Bavarian Blowout? In between rounds of <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ein prosit, ein prosit, </span></span><em style="font-family: verdana;">g</em><em style="font-family: verdana;">emütlichkeit</em><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">...</span>" (sung by the Germans in the garden) you could hear the blub-blub-blub of waterpipes being drawn upon. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">For the love of God: </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the smoke wafting through the night sky was licorice-scented! That just isn't done during Oktoberfest. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And there were no goddamned pretzels! It's not that I didn't want to pay $50 for their German buffet (I didn't actually) - I just wanted a lousy pretzel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Let me be clear. It's not that I was unappreciative of our host Guenther's efforts to bring a little </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">g</em><em style="font-family: verdana;">emütlichkeit</em><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to Iraq, because I was. I really did have a barrel of fun. The dirndls and lederhosen made me chortle not a little bit - so a big <span style="font-style: italic;">danke </span>for that - and the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">massive litre-size glass steins of the</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> most expensive beer on the planet</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> did somehow lend a hand in dredging up lyrics to what I thought were long-forgotten Oktoberfest songs, which I sang for the enjoyment of all at the top of my lungs. In fact, I may have just out-Germaned the Germans. Did I mention that I can't sing?</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Well neither could they.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But if I could make one wee suggestion regarding next year's festivities - I mean, apart from securing the services of Mr. Ostanek and his accordion and getting in some pretzels (and Mr. This Cat would like to request that Austrian Airlines fly in a real Oktoberfest beer next time) and lowering the price of pretty much <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >everything </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">... perhaps Guenther might be prevailed upon to offer weight training classes </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> for his Ethiopian beer wenches </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">with an eye on upper arm exercises. Maybe a flat weight-training bench could be installed on top of the roof where all the empty beer kegs are stored. Not only will it whip their biceps and triceps into shape for hauling </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">those massive litre-size glass steins</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> next Oktoberfest (a great skill to have when they return to Addis Ababa), but it'll also give them something to do when they're not learning how to change a beer keg.<br /><br />Just a thought.<br /></span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-38909325861590994692010-10-13T12:00:00.020+03:002010-10-14T12:12:33.234+03:00Asinine Thoughts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TLVzqslKmZI/AAAAAAAAAlM/gXWtEuJbJq4/s1600/Donna.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 152px; float: left; height: 226px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527451295025895826" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TLVzqslKmZI/AAAAAAAAAlM/gXWtEuJbJq4/s320/Donna.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Enough for shedding blood ~ let us all live like donkeys.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />In spite of the fact that my moniker is that of a cat, I have a rather soft spot for donkeys. I have no doubt that the root of this affection is my none-worse-for-the-wear hand-knitted Phentex donkey Donna (a.k.a Donna the Donkey - left) whom I received on my 4th birthday (or possibly 5th - my mother will undoubtedly</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:0pt;" > </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">correct me on this). She has been with me ever since, and has uncomplainingly travelled with me everywhere - from Canada to Morocco to Spain to Slovakia to Italy to Turkey to Iraq. Among donkeys, she is a queen and is deserving of all praise and honour.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Needless to say, Donna has had a pretty good life - apart from <span style="font-family:verdana;">losing her powder blue sun hat and saddle many </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">many</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> years ago (which wasn't my fault. At all.). This pretty good</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> life of hers also sets her apart</span> from other donkeys. For whatever reason(s) you care to suggest, donkeys - and I suspect that this has been the case since Christ wore knee-pants (or even before) - are generally and woefully mistreated in all four corners of the world. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our (and everyone else's) idioms bear this out rather colourfully, if not sadly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Consequently, when we were living in the south of Spain, we became involved with the <a href="http://www.nerjadonkeysanctuary.com/">Nerja Donkey Sanctuary</a>, a small but hardworking rescue centre <span style="font-family:verdana;">whose mission was to offer refuge and medical treatment for abandoned, mistreated<span style="font-family:verdana;">, or unwanted donkeys.</span> Fo<span style="font-family:verdana;">r many donkeys, this sanctuary will prove to be their last earthly abode and as such, it's probably the closest they'll ever be to heaven before they </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">enter that Celestial Stable in the Sky.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> It's no coincidence that my friends and family generally find the</span>mselves having adopted a Spanish </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >burro </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as their Christmas</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> present.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (You're welcome.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So imagine my surprise when Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad advised me yesterday that there is - in Kurdistan - a <a href="http://www.kurdishglobe.net/displayArticle.jsp?id=074654AC0AA2A835C062790D3D9069B2">Kurdistan Donkeys Association</a>. In a country which seems to offer animals little respect or decency (correction: songbirds are well treated notwithstanding their teeny-weeny cages), one man, Omer Klol, has made it his life's work ensuring that donkeys receive the respect they oh-so deserve.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >"People don't understand because they have learned wrong about donkeys ... Because a donkey is unfortunate and obedient, people have no respect for it. But I say the donkey is clever and better than a human being."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Rock on Mr. Klol, who is, by the way, leader of the Donkey Party (I am having flashbacks to Canada's Rhinoceros Party one of whose lofty objectives was to count the Thousand Islands to ensure that the U.S. hadn't sto</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">len any). The Donkey Party chose their namesake for good reason: donkeys</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);"> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >don't kill one each other for power, money or politics, and they don't lie.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Donna has never lied. At least that I know of.<br /><br />Mr. Klol has been trying to whip up interest in his project for the past 5 years, but for the past</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> 20 years, he has worked tirelessly to teach Iraqis that donkeys deserve our respect. His still non-existent sanctuary, (which he refers to as a "Donkey Utopia") will go a long way to offer a heartfelt bray of thanks to those donkeys leading an undoubtedly shitty life in Iraq (apart from our veggie man's donkey - below, right - which looks very well cared for), and their numbers are decreasing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >"They [donkeys] were all killed in car accidents or by children offensively. And a large number of them have been taken away to southern citie</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >s."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Southern cities? That sounds ominous. I wonder if it's like that mythical farm that most of our childhood pets emigrated to while we were all tucked into our beds or still at school.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But a utopia it is. Mr. Klol feels that the best way to tip your hat to a donkey's long years of service is to allow it access to green fields with </span>flowers, food, water, and plenty of room to have sex. The latter is no joking matter. Not only is unbridled donkey love important for the donkey but for the country's seniors as well. The sanctuary-cum-donkey brothel will also be an</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />".. entertaining place for people, especially for the elderly people who have turned powerless to practice sex ... Instead of watching pornography, they can come to see the big brothers and big sisters while doing sex and enjoy it. It is not </span><span>haram </span><span style="font-style: italic;">for them."</span><br /><br />Iraqi seniors watching porn? Seriously - they do that here? W</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hy do I find that more disturbing than them watching two donkeys getting it on? How will I ever look at the half-dozen octogenarians who live in my neighbourhood again? Oh the shame of it all!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In any case, the sod hasn't been turned yet on Mr. Klol's donkey brothel. Although approved by the Kurdistan Regional Government, the cheques (or rather <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/10/gunning-for-iraq.html">trunkfuls of cash</a>) have not <span style="font-family:verdana;">been forthcoming. Until then, he has sent a letter to US President Barak Obama</span> asking for his support.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Why?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >"</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >His Democratic Party has a donkey as a symbol, and because </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Africa is where his father is from, which is the main homeland of donkeys."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well here's hoping that he won't have to wait donkey's years fo</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">r a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> response. In the meantime, I'm going to try very hard not to look at our</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TLV0DKJTdOI/AAAAAAAAAlU/sD09Nl8MalI/s1600/Delivery+Man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 236px; float: right; height: 158px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527451715278959842" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TLV0DKJTdOI/AAAAAAAAAlU/sD09Nl8MalI/s320/Delivery+Man.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> rathe</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">r aged veggie man (and his donkey), and wonder if he watches porn in his spare time, or will, in the future, be experiencing his love life vicariously thr</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ough his faithful little <span style="font-style: italic;">humar</span>.</span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-57278046414121177782010-10-05T13:49:00.020+03:002010-10-05T16:07:13.267+03:00Gunning for Iraq<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TKsddpA6EnI/AAAAAAAAAk8/T_Wn47atKHk/s1600/ak_47_toy_gun.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 133px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TKsddpA6EnI/AAAAAAAAAk8/T_Wn47atKHk/s320/ak_47_toy_gun.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524541762963116658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The other night as I was walking home from my Place of Gainful Employment, I couldn't help but notice on the corner patch of grass outside a pretty pink villa, a wee little boy labouring under the weight of a massive assault rifle. Now, this being a wee little boy, I immediately dismissed the rather alarming notion that the rifle might </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">actually </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">be real. But then, this being Iraq, I immediately accepted the (still) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">rather </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">alarming </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">notion that the rifle might actually be real. As I drew near, several thoughts rifled through my brain:<br /><br />1) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Both the wee little boy's sheer inability to raise - let alone carry - the rifle properly (he was partly scraping and dragging it along the pavement) and my now well-practised and somewhat expert assessment of the rifle - even from afar - indicated that this was no toy. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />2) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">There were no adults in sight. At all. Not that that would</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> make much of a difference if the rifle were loaded.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">3) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">His slightly older sister of (maybe) 8 years was doing an admirable job ignoring him from another part of the yard. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Not that that w</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ould</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> make much</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span> of a difference if the rifle were loaded.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4) The rifle was probably loaded.<br /><br />Yes, it pr<span style="font-family:verdana;">obably </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">was </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">load</span>ed because to an Iraqi, an unloaded gun is like a zebra without its stripes - something completely incomprehensible and utterly useless when it comes to shooting other people (or themselves). Even those guns fired off into the air to signal something even questionably joyous are loaded with live ammo. I have heard that in Kurdistan, more people are killed these days by earthbound bullets (who knew that bullets are wont to follow Newton's Universal Law of Gravitation?) ... which is why I stay indoors during all elections, census polls, all national and religious holidays (Muslim Syrian and Chaldean Christian), or whenever one of our pregnant neighbours approaches full-term.<br /><br />But no fear: until very recently - and this is from my students - every Iraqi house had at least one firearm in it. Now that relative peace has embraced Kurdistan, homes still have guns, but in fewer numbers. <span style="font-style: italic;">Are they loaded?</span> I ask my students. And then I go</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> on to explain that we can't keep a weapon loaded in our homes back in the Land of the Round Doorknobs.<br /><br />They look at me like I'm feeble-minded - or at the very least, like my government's policies on gun control are. <span style="font-style: italic;">How can you defend yourself?</span> they ask. As I begin to explain how firearm safety truly begins at home, I am quickly interrupted.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Look</span>, Saeed says (again, in a tone which suggests that I am mentally feeble). <span style="font-style: italic;">What if I am a businessman in Canada? I have to conduct a business transaction with someone in a different town. Do you think I'm really going to drive with a million US dollars in my trunk without a gun or a rifle beside me on the front seat?</span> (Rolls his eyes.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Well, usually we transfer money electronically and in the past used bank draughts or cheques</span>, I offer, knowing full well that these concepts are totally lost on what is by and large a bankless society. Everything is a cash transaction here, and I have no doubt that when Saeed needs to buy something in Kirkuk, he speeds out of town with a trunkful of cash and a clutch of guns on his lap.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I am marginally consoled by the fact that fewer people are buying fire sticks these days, but they are still everywhere. <span style="font-style: italic;">Everywhere. (</span>Well, apart from the mall where no-guns-allowed signs [see right] greet customers from every do</span><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TKsOWM5THPI/AAAAAAAAAkk/7NrbDRPgJLM/s1600/NO_GUNS.gif"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 127px; height: 127px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TKsOWM5THPI/AAAAAAAAAkk/7NrbDRPgJLM/s320/NO_GUNS.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524525142481509618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">or.) I have walked into my Place of Gainful Employment on many occasions and seen AK-47's lying on the waiting room chairs or leaning against the water cooler left, presumably, by one of our guards. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">The degree of indifference or insouciance they exhibit waving those things about - or, better yet, abandoning them while they tap a kidney - is a little unnerving.<br /><br />I can only imagine then that the cautionary tale of our less fortunate guards (in the Cairo branch of My Place of Gainful Employment) hasn't reached the ears of their Kurdish brethren. The guards, nodding off on the job, their sleepy heads jerking, jerking, jerking finally made contact with </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the muzzle-side-up (!) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ri</span>fles held fast between their knees and <span style="font-style: italic;">kaboom</span>! They - note my use of the plural pronoun, for this hap<span style="font-family:verdana;">pened on </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">separate occasions </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">- blew their damn fool heads right off.</span><br /><br />Although there is something intrinsically Darwinian in this <s>(and yes, I admit that I laughed when I heard this. Out loud.)</s>, a loaded rifle in the hands of a child is indeed chilling. Not only could that wee little boy have blown <span style="font-style: italic;">his </span>fool head off, but the way he was flailing about with that thing, he could've taken out any one of his neighbours. Or the <s>rather snarky</s> flip-flop-wearing Mister (I am greeted as <span style="font-style: italic;">Mister </span>by the neighbourhood guards and the donkey man who sells vegetables on our street) hellbent on arriving home without assorted holes in my person.<br /><br />... and did I stop like any sentient decent human being, chide him thoroughly for waving about a firearm, take the rifle away from him, ring the door of his house, and berate his mother for allowing her unattended four-year old to play with live weapons on the street? Did I do the right thing?<br /><br />Hell no. I ran home as fast as my jaunty red flip-flops could carry me and didn't look back. Besides, what if the rifle hadn't been loaded? I wouldn't have wanted to jump the gun, after all.<br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-34225987153866048712010-09-11T12:22:00.050+03:002010-09-12T12:19:55.634+03:00Life in the Fast Lane<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TItQoyMxEDI/AAAAAAAAAj0/roKverOsEog/s1600/Live_Fast_Die_Young_Rebel_Without_A_Cause.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 185px; height: 282px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TItQoyMxEDI/AAAAAAAAAj0/roKverOsEog/s320/Live_Fast_Die_Young_Rebel_Without_A_Cause.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515590830245613618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm going to be painfully honest here: Ramadan, which ended yesterday, wasn't so terribly awfully excruciatingly beastly this year, and consequently, I'm a bit conflicted. Maybe even disappointed. I rather enjoy hating Ramadan. It's one of the few perks of living in an Islamic country <s>and almost makes up for my not having a pension plan</s>: I get to grumble and kvetch for 30 days, venting my spleen <span style="font-style: italic;">ad nauseam</span></span><em></em><span style="font-family:verdana;"> about the hypocrisy I see in its observants and the travails of navigating the rather inconvenient waters of this holiest of months. Fiercely dedicated to my muse, and thanks to Ramadans endured in Morocco and (easily the worst thus far) <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2009/08/fast-furious.html">Turkey</a> - that most Islamic of secular countries - </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I've spent years honing my grumbling/kvetching/spleen-venting skills</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. So ...<br /><br />... so, I was all atingle about Ramadan 2010: <span style="font-style: italic;">the Iraqi Instalment. This, </span><span>I thought,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> should be particularly dreadful.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But it wasn't. Apart from one sole sandwich shop closing down for the month - thereby depriving me of one of the two somewhat pedestrian offerings on the menu that I can actually eat (both involving cheese and not much else)<span style="font-family:verdana;">, it was almost as if Ramadan never was.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Could it get much better than that?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The truth is, I'm being a tad ingenuous, <s>undoubtedly</s> perhaps wilfully so. Ainkawa, the Christian quarter of Erbil, is a Land that Ramadan Forgot - or, at least, is at pains to penetrate. For the past month, there have been no drummers drumming me awake at 3 a.m., no whining students (most had the common sense to just not take classes for the month), no scenes of blatant aggression between Fasters in the advanced stages of nicotine withdrawal, and no trigger-happy muezzins with their fingers on the volume control. I would add that until yesterday, temperatures were still in the 50's - no mean feat going without liquids when it's hot enough to watch water </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">evaporate </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as you pour it into a glass.<br /><br />Amazingly - at least to me - many Kurdish-Muslims I know didn't fast at all, and made no bones about it - to whom these past weeks, I raised many a glass in sincere salute.<br /><br />I openly drank <s>gin & tonics</s> water during class and no one took issue with i</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">t in spite of the fact that our 20-something-year old teacher - thankfully a temp - </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">told us (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">after being in the country for two whole weeks) with all the gravitas which </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">a </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">20-something-year old </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">can muster (which is a lot)</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">that if anyone were seen drinking or eating outside, they'd be fined at best or imprisoned at worst. I just laughed at her. I would add that her heightened level of cultural awareness and sensitivity was especially evident when she wore shorts to work. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why do boys keep asking for my phone number?</span> ... I <s>don't</s> miss her.<br /><br />(As an aside, when I broached the subject of Jail for Juice with my students, they looked at me as if I were mentally feeble.)<br /><br />Yup: the bars remained open. It was business as usual in our neighbourhood liquor stores. Mr. This Cat was able to buy cartons of German wheat beer during regular hours of operation and evade arrest. Taxis still roamed the streets - even at sundown - for fares. This was</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> a far cry from trying to find a driver in Tangier an hour before sunset to take us the 10 minutes from the port to the train station. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hum-dee-laaaah.</span><br /><br />In fact, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ramadan 2010: <span style="font-style: italic;">the Iraqi Instalment </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">was so painless that it was almost painful. I suppose there were trials of a sort. The local version of Turkey's traditional Ramadan bread (<span style="font-style: italic;">ramazan</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">pidesi </span>- the only thing that got us through the month there) was stuffed with dates (no thanks). True, at sunset yesterday, the very faint drone of a muezzin was carried </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">to our neighbourhood</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> on th</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TIteLQQDh9I/AAAAAAAAAkE/SirDaedqwS8/s1600/Done.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 192px; height: 128px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TIteLQQDh9I/AAAAAAAAAkE/SirDaedqwS8/s320/Done.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515605716079183826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">e evening breeze, marking the beginning of Eid, the end of Ramadan. And of course, the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">non-fasting boys across the street from us (w</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ho belong to pretty much the only Muslim family in the neighbourhood</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">) celebrated every post-sunset by setting off squibs in their front yard causing every dog within a 20-block radius to go ballistic. More importantly, it caused <span style="font-style: italic;">our </span>dog to go ballistic. Celeste spent much of the month barking her fool head off, running around the yard in circles, and trying to decide whether or not she wanted to clear our 2-metre garden gate - which she could easily do - and chew them to bits. Fortunately, her good sense (or my continual shrieks of Celeste! Celeste! Come here!) prevailed as I locked her inside.<br /><br />After Week Two of the firecrackers, near-deafened by her incessant crazed barking, I stopped barricading her in the house. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, hearing our dog go certifiably (and very loudly) insane would curb their incendiary tendencies. Or maybe their mother would come out of the house and thrash them soundly. <span style="font-style: italic;">Those squibs are making that dog across the street go crazy,</span> she'd say. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Thrash-</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">thrash</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. <span style="font-style: italic;">You're all going to wake the baby</span>. Thrash-thrash. <span style="font-style: italic;">Stop it now so I can get some peace.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Thrash-</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">thrash</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Neither of which happened.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><br />So yes, there were trials.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'll take this opportunity to end this little non-diatribe of the Ramadan That Never Was with a repeat performance from an earlier blog posting - from the end of Ramadan 2006: <span style="font-style: italic;">the Moroccan Madness.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">… and of course, it’s a great time to be a cow or a goat because the clock has started ticking for this country’s sheep. Seventy days until the mass slaughter at Eid el Kebir – last year, over 6 million ovine th</span><span style="font-style: italic;" lang="EN-CA">roats were sliced with knives of varying sharpness and cleanliness, by hands of varying degrees of skill. Tick, tick, tick ... too </span><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-style: italic;">bad I won't be here to enjoy it. Too bad I’ll be </span><span style="font-style: italic;">anywhere else in the world</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> this time around</span>.<br /><br />Of course, in this part of the world, unlike Morocco, they <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>slaughter cows during The Great Sheep Sacrifice. And for that matter, I probably <span style="font-style: italic;">won't</span> be able to get out of Dodge and avoid all the Primal Animal Panic & Blood & Death associated with pleasing a God who is generally pleased by </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA">Primal Animal Panic & Blood & Death</span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA">. I can only hope that, like Ramadan, The Great Sheep </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span>(</span><span style="font-style: italic;">cum </span>Cow) </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA">Sacrifice </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA">will be kept to a minimum here in Ainkawa. In fact, I'm sure it will be. Unless it's those squib-wielding boys from across the street. I bet they're pretty handy with a knife. Won't our border collie love hearing a sheep or two bleating from across the way? That'll be the day that, with a heart<span style="font-family:verdana;">y </span></span></span></span><em style="font-family: verdana;">allahu Akbar, s</em><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family:verdana;">h</span>e'll decide to clear the garden gate.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TItXLaU78TI/AAAAAAAAAj8/KwlW3qrVLy4/s1600/sheep.1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 70px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TItXLaU78TI/AAAAAAAAAj8/KwlW3qrVLy4/s320/sheep.1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515598022202618162" border="0" /></a><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-32752644975442577202010-08-31T10:16:00.025+03:002010-08-31T13:50:10.265+03:00Death Takes a Holiday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/THytb65l5bI/AAAAAAAAAjg/o6szJqP5TUc/s1600/1150445_df63_625x1000.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 188px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/THytb65l5bI/AAAAAAAAAjg/o6szJqP5TUc/s320/1150445_df63_625x1000.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511470739173533106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I suppose that death is seldom amusing unless you find yourself in the unlikely situation of spending the weekend with a cadaver named Bernie. Having said that (and rest assured that there are no stiffs named Bernie in what I am about to relate) death popped by our neighbourhood recently and took on - how shall I put this? - an almost carnival-like atmosphere.<br /><br />It all started with the ambulance. Truth be told, I didn't even know that there were </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ambulances in Erbil; in fact, my students continually remind me that I must call a taxi should I ever required medical attention <s>to which I respond, should I require medical attention, I'll call my travel agent</s>. Nonetheless, one Tuesday morning (yes, the day is important), an ambulance <span style="font-style: italic;">sans </span>flashing lights and blaring siren pulled up to the house kitty-corner to ours. (Our house sits on a corner lot at the intersection of two alleys.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I think someone died,</span> I told Mr. This Cat's Not Abroad. <span style="font-style: italic;">Do you suppose it's the old coot in the silk pyjamas?</span><br /><br />An aside: the house in question is inhabited by an old coot who potters about his front yard in silk pyjamas, regardless of the season or time of day. The upper floor of the villa is rented by the Iranian family who I'm pretty sure masterminded our <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/07/curious-incident-of-dog-in-night-time.html">break-in</a> from last May.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Ask any Kurd and they will tell you that all Iranians are thieves, as they've told us repeatedly.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />In any case, someone was carted off in the ambulance to the <s>charnel house</s> hospital and for the time being that was that. The time being until the next day.<br /><br />Very very early the next day (Wednesday), Mr. This Cat and I were woken by the keening ululations that only a Middle Eastern woman can produce. I'm pretty sure it's genetic.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I knew it: Mr. Silk Pyjamas is dead,</span> I mumbled, still half asleep. <span style="font-style: italic;">This'll be interesting</span>.<br /><br />The </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ululations continued for most of the morning, but around 8:00 a new sound joined the fray: the sound of a Big Top tent being erected in the street outside of our house. By on the street, I mean in the middle of the road completely blocking traffic. And by outside of our house, I mean in front of the gate w<span style="font-family:verdana;">hich leads to our driveway</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Good thing we don't own a car</span>, I noted.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />We peeked out the window and watched as car after car approached (from a different street of course, as the main street was now cut off), disgorging scores of condolence-bringing friends, family, and colleagues to the house. A mini van arrived and packages of prepared food - enough to feed Saddam's Republican Guard - were carried into the house.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's catered!</span> I cried. <span style="font-style: italic;">Shouldn't neighbours be showing up with meatloaf and lemon bars? Where's the tuna casserole?</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Capitalizing on this break in the action, Mr. This Cat slipped out and went to work. <s>Bastard</s></span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Hammer hammer hammer. Scrape scrape scrape. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Ooolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>Hammer hammer hammer. Scrape scrape scrape. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Ooolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" ></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />For the love of God. Hoping to drown out all of the assorted ambient sounds of mourning, I went outside and put on the sprinkler. Sprinklers are often maligned as noise-blocking instruments - and for good reason. From the far recesses of the house, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Hammer hammer hammer. Scrape scrape scrape. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Ooolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > Hammer hammer hammer. Scrape scrape scrape. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Ooolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >oolllooooooolllooooo</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >! </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">sought me out and found me. Celeste, in the throes of her midmorning nap, slept the sleep of angels. Were angels border collies.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I called Mr. This Cat. <span style="font-style: italic;">What's the Big Top for? You don't think they're going to lay Mr. Silk Pyjamas out, do you?</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" > A wake maybe? - it's a Christian neighbourhood, perhaps there'll be whiskey.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >And some heart-rendering versions of Danny Boy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">It's 52º today,</span> he pointed out.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">True. Mr. Silk Pyjamas wouldn't last an hour.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After an hour or so of the </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >hammering, scraping, and ooolllooooooollloooooing</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, I padded into the kitchen for a <s>bloody Mary</s> drink and saw a man in our yard.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >There really shouldn't be a man in our yard</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, I thought to myself. And then I saw the second one.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >There really shouldn't be two men in our yard</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, I thought to myself. And then I saw that the first one was disconnecting the garden hose from the sprinkler, and the second one was adjusting the outside tap to increase the water pressure. Now a wise woman once taught me that a tongue lashing in any language is a tongue lashing so ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">HEY! Excuse me! What are you doing?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> And yes, I knew that they probably had no clue what I was saying. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >HELLO?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (that word they know because <span style="font-style: italic;"></span> to a Kurd, <span style="font-style: italic;">hello</span> means goodbye). </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >HELLO?!!</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">While I stood on my hitherto secure lawn, I watched (rather incredulously, truth be told) as Man #1 carried our garden hose out into the street and Man #2 look at me blankly, turn away from me, and walk away.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">No fucking way</span>, I thought. That's a direct quote I would add. Because I was watering the lawn from city water (opposed to water from our roof-top tank), I walked over to the motor which runs the pump which pumps the water from the ground, and flipped it off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not surprisingly, a few moments later Man #3 - without bothering to knock or ring the bell - entered our yard. I confess that I felt a bit sorry for Man #3 because he was clearly shanghaied into speaking with me as he was the only one among the construction crew who could speak even a smidgen of English. Smidgen being a gross exaggeration. No worries, for his lack of English didn't impede my ability to tear a strip off of him because a tongue lashing </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">in any language </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">He skulked away after my tirade, clearly not understanding any of it but probably getting the gist of it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not surprisingly, a half hour later, Man #4 - who had the foresight to ring the bell - entered our yard.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> He actually could speak English and I suspect he was hauled off the street to be the Big Top Tent's spokesperson.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">There is an emergency</span>, he said. He pointed to the House in Mourning.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes, I know</span>. I replied. <span style="font-style: italic;">But what gives those men </span><span>(I pointed to the Big Top)</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the right</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> to come into my home without knocking, take my garden hose, and increase the water without asking me? They did not ask, and they did not apologize to me. This is very <span style="font-weight: bold;">very </span>disrespectful </span>(this was my trump card)<span style="font-style: italic;">. I am a woman alone in my house. Would they do this to a Kurdish woman?<br /><br /></span>He had the good grace to hang his head<span style="font-style: italic;">. Yes I know. I am sorry, but they didn't know you were here. They thought the house was empty.<br /><br />My front door was open! </span>I screamed, for I leave the front door open to catch a cross breeze (which it doesn't).<br /><br />Any and all activity on the street came to a halt and everyone turned to watch. Once again, I was the in-flight entertainment. Perhaps sensing my frustration or just wanting to see a good floor show, Celeste roused herself from her midmorning nap and joined the fracas, padding over to Man #4. She sat herself </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">at his feet </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as close as caninely-possible, and looked at him very intently. She blinked at him and lolled her tongue and wouldn't break eye contact with him. She was far from threatening-looking but she didn't need to be. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Kurds <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/05/open-letter-to-people-of-erbil.html">don't like dogs</a>.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> He stepped back.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />My front door was open! </span>I reiterated (and yes, screamed). <span style="font-style: italic;">The water was on! The sprinkler was on! The motor was on! They had to disengage the sprinkler!</span> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >They could have rung the bell. They could have asked me. I would have said yes (a blatant lie).</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">I am a woman alone in my house. Would they do this to a Kurdish woman?</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > No they wouldn't and they didn't! They came here and walked in. I will call my husband. He will be very </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >very </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >angry. This is very </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >very </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >disrespectful.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Never underestimate the fearful force of the disrespect-card. It is a formidable thing.<br /><br />He apologized again and then nodded to the motor. I growled and stormed over to the motor, flipping the switch and watching as water coursed through our garden house, powered by our electricity. In a country where electricity is more dear (by which I mean expensive) than almost life itself, I was peeved.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I did call Mr. This Cat, and our Place of Gainful Employment - appalled by this breach in courtesy - offered to send over two guards bearing AK-47s to speak with the Men from the Big Top. As fetching as this thought was (and it was), I was mindful of the fact that funerary operations were about to come to full swing, and Kalashnikovs - well, any assault rifle for that matter - might be a little <span style="font-style: italic;">trop</span>. I did appreciate the offer and I won't lie and say that I wasn't tempted. Truth be told, since our break-in, I've been a little skittish about strangers walking into our yard unannounced and taking things. I can be so unreasonable.<br /><br />A few hours later, the hose was returned, by which I mean, left in a serpentine coil outside the front gate. When Mr. This Cat came home that night, he took it and stashed it away in the garden shed at the side of our house which oddly houses one lone spade (the other seized by The Not Very Secret Police as evidence of our break-in) and a fully operational toilet. This country never ceases to amaze me.<br /><br />That night the period of mourning started with a bang - or rather a whimper. The inside perimeter of the Big Top in front of our house was lined with chairs on which sat many dour-faced men. They spoke not a word and they did not a thing but sit poker-straight in their straight back chairs. Mr. Silk Pyjamas was from a Christian house so I expected some rosary-clacking, chanting, or praying but it was silent - save for the flap flap flapping of the tea boy's flip-flops and the churning of the <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/06/swamp-thing.html">Swamp Thing</a> which sat at the mouth of the Big Top, watered from our garden house.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">How's it being run?</span> I asked Mr. This Cat.<br /><br />He pointed to a very long extension cord which ran under the gate of the house across the street from us. <span style="font-style: italic;">It's going into the widow's yard.</span><br /><br />I hope they asked her first.<br /><br />The next day I asked my students about funeral customs. It happened that in this particular class, all my students were Muslim but they believed that Christian funeral practices were much the same as theirs. <span style="font-style: italic;">Three days</span>, they said. <span style="font-style: italic;">They will mourn for three days.</span><br /><br />Well it wasn't three days. It was eight: One week plus a day. For </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">eight </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">days, from sun-up to nigh on midnight, dour-faced men sat outside our home under the Big Top and did and said nothing. Their womenfolk (I can't believe I just used that word) were confined to the house where they ululated with reckless abandon. The Swamp Thing churned and churned for 18 hours a day. Mr. This Cat frightened wandering mourners and the dour-faced men out of their socks every morning when he opened the gate to take Celeste out for a walk. I spent my days picking up empty water bottles and other bits of detritus tossed over our 3-metre garden wall by the dour-faced men who seemed to be a loss at what to do with the garbage cans provided by the Big Top men. Every waking moment Celeste barked at the overflow of dour-faced men who used our front gate as a leaning post where they could sip their tea, and by Day Five, I stopped calling her back. Drivers, who normally use our street as a short-cut, sped their cars </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">down it </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">at break-neck speed (as is their habit) only to have to come to a screeching halt metres away from the tent. <span style="font-style: italic;">Couldn't they put up a sign at the end of the street? A barrier of some sort?</span> I whined, as another car narrowly missed the tea boy. That aforesaid carnival-like atmosphere - worthy of a David Lynch film - lasted eight long days.<br /><br />On Day Eight, the Big Top was dismantled and the men - presumably including Men #1, 2, 3, and possibly 4 - left without a word. What they did leave behind was their garbage, which remained where it was until our orange-jumpered street cleaners arrived a few days later for their weekly tour of duty.<br /><br />I found out after the fact that Mr. Silk Pyjamas was not the Man of Honour at these proceedings, but rather his wife. I didn't know he had a wife.<br /><br />I wonder if she wore silk pyjamas too.<span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-5365936868138478012010-08-02T20:46:00.014+03:002010-08-16T14:13:46.231+03:00Of Vikings & Argonauts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFcFU0U6wxI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/0MDzv2j0AH4/s1600/JASON28-FacingArgonauts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 160px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFcFU0U6wxI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/0MDzv2j0AH4/s320/JASON28-FacingArgonauts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500871325058253586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">It was 1963, and Jason's argonauts were grumbling about their crap voyage aboard the Argos which included lengthy sword battles against harpies, a giant bronze </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">- well, bronze giant, a </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hydra (a 7-headed water beast-thingy), and if that's not well enough, a skeleton army - or rather an army of skeletons.<br /><br />Forty-seven years later, I feel for those argonauts. Not so much for Jason, because their was a kingship at the end of his quest for the Golden Fleece (poor sheep), but those poor argonauts got the short end of the stick. And why do I feel for them? Because last week, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I got a phone call from the <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/search?q=viking">Mirinda-pushing wench</a> at our </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Soon-to-Be Favourite Travel Agent</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, advising us that there had been a change in our</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> flight time/ Given that out flight was at 1:40 a.m. (this is, after all Iraq), this was welcome news indeed.<br /><br />But no! It seems that the ability to convey the change in our flight details is more than her</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> smattering of English can cope with: Our flight is 5 days earlier. Or, alternatively, 5 days later. Given that friends <s>i.e., people who actually seem to like us</s> have made plans to join us from halfway around the world, it seems rather churlish to take the latter option and spend 28 hours with them. On the other hand, it's a bit prickly having </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">to give our decision to the Mirinda-pushing wench within 2 hours, considering that Our Boss is in Baghdad and completely incommunicado. Decisions Decisions.<br /><br />So after a threatened air traffic controllers strike (by the Greek air traffic controllers, if that even needs to be said) our Viking flight left 2 hours late (one hour of which was in the plane without benefit of air, fresh or manufactured and in the company of every teething colicky baby in Kurdistan). It was unnotable but for the fact that there were a dozen more passengers in the air than meals in the airs (<span style="font-style: italic;">if anyone would like to give their meal up for another passenger and receive a free alcoholic drink, please press the call button overh</span><span style="font-style: italic;">--</span>- *<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>* went I: </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">*<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>* </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">*<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>*</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> *<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>*</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> *<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>* </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">*</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>* </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">*<span style="font-weight: bold;">PING</span>*</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">bring me a goddamn beer!</span>)</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - we are in Athens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's hot and muggy but it's on average 16 º C cooler here than in Erb<span style="font-family:verdana;">il</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFcRMhypX9I/AAAAAAAAAjY/eV6Lsg1bmmA/s1600/logo-Viking+Hellas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 83px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFcRMhypX9I/AAAAAAAAAjY/eV6Lsg1bmmA/s320/logo-Viking+Hellas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500884376783249362" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">, but </span>it's possible that we're <span style="font-family:verdana;">the only tourists in the city who appreciate such niceties.</span> So while we wait for our </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> frie</span>nds <s>i.e., people who actually seem to like u</s></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>s</s> to </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">join us in two more days, I have one thing to say, <span style="font-style: italic;">Stavros: bring me another ouzo!</span><br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-23801203980225659382010-07-29T07:18:00.047+03:002010-07-29T21:58:29.160+03:00The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time: Part the Last<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFEBsEOb4RI/AAAAAAAAAi4/GrFGa-8b5Yk/s1600/silv00t.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px; float: left; height: 201px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499178476556247314" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFEBsEOb4RI/AAAAAAAAAi4/GrFGa-8b5Yk/s320/silv00t.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">To <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/">conclude</a>...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It has been a long evening and it is time to part company. Opening her car door, our Boss pauses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"You know," she says. "You should take photos of the damage to show the police tomorrow."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"What a great idea!" I respond, "What a shame that our camera was stolen as well. Perhaps I could draw a reasonable facsimile."<br /><br />Duly chastised, she suggests,"Do you want me to send a guard over from </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">work? Would you feel safer?"<br /><br />"Honestly, no. I suspect that this is the safest house in Iraq right now. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Besides, t</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">here's nothing left to steal."<br /><br />Back in the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">House in Complete Disarray, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I begin the labourious job of making things less topsy-turvy, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Celeste who is still acting like a bit of a stoner.<br /><br />"Look - blood!" Mr. This Cat suddenly cries, holding aloft a rather jaggedy shard of bloodstained glass. "It's evidence! One of the thieves must have cut himself on it as he opened the door through the broken window. We need to give this to the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, or the Really-Secret </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq) tomorrow." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I run to the kitchen and grab one of the few prized possessions not stolen by the thieves: a ziplock storage bag into which he carefully deposits the shard. "Chain of custody, you know ..."<br /><br />"Yes, we need to ensure the integrity of evidence." I nod knowingly. It's not for nothing that we've spent the last 20 years </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">religiously </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">watching every episode of Law & Order. Time well spent!<br /><br />Time passes. It is the morning, and we are at </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">station of the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows. In total</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> there are 5 of us: Mr. This Cat & I, Our Boss, Our Landlord, and a Kurdish Colleague of ours who speaks excellent English. Because of the flurry of phone calls made the night before by Our Boss'</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Well-Connected Friend in the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Private Security Business, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">we are to see a director, or possible The Director - </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">these nuances are seldom clear - </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">first.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">To the backdrop of Arab music videos whining at top volume on the television, Mr. This Cat is asked to tell A/The Director what happened; as I am a woman, I am not. Our Boss interjects. Our Landlord interrupts. <span style="font-style: italic;">In</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">safety, accountability, this is a crime, security</span>, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, they're working for an American NGO, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened</span></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">punctuate the ululations of lovesick Lebanese chanteuses.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />A/The Director turns to Mr. This Cat. "Do you know who did this?"<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Jesus Mary & Joseph!<br /><br />Mr. This Cat suddenly recalls the vital piece of evidence tucked safely away in his man-bag, and he triumphantly hands the ziplock baggie to A/The Director.<br /><br />A/The director looks at at with unfeigned disinterest, opens a desk drawer and tosses it in, presumably for all of eternity.<br /><br />"We do not have DNA labs here. We are not that advanced," he says. "This is not CSI."<br /><br />Advanced enough to watch CSI, I think ....</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />From this (i.e., that we don't know who the guilty party is) we are made to understand that the interview is over. A/The Director has made good on whatever favour he owed someone by seeing us personally, and we are now to go to the Detectives to make a full report. And by <span style="font-style: italic;">we </span>I mean Mr This Cat, for </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as I am a woman, my presence is completely unnecessary. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I go anyway.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />As we leave, he tells us that in the 20 years he's been A/The</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Director of the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, nothing like this has ever happened.<br /><br />Down a flight of stairs and through a courtyard we go, until we reach the cramped office of the Detectives of the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not-Very-Secret Secret Police</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. One of the detectives was at our House of Disarray the previous night, and I am momentarily tempted to ask him for my garden trowel back. We - by which I mean us and a host of unoccupied police staff - sit in big overstuffed armchairs which, like most of the furniture in Erbil's government offices, looks like it was either prised out of a '72 Chevrolet Impala or fr</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">om a salon belonging to Louis XIV.<br /><br />With the help of our Kurdish Colleague, we (by which I mean Mr. This Cat </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">for </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as a woman, my presence is completely unnecessary) recount our story. The Lead Detective makes careful notes and then, once the report is completed, barks something at one of his unoccupied staff, and leaves. Before leaving he tells us that in the 10 years he's been a </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Not-Very-Secret Secret Police </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">officer, nothing like this has ever happened.<br /><br />The Junior Detective - identified as such by our Kurdish Colleague - takes the notes and then copies them by longhand onto sheets of paper separated by carbon paper.<br /><br />"They still make carbon paper?" I whisper to Mr. This Cat. "And if he's making copies, why didn't the Lead Detective just use carbon from the beginning? Why have it copied out? And don't they have a photocopier? Couldn't they have just xeroxed it?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />My Journey through the Heart of Photocopying Darkness is interrupted by a rapid exchange between Junior and Our Kurdish Colleague, leaving both looking equally exasperated.<br /><br />"He doesn't understand," our Kurdish Colleague nods his head towards Junior, "why you just won't tell the police who did this. I've tried to explain that you've just moved to the neighbourhood, but he wants to know who you are accusing </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">specifically</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. He needs it for the report."<br /><br />Yes, we are being frightfully wilful and uncooperative about this. We decide, to mollify Junior, to not so much accuse as to just mention the Iranian neighbours (his ears perk up at this because he knows, like all Kurds, that Iranians are nothing but thieves) and </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the clients of the Woman We All Believe to be a Whore who lives across the street.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Our police report - originals and I think one copy - are shuffled together, punched with holes, and secured with strands of bright red wool. The wool is looped through the holes and gathered together in a large bow. I am briefly reminded of every primary school project I have ever made and struggle to prevent a blood-curdling scream from passing my lips. Once he has finished, we are told that we must bring this </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">to the Judiciary and be questioned by a judge there. The judge will make a decision as to whether our situation is indeed a <span style="font-style: italic;">case </span>and worthy of a police investigation.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Is he serious?</span> I cry.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Indeed he is.<br /><br />We have now added a "courier" - a lackey whose sole job it is to smoke and carry our Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow - to our motley group of pilgrims. We drive off to the Judiciary - what in fact looks like a private villa and, on closer inspection, proves to be a private villa, but one commandeered by the government. There are dozens of plaintiffs milling about, all holding files and reports (but none as pretty as ours), as well as a host of men with AK-47's, and a small boy whose day is comprised by running to the outside tap, filling a very large bucket with water, and running back inside to fill the waiting room's <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/06/swamp-thing.html">Swamp Thing</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Shouldn't he be in school?</span> I ask.<br /><br />We find a patch of unused wall and lean against it. We wait. And wait. Across from me is an old woman for whom the word old does her no justice. She is beyond ancient. As I wonder what crime has been perpetrated against her (be</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">sides the ravages of time), she heaves herself up from her chair and staggers towards me. I fear she is about to die and topple into my arms, but instead - harpy that she is - she screeches at me, wags her finger in my face and, with her other hand, points at my stomach. I feel like I am in an outtake of <span style="font-style: italic;">Invasion of the Body Snatchers </span>(1978). I follow her pointing withered claw. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ahhhhh</span>, it seems that the bottom of my t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a good 2 centimetres of my midriff. I suspect the words <span style="font-style: italic;">infidel </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">whore</span> were a part of her tirade.<br /><br />"Old woman: you picked the wrong </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">fucking </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">day to give me grief over 2 centimetres of skin!" I snap at her (in my head). Instead, I smile politely and tuck in my shirt, and churlishly hope that she has been the victim of a home invasion.<br /><br />Time passes. We are called into a judge's office which, without a doubt, possesses the largest and most efficient Swamp Thing in the whole of the Middle East. We are both required to stand before him while he peruses the information in our </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Police Report With the Bright Red Woolly Bow</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and assume the demeanour of supplicants. We are then asked a series of questions - and by <span style="font-style: italic;">we </span>I mean Mr. This Cat for I am but a woman and have no business being there - during wh</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ich he takes notes.<br /><br />He asks Mr. This Cat who has robbed our home.<br /><br />He scribbles some more and then we are made to understand that the interview is over. As we are leaving, he tells our Kurdish Colleague that he is taking this matter very seriously, and that he will recommend to the police that they arrest someone as soon as possible. If only we knew who did it ...<br /><br />At least he has the good grace not to tell us that in the 40 years he's been a judge, nothing like this has ever happened.<br /><br />These events transpired several weeks ago, and although the judge did in fact deem our situation a <span style="font-style: italic;">case</span> and worthy of investigation, we have no clue what if anything was actually investigated. After a little time passed, our Kurdish</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Colleague phoned the police on our behalf and was told that there had been no arrests; however, should any thieves be caught red-handed in the near future, the police will, during the interrogation, ask the suspect in custody if he stole our goods as well. Excellent plan.<br /><br />And there you have it - our very own Curious Incident of the Dog in th</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">e Night-time: a dog which probably </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">did do something in the night-time</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and a theft - but no horse and no murder (although I confess to having murderous thoughts at the Judiciary.) At least in the Conan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFEjNl-9ygI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HND-JP9U52I/s1600/doybl660.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 144px; float: right; height: 131px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5499215336437565954" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TFEjNl-9ygI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HND-JP9U52I/s320/doybl660.gif" border="0" /></a>D</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">oyle version</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, Holmes not only solved the murder but recovered Silver Blaze. Interestin</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">gly, the prized racehorse was found at the neighbours. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hmmmm</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>... m</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">aybe I should pay a little visit to the Iranians. You just never know what might turn up <s>(eReader)</s>.<br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-34947776097751142412010-07-21T10:30:00.016+03:002010-07-21T14:03:21.444+03:00The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time: Part the First<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TEaoCwNQPsI/AAAAAAAAAig/dMeqRpP-UGA/s1600/inderrx.1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 190px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 280px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496265160505966274" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TEaoCwNQPsI/AAAAAAAAAig/dMeqRpP-UGA/s320/inderrx.1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time: Part the First<br /><br /></span>(with apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br /><br />"Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >"To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br />"The dog did nothing in the night-time."</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br />"That was the curious incident," remarked </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >This Cat's Abroad.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, yes, yes, Sherlock Holmes may have beaten me to this quip by a hundred-some years, but, as God is my witness, those very words were coursing through my tiny febrile brain several weeks back when Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I came home to a House in Complete Disarray.<br /><br />So, several weeks back, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I came home to</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> a House in Complete Disarray. It was 9:30 at night, and all of the lights were on in</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the house and the side door was open - not something we usually do since we earned our Home Safety Badges all those years ago when in Cubs and Brownies. Naturally, I assume that this is </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Mr. This Cat's' doing (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Home Safety Badge notwithstanding) and as I pass through the brightly lit kitchen into the hallway leading upstairs, I make my displeasure clear to him under no uncertain terms.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">How could you forget to lock the side door</span>? I gently chide him. Then my feet begin </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TEa6XjhyuSI/AAAAAAAAAiw/vq3SX4sU_yM/s1600/homeSafety.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 130px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 130px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496285309089003810" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TEa6XjhyuSI/AAAAAAAAAiw/vq3SX4sU_yM/s320/homeSafety.gif" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">to crunch - or more accurately, something under my feet begins to crunch.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Glass</span>, Mr. This Cat announces. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">There's glass everywhere</span></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">!</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />We turn on the lights - for the downstairs hallway is the only room in the house to be in the dark (although admittedly, Mr. This Cat and I are in the dark as well, but that's more of a metaphor) - and find that the window next to the still open side door has been smashed. The lock of this door has no key (or at least, Our Landlord never gave us one) and was kept secure by means of a sliding bolt. Outside the door lies a garden trowel.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Celeste!</span> I scream. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Where's Celeste? </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /><br />Celeste! </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste! </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Celeste! </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Celeste!</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /></span>We both race about the downstairs level calling her (see above quotation and repeat 12 times) and then I bolt upstairs to find the spare room with its door closed. Opening it, there lies Celeste freakishly calm and with a slight grin on her face. Beside her is a licked-clean container of Turkish <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">labneh </span>(cream cheese). She wags her tail and makes a tentative move out of the spare room.<br /><br />After an all too brief moment of raucous rejoicing that our dairy-loving pet of three weeks is alive - if not behaving a tad stunned - I open our bedroom door to find a scene worthy of <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Insert Any American Cop Drama</span> Here before me: the drawers (and their contents) from our wardrobe and nightstands are lying topsy-turvy on the floor, and all of our clothes have been pulled down from their hangars and are strewn about the floor ... to which I cry - are you ready for it?:<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /><br />Oh my God, we've been robbed!</span><br /><br />In no way do I suspect that Mr. This Cat has already figured that out.<br /><br />Between screams and sobs, I started itemizing what is missing from the bedroom to Mr. This Cat, who is still downstairs sweeping up the shards of glass lest Celeste cut her paws. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The iPod, my eReader - oh God, the camera ... the cash is missing ... </span>the list goes on.<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /><br /></span>We call Our Boss, who seems to have the phone number of anyone who is anyone in Erbil on her Rolodex, and then call </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our Landlord</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. She (the former) is outraged and hangs up to start making phone calls, and he (the latter) seems to think that our problem is a broken window and tells us to call him in the morning. Try as he might, Mr. This Cat is unable to convey the import of what has happened. Giving up, he calls Our Landlord's brother who not only lives a block away but possesses a higher level of English.<br /><br />A few moments later, Our Landlord's Very Aged Father - who lives next door to us but speaks minimal English, so we usually ignore him - lets himself into our front yard. In tow with him are his Equally Aged Wife and their Grandchildren who are visiting them from Sweden. All six of them walk into our house without a word to us, and take in their surroundings as if they were strolling through a botanical garden or a zoo. The youngest child is carrying a box of popcorn. I'm always glad to provide a safe and enjoyable diversion for the locals. After the un-guided tour of our house, they leave - as silently as they had <s>let themselves into our home</s> arrived.<br /><br />Our Boss arrives next and after stooping to pick up a piece of popcorn from the driveway (<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Popcorn? </span>she asks. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Apparently we're the in-flight entertainment</span>,</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I respond</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">), she surveys the house. Shaking her head in disbelief, she calls a well-connected friend in the Private Security Business (this is, after all, Iraq). While she is making her phone call, Our Landlord's Brother arrives.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">In the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, </span>he says.<br /><br />Yeah, whatever.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">My Very Aged Parents were out and they heard nothing.</span><br /><br />That's convenient.<br /><br />Our boss announces that the police are on their way.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The police are on their way</span>, she </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">announces</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">No, </span></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, no</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >, </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >no</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">, no</span>, cries Our Landlord's Brother. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">There is no need.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Insert a lengthy conversation between Our Boss and Our Landlord's Brother in which words and phrases like </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">safety, accountability, this is a crime, security</span>, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened, they're working for an American NGO, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">in the 30 years we've lived in this neighbourhood, nothing like this has ever happened</span></span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">punctuate the night air.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Celeste, in the meantime, has joined us all outside on the lawn, just as stunned as ever.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">She's been drugged,</span> I say. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">There was an empty food container in the upstairs spare room where she was locked. They lured her with drugged food and</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" > locked her inside. They knew that we had a dog. They knew she loved dairy. They were prepared. They knew when we would be at work. Who breaks in between 7 and 9:00? They cased the house.<br /><br />Maybe it was your friends, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our Landlord's Brother helpfully suggests. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Your friends know the dog. </span></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Why else did your dog not bark?<br /><br />This would explain the curious incident of the dog in the night-time, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">he adds quite unnecessarily like a puffed-up peacock.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">(Okay, I made up that bit but the implication was clear).</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" >How do you know that the dog didn't bark? I thought your Very Aged Parents were out for the night.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"> Besides, our friends already have iPods and eReaders and such. Oh - and they're our friends.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" ></span><br />The </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Secret Police </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">arrive. They are a motley crew of undercover cops, for they are the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, rather than the Really-Secret </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq). They</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> walk into our house without a word to us, and take in their surroundings as if they were strolling through a botanical garden or a zoo. Fortunately, none of them is carrying a box of popcorn.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Who did this? </span>they ask.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Isn't that your job to find out?</span> we respond. Or perhaps it was: <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">we don't know</span>. Either way the idea is the same.<br /><br />They have the good grace to ask us what is missing, appear disturbingly disappointed at the quality of our list, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">take the garden trowel as evidence, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">and leave. They are in the house for a total of 5 minutes and, according to Mr. This Cat who showed them about, looked at and touched nothing.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In the meantime, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our Landlord's Brother has slipped off to make a phone call. Unbeknownst to us, he too has some well-connected friends, and (still unbeknownst to us) he calls one of them to make any further police investigation go away. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Time passes and the four of us - Mr. This Cat, Our Boss, still-stunned Celeste and I - sit on the front stoop with our metaphorical deerstalker hats on, trying to piece together what happened. That Celeste was drugged is a given. That the thieves were professionals is a given. But who did this? Our new Iranian neighbours? - ask any Kurd and they will tell you that all Iranians are thieves, as they've told us repeatedly. A client of the Woman We All Believe to be a Whore who lives across the street? The balconies of both of these homes have a direct line of vision into our front yard. It's easy to watch our comings and goings. Our habits are - well - habitual.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our boss decides to call her well</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">-connected friend in the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Private Security Business</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (this is, after all, Iraq) again. They speak briefly and she hangs up. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">He's making some calls</span>, she tells us. He calls back a few moments later to tell her that a request has been made to bury the case, but - fear not! - he too has even more well-connected friends, and after a phone call or two, the case has been resurrected and reinstated.<br /><br />For the love of God. Where's Franz Kafka when you need him?<br /><br />We learn that we are to go to the police the next day to fill out a report. I have no idea if this will be with </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the Not-Very-Secret Secret Police that everyone knows, or the Really-Secret </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Secret Police that nobody knows (this is, after all, Iraq). Nor do I know if we will get our trowel back. Sitting on the front stoop, I can't help but notice that the garden needs to be weeded.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">To be continued ...</span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-14516608225276384012010-07-14T15:34:00.029+03:002010-07-14T18:48:31.540+03:00Of Dogs & Dingoes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TD2x1JNvUiI/AAAAAAAAAiY/cyTWEspmhIY/s1600/tumblr_kvu3cyFQtC1qa7e8ko1_400.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 192px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 210px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493742647026602530" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TD2x1JNvUiI/AAAAAAAAAiY/cyTWEspmhIY/s320/tumblr_kvu3cyFQtC1qa7e8ko1_400.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Celeste (the Dog) has been popping up on this blog a fair bit recently, and although I don't begrudge her her 15 minutes of fame, she </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">should </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">probably be making better use of her time by acquainting herself with the plight of most dogs in Iraq. Or at least the dogs in Baghdad.<br /><br />Yes, at the same time that she's been with us - some three months now - </span><a href="http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20100710/ap_on_re_mi_ea/ml_iraq_stray_dogs"><span style="font-family:verdana;">58,000 </span><span id="lw_1278805634_1" class="yshortcuts" style="font-family:verdana;">stray dogs</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> have been shot in the country's capital. And the shooting isn't over.<br /><br />Now strays - along with members of various ethnic and political groups and people who parted their hair the wrong way - were routinely rounded up and summarily executed <s>by Saddam Hussein</s> under The Former Regime </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">but, what with the US-led invasion 7 years ago and all that nasty sectarian violence of late, no one's been paying much attention to the dogs. Dogs who, by virtue of not being shot in the street, reproduced, and then reproduced some more so that now there are over a million strays roaming the city. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />At least </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">no one's been paying much attention to the dogs until now.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Residents claim that the dogs are attacking and killing children - which may or may not be true. Dogs get such a bad rap here that it's difficult to say what's what. Certainly, many children Celeste (the Dog) routinely encounters taunt her, only to elicit a toothy growl and lunge from her. <s>Go Celeste!</s> Recently, one of my students advised me that dogs by nature are child-killers, for he had just seen a documentary which proved it, but after a clever bit of prodding on my part, it turns out that the film was <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">A Cry in the Dark</span> - as in "the dingo ate my baby".<br /><br />For the love of God.<br /><br />Are strays a menace in Baghdad? - I have no doubt. But killing 58,000 in 90 days? Isn't that a tad draconian? Can't they be rounded up, inoculated, and neutered - and then released, never to have doggie sex again? Of course the response to this is that in the Grand Order of Things, providing a safe environment for Baghdadians is the government's one and only priority - although I would add that in a city where people have died protesting the expense and/or lack of electricity, the future looks dim.<br /><br />I would also add that the funds to shoot the city's dogs only just became available - could that money not be used to neuter them instead? Yes, I know: bullets cost less than sutures and anaesthetic.<br /><br />But it doesn't mean I have to like it.<br /><br />By the way, because I am by nature an inordinately sensitive individual, I have elected <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">not </span>to post to this blog the photo which accompanied the original news article. You're welcome. </span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-18619881761178665712010-07-13T15:31:00.012+03:002010-07-13T15:50:08.637+03:00An Addendum from Celeste (the Dog)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDxeIZrsOuI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/0ZwPgSU4a6g/s1600/Celeste.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDxeIZrsOuI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/0ZwPgSU4a6g/s320/Celeste.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493369143911267042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Spain: 1</span> <span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;"><br />The Netherlands: 0</span><br /><br />Well, thank the gods that nonsense is finally over and that Spain won the World Cup (¡<span style="font-style: italic;">Podemos</span>!). Life would've been awfully unbearable otherwise. No more offsides, no more yellow cards. No more cleats to the sternum overlooked by refs. No more lonely nights for me ...<br /><br />Anyway, I've done my part and I just hope that I won't have to suffer the indignities of wearing bull horns for another 4 years!</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Maybe now - just maybe - someone can start paying a little attention to <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. I know I'm not a prognosticating octopus (no hard feelings Paul) but I am a *very* pretty dog. And I don't live in a tank.<br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-81348949662027406602010-07-11T15:48:00.007+03:002010-07-13T15:48:31.428+03:00A Short Note From Celeste (the Dog)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDm-Hhzv27I/AAAAAAAAAho/Oa-8Dw99IE4/s1600/Ole.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDm-Hhzv27I/AAAAAAAAAho/Oa-8Dw99IE4/s320/Ole.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492630257098808242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hello. It's been a week of ups and downs, and because I can't help but feel that I am immensely more popular than the Human-Bitch who writes this blog, I thought I'd check in with you all. It's currently 48° and I have to tell you: border collies just weren't made for this weather. Where in the UK does it ever reach </span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">48°? - Celsius or Fahrenheit? When I was living at Bomb-Sniffing School (certificate forthcoming), I had my own air-conditioned kennel (well yes, I did have a kennel mate, but still ...). And then last night, on top of everything esle, our <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/06/swamp-thing.html">Swamp Thing</a> died. I mean, what else? Honestly, it's hotter than a bitch in heat here.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Secondly, I understand that the Human-Bitch and her mate are going on holiday soon. And contrary to what she </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/07/lost-exodus-chapters.html">blogged</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> about recently, I don't think that I'm included in their plans. In fact, I took a peek at Her Mate's e-mail and I know for a fact that he contacted my Bomb-Sniffing School kennel to see if they had any vacanc</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ies. I´ll be surprised if they even come to get me when they get back. Tongues are going to wag over that juicy little tidbit if I get dumped there permanently. At least it's air-conditioned ...</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The big news though - and although I know nothing about sports - is that tonight is the World Cup finals and Spain, I am told, is going to win the whole shebang. I don´t even know what a shebang is. In order to show my support for the team, I was decked out as a Spanish bull (see above photo) which although cute, is rather undignified for a dog </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >considered to be THE Most intelligent breed in the whole wide world (including Iraq). I've never actually seen a football match mind you, because whenever there's been a game, the two of them just trotted down to the sports bar in town, leaving me behind - and then came back all tiddly at 12 in the morning with no regard at all for my feelings. Maybe I'd like to see a game too.<br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Nonetheless, this is Spain's first ever showing in the finals, and I did want to please the Human-Bitch and her mate, in spite of the fact that they won't be taking me to watch the game tonight, and they won't be taking me on holiday with them, and they probably won't be getting the Swamp Thing fixed anytime soon.<br /><br />That's about it. I hope Spain wins tonight because I never get tired of watching the two of them crash around the house singing<span style="font-style: italic;"> ¡Podemos, podemos ... sí, Españ</span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">a!</span> ("We can do it, yes we can - Spain!" ... it´s far far better on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifGULiKjq2o">YouTube</a>, by the way) at the top of their lungs, which they apparently did when Spain won the Euro Cup in 2008. Thank God for them that the national football team´s little chant only has three words.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDnFA6DppYI/AAAAAAAAAhw/pqMzudrXDaw/s1600/12198089941045791114animal+footprint.svg.hi.png"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 91px; height: 85px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDnFA6DppYI/AAAAAAAAAhw/pqMzudrXDaw/s320/12198089941045791114animal+footprint.svg.hi.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492637839930271106" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >xoxo<br /><br />Celeste the Dog<br /><br />p.s. Go Spain!<br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-71422250274972351472010-07-05T12:28:00.029+03:002010-07-05T14:58:42.179+03:00The Lost Exodus Chapters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDGmvCZGE4I/AAAAAAAAAhY/bJdJsYfIX4Q/s1600/displayimage.php.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 289px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDGmvCZGE4I/AAAAAAAAAhY/bJdJsYfIX4Q/s320/displayimage.php.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490352747767534466" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:verdana;">And the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">spake</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> unto Moses</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, and said unto him: "</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now therefore, behold, the cry of the Children of Canada is come unto me: and I have also seen the oppression wherewith the Kurds oppress them<span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I shall bring them up out of that land unto a good and broad land for a wee holiday, unto a land flowing with ouzo and spanakopita; unto the place of the Greeks. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Chi</span>ldren of Canada out</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> of Kurdistan.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">And Moses answered and said, "But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will say, The LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hath not appeared unto thee."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">And the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">said unto Moses, "Go in unto Pharaoh, for I have hardened his heart, and the heart of his servan<span style="font-family:verdana;">ts, that I might show these my signs before him</span> and that thou mayest tell in the ears of thy son, and of thy son's son, what things I have wrought in Kurdistan, and my signs which I have done among them; that ye may know how that I </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">am</i><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Moses did as the LORD commanded: "This is what the LORD says: </span>'<span style="font-family:verdana;">Let This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday, so that they may worship me. If you do not let my people go, I will send swarms of mosquitoes on you and your officials, on your people and into your houses. The houses of the Kurds will be full of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">mosquitoes</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, and even the ground where they are.'</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the Children of Canada go.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">And Pharaoh said, "Who </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">is</i><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the LORD</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, that I should obey his voice to let the Children of Canada? I know not the LORD</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, neither will I let This Cat, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) or Celeste the Dog go on holiday.</span>"<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Then the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">said to Moses, "Stretch out your hand toward the sky so that a stultifying heat as if from a fiery furnace will spread over Kurdistan—heat that can be breathed and felt and that withers all living things." So Moses stretched out his hand toward the sky, and </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">a stultifying heat as if from a fiery furnace</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> covered all of Kurdistan for seven weeks. No one could breathe or eat or function for </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">seven </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">weeks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Children </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">of Canada go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This is what the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, the God of the Canadians, says: "How long will you refuse to humble yourself before me? Let </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, so that they may worship me. If you refuse to let them go, I will bring </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">huge </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">honking locusts into your country tomorrow. They will cover the face of the ground so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left after the hail, including every tree that is growing in your fields. They will fill your houses and those of all your officials and all the Kurds—something neither your fathers nor your forefathers have ever seen from the day they settled in this land till now.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">huge </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">honking locusts</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> came up over all the land of the Kurds, and rested in all the coasts of Kurdistan: very grievous </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">were they</span><i style="font-family: verdana;">;</i><span style="font-family:verdana;"> before them there were no such </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">huge </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">honking locusts</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> they, neither after them shall be such.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"> But the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">LORD </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hardened Pharaoh's heart, so that he would not let the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Children </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">of Canada go.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This is what the LORD says: </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Let This Cat and Mr. This Cat´s (Not Abroad) and Celeste the Dog go on holiday</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, so that they may worship me. If you do not let my people go, I will send swarms of humongous flying cockroaches on you and your officials, on your people and into your houses. The houses of the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDGuSuUCcYI/AAAAAAAAAhg/lW8fxMM5_ow/s1600/Yul_Brynner_in_The_Ten_Commandments_film_trailer.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 210px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TDGuSuUCcYI/AAAAAAAAAhg/lW8fxMM5_ow/s320/Yul_Brynner_in_The_Ten_Commandments_film_trailer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490361057434300802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Kurds will <span style="font-family:verdana;">be full of </span>humongous flying cockroaches, and even the ground where they </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">are.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />And Pharaoh said unto Moses, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Get thee from me, take heed to thyself, see my face no more; get thee to Greece four weeks hence.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And Moses said, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Thou hast spoken well, I will see thy face again no more but </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Children </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">of Canada</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> shall get thee a t-shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Athens.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">"<br /><br />And the LORD did grin. (Exodus 7 and 3/4's, parts A - F)<br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-6827606034122890002010-06-28T11:21:00.018+03:002010-07-05T12:35:19.098+03:00Hospitality 101<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TChc5I9oHEI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/iXLSEhTmDZg/s1600/41vE%2BWTUSHL.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TChc5I9oHEI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/iXLSEhTmDZg/s320/41vE%2BWTUSHL.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487738282679213122" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">During my first week in Erbil, I made a grave social faux-pas which caused every Westerner in the room to suck in his/her breath in lurid anticipation of the impending drama: I admired something another person had; namely, her sandals. Now I'm not saying that in and of itself this is a particularly bad thing - but for a Westerner, no good can come of it. Yes, the dictum here is <span style="font-style: italic;">if you have to say something nice about something, don'</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">t say anything at all</span>. I'm certain that my mother's head is reeling with that one.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />If you admire something - and by admire I mean that you just happen to offer a polite </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">compliment </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">(sincerity/insincerity notwithstanding) - </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >what a nice bracelet you</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> have</span> - then</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">poof!</span> it's yours.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Such is the extent of my ignorance that I don't know if this is an Iraqi thing or a Kurdish thing, but since I am</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> in Kurdistan, we'll make the rash <s>and possibly erroneous</s> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">assumption </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">that it's a Kurdish thing. I suppose it hardly matters.<br /><br />Eastern hospitality is notoriously - well - hospitable. Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I are continually inundated with invitations for dinner, picnics in the mountains, and whatnot. Recently I met a student at the mall in town and, after our obligatory kiss-kiss, I was severely upbraided for not stopping by her house first. My explanation that I didn't know</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> that she lived near the mall - or</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> where she lived for that matter - or that I had not received a firm invitation to her home withered on my tongue. It seemed churlish to add that <s>I couldn't even remember her name</s> I just wanted to buy my bottles of Ribena syrup and pistachios, and get the hell out of there.<br /><br />After a mercifully short bout with the flu (for which I had to cancel one class), one of my students cornered Mr. This Cat and demanded to know why he (Mr. This Cat) hadn't contacted said student when I first became ill - he could have arranged a doctor and prescriptions, et al. So in addition to the joy of having to empty the contents of my entrails every 2 hours, I had a heaping helping of guilt added to the mix.<br /><br />All of this is bearable. I have perfected the art of declining the Terrific Tsunami of Tea that engulfs this country. I now excel at accepting loosey-goosey invitations with equally namby-pamby acceptances. But the complimenting ... that's a horse of a different colour. The other day when I told one of my students that I really liked his eyeglass frames, he took the glasses off and handed them to me. To keep. Fuck. I remonstrated. He insisted. I thanked Allah that were no Westerners in the wings delighting in my discomfiture. When would I learn? Finally, I tried them on and further thanked Allah (not really) that my student was far-sighted rather than near-sighted as I am. The fact that the prescription was woefully out of whack for me was the only reason he accepted his glasses back. He promised to buy me the frames for me to have filled later. I know full well that they will show up any day now. I just hope he selected the right colour.<br /><br />Seems silly? Behold:<br /><br />I walked into Mr. This Cat's office a few weeks ago and my nose was assaulted by a most malodourous and sickly-sweet stink. <span style="font-style: italic;">What is that?</span> I cried. He pointed to a plastic bag sitting in the far corner of the room. Knowing that I would regret it, I poked and peered inside the bag, releasing another fetid tide of Crap Cologne from this Pandora's Bag and saw a shirt.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's a shirt,</span> I say.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>, he concedes.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Whose is it and why is it here? </span>I try to seal the bag to staunch the stench, but, as I have neither a flamethrower nor liquid cement on hand, it is to no avail.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It was Muhammed's*. He wore it to class the other day and I said I liked it. </span>He hangs his head in shame.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">NOOOOOO! You didn't!!!!! </span><span>I cry.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I know, I know. He brought it in for me this morning. What was I supposed to do?</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>, head still hanging in shame.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Couldn't he have at least washed it?</span> I ask.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I would add that Muhammed is 5'2". Mr. This Cat is 6'3".</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />In the end, the woman whose sandals I <s>coveted</s> admired did offer them to me. Twice. And twice I declined with a duly horrified expression of White Guilt stricken across my face - this was, after all, my first kick at the Hospitality Can. I had no idea how serious this was or that she would feel morally obliged to not only offer them to me, but ensure that I accept them. But there was no third offer. <span style="font-style: italic;">You're lucky</span>, my Western Voyeurs told me afterwards. <span style="font-style: italic;">You really dodged that bullet!<br /><br /></span>Bitch. I really wanted those sandals.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">*Requisite name change.</span><br /><br /></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-28206418566058256732010-06-21T10:44:00.034+03:002010-06-21T15:06:44.408+03:00A Change Is Gonna Come<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TB8YaYXUoDI/AAAAAAAAAgw/HhqTvddpO0k/s1600/Change.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 152px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TB8YaYXUoDI/AAAAAAAAAgw/HhqTvddpO0k/s320/Change.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485129712656490546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I think Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad is in heaven. <span style="font-family:verdana;">No more do his pockets sag with ponderous coins. No more are rusty heaps of useless </span>Turkish kuruş, Moroccan dirhams, Euro-cents and pennies gathering sticky tacky dust on his night-table <s>for </s></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>me to clean</s>. Yes, he's in heaven because Iraq is coin-free.<br /><br />Personally, I miss the unadulterated joy of finding spare change hidden deep within the inner sanctum of the sofa cushions, but that's just me ... and I do understand that it's not <s>always</s> all about me.<br /><br />But I digress.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But at one time pennies did rain down from heaven here. Until recently, the Iraqi dinar was subdivided into coins - known as <span style="font-style: italic;">fils </span>- but shortly after the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>deposition of </s></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><s>Saddam Hussein</s> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">passing of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">The Former Regime, coins were made obsolete. Now the only thing that falls from the skies is mud.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In fact,</span> during the 2nd Gulf War, Kurdish exiles had Great Expectations that the U.S. would liberate Kurdistan, making it an independent state. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">In anticipation of this historic moment in Kurdish history, they had coins struck - complete with an ascendant Kurdish sun and the country's name misspelled in</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Arabic. No matter - the U.S. didn't make provisions for a free Kurdistan anyway, so the coins have become collectors' items, and Mr. This Cat's night-table remains mercifully coin free.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />In truth, Iraq has two currencies: the dinar and the U.S. dollar. Dollars are happily accepted pretty much everywhere,</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and the larger the denomination the better. Case in point: twenty dollar bills are frowned upon while one hundreds seem to be the bill of favour. No change in the till? - no problem, a boy will be sent to a nearby shop to make change. </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">A typical visit to the corner market for us involves a lengthy shopping list of juice, halloumi cheese, and pistachio nuts, all paid with a $100 bill. Typically, </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the change is in dinars, so this particular purchase would see us receiving 110,000 IQD in change - making us feel that somehow, we're walking out of the door wealthi</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">er than when we walked in.<br /><br />The problem lies in the fact that prices don't always reflect a bill-based system. It's common for the total at the grocery store to be uneven, but without coins, what's a shopkeeper to do? The Turks have a similar problem (in spite of the fact that their currency is bloated with too much coinage): rather than deal with coins of the most minuscule denomination (the fact that it is legal tender, and your just and due change notwithstanding), change to customers is rounded up - by which I mean rounded down </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">- making us feel that somehow, we're walking out of the door a tad poorer than when we walked in.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Here in Kurdistan, they have a far more ingenious method: ch</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ange </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">in kind. So when we're owed anything less than 250 dinars (the smallest bill = @ 20 cents), we're handed change in any of these forms:<br /><br />* a pack of gum</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">*</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> chocolate</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">s<br /></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">*</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Eti Popkeks- the Turkish answer to the Hostess DingDong (or for my Canadian reader[s], the Vachon cake) with, if possible, even more fat, calories, chemicals and preservatives</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">* </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">crackers</span><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">* </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">mints<br />... and, as of yesterday, a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> cigarette lighter (see above). Shame we don't smoke.<br /><br />And I foresee more Popkeks and lighters coming our way. Change is in the air. Recently, Our Place of Gainful Employment stopped accepting 250, 500, and 1000 dinar bills. In truth</span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TB9EzSPcXdI/AAAAAAAAAhI/MHgG2ybOFR0/s1600/popkek.gif"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 123px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TB9EzSPcXdI/AAAAAAAAAhI/MHgG2ybOFR0/s320/popkek.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485178519021182418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">, these bills seem to be inordinately worn </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ripped </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">and/or </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">filth</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">y</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">, but more importantly, moneychangers here are becoming reluctant</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"> to accept them, as making change is irksome. Apparently, unlike our shopkeepers here, these "Independent Bankers" don't keep big bowls of candies by the cash register to make change.<br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Perhaps they should.</span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-27690315423398015992010-06-14T13:36:00.031+03:002010-06-14T23:41:52.063+03:00A Little Elbow Greece<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TBYGZ_GDLVI/AAAAAAAAAgo/ZomvinWQuDo/s1600/Greece.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 193px; float: left; height: 289px; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482576639873461586" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TBYGZ_GDLVI/AAAAAAAAAgo/ZomvinWQuDo/s320/Greece.jpg" border="0"></a><font face="verdana">It is a constant truism in my life - and for those with <s>insomnia and/or nothing better to do</s> an insatiable curiosity regarding my past exploits, you need only meander through the back pages of this blog - that leaving a place is always far more difficult for me than reaching it. I have waxed rather poetically about it <font style="font-style: italic;">ad nauseam</font>, so with such a preamble, it should come as no surprise that I'm at it again. Or rather, my particularly nasty strain of travel-karma is at it again.<br /><br />Case in point: Erbil. To come to Erbil, all which was required was a few <font face="verdana">moments tippy-tapping on a keyboard and </font></font><font face="verdana"><font face="verdana">voilà</font></font><font face="verdana"><font face="verdana">! - an e-ticket. Of course, leaving </font><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2010/02/not-so-turkish-delight-part-first.html">Turkey</a><font face="verdana"> was another matter but one that still bears out my point. It's easier to arrive than leave.</font></font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">With August (and our self-appointed summer holiday) seven weeks away, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I decided to be a tidge proactive and, after perusing the Viking Hellas airlines (whose name evokes images of Nana Mouskouri wearing a bronze winged Viking helmet and bearing a spear aloft) website for two months, book our flights now. As in this morning. Our decision to return to Greece (after all, we were only there last November) was a bit of a no-brainer: a return ticket to Athens turns out to be the cheapest direct flight to anywhere in the world leaving Dodge. Yes, it's cheaper to fly to Greece from Erbil than, say, neighbouring Turkey or </font><font face="verdana">neighbouring </font><font face="verdana">Jordan - and by cheaper, I of course mean less exorbitantly expensive.<br /><br /><font face="verdana">But there'd be no few </font></font><font face="verdana">moments tippy-tapping on a keyboard and voilà! - an e-ticket.</font><font face="verdana"> No, it seems that one cannot book a ticket online (and take advantage of those nifty little web prices) in Erbil, but must go to a travel agent. And talk to someone. Balls</font>.<br /><br /><font face="verdana">So, still in </font><font face="verdana">my tidge proactive-mode - for I have no clue what level of English our soon-to-be Favourite Travel Agent will possess (and I know what level of Kurdish I possess) - I go to the Viking Hellas website</font><font face="verdana">, and write down our departure times, the dates, and the flight numbers. We are advised by Those Who Know, that the travel agency at the Sheraton Hotel is the best in town, and if this praise isn't high enough, they will also serve you a </font><font face="verdana">cappuccino </font><font face="verdana">while you wait.</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">A word on the Sheraton. It isn't one. In fact, it's the Erbil International Hotel, but the story goes that the owners' intention was to build a luxury hotel which the Sheraton chain would immediately want to buy and smack their big "S" on. They didn't. But every cab driver knows it as the Sheraton.<font face="verdana"> And at $260 US a night, it might as well be.</font></font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">But I digress. Because there are a handful of travel agents in our neighbourhood, Mr. This Cat and I decide to pocket the cab fare and walk around the corner to the first agent. </font><font face="verdana">Alas! - </font><font face="verdana">the one and only agent is busy with a clutch of clients, so rather than waiting 15 minutes, we decide to enjoy Erbil's 51 °C springtime sunshine and walk to an authorized Viking Hellas agency several blocks away <s>with me grumbling about the stultifying heat the entire way</s>. It is closed.<br /><br /></font><font face="verdana">Off to the Sham-Sheraton.</font><br /><font face="verdana"><br />We see a taxi approaching and hail it. Alas! - our driver has not heard of any place called the Sheraton or the Erbil International Hotel, nor does he recognize the hotel's street name (the third biggest in the city). </font><font face="verdana"><font face="verdana">And at $260 US a night, it might as well be.</font></font><font face="verdana"> It turns out that he does not speak English. No matter: he calls an English-speaking friend and hands his mobile over to Mr. This Cat. Moments later we are on our way.</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">Time passes. We pull up to the side of the road. We see a checkpoint (not exactly unknown in Iraq) and a security wall of pre-stressed vertical cantilever concrete panels, and are told we are here. Or rather, our taxi driver nods his head and says "okay". I am unsure, but Mr. This Cat says that he sees a hand-painted sign indicating that the Sham-Sheraton is around the corner, so off we go. In order to access the Sham-Sheraton's grounds, we must pass through security </font><font face="verdana">(not exactly unknown in Iraq), and my purse is decorated with an approved </font><font face="verdana">Sham-Sheraton sticker. We head up the gently sloping drive and enter the hotel where another security clearance awaits us. The security officer discourteously takes my purse and removes my sticker, instantly depriving me of my blog photo for today's post.</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">Crossing the lobby, we head towards the travel agency. I can almost taste my cappuccino now - when was the last time I had one? which country was I in? We enter the agency where we find three travel agents and no clients. Huzzah! - this should take no time, I think. No one makes eye contact with us. We look at each other. Finally, the lone woman working - </font><font face="verdana">our Possibly Soon-to-Be Favourite Travel Agent - </font><font face="verdana">looks up and finds herself in the unenviable position of not being able to ignore us any longer.<br /><br /><font style="font-style: italic;" face="verdana">We'd like to book flights to Athens</font><font face="verdana">, we tell her.</font></font><br /><font face="verdana"><font style="font-style: italic;">Direct Flights?</font> she asks.</font><br /><font style="font-style: italic;" face="verdana">Well yes.</font> <font face="verdana">Are we being too demanding, I wonder.</font><br /><font face="verdana">She shakes her head.</font><br /><font style="font-style: italic;" face="verdana">Don't you sell tickets for Viking Hellas?</font><br /><font face="verdana">No.</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">So, in a country whose airport serves a sum total of eleven freaking carriers, the travel agent at Erbil's most expensive hotel has chosen to follow a more exclusive route. And rather than <s>offering us a cappuccino</s> telling us where we can find the closest Viking Hellas ticket issuer (and thereby losing any chance of becoming our </font><font face="verdana">Favourite Travel Agent)</font><font face="verdana">, we just stare at each other until Mr. This Cat and I metaphorically blink first, and we take our leave. Had we stayed we think that she might have gone the extra mile and offered us a </font><font face="verdana"><s><s>cappuccino</s></s> </font><font face="verdana">non-direct route via Frankfurt for $3000. But we're not really sure.<br /><br />We retrace our steps back to the street and flag a taxi. As we return to our neighbourhood, Mr. This Cat suggests that we try the first travel agent we had passed by this morning. Although we have no clue whether it sells tickets for Viking Hellas, at least it's open and, in all likelihood, air-conditioned.<br /><br />The agency is open and air-conditioned, and huzzah! sells tickets for Viking Hellas. We take our seats and I hand </font><font face="verdana">our Possibly Soon-to-Be Favourite Travel Agent - who speaks a fair smattering of English - the itinerary I had scribbled earlier that morning. She picks up the phone and calls someone - possibly the agent at the </font><font face="verdana">closed authorized </font><font face="verdana">Viking Hellas agency a few blocks away. Of the four words of Kurdish I have thus far learned, I catch only Erbil and Athens. I consider this encouraging. She points at my notes:<br /><br />July? she asks, pointing to the word <font style="font-style: italic;">August</font>.<br /><font style="font-style: italic;">August</font>, I reply.<br />She nods.<br /><br />I find this less encouraging.<br /><br />Time passes. The next 55 minutes pass as follows:<br /><br /><font face="verdana">* we sit</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she makes and receives about 3 dozen phone calls</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she offers us <s>cappuccinos</s> two cans of </font></font><font face="verdana">Mirinda - the Middle East's answer to Orange Crush.</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she offers us fruit-filled toffees</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she advises us that she's almost finished</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she makes and receives about 2 dozen more phone calls</font><font face="verdana"> </font><br /><font face="verdana">* she advises us that she's almost finished</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she receives one more phone call and announces,<font style="font-style: italic;"> the e-mail comes</font></font><font style="font-style: italic;" face="verdana"> soon!</font><br /><font face="verdana">* an e-mail comes (not soon), which she prints</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she advises us that she's almost finished</font><br /><font face="verdana">* she takes out a host of coloured highlighters and highlights all the pertinent information (mirroring the information on my original note) on the e-mail - which is, in fact, our ticket</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">And there you have it: two tickets in two and a half hours. True, we didn't exactly get the travel dates we wanted: it turns out that our departure date was fully booked even though the airline's website assured us that there were seats still available. But we have tickets nonetheless. It just took a little elbow grease, our natural sunny dispositions, and a cold Mirinda. And as we leave, multi-coloured e-mail in hand, our now </font><font face="verdana">Favourite Travel Agent</font><font face="verdana"> calls out:</font><br /><br /><font style="font-style: italic;" face="verdana">Go airport 10:00.</font><br /><br /><font face="verdana">Ten o'clock? Our flight leaves just before <font face="verdana">2 a.m.! </font>Balls. </font>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-49189362152991815392010-06-07T11:45:00.047+03:002010-06-07T15:48:52.871+03:00Swamp Thing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAy9s-r7qHI/AAAAAAAAAgg/DljbA7tQIx0/s1600/Swamp_Thing.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 220px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479963427042207858" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAy9s-r7qHI/AAAAAAAAAgg/DljbA7tQIx0/s320/Swamp_Thing.jpg" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:verdana;">I give you <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Swamp Thing</span>, with a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Lengthy Preamble.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" lang="EN-US" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Lengthy Preamble:</span></span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" lang="EN-US" ><br />Indeed, I am reminded that when I left </span><?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:country-region style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-FAMILY: verdana"><st1:place>Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:verdana;" lang="EN-US" >, I admonished my friends that if I were to ever complain about the heat, that they were to shoot me, without ceremony, between the eyes. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />... such did I <a href="http://thiscatsabroad.blogspot.com/2006/07/reindeer-in-rabat.html">write</a> on July 14th, 2006.<br /><br />Friends, take aim.<br /><br />It's hot. Stinking hot. So hot that I am on the very cusp of breaking a 5-year self-imposed vow of non-complaint. Yes, I know that most of you are thinking that my ability to not complain <s>about the heat</s> for 5 years is laudable if not absolutely miraculous, but my run is over.<br /><br />I can't stand it any more.<span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />It's hot. Stinking hot. So hot - daily temperatures have now hit and surpassed 50°C - that I have had to struggle wit</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">h what heat really means. In terms of my tiny family of two bipedals and one quadruped</span>, heat means that ...<br /><br />1) Everything that shouldn't be hot, is. Not as obvious as one might think. Toothpaste is hot; liquid soap is hot; shampoo is hot; my hair goop is liquid; my moisturizer is too hot to put on my face. The toilet seat burns. Ice no longer cools down drinks. Tap handles are hot, and since our water comes from a tank on our rooftop, the cold water is hot. We are now taking 'cold' water-only showers, but they are so hot that we are sweating during our ablutions. The towels are hot. Clothes in our closets and drawers come out hot. I am hot. Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad is hot. The dog is <em>very</em> hot.<br /><br />2) Everything that should be hot, is. A bit of a no-brainer, but I was striving for symmetry in this post. The sun is hot; the pavement is hot; tempers are hot. I imagine that the black-sheathed cocooned women in their </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">abayas/niqābs/burqas </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">are hotter than usual. I swoon just looking at them. We can no longe</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">r drink coffee (should be hot) as it's too hot. After we discovered pots of barely-touched coffee left at the end of three consecutive breakfasts, we made the unprecedented decision to bail on our brewed Brazilian Dark and switch to Greek-style cold <a href="http://thegreybear.blogspot.com/2009/10/shaken-not-stirred.html">frappés</a>.<br /><br />3) Everything that should work, doesn't. Since just about everyone and his dog - well since this is Erbil, let's make that </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">everyone and his crimson-winged</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">finch - has that Energy Vampire known as the split air conditioner (the wall mounted thingy) running every goddamn minute of the day, the power is continually going out (for minutes or hours at a stretch), rendering </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our One Floor Fan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - and every other electrical appliance - completely useless. Having said that, it's too hot to use </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our One Floor Fan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> now as the air flow it generates is unbearably hot. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Fun fun fun.<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><br /><br />End of Lengthy Preamble.</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">So, what are our coping m</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">echanisms?</span> you ask. Well, we're thinking of putting a bar fridge in the bathroom to keep toiletries & cosmetics cold. We've also upped our intake of liquids to about 137 litres of anything a day (= 3 trips to the bathroom/24 hours). But because the whole concept of chilling drinks in this heat has been a big disappointment (the ice melts too quickly and we keep losing electricity which makes the actual freezing </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">process a tad challenging), we have discovered that local shops carry Germ<span style="font-family:verdana;">an </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Weißbier. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Yup, a German wheat beer sure helps to take the sting out of 50</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">°+</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> temperatures. Too bad a bottle only stays cold for about 3 1/2 minutes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><em>Peachy, but what about Swamp Thing?</em> you cry.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Unable to afford a</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> real air conditioner, Mr. This Cat and I have gone native and introduced Swamp Thing - what our American friends call a swamp cooler - into our home.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Our Swamp Thing ca</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">me direct from Iran, which means that a) there were no instructions </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAyybHTB27I/AAAAAAAAAgI/hXEQDSkvTMA/s1600/sWAMP.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 242px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 174px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479951025488124850" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAyybHTB27I/AAAAAAAAAgI/hXEQDSkvTMA/s320/sWAMP.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">in English, and b) our American friends will be pro<span style="font-family:verdana;">hibited from bringing it back to the States with them. Or so say </span></span><a style="FONT-FAMILY: verdana" name="MerchandisefromEmbargoedCountries">the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and </a><a style="FONT-FAMILY: verdana" name="MerchandisefromEmbargoedCountries">the Office of Foreign Assets Control.</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Whatever. If people have a budget for moving, I say bring everything with you.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />As I had never heard of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">a </span><s><span style="font-family:verdana;">Swamp Thing</span></s><span style="font-family:verdana;"> swamp </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">cooler before - and I'm certain that I'm not alone in my ignorance - allow me to explain how it works.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> As seen in the photo (left, with Celeste hogging the camera), they look like pet carriers on wheely-legs. The observant reader might remark that the wheels are missing - and s/he would be correct - but that's only because when we assembled the stand, the weight of the Swamp Thing caused the legs to buckle and shot the wheels out across the floor. We have decided that our Swamp Thing will be content to stay in our living room and will not wander from room to room, as it was intended to do. Besides, we can no longer sleep in our second-floor bedroom because it is too hot and are now sharing the living room with Swamp Thing. We are a happy (or happier) family </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">of two bipedals and two quadrupeds (none of which has wheels).</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Anyhoo, starting at about $100 (price being determined by ethnicity of purchaser and temperature outside), this straw-stuffed box will emit cool blasts of air when a) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">filled with water from the top</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, and b) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">turned on</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Working on the principle of</span><span class="mContent" style="font-family:verdana;"> evaporation, one motor pumps water into wads of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><principle to="" similar="" substance="" absorbent="" a="" of="" pads="" into="" water="" pumps="" motor="" one="" first="" cold="" create="" power="" electrical="" and="" technology="" simple="" with="" along="" evaporation=""><span style="font-family:verdana;">hay while another motor powers a fan that pushes air</span> through said </principle></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hay which must be</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><principle to="" similar="" substance="" absorbent="" a="" of="" pads="" into="" water="" pumps="" motor="" one="" first="" cold="" create="" power="" electrical="" and="" technology="" simple="" with="" along="" evaporation=""> replenished with fresh water. The result is moist, non-recycled air which can be up to 30% cooler than non Swamp-Thinged air.<br /><br />I haven't noticed a 30% decrease in temperature, but I will own up to it being cooler and it has allowed us to get a better night's sleep. The fly in the ointment is the bit about "</principle></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><principle to="" similar="" substance="" absorbent="" a="" of="" pads="" into="" water="" pumps="" motor="" one="" first="" cold="" create="" power="" electrical="" and="" technology="" simple="" with="" along="" evaporation="">said </principle></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">hay which must be</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><principle to="" similar="" substance="" absorbent="" a="" of="" pads="" into="" water="" pumps="" motor="" one="" first="" cold="" create="" power="" electrical="" and="" technology="" simple="" with="" along="" evaporation=""> replenished with fresh water</principle></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">" which translates into us refilling the reservoir every few hours with about 15 litres of water. This hasn't been so much fun in the middle of the night.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Of course, since the power keeps going off, we don't actually get to use it all night along: this morning it crapped out at 5 a.m. for four</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> hours.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />I asked my students recently what the Dog Days of summer are like in Iraq. They had no clue what I was talking about, and when I explained it as much as my metereologically-challenged brain could do, they told me they don't suffer under the igneous influence of that fiery Dog Star. Which tells me that they had no clue what I was talking about. Or that they probably aren't able to register the difference in temperature because it's already so freaking hot.<br /><br />There! I think I got it out of my system. No more complaining about the heat. Boy oh boy, I can't wait for summer.<br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-75508198534456255522010-05-29T17:37:00.049+03:002010-05-30T15:57:14.195+03:00An Open Letter to the People of Erbil<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAEnbVV1IZI/AAAAAAAAAf4/CynG4TZ2mNI/s1600/Celeste.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 282px; height: 193px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAEnbVV1IZI/AAAAAAAAAf4/CynG4TZ2mNI/s320/Celeste.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476701972397891986" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Dear People of Erbil,</span><br /><br />Although we haven't officially met, my name is Celeste and I am a Border Collie. That's me on the left. Yes, it´s not a terribly flattering photo because it's been kind of hot lately, and I get a bit dopey when the temperature soars. Normally, I'm quite fetching, but you'll just have to take my word for it.<br /><br />I was adopted exactly one month ago today by the Human-Bitch who usually writes on this blog and her Mate. They both have rather stupid names, but they feed me regularly, scratch my belly, let me sleep in their bed, and don't get cross when I routinely redecorate the upstairs with rolls of toilet paper, so I try not to be too judgmental. Not e</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >veryone can have a name like Celeste (which means 'heavenly').<br /><br />It <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a beautiful name, isn't it?<br /><br />Now, her Mate takes me out for two walks every single day, which brings me to the point of this letter. Most of you people don´t seem to like me. Let me be categorical about this: I am a <span style="font-style: italic;">very </span>nice dog. Yes, it's true that I was trained by a bunch of burly South Africans as an MDD/EDD (Mine Detection Dog/Explosive </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Detection </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Dog) - this is Iraq, after all - but I never got to see any action since the security situation here is improving. Improving so much that most of us </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >MDD/EDD</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >s are being sent to the US or South Africa, or to some nifty farm for older, unwanted dogs. That's where I was supposed to go until the Human-Bitch and her Mate took me home with them. Everyone says that I should be very grateful to them. Whatever. Aren't I pretty?<br /><br />Now, some of you may have heard that I failed bomb-sniffing school, but that's just a rumour started by that bitch of a German Shepherd two kennels down from mine. German Shepherds think they're sooooo superior. In fact, Border Collies are considered THE Most intelligent dog in the whole wide world (including Iraq), with German Shepherds coming in at #3. <span style="font-style: italic;">Three!!!</span> Why I don't have a certificate from my bomb-sniffing school escapes logic. It must be a clerical error of some kind.<br /><br />Anyhoo, I enjoy my walks around town. I try not to get frustrated by the fact that there aren't many sidew</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >alks and what sidewalks there are are usually blocked by parked cars or generators. I certainly enjoy meeting all the chickens which run loose in the neighbourhood although I don't think the feeling is mutual. I don't know why that is. Same with the cats. Go figure.<br /><br />But it's you humans that's got me really rattled - and as a trained MDD/EDD (</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >certificate </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" > forthcoming, I'm sure), I don't get rattled easily. I've overheard my Human-Bitch and her Mate talk about this: maybe it's because of Islam. The prophet is said to have muttered some rather nasty things about us, like if it weren't for the fact that we are all God's creatures, we should be killed (especially the black ones!), and that angels never enter a house where a dog lives. In the end, he made a concession that dogs that are used for hunting or protection can be 'tolerated'. Well, isn't that me - even if I am mostly black?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Another theory - because the neighbourhood where I now live has a large Christian rather than Muslim community - is that maybe here in Iraq, people associate dogs with war and violence. Soldiers are often seen with menacing guard dogs (like that bitch of a German Shepherd two kennels down from mine), and this area has seen its fair share of war. The few cars which are given <span style="font-family:verdana;">permission to drive onto airport property must get the green light from bomb- and drug-sniffing dogs.</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> *Sigh* ... that should have been my job. I love the cheery optimism so often seen in travellers. I'd be awesome greeting passengers and sniffing the undercarriages of cars for explosives!<br /><br />But I digress.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >I'm told that there's a lot of rabies here, so maybe that's a factor. I was very well cared for when I was with the South Africans - in fact, I probably got better medical attention than a lot of you people here. And besides, I'm on a leash.<span style="font-family:verdana;"> A pretty red leash. Do you really think the Human-Bitch and her Mate would be taking a rabid dog for a walk? </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">I think not. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">Do you see</span> foam spewing out of my mouth?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I think not.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Whatever the reason, all I know is that when her Mate takes me for a walk, people act weird around me. There are some nice ones who whistle at me and pet me. And a few kids who scream DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG!DOG! but I don't think they mean any harm (although their shrill little voices make my ears hurt a bit). And then there was that one lady who pointed me out to her little boy and called me a donkey but I really think</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" > she meant doggie. That was okay. It's just that the majority aren't very nice. They - and I mean the adults - literally shout and jump out of the way as if I'm going to bite them, infect them, or pollute them by my presence. Some children actually scream and run away. Many <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >many </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">times mothers will grab at their youngsters on the sidewalk and pull them into doorways, shielding them from me with their bodies.</span> What am I? - the bubonic plague with paws and a tail?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >As a result, we've had to modify my walkies: we go to areas now where there aren't many people, but that makes me sad because I'm a very sociable dog. I just want</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" > you, People of Erbil, to know that dogs (me especially) are kind, and that if we're on leashes, we're probably not going to make you sick, and that if I stick my nose a little too close to you, it's only because I really like to be scratched there. Or maybe I just smell a bomb under your baggie pants and vest.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">xox</span></span><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAE0CiEufTI/AAAAAAAAAgA/JFCWdeW0Tlo/s1600/12198089941045791114animal+footprint.svg.hi.png"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 73px; height: 69px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/TAE0CiEufTI/AAAAAAAAAgA/JFCWdeW0Tlo/s320/12198089941045791114animal+footprint.svg.hi.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476715839970245938" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o<br /><br />Cel</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >es</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >te the Dog</span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-37557456783387908362010-05-11T17:33:00.015+03:002010-05-12T09:17:50.882+03:00A Rose by Any Other Name ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S-pHGEp1RTI/AAAAAAAAAfw/wFO9RjjXV1A/s1600/eisenstaedt_alfred_Ice+Skating+Waiter+St.+Moritz+1932_L.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 162px; height: 187px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S-pHGEp1RTI/AAAAAAAAAfw/wFO9RjjXV1A/s320/eisenstaedt_alfred_Ice+Skating+Waiter+St.+Moritz+1932_L.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470262867048875314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">As a Purveyor of the English Tongue, I know that I must be mindful of showing intolerance - by which I really mean side-splitting humour at the expense of others' imperfections - at the language </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >faux-pas</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> non-native speakers make from </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">time to time. In a word, it's culturally insensitive (two words), if not smacking of cultural hegemony (four words) which I'm not supposed to evoke (it's in my job description). But for anyone who has passed through passport patrol at any airport or border crossing, you know that such spelling</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and grammatical peccadilloes are rife - especially in restaurants - and especiallier (that should </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >so </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">be a word) on menus.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now, to be fair (to me), I have shown remarkable restraint over my past 5 years overseas by not mocking the misuse of English running amok in non-English countries. Indeed, I have been a Paragon of Politeness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">*</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Sigh</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">* - no more.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">A few weeks back, Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad and I were feted at </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >the Marina</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, a rather swanky Lebanese restaurant in Erbil, complete with ambient lighting, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">a sound stage for the requisite warbling Arabic female chanteuse, and oddly, a stuffed seagull mounted on a pedestal at the front door. And although the food was great and the company congenial, let me share with you a few items from the menu:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* cheese rools (presumably </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >rolls</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* tongs (presumably either of the kitchen utensil variety, or an organ extracted from the mouth, probably with tongs no less. Having said that,<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >tongue</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> leaves a better taste in my mouth).</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* fish fee lea (presumably </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >fillet </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">- kudos though for transcribing it from the French. Fish fee let doesn't have the same </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >je ne sais quoi</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">.)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* klmary (presumably calamari ... ahhhh, those foreign words are so elusive, <span style="font-style: italic;">n'est ce-pas</span>?)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* pizza cocktail (presumably ... nope. I have no clue)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* BBQ sheep bools (presumably balls, but admittedly bools sounds more gastronomically refined and less, well, testicular)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">... and my personal favourites, all of which were listed on the Seafood page:</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* sparrow (presumably a close relative of Chicken of the Sea)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* frogs (presumably a close relative of the Great Atlantic Sea Frog)</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">* BBQ bird (presumably a close relative of the stuffed seagull at the front door and the aforesaid sparrow).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">... all of this can be washed down with a nutritious glass of Cantlops Juic and topped off with a nice narghile. How about Gum flavour? I fear that the latter is not a typo.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Bools and tongs notwi<span style="font-family:verdana;">thstanding, the highlight of the evening was the pure delight - nay </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >rapture</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - which lit Mr. This Cat's face up like the proverbial Christmas tree when he saw Guinness on the menu. After all, it had been many many weeks since he last had a perfect pint of stout (it </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >is </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">chockful of antioxidants). But always the Doubting <span style="font-family:verdana;">Thomas and so susceptible to disappointment is he that he drilled the waiter mercilessly. </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Are you sure?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Yes sir, Guinness. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Really? Guinness?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Yes sir, Guinness.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > I'll have a Guinness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Yes, yes ... I am a shit for doing this because, after all, the food was good and clearly, I was able to decipher everything on the menu (apart from the pizza cocktail). But after all these years </span><s style="font-family: verdana;">of being good</s><span style="font-family:verdana;">, something ugly buried dee</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">p within me - something which I had struggled to keep far far away from the light of day </span><s style="font-family: verdana;">this blog</s><span style="font-family:verdana;"> surfaced like a beachball. Or a beachbool.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">As an addendum, let me say this of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >the Marina</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">: Iraq is a landlocked country. Any hopes I had of watching the yachts gently bob in the ochre wash of the setting sun were quashed immediately upon remembering that I am in Iraq and Iraq </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">is a landlocked country</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Perhaps the time has come to change its name. Like </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >the Sandbox</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Much better.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Oh ... and the Guinness (so chockful of antioxidants) which Mr. This Cat ordered? Well of course there was no Guinness. Why on earth would Guinness be se</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S-pG6VGJCvI/AAAAAAAAAfo/bEGVsLSGw9c/s1600/beer.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 83px; height: 143px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S-pG6VGJCvI/AAAAAAAAAfo/bEGVsLSGw9c/s320/beer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470262665304148722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">rved at a Lebanese restaurant in northern Iraq? Yes, the waiter promptly brought Mr. This Cat a refreshing but slightly less healthy 7Up (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">but with no shamrock design in the head because 7Up has no head) and </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">without any reference to the 'substitution' he so deftly made with no thought of consulting the customer. Perhaps he </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">thought that Mr. This Cat would not notice. Well, at least the can was green.</span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-42849112686862766192010-04-05T14:43:00.012+03:002010-04-05T16:14:44.497+03:00My Daily Bread<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S7nNmHYHDZI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/veUu6qg4ltc/s1600/Samun.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S7nNmHYHDZI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/veUu6qg4ltc/s320/Samun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456618478234963346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">What sort of world do we live in where bread - the staff of life, our very bread & butter - is confusing as hell?</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">I've been in Kurdistan for about 7 weeks now and I'm just beginning to plumb the depths of the shifty slippery underworld of bread.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />This is what I've learned thus far:</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1) Bread worth eating must be purchased at a bakery.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (That's pretty much true anywhere.)<br /><br />2) Buying bread is anything but straightforward except that it is </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(sort of) straightforward </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">when you know what you're doing. (Which I seldom do.)<br /><br />3) Sliced bread (for toast or Western sandwiches) must be avoided at all costs unless your intention is to feed the birds. (Which we should always do.)<br /><br />4) Kurdish bakeries, in spite of their mandate to bake bread, don't actually bake bread all day, nor are they necessarily open all day, nor are their hours indicated.<br /><br />5) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Having said that, if Kurdish bakeries</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> do stay open all day, they will often have no bread.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />6) Prices are not marked, and are probably not fixed.<br /><br />7) Kurdish bread is the greatest thing since sliced bread - unless it is sliced bread made in Kurdistan.<br /><br />Confused? Don't be.<br /><br />Case in point: the bread featured in the photo above is called <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >samoon </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(my lame transliteration of the Kurdish word). To buy </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >samoon</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, you go to the street-level window outside <span style="font-style: italic;">a </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >samoon </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">bakery (imagine a pedestrian drive-through for bread)</span>, and toss y<span style="font-family:verdana;">our money - say 1,000 dinari - through the window. The baker (or his assistant) will ask you something incomprehensible - incomprehensible if, like me, you don't speak a lick of Kurdish (except "thank you"), but which undoubtedly makes wads of sense if you are a Kurd. The best guess we have is <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Do you want 1,000 dinari worth of bread?</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">because a bag of very hot triangular bready-roll-things are tossed your way without any change. But really, we have no clue what the baker (or his assistant) is saying. In any case, just nod and/or say yes like you understand. This has worked so far.<span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />The bag of <span style="font-style: italic;">samoon </span>bread (above) was purchased for 1,000 dinari - about 85 cents</span> - which seems like the deal of the cent</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">ury until you realize that you'll probably eat at least half the bag on your way home.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> But should any <span style="font-style: italic;">samoon </span>actually manage to make it home unscathed (i.e., uneaten), they will beg to be broken open and filled with all manner of wonderful things and crammed into your mouth while they are still hot. Bliss.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Now as divine as <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >samoon </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">is</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (and it is), bread attains the Truly Sublime in the form of <span style="font-style: italic;">naan </span>bread (below right): the warm bubbly flaky flatbread whose place in Unleaven Heaven is unequivocally assured. I would add that in restaurants, <span style="font-style: italic;">naan </span>is normally served towards the middle or end of the meal. Given that Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I normally eat Kurdish <span style="font-style: italic;">tapas </span>or <span style="font-style: italic;">meze </span>or whatever they're called (or how about just appetizers?) as our main meal when we dine out, this habit of serving bread after the dips borders on maddening. Simply put: I don't like eating <span style="font-style: italic;">hummus </span>with a fork.<br /><br />But I digress.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So, how to<span style="font-family:verdana;"> buy </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >naan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">: find a </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >naan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">bakery. Which becomes more than a little irritating after, say, 7 weeks of looking and </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">like us, you still haven't found one</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Mr. This Cat and I knew there had to be </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >naan</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">bakeries - albeit invisible ones - in our neighbourhood but until last Thursday night, they remained an elusive mystery worthy of Dan Brown. (Not really). That evening, walking home after work - sometime after 8 p.m. - we walked past a hole-in-the-wall (literally) which we hadn't noticed before, and which was now </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S7nQrqL9MkI/AAAAAAAAAfY/eK9DOTjvGUM/s1600/Naan.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S7nQrqL9MkI/AAAAAAAAAfY/eK9DOTjvGUM/s320/Naan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456621872013455938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">swarming with life.</span> Male life. As we wormed our way through the crowd we saw a clay oven - a gaping fiery maw in the wall which the baker (or his assistant) was tossing dough into, and whose final product the throng of men were eagerly awaiting. Huzzah! A <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >naan</span> oven!<br /><br />It seems that <span style="font-style: italic;">naan</span> ovens are only operational very early in the morning or late at night. No need to bake bread between those troublesome hours of 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. - who eats bread then <s>except me</s>? But there was no window here - only a small counter separating us from Dante's Dough Inferno. How much do we pay? How much will we get? W<span style="font-style: italic;">hy must bread be so goddamn confusing??</span> I shrieked <s?>inside my head, shaking Mr. This Cat by his lapels. We exchanged unknowing glances. <span style="font-style: italic;">Just put a thousand on the counter</span>, I whisper to Mr. This Cat. Which he doe<span style="font-family:verdana;">s.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > No,</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I change my mind. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Naan is bigger than samoon - give him two thousand.</span> Which he does. </s?></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We suspected that our order might be verging on the embarrassingly excessive side when the baker (or his assistant) asked Mr. This Cat to hold open the plastic bag for the mountain of bread in his arms. One, two, three, four <span style="font-style: italic;">naans </span>... well, look at the photo and count for yourself. For about $1.70, the baker (or his assistant) sent us on our way with 14 rounds of bread - bread so large that the dinner plate groaning under the weight of the <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >naan </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">is completely hidden from view.</span> To our credit, we got six meals out of it (assuming breakfast counts), rather than the one meal which I had envisioned.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Next time we'll just give him 500 dinari. Or not.</span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-18762625834692445402010-03-28T13:32:00.014+03:002010-03-30T08:52:19.273+03:00A Tale of Two Taxis (Taksis)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S680ng1ZfoI/AAAAAAAAAfI/MlXuGpVxyjU/s1600/Taksi.thumb.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 153px; height: 153px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S680ng1ZfoI/AAAAAAAAAfI/MlXuGpVxyjU/s320/Taksi.thumb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453635527202406018" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) and I have been in Kurdistan for 5 weeks now - and finally have our own home - so it was only a matter of time before offers to ferry us about town would begin to dwindle, if not dry up altogether. Now in Erbil, there are 4 ways to get from Point A to Point B:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1) walk</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />2) drive (note that foreigners are prohibited from owning vehicles nor does insurance exist for those <s>stupid</s> brave enough to lease)</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />3) take a mini bus</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />4) take a taxi</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />5) kidnap the veggie man's donkey</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">... and on Friday, we found ourselves in that unenviable position of having to get across town without a ready invitation of a lift. Since driving was out of the question, and none of our support staff could figure out the bus routes for themselves let alone for us, and walking only takes you so far (and that wasn't far enough) - that left the donkey and the taxi. <span style="font-family:verdana;">Let me add that taxis are independently operated here and scoot about town bereft of seatbelts and meters.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span></span><em></em><span style="font-family:verdana;">Vis-à-</span><em style="font-family: verdana;"></em><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">vis</span> the first point, it is what it is; </span></span><em></em><span style="font-family:verdana;">vis-à-</span><em style="font-family: verdana;"></em><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">vis </span></span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">the second point, passengers must either negotiate a fare before heading off</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> or pay after-the-fact, and hope that you don't offend your driver with what you offer, making him your enemy for life. Donkeys, on the other hand, are quite happy with a carrot.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Personally, I would've preferred the little burro (she's very <span style="font-style: italic;">very </span>pretty), but taxi it was. In fact, in the span of 10 hours we would take 4 taxis (so it's fair to say that we're taxi experts now) of which I will relate two for your reading pleasure.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Ride the First</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />Ride the First was actually our first ride in Erbil. We flagged a little beige taxi (or <span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span> since the x doesn't quite exist in the Kurdish alphabet) near our home and, because I know a sum total of one Kurdish word (and yes, it's a polite word), I equipped myself with a business card bearing the address of our destination. We slid into the backseat of the taxi </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>)</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, and handed the driver the card, congratulating ourselves all the while with our preparedness, and fully confident (this was a </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Very Busy Thoroughfare</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> we were going to) that he'd have no problems finding it.<br /><br />Surprisingly, notwithstanding </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Very Busy Thoroughfare</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> we were going to</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, our driver had no clue where the Lebanese Beauty Centre is located, but enterprising fellow that he was - and clearly understanding that we'd be of no help to him linguistically and/or directionally - he cheerfully called the salon and asked for directions. This bode well. So off we headed up and down a series of streets - none of which could actually be called <s>streets</s> completed as Erbil is one huge construction site - dodging potholes, avoiding traffic cones (chunks of bumper-friendly cement) and jostling with other cars for one of the seven lanes of traffic on these marked 1- and 2-lane roads.<br /><br />Apart from the standard French Connection moments which are <span style="font-style: italic;">de rigueur</span> when driving here, what we didn't expect was to be air-borne during our trip and landing on a different road. What actually happened we will never know because both Mr. This Cat and I were busy trying to determine if the home appliances stores were open as this was a Friday (they were not), rather than keeping our eyes on the road (which technically, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">as passengers, </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">is not our responsibility).<br /><br />As best as we can piece things together, our driver - naturally exceeding the speed limit - came up fast behind the car directly in front of us which seems to have made a rather unfortunate decision to stop in the middle of </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Very Busy Thoroughfare</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Our driver hit the brakes and swerved the taxi </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>) </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">to the right to avoid <s>killing us all</s> hitting the other car, at which point we soared into the air and landed on a yet-to-be paved (= dirt) curb about half a metre below and parallel to the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Very Busy Thoroughfare</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. We weaved back and forth like a fish on crack and our driver succeeded in </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">decelerating and </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">correcting the car. Finally we stopped.<br /><br />We all exhaled as one.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sorry</span>, he said.<br /><br />At least I think that's what he said but, to be honest, the pounding of my heart thwumping in my chest had pretty much blocked out all sound for a three-kilometre radius.<br /><br />To be fair, he did look rather sorry. And somehow I didn't even have the heart to be angry with him for what happened - nor was I particularly freaked out by it. Perhaps we were all just relieved not to be hanging upside down from an ass-over-tea kettle taxi (<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>) - which was probably an impossibility any way as none of us were wearing seatbelts. No matter. Relieved, we just decided - an unspoken but mutual decision this - to blame the other car wholly.<br /><br />Moments later, he pulled over to the Lebanese Beauty Centre, apologized again and had the good grace to not even look at the bills we handed him. In return, we had the good grace to pay him a decent fare.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Taxi the Second</span><br /><br />Same day, different taxi </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>). Mr. This Cat and I are coming home from a wildly exciting expedition to Erbil's new home decor department store (think TJ Maxx or Winners Light), which we know is close-ish to our home but not exactly too certain how long the walk would be. As it's getting dark and neither of us wants to see me whining because the walk is too long, we decide to flag a taxi. Because we don't actually have a street address - because our street doesn't actually have a street name - we have been instructed to advise taxi </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>) drivers in Erbil to simply take us to Ainkawa (our neighbourhood), and since there are only two ways in, we can point them the rest of the way to our door. Lucky for us, our home is close to </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ainkawa's newest</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> landmark (which Erbil's drivers seem to know): the <span style="font-style: italic;">New Italiano Restaurant</span>, which is anything but Italian and which offers vegetarian pizzas liberally garnished with chicken. To be fair, it is at least new.<br /><br />Anyhoo, as we approached the main thoroughfare a taxi </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(<span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span>) slowed down (taxis [</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">taksis</span>] automatically slow</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> down when they spot Western pedestrians assuming that we really don't want to walk), and we hopped in. It turns out that the front passenger seat was occupied by a young boy of around eight. In his arms - which suggests that there was some form of <s>completely ineffectual</s> safety restraint at least - was a one-month old infant. Mr. This Cat and I did what we assumed was expected and fussed over the baby rather than admonishing its father (we presumed) to put the infant in a car seat and strap both it and the eight-year old into the back seat where they belonged.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Ooooooo, aren't you pretty? </span>I cooed. A bit of an exaggeration but I never know what to say in these situations.<br /><br />And because I was the only passenger in possession of a uterus (I'm not sure about the baby), the beaming father (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">we presumed) barked something to his son </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(we presumed) and the boy leaned back and thrust the baby into my arms. I gave Mr. This Cat a what-the-fuck look and sat back trying to support the baby's head, shield it with my body as we came to brake-screechingly abrupt stops which should have, by all rights, sent us flying through the windshield, and cushion it as we veered and leap-frogged through traffic. All the while chucking it under the chin and babbling insensibly at it.<br /><br />I am not a baby person.<br /><br />As we made our way through Ainkawa, I prayed that I would not be an instrument of this child's death (although technically I think that would've been its father [we presumed] rather than me). I also prayed that its bursting-with-pride father (we presumed) would stop beaming at me via the rear-view mirror and keep his eyes on the road.<br /><br />Within ten minutes the taxi (</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">taksi</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">) had pulled up to the New Italiano Restaurant where I was divested of my charge. I pretended that I wanted to keep the baby</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> because I never know what to say in these situations, and we all laughed. So ... two taxis </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">taxis</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">)</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> - two very different taxis </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">taksis</span></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">) - </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">in one day. As exhilarating as it was to cheat death that morning, and as cute as the baby was</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (a bit of an exaggeration but I never know what to say in these situations), I can't help but think that we should have just nicked our veggie man's donkey. </span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-78754380572258659392010-03-22T14:41:00.014+03:002010-03-22T18:42:09.521+03:00Under a Kurdish Sky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S6dwMigfsBI/AAAAAAAAAe4/L1QnmZZWX6M/s1600-h/jk1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 99px; height: 217px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S6dwMigfsBI/AAAAAAAAAe4/L1QnmZZWX6M/s320/jk1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451449234679115794" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Apart from the sudden and rapid reports of random rifles, the late afternoon was eerily quiet. From our rooftop vantage point, we looked down upon the city - a veritable ghost town - and watched the inky black smoke of dozens of fires stain the blue of a </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >promising </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >spring sky into something loathsome and ominous. Our throats gagged in response to the stench of burning oil. </span><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"></p> <p face="verdana" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Vodka & tonic or beer?</i> our host asked.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Beer please - and c</span></i><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">an I have a lemon wedge in mine?</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> Then I pointed southwest,</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> There’s another fire. This is the oddest New Year’s Eve I’ve celebrated yet.</span><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Indeed. This Saturday past marked New Year’s Eve with – wait for it – Sunday being </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Nowruz</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, or New Year’s Day according to the calendars of the Persians, the Kurds, and those sun-loving Zoroastrians. And according to nature’s calendar, it was the spring equinox. Celebrated throughout the Middle East (including Turkey where Kurds are </span><a href="http://ekurd.net/mismas/articles/misc2010/3/turkey2582.htm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">admonished</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"> not to have any fun at all), this year even the UN got on the bandwagon and officially recognized </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Nowruz</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">, this 3,000-year old Spring Festival, as an International Day. There is, of course, a Kurdish spin on it which includes elements cobbled together from a medieval historical text, a thousand-year old poem, and a 16th century folktale worthy of a Tim Burton film.</span><br /></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">So, in a nutshell (and yes it’s important): an evil king who just happens to have a pair of snakes growing out of his shoulders - which would make buying off the rack an impossibility for him - has conquered Iran. Because these snakes are giving him the mother-of-all backaches and he has no access to Absorbine Junior, he insists on having 2 youths sacrificed to him every day so that their brains may be fed to the snakes. For reasons unknown to me, this daily snack works wonders on the snakes and hence his back. But because he is evil and because no one likes a sore back, he also stops spring from coming. A millennium into his rule (apparently his subjects are long-suffering or just hate their children), the individual assigned to rustling up the snakes’ lunch decides to dupe the serpents by killing an adult and mixing his brains with those of a sheep. </span></p><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Time passes.</span><br /></p> <p face="verdana" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">As the people become disgruntled with the Evil King’s rule (apparently his subjects are long-suffering or just hate their children), a blacksmith named Kava (himself the father of 6 of the snakes’ snacks) trains those children saved by the One Adult/One Sheep Brain Subterfuge to bear arms, and leads a revolt against the Evil King, ultimately killing him with a hammer. There is much rejoicing. The Brave Blacksmith sets fires on the hillsides to let everyone know that the king is dead and the reign of terror over. Presumably mothers throughout the region sigh a huge sigh of relief and spring returns – but I’m just reading between the lines on that last point.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Kava the Blacksmith set fires, </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">ergo</i><span style="font-family:verdana;"> everyone in Kurdistan - who in fact believe that they are his very descendants - sets bonfires alight on </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Nowruz</i><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Eve - bonfires to celebrate and/or symbolize the triumph of spring over winter, of light over darkness, of Good over Evil. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">And why was the smoke of these fires inky-black and toxic? Because Kurds were busy burning tires not fragrant logs. And why were they burning tires – which I’m pretty certain is against the law here? Because Kurdistan is desperately trying to re-green its countryside which is not very green but rather beige. It would seem that for many many years a certain individual – referred to by Kurds as The Leader of the Previous Regime – (hint: he was hanged on December 30th, 2006 just northeast of Baghdad) pretty much razed Kurdistan (for which he bore no love but lots of cannisters of chemical gas) of its trees.</span><br /></p><p face="verdana" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">I don’t know to what extent the Kurds think of The Leader of the Previous Regime when they light their bonfires or the Evil King (or perhaps they have become one and the same), but <i>Nowruz</i> has definitely become a political expression of Kurdish identity and independence. In any case, Kurds appear to be terribly respectful of their saplings dotting the city and countryside. Hence the burning tires.</p><p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">So to sum up: <i>Nowruz </i>is a really really big deal and can last several days onwards up to a week. Unless you're an English teacher and then you find yourself writing this from work because you are bored as there are no freaking students in town. </p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">Atop our roof, as we raised our glasses to the year 2710, we watched the guards at the end of the street toss aside their AK-47's and heave another tire onto the fire. <span style="font-style: italic;">Peeee-yoooo</span>, they (the tires, not the guards. Well maybe the guards) reeked something fierce. But the city itself - apart from the odd bonfire here and there - was (as I said) weirdly silent: it would seem that during <i>Nowruz</i>, every Kurd with access to something with wheels (and possibly hooves) hits the mountains to go picnicking. And to say that picnicking is anything less than a national obsession would be committing an act of blasphemy. We toasted the guards who had to work.<br /></p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal">Oh! - and the rifles? The "sudden reports of random rifles", I mentioned earlier. Well, this is, after all, Iraq.</p> <p style="font-family: verdana; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-76984907106027373512010-03-15T10:55:00.028+03:002010-03-21T11:28:19.205+03:00Waxing Poetically ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54P0WMWvWI/AAAAAAAAAeg/8rF_b0Hk4FE/s1600-h/sardine2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 112px; height: 91px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54P0WMWvWI/AAAAAAAAAeg/8rF_b0Hk4FE/s320/sardine2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448809991149895010" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" >Since we’ve been in Kurdistan, I confess that I’ve felt my Canadian-ism rather keenly – a sentiment which is, under normal conditions, almost completely lacking from my genetic makeup – and it’s all because of Erbil’s grocery stores. It began with the discovery of a couple of choice Canadian products - products I wouldn’t normally expect to see outside of Canada, let alone in Iraq. There was that first sighting of (albeit dusty) tins of Brunswick sardines which made me quite misty, followed closely by frosty packages of </span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">McCain</span></span></span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">’s Deep'n Delicious chocolate cak<span style="font-family:verdana;">e which just left me feeling puzzled.</span></span></span></span><span style=""><span style="font-family:verdana;"> And more recently it was the jaunty display case of Nitro Canada Hair Wax. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Nitro Canada Hair Wax?</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> you ask.</span><br /></span><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Indee</span><span style="">d.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">It would seem that pretty much every neighbourhood market has a fairly ext</span><span style="">ensive selection of </span><span style="">Nitro </span><span style="">Canada Hair Wax. With <s>grammatically challenged</s> easy to follow directions, the Nitro Canada purports to “enhance lustrous chine (sic) and ideal for sleekly (sic) look and goood </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54Nk2TNeLI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/Q8fasEQvg2o/s1600-h/NITRO_CANADA_HAIR_WAX.summ.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 96px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54Nk2TNeLI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/Q8fasEQvg2o/s320/NITRO_CANADA_HAIR_WAX.summ.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448807525867419826" border="0" /></a><span style="">(sic) scent easy to apply and wash off.” I'm going to have to start paying closer attention to the Kurds' hair - is it the chine truly lustrous? The scent especially goood? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">On top of its sleekly-ness, Nitro Canada Wax comes in fragrances that every fashionista wants - nay <span style="font-style: italic;">craves </span>- to have wafting up from his or her head under a blistering Iraqi sun. Many of these are fruity - and dare I say mundane? - fragrances, but </span><span style="">Nitro </span><span style="">C</span><span style="">anada Hair </span><span style="">Wax's ability </span><span style="">in identifying the needs of the wax-wearing public clearly came to a head with the development of their </span><span style="">snake oil- and (my personal favourite) garlic-scented hair wax. Pure genius, that. Hats off to you.<br /><br />Of course, </span><span style="">a closer examination of the Canuck wax only served to dry up that </span><span style="">trickle of patriotism dribbling through my veins: I am <s>relieved</s> sad to say that Nitro Canada Hair Wax is not Canadian. It’s manufactured in the People’s Republic of China – specifically (should you care about these things) in Guangdong. Given the PRC’s proven track record of providing quality consumer products, it’s probably a very good thing that doting Chinese mothers don’t (to the best of my knowledge) slick down their toddler’s hair with hair wax. Or was the problem only with chemical-laced toothpaste, tainted pet food, drie</span><span style="">d apples preserved with cancer-causing chemicals, frozen catfish laden with banned antibiotics, scallops and sardines coated with putrefying bacteria, mushrooms laced with illegal pesticides? Oh - and the milk.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="">Then again, they do claim - and I quote - that "'customer first' has always been our pursuit of the best product and we are ready to return customer.” Return customer? Where to? To the atmosphere? Is the nitro component some sort of </span>oily, colourless explosiv<span style="">e suitable for all hair styles? Is this why it's popular in Iraq? And where do they get off suggesting that</span><span style=""> their product is Canadian? This just isn't good form - I mean, everyone knows that products made in Canada are of the highest calibre only.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">Well, at least McCain’s Deep' n Delicious chocolate cakes – whose wholesome ingredients include hydrogenated palm kernel oil, glucose solids, glycol</span></span></span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;"> mono fatty acid esters, mono- and digylcerides, artificial flavour, beef gelatin (every vegetarian's dream), </span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54NV6nLRDI/AAAAAAAAAeI/IBnPH_rSWWs/s1600-h/NewDnDCake200x123.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 123px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S54NV6nLRDI/AAAAAAAAAeI/IBnPH_rSWWs/s320/NewDnDCake200x123.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448807269326865458" border="0" /></a><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">polysorbate 60, sorbitan monostearate, xantha</span></span></span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">n</span></span></span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;"> gum, silicon dioxide, sodium aluminum phosphate and shellac </span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">- is purely and proudly Canadi</span></span></span></span></span><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style=""><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;" ><span style="font-family:verdana;">an. I feel better already</span>.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style=""><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><b style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><b style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-68208831697998157032010-03-07T12:43:00.019+03:002010-03-07T14:32:07.694+03:00The "Creative Writer" Blogger Award<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S5N1e7fT1gI/AAAAAAAAAdg/fiC6opQx9wg/s1600-h/CreativeWriter.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S5N1e7fT1gI/AAAAAAAAAdg/fiC6opQx9wg/s320/CreativeWriter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445825548646602242" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm pretty certain that the last time I won anything of any lasting value was the Spelling Bee award which I nailed in grade 6 but - lo & behold! - it seems that I have been tagged with a (and I quote) "chain blog post award-doohickey-thingy". Naturally, acceptance of this very ponderously momentous honour is attended by a well-defined codex of Rigorous Rules, by which I must abide lest I be demoted to Miss Congeniality Chain Blog </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Post Award-Doohickey-Thingy</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" ><u>The Codex</u></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Thank the person who gave this to you.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> (</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >grazie mille </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://freret.blogspot.com/">Boudreau Freret</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> – I'm reluctant to delve too deeply into the reasons you tagged me, but I suspect that this was a pity-tag. Not that that makes me any less grateful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Copy the logo and place it on your blog</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Check. I don't really like the logo. Surely we could have done better, no?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">3. </span><a style="font-family: verdana; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);" href="http://freret.blogspot.com/">Link to the person who nominated you</a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Didn't I just do that? Isn't that what Point #1 was all about? In my mind, this seems like a rather ham-fisted excuse to <s>shamelessly promote</s> draw attention to my nominator yet again. *Sigh* Here he is (<span style="font-style: italic;">again</span>). I'd be really peeved by this if it weren't for the fact that I effusively encourage all three of my regular readers to visit Monsieur Freret's fabulously eloquent blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth - or - switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> I never lie. (Ooops! - was that number 1 already?)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">5. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Nominate seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies, or who have outrageous truths to share.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Check.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">6. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Post links to the seven blogs you nominate</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Duhhhh ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">7. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Natch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Now for the challenge - let's see if you can separate the sheep from the goats:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span lang="EN-CA">I can’t brush my teeth in the bathroom; instead, I wander nomadically throughout my home as I brush brush brush. (I have no problems being stationary while I floss.) Now that we're in Iraq, I see this <s>irritating</s> quirky little trait as a boon since most bathrooms here are not equipped with sinks. Sinks tend to be out in the hallway. It's like I've been in training for this moment all my life.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2. When I was growing up, Eugene Levy was our family babysitter. Oddly - and to this day - my brother is often mistaken for Gene. Must be the unibrow.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">3. My mouth (in which butter seldom melts) still calls itself home to a <s>now rather misshapen</s> baby - or milk if you prefer - tooth. I know - as sure as God made little green apples - that this is my personal Heaven-appointed Fountain of Youth (oh, where art thou Ponce de León?) - my own </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >The Picture of</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><em style="font-family: verdana;">Dorian Gray</em><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Once it is gone - alas! there is no adult tooth below the gum line, patiently waiting (like Prince Charles) for its moment in the sun - it is gone, and I will age into a toothless (or one tooth less) crone overnight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4. I have a not well-kept secret passion for any book - fiction or non-fiction - about the </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Knights Templar, and by extension, the Crusades. Christ! - dress an </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">orangutan in a </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">flowing </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">white </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">mantle with a pretty red cross on it and <s>Dan Brown</s> I'd be all over it.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> What's there not to love about a great ape delivering the Holy Places of Christianity from Mohammedan tyranny?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">5. I love the film <span style="font-style: italic;">Ishtar</span>. I <s>not very </s> briefly considered making </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >I Look to Mecca</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> the first song at my wedding.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">6. I am incredibly shy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">7. I can write (indeed I am remarkably dexterous) with both of my feet but amazingly, no one has offered to make a film about me. Admittedly my "penmanship" was much much better before my foot surgery of several years back but perhaps this particular footnote makes my toehold on writing all the more film-worthy. </span><br /><a style="font-family: verdana;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_NgQwDdvfjZ0/S4vU00m4dGI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Rj-viqqY9dU/s1600-h/CreativeWriter.jpg"><br /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">And in random order, I give you the names (and links) of those <s>poor sods</s> lucky lucky chosen to whom I proudly pass the baton:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">1. </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://wordsworthinc.blogspot.com/">Mr. Words Worth</a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">2. </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://daintyballerina.blogspot.com/">Dainty Ballerina</a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">3. Amazing Susan @ <a href="http://www.amazingwomenrock.com/">Amazing Women Rock</a></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4. <a href="http://flawntpress.com/blog/">Flawnt</a></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">5. </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://lifeintheexpatlane.blogspot.com/">Miss Footloose</a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">6. </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://zehra-writing.blogspot.com/">Zehra Mustafa</a><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">7.</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;">Joanna @ <a href="http://www.popculturedivas.com/">popculturedivas </a>and <a href="http://missculture.blogspot.com/">missculture</a></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The game is afoot!</span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-557171827310963049.post-2621430040491388742010-02-28T18:07:00.020+03:002010-02-28T19:42:24.364+03:00Hello from Hawler<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S4qG__68gUI/AAAAAAAAAdY/uCtSb2uo7rg/s1600-h/Promo45GreenHelloGoodbye.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_d84buGDaAQA/S4qG__68gUI/AAAAAAAAAdY/uCtSb2uo7rg/s320/Promo45GreenHelloGoodbye.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443311533679214914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Time, brown-outs and very tetchy internet access have connived and conspired to render me <s>uncharacteristically</s> eerily silent these last few days, so I am going to take advantage of a few free moments, electricity, and a stolen usb-wifi stick to offer the briefest of glimpses into our first week (+2 days) in Hawler - or Erbil as the Kurds (it is their city after all) are wont to call it. So in no order or aforethought whatsoever, here are a few - and I mean a few snapshots of Life Among the Kurds.<br /><br />1) Like any other (sort-of) modern city, Erbil runs on electricity - that marvellously magical (in my mind) undercurrent to civilization that keeps me warm when it's cold out, allows me to boil water for my tea, and read without straining my eyes </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">unnecessarily</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">. Here, the city is officially empowered between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. The corollary of this is that if you are the sort of person who likes to stay warm when it's cold out, boil water for your tea, and read without straining your eyes unnecessarily then you are shit out of luck - unless you either own your own generator or can tap into someone else's generator. Consequently it looks like Spider-Man has spun his way across Erbil and, in his wake, left a rainforest panoply of sinewy webs strung between every house, lamp-post, high wire and generator - and of course, along the streets and sidewalks. The city is one gargantuan electrical octopus. If you are fortunate to have access to a good generator, it will automatically kick in when the city power cuts out. The transition from city to private electricity is not a smooth one and is usually accompanied by a house-shaking clunking sound, a jolt, a black-out, a house-shaking clunking sound and a jolt when power is once again resumed. In any given night, there can be half a dozen of these electrical trade-offs. I suspect that Stephen King spent time in Iraq while researching the Green Mile.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />2) Cars appear to have names. Not names like "Civic" or "Corolla", but additional names - perhaps like confirmation names, except rather than choosing a saint's name, something quite nonsensical is selected. These names are painted quite boldly along the sides or backs of the lucky vehicles in question, so that there's no doubt at all that an individual isn't just driving a Hyundai Tucson, but rather sitting proudly behind the wheel of a "Prado", "Deer", "Great Wall" or (the ever popular) "Obama". What we are unable to determine is whether this act of car-christening transpires at the actual car dealership or in someone's garage. I actually suspect the former.<br /><br />3) Bathrooms here have a doorbell on the wall. They are not near places where a panic-button might come in handy, such as the bathtub (should one slip) or the toilet (should one be short of something absorbent). So in plain sight, but not easily accessed (unless you're standing in the doorway), is a very loud doorbell. Needless to say, Mr. This Cat's (Not Abroad) finds great sport in ringing it for no apparent reason (for more Mr. This Cat's quirky anecdotes, read my upcoming memoir, <span style="font-style: italic;">Married to an Eight-Year Old</span>).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">4) Many ex-pats here have pets: presumably the standard fare being cats and dogs. I say presumably because I haven't actually seen any pet dogs (although I've seen dog food on selected shelves of larger grocery stores) and I have actually seen a cat (although I've seen neither cat food nor litter on any shelf of any grocery store). I asked our host - whose cat it is - what she does for kitty litter. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >Bulgur</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, she said. That would be bulgur, as in that Middle Eastern whole-grain: the corn<span style="font-family:verdana;">erstone for pilaf, what make tabbouleh salads crunchy and thickens soups. Peeking into the designated kitty potty room (where the otherwise unused Turkish toilet ekes out a lonely, forgotten life), I saw a kitty litter tray piled high with bulgur wheat. And cat turds.</span> In that instant I knew that I would never eat another bulgur-stuffed </span>green pepper as long as I lived.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">5) Firstly, let me preface this by saying that Kurds seem like incredibly nice people. Although I might change my opinion of them - or at least modify it in some way - 23 months & three weeks (less 2 days) from now, today I think they're lovely people. And coming from me, that's high praise indeed. All of the Kurds we've encountered thus far have tried to speak English with us, which is a good thing since we know zippo Kurdish and only a smattering of Arabic - Arabic being the language that Saddam Hussein forced the Kurds to learn in favour of - by which I mean by outlawing - their indigenous language.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> As a result, I tend to feel like a leading member of the revolutionary Ba'ath Party whenever I use Arabic, but it's either that or point and make incomprehensible grunts to store owners. (Thankfully, most restaurant menus are amazingly printed in English and Kurdish.) Now in spite of their grasp of English (however rudimentary) and keenness to use the language, Kurds haven't been able to come to terms with the word "goodbye". I don't know why this is, but whenever we take our leave of people - everyone from clerks to waiters to the AK-47-wielding guards at Our Place of Gainful Employment - we are sent on our way with a wave and a very chipper "hello."<br /><br />I wonder if they are equally confused when we respond with goodbye? Perhaps in their minds, they're <s>singing</s> thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello ... hello, hello ...<br /></span></span>This Cat's Abroadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08550488367667396784noreply@blogger.com2