I Have Iraq in My Shoe
Page 24
Josh was still being diplomatic and polite and was asking Kamil about the specifics of the house: have your kids picked out their rooms, etc. Kamil had two children, one boy and one girl. He explained to us that yes, his son had picked out a room, but, “The girl, she is a visitor in your home. When she grow up, she get married and move out of the house with her husband.” That made me so sad. I couldn’t imagine growing up with a family that only thought of me, really, as a temporary guest.
Being on a somewhat organized tour, we had the compulsory stop at a “typical” Bedouin tent, where Kamil introduced us to the Bedouin family and then brought us inside the spacious tent and subtly pressured us to buy ugly scarves that had allegedly been made by the Bedouin woman. The scarves were packaged inside neat plastic squares and did not appear to be handmade. Although he kept saying, “No pressure!” he would then continue with, “But this how they make their LIVING.”
This typical Bedouin family had a late-model Jeep Cherokee parked outside of their tent, and the head male figure of the family had a very expensive-looking watch on his wrist, so I was guessing they were doing okay. All the same, Josh bowed to the pressure and bought a thin burgundy scarf with a faint beige plaid print. He wanted to wear it right away and had the quiet Bedouin teenage boy wrap it properly around his head.
We walked back out to the car, and Kamil pressed the ignition button on his remote-control key chain. Josh exclaimed, “That’s a fancy start button,” to which Kamil responded, “Yes, all family. Brother, father, mother…” Listening was not his forte.
From the tourist trap of the Bedouin tent, we drove to our overnight destination of yet another tented camp in the Wahiba Sands desert. We were supposed to stay at the luxury tented camp that had been previously discussed with the Ministry of Tourism, but something had changed and Josh was informed that we would be staying at another tented camp, just a half mile down the desert from the luxury camp.
Boooo. I loved luxury. Having to spend all this quality time with Kamil was wearing on my good humor, and the luxury tented camp might have remedied that. Oh well, it was just for one night, and the normal camp might not be too bad.
We drove across the wide expanse of beautiful reddish sandy dunes and passed the luxury camp. I had my nose pressed against the window and whimpered as I noticed the camp’s gleaming white canvases. We drove a half mile farther and arrived at the standard camp. There were four Bedouin men smoking shisha while sitting on large pillows, on a raised platform near the entrance to the camp. They did not stand up to greet us but merely sat and smoked until Kamil approached to shake their hands and pat them on the backs. These were our hosts.
The main Bedouin told us we would be in tent #11 and waved in the general direction of the dingy canvases off to his left. Josh and I took our overnight bags and wandered over to a canvas that had “#11” scrawled on the outside flap in black Magic Marker. The inside of the tent was a study in hodgepodge décor.
Kamil had been crowing on and on about the standard camp, saying how it was “real Bedouin camp” and a “real experience,” all the while pooh-poohing the luxury camp. We did have a real orange plastic garbage pail in our tent, and there was real mold on the floral and plaid sheets that comprised the tent’s interior. There was a Kelly-green plastic woven mat covering the floor (upon lifting this up, we found only sand underneath), and two black-framed single beds, the kind you might find in the aisles of Target, flanking each side of the tent. There was also a dusty, rickety, old electric lantern hanging in one corner.
Now, I prefer fancy, but nonluxury can be done well. Simplicity is charming when things are clean and well attended to. This camp was sloppy. It felt haphazard and had a film of griminess covering it. It just seemed like a few Bedouin dudes got together and were like, “Yeah, we’ll bring tourists out here. They love the authentic experience. They’ll pay our monthly expenses.” I was sure that somewhere, there would actually be the ubiquitous grubby backpacker who would just inhale deeply and say, “Ahhhh, this is great! It’s so authentic!” Just because something’s “authentic” doesn’t mean it’s good.
The big draw of desert camping was the desert itself. The scenery was stunning: miles and miles of reddish sand dunes, with the occasional flock of camels wandering through. Josh and I had arrived about an hour before the sun set, so after surveying the squalor of our tent, we wanted to get out of there and spend some time enjoying the authentic beauty of the Wahiba Sands. We were also dying to get away from Kamil, who had thankfully plopped himself down with the other men and fired up a shisha. We climbed up to the top of the closest dune, which took about fifteen minutes of trudging, then parked ourselves at the top, facing the descending sun. It was absolutely breathtaking. The air was silent, as there was no traffic anywhere nearby, and we could just barely make out the faraway voices of the shisha-smoking men.
We survived the night in the squalor, and the next morning I woke up and brushed a flying cockroach off my blanket, then got up and hurriedly packed my things. Josh and I made our way to the breakfast area to meet Kamil, who was having his morning tea and cigarette. Breakfast at this camp was appalling. Appalling meaning I could have made it myself. I don’t cook. There were hard-boiled eggs, lentil mash, and two loaves of store-bought white bread. There was also a tray with one small jar of hot sauce, one jar of jelly, and one giant vat of mayonnaise. Seriously? This was an authentic Bedouin meal? I was so relieved we had been invited to the luxury camp for breakfast.
It was that day that I realized we had already spent exactly half of our vacation with Kamil. This made me rumpled and unhappy and so much less tolerant of his incessant yammering.
Kamil claimed to have once met, and had a brief chat with, Brad Pitt in the lobby of a Muscat hotel. He had been very impressed with Mr. Pitt, and began discussing his marriage with Angelina Jolie. He seemed surprised when Josh and I informed him that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie weren’t married. “They not married?!” So Josh explained something he had read somewhere that Brad and Angelina had said they would only marry when it was legal for gay people to marry, because they thought it was very unfair that gays couldn’t marry. This statement was met with stunned silence from Kamil. I vacillated back and forth between being thrilled we were finally able to shut him up and very badly wanting to hear him discuss that particular issue.
Lunch was supposed to be included on the tour that day, but Josh and I had had enough of Kamil and asked to be taken back to our rental car in Muscat. We were both dying to go to the Muscat McDonald’s to try something called the McArabia sandwich. Yes, it is somewhat of a travesty to eat at an American chain restaurant when you’re overseas, but since we were both living away from America, we figured it was perfectly acceptable. Plus, nothing said “I’m lovin’ it” more than time away from Kamil.
The next morning we had to be up and ready by 9:00 a.m., per the instruction of the ever-demanding diva/tour guide. “Don’t be late!” he had warned. He was just so unbearably arrogant. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, then strolled into the hotel’s lobby at 9:10 a.m., and were rewarded with Kamil huffily standing up from his couch and pointedly looking at his watch. Josh and I stifled our immature, punchy giggles and climbed into the SUV.
Kamil took us to the Muscat Fish Market and to the main bazaar. By the time we had gotten to the bazaar, I was done with him. I could not bear the thought of being led through the bazaar stalls, with him pointing out the obvious, “This a silver shop. This a dish-dash shop. This a sweet shop,” and ordering us to photograph things. My suggestion to split up, and then reconvene after a half hour, was met with an indignant and discourteous “Fine.” We shopped in blissful Kamil-free-ness and enjoyed the sights, sounds, and smells of the souk. We laughed and took pictures of things Kamil would not have recommended, and finally bought tacky tourist T-shirts that said “Oman” in cursive, with a silhouette of a camel. When the half hour was up, we met back up with Kamil, climbed into the car, and enjoyed a quiet ride back to the Sh
angri-La. We would never have to see him again. It was a happy day.
Dadyar picked me up, on time, at the airport. It was actually a relief to return to Kurdistan, as it was far less conservative than Oman had been. I didn’t have to have my hair covered just to go out driving in the car.
After unpacking, I needed to go to Ainkawa to pick up some wine. Dadyar handed me the car keys and motioned toward his Hyundai Santa Fe SUV, indicating that I could drive us to Ainkawa. He climbed in the passenger side and said, “Ainkawa! I need wine!” like he was me.
In the months since the airport fiasco, Dadyar had really put forth more of an effort in his job and had grown on both Steve and me. He wasn’t the type of employee to show radical initiative, but when we asked him to do something, he did it. He was reliable, good-natured and good-humored, not in the least bit creepy, and he didn’t smoke. Based on what we had seen of other possible alternatives for drivers, we really couldn’t have done much better. The fact that he suggested I drive to the produce stand just gave him a few extra points.
I had been there for so long that I found it strange when the locals stared at me as I drove along in the Hyundai. “What? I’m local. I live here now.” I was still patiently waiting for those five-star hotels to be completed, but as I pulled out of the English Village gates, I looked to my right and gasped. There, literally within walking distance of our villa, was a Costa Coffee. It looked legitimate, unlike when I had started at the sight of a building with a dirty “Microsoft” billboard running along the rooftop. This Costa Coffee appeared to be the same Costa Coffee I had enjoyed at London’s Gatwick Airport.
It was later confirmed, by people who knew things, that the Costa Coffee was indeed a legitimate branch of the international chain. If I was going to be stuck in Erbil, I needed to focus on the positives. Costa Coffee was a definite positive.
* A Chinese company called Gigimo was selling something called an Artificial Virginity Hymen, which was a small packet that would be inserted into the vagina and would release a small amount of fake blood “when your lover penetrate.” My guess would be this is selling in slightly greater quantities in Islamic nations than anywhere else. They could put it right there on the shelf next to the Virginity Soap.
Chapter Thirty-seven
New Year, New News
Warren had all but physically left The Iraq. I hadn’t heard anything from him since November and the Crazy Andy debacle, although I knew he was back in Suli. His most recent Facebook status update was “Dreaming of Maple Leaves.”
The bad news in Erbil just kept coming. Steve and I had been back for an entire week, with no sign of Georgie Catstanza. I thought he would eventually “feel” that we were back and trot on over, but there was no sign of him. Katherine hadn’t even seen him anywhere.
Mecca had also closed. The J&K Women’s Fitness Center had been closed for good, at least the fitness center part of it. I had no idea if the closing was related to the rumor of ill-gotten funds, and I silently cursed the unscrupulous owners. The one bright spot was that the salon was still open, and I would still be able to get my pedicures from Sangela.
Married Ashton, the security guy who had been calling, had moved on to a beautiful Spanish girl who worked for an NGO. According to Katherine, they were having quite the raging affair. I was sorry for his Russian wife and wondered if she was as unhappy as he was.
My visit to Psychic Sahar had cleared my head about the Awat situation. I found myself in a very secure, magnanimous place after my reading, and being at home, surrounded by family at Christmas helped to put things into perspective. I listened to the audio file of the reading a couple of times and spent a few days contemplating my entire relationship with Awat. When Sahar had said he wasn’t the man for me, it was almost like she had pushed a secret “release” button, and instead of bemoaning the loss of my attachment to him, I felt clear. Once I was home, spending time with my family and connecting with my friends, I reached the point of thinking, “How could I have ever thought that situation was real?” Awat was truly a decent, funny person, and I was grateful for the friendship we had created, but a soul mate? Nuh-uh.
I was enjoying all the cheery, goodwill-toward-men Christmasness when I randomly came across something that made me think of Awat: a book about soccer star Cristiano Ronaldo, written by Cristiano himself, titled Moments. Cristiano Ronaldo was one of the world’s best soccer players and was an icon even in Iraq. Awat idolized him. He would love the book. I decided to buy it for him as a birthday gift.
Since I hadn’t had any communication with him for three months, I wasn’t sure if he would want to see me, so I sent him an email:
Hey there,
I wanted to check in with you and see how you are doing. Are you okay? Are things good?
I am so sorry about before. I really needed some distance between us to get my head sorted out. I was really having very strong feelings for you, which I thought was completely inappropriate on my part, and I wasn’t able to just have a normal, platonic friendship with you. Again, my mistake, and I apologize.
Please let me know how you’re doing.
Best wishes & hope you’re well!
Gretchen
He sent a fairly subdued response one week later:
Hi ms gretchen
i am fine thank you for your asking…every thing good, i am working as a lawyer, dont being sorry, remember that your the best teacher i have ever had
best wishs to you and your family
This was not his usual happy-go-lucky tone. It seemed somber and professional. He may have been angry or upset about how I had ended things, I couldn’t quite tell, but I was finally in a healthy mental space about the whole thing and selfishly wanted to give him the present. Giving special presents was one of my favorite things, and once I had the gift in my possession, it became a sort of hot potato that I couldn’t wait to give away.
I’m so glad to hear you’re working! That is great news, and I hope you are enjoying your job, although that leaves much less time for video games ;)
When I was home in the U.S. I bought you a gift. I was thinking I could give it to you as sort of an early birthday present (since your birthday isn’t until March). It’s nothing big, but it is something that I saw that I knew you would really like, and it will also help you with your English.
I am probably coming down to Sulaimani in a couple of weeks. Would it be okay to get together then, to give this to you?
It can just be quick—we could just meet at the coffee shop upstairs from Zara supermarket. You don’t even have to talk to me at all, if you’re angry with me—you can just take the present, but I want to see your face when you open it. That’s me being selfish.
COME ON! LIFE IS SHORT! PRESENTS! Who doesn’t want presents?! :D
If you say “No” I will be so sad and I might cry. You don’t want to make me cry, do you? You’re too nice for that.
That got a better response. No one can resist presents. And really, people hate to see me cry. It’s sort of unsettling.
Subject: I will waiting for your gift
thank you very much my best teacher for your gift, yes you are right my birthday soon, be sure i never angry with you belive me ,i accept to meet you in zara beacuse i really miss you very much :) ,i am famous now :D i am kidding, how are you, are you still in erbile beacuse yeasterday i called you three times but you didn’t anser me, until now i dodn’t buy new enternet conection line thats cause to replay you late, please forgive me
Awat called me after sending the email, and we had a really nice twenty-minute phone conversation, where he told me he was working as a lawyer and that he had a new girlfriend. I was actually relieved to hear that.
Me: Great! That is such good news.
Awat: Yes!
Me: But…you just have ONE girlfriend now, right? Not three, like before?
Awat: (laughing) Yes, yes, just one.
Me: And have you told your mother about her?
Awat: YES!
We agreed to meet at the coffee shop located above Zara when I went down to Suli the following weekend. It would be great to see him, and I thought the meeting would provide some closure for me. He mentioned in an email that he had something important to tell me and asked that my driver not accompany us. That was intriguing, and since the driver never comes with me, that wasn’t a problem. But I was so curious about the “important thing”! Maybe he was getting engaged to his new girlfriend?
I was kind of nervous, in that way you get when you haven’t seen someone in a long time. I had stopped thinking of him in a romantic capacity, and I dressed as casually as possible, wearing my comfortable banana-colored Frye cowboy boots, so there wouldn’t be any chance of anyone mistaking this as a date. There was no need for Wonder Woman today. Sirwan dropped me off at Zara, and I walked up the stairs to the coffee shop and looked around. I didn’t see Awat, so I chose a booth, with my side facing the stairs so I could see him when he arrived.
As he walked up the stairs, I took in the visual. Awat was wearing a suit, which seemed odd, as Friday was a weekend day here. The suit was bad. Not at all like what he had worn to the party back in October. This was definitely a “Two Wild and Crazy Guys” suit, with its pastel colors and checked pattern situation. He was wearing the suit with a bright pink shirt and silver tie, and his pants were too tight. When he sat down, I could see out of the corner of my eye that there was a golf-ball-size hole in the crotch. He looked so different than I had remembered. I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed. It was an overall feeling of less. He looked…really, just like any other Kurdish guy on the street.