"This one"

I want to start today with a little lesson about Islam. We are all familiar with the expression “mecca”, for example as in “Tofino is a surfing mecca”…but do you know where the expression comes from?

“Makkah” or “Mecca” is actually a city on the Western coast of Saudi Arabia which is the centre of Islamic religion. Makkah is “the holy city” at the centre of which lies the “Kabba”. The Kabba is a large cube-like structure (see centre of the depressed portion of the plaza on the far side of the above image), and from what I understand, is thought to be in line with the centre of Heaven. Five times a day, thousands of pilgrims (every one of those tiny white dots in the image is a person!) make their way into the gates and form commendably organized concentric circles around the Kabba to pray to Allah (God). I want to emphasize at this point that Muslims do not pray TO the Kabba – the Kabba is simply the marker for the central point of Heaven, and is thus the most logical place to pray to Allah (any of my Muslim friends reading this, please feel free to add-in or correct me in the comments at the bottom!). No matter where a Muslim may be in the world, whenever they pray, they pray in the direction of the Kabba. In the hospital here, each room has an arrow on the ceiling indicating in which direction the Kabba lies. I watched the evening prayer in Makkah on TV (non-Muslims are not permitted into the Holy City) during Ramadan, and it was one of the most mesmerizing, beautiful experiences I have EVER seen. Thousands of people moving at exactly the same time, the chanting of the Qur’an (kind of like the Bible for Muslims) by the Imam (kind of like a priest, but not really) while it is all going on.

Now back to the point of the lesson: Makkah is the central place for Islam – people with the same passion drawn to the same place to share it and experience the exponential intensity of the large number of others around them there for the same reason. Thus, the next time you hear the expression “mecca” in English, you can think about the much deeper meaning actually attached to it!

And now, a story. This is something that happened just yesterday. Here’s the background:

The patient is a long termer who has been on our ward since I started. He is quite possibly one of the surliest men I have EVER met. From the start, he had it out for me. Before I could speak Arabic, he didn’t even want me in the room, and would wave me away like a mosquito with an impatient flick of his wrist every time I entered. The only time I ever got any acknowledgement was when he wanted something, in which case he would snap his fingers, and point at the desired object without looking at me…and of course he always wanted it faster than I could bring it to him, so a string of Arabic was forcefully unleashed into the airspace between us. Of course, the fact that I had no idea what he was saying served only to compound the "mushkala" (problem), and simply gave him an excuse (not that he really needed one) to be even more annoyed...Ok ok, so maybe my humming and my constant broken English/Arabic chatter whenever I went in didn’t help matters, but that is beside the point…

His son, who is in his room pretty much around the clock is a little more personable, but also speaks only Arabic. As my own grasp on the language has improved improved, Baba’s (“Baba” is the Arabic word for “father”, and can also be used to refer to an older man) disdain slowly morphed to a sort of low-level tolerance, and though I was still studiously ignored, at least the “go away” waves were reduced to a minimum.

Yesterday, I went into Baba’s room and was going about my business (yes, humming some Bob Marley, and proudly stumbling over my latest Arabic words to a very un-captive audience), when all of a sudden, Baba’s son blurted out “this one!”. I stopped in my tracks at this rare attempt to communicate, thinking that I must have done something SUPER “haram” (forbidden) if he was going to the extent of using the language so openly abhorred by his father. Baba himself was sitting in his usual position on his bed, slouched forward, towel over his head, corners of his mouth downturned, with eyes so caustic, I’m surprised the paint wasn’t peeling off the wall he was glaring at.

I started to go through all the possibilities of what “this one” could be in reference to: The pills? Change the bed? The IV? The son, then smiled (also very rare), then paused, and said my name (which I had no idea he even knew) followed by a string of Arabic which included “momareda” (nurse), “kooloo” (all), “kwayes” (good), and something about “Baba saying”, and then repeated “this one” and pointed at me. Suddenly it dawned on me what he was trying to say, and I think I still have a bruise on my chin from where my jaw dropped on the floor. I looked at Baba, and just for a split second, he looked in my direction, gave a curt, surly nod, and returned to melting the wall. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I had crossed the threshold into the realm of approval with this man who I had been so sure vehemently resented the fact that we shared the same breathing air. As I had no words in my vocabulary to express that he had just made my day (which is probably just as well), I simply nodded back, smiling slightly, and said “shukkran, Baba” (thank you), and continued about my work – but a barrier had been broken down. Despite his surliness, Baba was utterly compliant for the rest of the day, even going as far as muttering “mafe mushkala” (no problem) when I accidentally spilled a few drops of saline on his arm while flushing his IV – a situation which, 3 weeks ago, may very well have elicited apocalyptic Richter scale-tipping roars.

Small steps, my friends, small steps.

Fi
xo

Who are you?

I know I said that this next blog post would be about my trip into the desert, but am going to hold that story for a bit and reflect instead on a something I have been thinking a lot about lately. Though this issue has been on my mind for a while, an incident the other day ripped open a curtain on a window which allowed me to see landscapes I was not aware existed. As I cannot tell you exactly what happened for reasons which will become obvious, I will relate instead the parameters of the situation in as specifically non-specific a manner possible.

I want to talk about identity.

You are plunged alone into the middle of a new culture, country and environment. You don’t know anyone and they don’t know you. No one is able to speak to your strengths or view your weaknesses with endearment (because I know you all find my over-analytical views endearing…right?). No one knows what you’ve done, or what you stand for. All you are is a physical body with a name who is supposed to be competent to carry out a job. How do you create an impression? What will that impression be, and is it consistent with who you see yourself to be? Bear in mind that the challenge of creating a good first impression is compounded by the judgment of your actions from many different cultural frames of reference, none of which you are too familiar with. How will your identity change in this situation, or will it? You no longer have your past experiences to hide behind. No one from the Philipines cares you were a sponsored elite cyclist back home. No one from the general Saudi population accedes work done with IV drug users, especially in a harm reduction capacity (“haram kateer” – highly forbidden!). All you have from these past experiences are the core lessons you learned, and the values which were created or modified in the process.

We too often define ourselves by what we have done, and forget, or worse, fail to discover who we ARE. Too much, we emphasize “accomplishment” itself as a single event, an endpoint, and forget to reflect on WHY we did it, what we learned from it, and how we can apply this information in different capacities to future situations. Failure to achieve a set goal is seen as a negative, because we cannot “add the attained goal to our list” and are thus left to make empty excuses to ourselves and others as to why we can’t say “I did that”…yet what we have really failed at it to see the process as an extremely rich resource in experience gained. It is what we choose to take from these situations, despite our disappointment that makes us who we are.

What do you say when someone asks you who you are? Do you tend to urgently list off a list of your personal and career accomplishments early on in a “getting to know you” conversation? Do you sit back, listen, process and respond to what the other person has to say, let THEM ask YOU the questions, and let your “true self” come through slowly in your choice of response? Are your “listable” experiences events which occurred as a result of your intrinsic pursuing of what truly interests you and gives you pleasure? Or are they just one more thing to put on your “list” whose length is directly proportional to the recognition you believe you are owed from those with whom you share that list?

Do you care more about being able to say you did it, or can you see the importance in talking about what you learned from it either directly or indirectly, even if the actual event is not mentioned?

I want to make perfectly clear that I am just as guilty of many of the abovementioned behaviours as the next person, but it is something that I am aware of and working on every day.

Now picture yourself in a situation where you are working hard to establish a good, carefully calculated first impression on your new community. You know you have been doing well so far, but you have also seen how quickly an impression can turn, and are doing your best to merge at a matching speed, with plenty of shoulder checking. You have learned how to roll with and absorb the many small challenges you face while trying to assimilate into your new environment, and though you have had to bite your tongue a few times, you know that ultimately, it is only your own loss of control which has been compromised in most situations (ie, “their” way is not better or worse…just “different”).

Then, suddenly, someone is asking you to do something that is so completely against everything you believe in, and that you believe you stand for, it becomes “un-absorbable”. You refuse outright (with what you think is a very strong, valid argument). You are asked to comply several more times. You stand your ground. You can literally see the otherwise demure, unassuming impression you have worked so hard to build, evaporating in the rising heat. You can also see that the challengers know you are right despite them pushing you the other way – the “easier” way (a fact which, unfortunately, does not actually make your immediate situation any better).

Ok, let’s talk about me. In the end (as I am sure you figured out that this hypothetical non-specific situation pertains directly to yours truly), I am very very happy to say that I stood my ground, advocacy muscles rippling, and truly stood up for what I believed in. Most importantly, given the chance to go back and make that decision again, I would not have changed a thing.

Lesson learned:
Part of self discovery, getting to know your TRUE self, is being placed in a situation where all EXTRINSIC frames of reference defining “you” as YOU are absent, and subsequently making a decision opposing ALL external pressures, based only on the strength of your own moral intrinsic belief that you are RIGHT.

I will end with an analogy because you all know how much I LOVE analogies…

Some areas of personal boundaries are like lycra – Easily supports large changes in conformity, but still keeps things within the same general shape

Other areas of personal boundaries are like jeans - Stiff at first, but after being worn a few times, they stretch out comfortably, and you pretty much forget how stiff and hard to get into they were when you first got them.

Still other areas are like a suit of armour – No stretch or give. Instead, rigid and indestructible, custom made to fit you exactly because you know the dimensions will never change. You also know beyond the shadow of a doubt that it will protect what is inside of it against any attempted extrinsic insult, be it physical, psychological, or moral.

Thanks for listening
Love to all (and congratulations if you actually made it this far in the post!)

Xo
Fi

Spare a square?

Well, it’s been a while! I had every intention of writing weekly, but sometimes it goes by so fast, I feel the week is like a rug that is being snapped out from under my feet!
Regardless, the benefit to you is that I now have several interesting and laughable (though not necessarily at the time!) events to share. For this week, I will start with my first KSA bike race:

Many of you have probably seen most of the pictures already posted on Facebook, so I will only re-post a couple here. We arrived at the race course – a site far outside the city and away – at 6:30am. There were already people in the parking lot when we arrived. Equipment varied widely from brand sleek new Trek Madones, to old school fuschia colored Brikos, to TT helmets with mirrored motocross goggles (which were perpetually lopsided).

I have a message to anyone who has ever arrived at a Spring Series Race, sighted the blue Porta-crappers and launched into a self righteous tirade of self-pity. You know the expression about the grass being greener on the other side? Well, having now hopped that fence, I can reveal to you that the greener grass is a hallucination brought on by the self centered Western illusion that every toilet should flush, that every stream should be delivered with bulls eye accuracy to the centre of the hole, and that one should never have to view the unwanted roughage of someone else’s intestines. I have included a picture of the facilities at the race start (above). Please, don’t waste your energy trying to imagine there is anything more luxurious on the inside than would appear from the exterior. The only thing missing in the picture is the steady stream of Filipino and Western men proudly yielding their rolls of toilet paper they so resourcefully remembered to bring with them. Anyone remember a toilet seat? A shovel to dig a hole? Did I use the facilities? Absolutely not. The only further piece of information I will reveal to you in order for you to better fine tune your imagination to my experience is that I had eaten a moderately large bowl of Weetabix, Cornflakes, All-Bran and Museli for breakfast.

The race was a 16km TT, and in keeping with one of my teammates pledges to avoid race reports on his blog, I will spare you the finer (boring) details of the course and my feelings during the race. The only thing different about the race here was that you had to dodge the occasional camel turd (like baseball sized rocks, and deadly if they clump in your chain), and in my oxygen deprived state, I had to be sure to avoid drinking if there was a car going by due to Ramadan (outlined in last blog). I was also amazed at the number of people who showed up – about 50 starters! Competitors were mostly Filipino, although a moderate number of Westerners as well (4 women including myself). I have also included a picture of the parking lot scene and a shot of part of the course (above). I knew only 2 people when I first arrived, but quickly met many others – I am happy to report that the camaraderie amongst cyclists in KSA is much the same as that in Canada, possibly even tighter as the community is so much smaller. It was almost a little disconcerting how many people already knew who I was and that I had just ordered a new bike from Bahrain…! Regardless, it was just really great to meet some people outside of King Faisal Hospital, talk about something other than nursing, and learn about where other expats are working in Riyadh.

By the way, the results for the race are posted at www.riyadhwheelerscom for anyone who cares.
Got another great story about a desert adventure (I have included one pic as a taster), but I will save it for next week - and I promise it will only be a week this time!

Thanks for all the emails, wall writings, Skypes, etc. It is so great to feel so connected with everyone back home! I am trying to reply to as many as I can in a relatively timely manner, and I must apologize that sometimes I take a while to get back. I have also been known to forget, so feel free to send me a nasty reminder if you don't hear from me and I will remedy the situation
!
Love Fi
Xo

A quick clarification to ease uneasy minds

I seem to have caused a bit of an uproar regarding my last post. I feel the need to clarify several things to put everyone at ease:

1) The cycling group is all expats

2) We were really and truly out in the middle of nowhere - I am talking outside the city, away from everything, down a bunch of dirt side roads on a dead end road with nothing on it. We were in no way close to anyone who would take offense in any way to our activities.

3) On occasion, there has been incidents where there has been an "encounter" with authorities, and generally the women are just told to cover up (ie put on leg covers).

4) I am not going to wear the jersey again without covering up the logo (teehee).

I would never purposely do anything to insult Saudi culture, which, in most cases I have great respect for (and the cases I don't I know my place and keep my mouth shut). I am so sorry if I in any way impressed the contrary on anyone.

Fi
xo

In the doghouse

I know you have all been waiting for a story about my first language blunder. First, I must give you a quick bit of background:

Today, we are going to learn about dogs in Islam (“Islam” is the proper way to refer to the religion practiced by Muslims. You can also say “Muslim culture”. Never say “Muslimism”). There are no dogs in Saudi Arabia. Though the Qu’ran (holy book containing the words of the Prophet Muhammed…kinda like the bible, but not really) emphasizes kindness to all animals, dogs are considered “dirty” in Muslim culture. Touching a dog voids “wudu” or the washing of one’s self with water prior to each of the 5 daily prayers (salah).

Since I have started working on the ward, I have immersed myself in learning the Arabic language. Throughout my day, I write down all the new words I learn, and every night, I practice what I have learned that day. I am proud to say that I can now ask any Arab if they have moved their bowels today, yesterday, or the day before yesterday, whether they have had any diarrhea, whether or not they are constipated, and if they would like any medication to assist in whatever dysfunctional bowel pattern they may be experiencing. Unfortunately this wealth of knowledge does not transfer well to communication with general public (e.g. at shopping malls, with cab drivers, etc). I should also make clear that while I can get a basic point across, I generally speak either in very short sentences with devastatingly poor grammar, or in single words punctuated with animated gesticulations to get my point across (the latter method was not always well received before I learned all my bowel-related Arabic).

Last week, my proud new word was “kolb” which means “heart”. The “K” sound in Arabic is quite soft, and to a Westerner’s ears can almost be mistaken for a “G”. That day, I was happily doing my morning assessments in my patients’ rooms, and when it came time to use my newly acquired vocabulary, I would point at their chest and say “kolb?” as in “can I listen to your heart?”. By the third patient (though I was telling myself that it was a cultural thing that I was no doubt misinterpreting), I could not shake the feeling that I was getting a little bit of hostility. It wasn’t until later on that day when I was practicing my Arabic with one of my Lebanese co-workers that I realized my embarrassing blunder. Apparently, I had been pronouncing my “K” sound TOO softly, and it was coming out as a fairly audible “G”. While “kolb” means “heart”, unfortunately “golb” means “dog”…in case there was any doubt as to whom I was referring when I uttered the insult, I must remind you that I was pointing at my patients’ chest while saying it. As an aside, I also found out later that pointing at someone in any capacity in the Muslim culture is also insulting. Penalty box for the Canuck, eh?

Next we are going to have a quick lesson about Ramadan. Ramadan is an annual month long dawn to dusk fast, the purpose being religious cleansing, learning sacrifice, self restraint, and humility. Eating and drinking is permitted from dusk to dawn only. There is increased time for prayer, and the general feel of life in Riyadh is even more conservative than usual. Mobs of Mutawa (religious police) are on every street corner forcing even Western women to cover up completely, and there are serious consequences for interactions between single men and women. Though foreigners are not expected to fast, we are expected to respect it, and we cannot eat or drink in public.

I will now mischievously report to you that 9 days into the holy month of Ramadan, I have ended my 2-month “fast”. Bike fast, that is. I had not been on a road bike since my mildly demoralizing experience July 18th at the Tour de Gastown. I was actually quite happy to be off the bike for the first month, but the feeling quickly abated and I have been dying to get out ever since I found out about the bike club in Riyadh. I have ordered myself a brand new bike (a Trek Madone 4.7 WSD for those of you who care) from Bahrain, and I have a loaner bike for the month of September from my Irish friend who is back home getting married (thanks, Em!).



Fi
Xo

Rice and Beans

Last week was a bit of a down week for me. They told us in our general orientation that we would experience exactly that, right around this time, after the initial excitement and chaos of arrival started to subside. Of course, this statement was promptly pooh-poohed by yours truly. Homesickness is for the weak. Well, I was certainly forced to eat those words last week. Unfortunately, they were vomited back up into the porcelain bowl in the unit bathroom my first day of work.

***Saudi Lesson Learned # 1129: “Fresh” fish in Saudi is dependent on your frame of reference. When you walk into the “fresh” fish section at the grocery store and it smells the trash bin behind Save-On Meats on a hot summer day, the fish is probably not that fresh. Attempts to use this fish to satiate a craving for your Uncle’s famous West Coast BBQ wild salmon is like mixing
up a cup of instant coffee when you are craving JJ Bean…wait a sec…oh right. I do that as well.***

Yes, I certainly know how to make a fantastic first impression. Following a night spent with alternating orfices acquainting themselves with the toilet bowl, I woke up at 6am, peeled myself off the bathroom floor, rubbed the tile imprints off the side of my face, and applied a dab of concealer to the bags under my eyes. Sick days are for the weak. I fumbled into my crisp new white uniform, and queasily shuffled the 15 min walk in the 40C morning heat to start my first official day at work.

I met my preceptor (who is an absolutely lovely Finnish woman), and we promptly set off down the hall to the first room. Just as I was being introduced to the patient as the “new” nurse, my saliva glands started seeping, and the flickering fluorescent “fresh fish” sign from the grocery store invasively emblazoned itself in my mind. My gurgling stomach bile screamed “THIS FISH AIN’T FRESH”. I dropped my papers, stumbled out of the room and ran down the hall to the loo. I emerged several minutes later, face the colour of a stick of chewed spearmint gum. As we had not yet gotten to that part of the orientation, I first had to explain to my head nurse who I was, and then that I had to go home. Yep, great first impression I left that day.

The next afternoon, following the sub-death coma sleep I had sunken into for the previous 24hrs, the next day I decided that I should probably do a bit of grocery shopping (this time strictly adhering to Saudi Lesson Learned #1129). I moseyed around for a bit, filling my cart with rice and beans (safe for my stomach, but unfortunate for those around me afterwards). I was waiting in line for the checkout when all of a sudden, I felt something catch my heel. I turned around and came face to face with an irate one-shoed old man yelling at the top of his lungs in Arabic at me. Apparently my total moo-moo abaya wasn’t hiding enough of my “femaleness” and the distraction had caused him to trip over me and lose his sandal. Though I have no idea what he was saying (probably just as well), it was CLEARLY my fault. Sorry, sir – pardon my XX chromosome. He walked off in a huff, and I went home feeling more homesick than ever…

Anyhow, this week I am feeling much better, but I want to say that I really do miss everyone back in Canada. Being in the Middle East is super awesome, and I am so so happy I decided to come here, but it has also made me realize and fully appreciate (because of course I already knew this!) how super amazingly lucky I am to have all of you in my life. Miss you and love you all

Mafe al kher (goodnight)

Fi
xoxo

Chop chop

Destination: Riyadh

Equipment: hair dryer, electrical outlet, dark coloured long sleeved shirt, dark coloured long pants

Method:
1) Put on long clothing. May also add scarf either around neck or head for extra authenticity, however head cover is not generally expected of Western expats.

2) Insert plug into wall. Hold hair dryer 1-1.5 feet away from your face. Do not turn it on just yet.

3) Close your eyes. Envision reddish, sandy dirt beneath your feet, date trees scattered around you (aside: date trees look like palm trees with grape-like bunches of yellow, oblong fruit growing from where we are used to seeing coconuts), men in white, long sleeved ground-length robes (“thob”), and women in long black abayas and face veils (“niquab”). The buildings around you are all unique: Complex modern architecture comprised mostly of mirrored glass, bearing both English and Arabic signage. The modern masterpieces like the “Kingdom Tower” (think giant mirrored bottle-opener) are starkly contrasted by a few remaining crumbly-walled traditional clay brick low rises nestled in the back alleyways. Scattered regularly like cacti in a desert landscape, the mosque towers (“minarets” – they look like bishop chess pieces) spike up over the roof-tops . There is a group of young boys laughing and kicking around a soccer ball in a nearby dusty field. The air is slightly hazy, and the sun is steady.
Suddenly, the breeze picks up…you are thankful momentarily, as you wait for the cooling effect to hit your sweat-drenched skin…then you remember that is it 48C, and you are forced to turn your head away from the heinous torch blast that is singeing your eyelashes.

4) turn on hair dryer on highest heat setting (ensuring it is pointed directly into your face) and hold for 15 sec, or until nose hairs burn dry and eyelashes shrivel.

5) don’t you feel like you were right here next to me?

Variation: Find a sauna. Repeat steps 1-5 inside sauna. This promises a much more accurate simulation.



You will all be happy to learn that 2 days ago, I finally bought a new abaya. It is being custom made with long sleeves and long body, but sans “moo-moo” waistline. It has a beautiful dark brown swirly design on the bottom of each sleeve, and on the back. There are a few little amber-coloured stones embedded in the brown swirly bits. This is all being done for 200 SAR (about $50!), and I pick it up Tuesday. Now...let me tell you about where I bought it:
One of the senior nurses took myself and another orientee under her wing, and drove us (well, her driver drove us) out to the “Dhera” Ladies’ souq (aside: a “souq” is kind of like a flea market where there are many different and extremely pushy vendors selling various goods for super cheap, cash only. The buyer generally bargains with the vendor for the best price. I am not very good at this yet.).

Once we were all shopped out (actually, once we were just tired of getting harassed), we left the souq, and sat outside in a huge outdoor plaza where a group of about 15 young boys were hanging out riding bikes, playing soccer, and joking around (remember when North American kids used to do that before computers and video games came along?). We laughed as the boys tried out their English skills on us with impish grins….”Hello!”….”Welcome!”…”I love you!”.

As I looked around the plaza, I turned to our co-worker/tour guide and inquired if there was any particular purpose to this plaza (Mum, you might not want to read this part!). She lifted an eyebrow, and replied in a hushed tone…”it’s ‘Chop-chop’”. In response to the blank look on my face, she offered a blunt elaboration: “ This is where they decapitate people convicted of drug crime, murder, adultery, etc”. All of a sudden the cement blocks in the centre of the plaza upon which we were comfortably perched seemed a whole lot less cozy. My response was a brief comment which Allah would have viewed with deep discountenance…as an afterthought, I asked her incredulously “how long ago did they stop doing THAT?!”. She eyed me in amusement: “They haven’t”.

Here are couple of pictures from the "social gathering" at the Australian Embassy a couple of weeks ago. The picture of us in our abayas is just as we are getting there. I think it goes without saying that the other pictures are later on in the night, following copious sampling of some of Australia's finest wares...