Language is Power II (but know your limits!)

Last week I talked about language, and how making the effort to use it can create bonds and help to seal off deeply running cultural fissures. I find that for the most part, my faltering Arabic is met with endearment, and, as I said in my last post, provides much needed comedic relief within a mostly sober environment. Often, words are used that I know aren’t exactly right in a particular context, however the patients are usually…well…patient, and their forbearing is generally rewarded with better understanding of their care (after they think about it for a second!).

I still like to be fairly certain of the meaning of the word I am using before trying it out on a patient - thanks once again to my Arabic speaking friends whom are constantly being forced to listen and give feedback as I try and twist my tongue and my throat around the unfamiliar sounds and syllables.

HOWEVER. I am also aware that in certain situations, it is not appropriate to have any ambiguity around what is being said. In some instances (usually those which are more emotionally charged), the necessary explanation or command of the language goes far beyond what I am capable of. I have also learned that sometimes, just staying quiet completely and doing your job quickly and expertly speaks louder and more articulately than the most intelligent and thought provoking exchange in any language...

A story to share:

This story is about a nurse (RN) and a doctor (MD) whose identities will remain anonymous (though I am sure many of you will have your suspicions after reading the story).

A patient on a particular hospital word is slotted for a bone marrow biopsy. Any of you who have ever experienced (either receiving, observing, or assisting with) a bone marrow biopsy know well that “barbaric” is a gross understatement in describing the procedure: The patient lies in a semi prone position while the doctor drives a needle (see above picture) roughly the width of a chopstick and the length of your hand from wrist to tip of your middle finger through layers of dermis and muscle, and into the pelvis. The intention is to collect a corkscrew-like sample of bone marrow to analyze for blood cancer (as blood cancers are characterized and can occur at any stage of cell maturation, samples must be obtained not only from the peripheral blood, but also from the early-stage undifferentiated stem cells). I say “with the intention of” because often, it takes more than one trip boring through the fleshy tunnel, and pulling it out to check if the sample attempt was successful. This procedure is done under local anesthetic (a needle as long as your middle finger is driven into the flesh and alternatively eased forward and backwards to ensure that an adequately wide area has been “frozen”). The patient gets some pre-medications for pain and for anxiety, but I liken this to offering someone a Tylenol and a pull of Mary-J before looping the noose around their necks in a lynching ceremony. Get the point? It sucks.

Anyway, this patient has a history of chronic pain and depression, and was particularly anxious and teary prior to and during the procedure. RN had pulled up a chair beside her bed, and was holding both her hands, speaking in her best soothing voice, and trying her best to pass on strength and will to the distraught woman. The woman is crying out in pain as the needle is driven into her pelvis.

The doctor is an incredibly smart man, meticulously conscious of minute details “behind the scenes”, however his bedside manner would no doubt turn Florence Nightengale to the sauce. He is not a native Arabic speaker, but seems to truly believe that knowing how to say “is there pain here”, “you are not feeling pain”, and what is the problem?” in Arabic is an acceptable range of vernacular to competently perform this procedure. As these questions were being delivered in his signature manner with a harsh accusatory “HUH?!” after every question, RNs jaw clenched tighter and tighter as her patient’s cries grew louder. The third “THERE IS NO PAIN, WHAT IS THE PROBLEM, HUH?!” was cut short by an urgent, even statement by RN “With all due respect doctor, I think the crying and the yelling is fairly indicative of the pain, and the problem is that she has an 8 inch needle the size of a pencil stuck into her pelvis…can we just get this over with as quick as possible please?”.

Well, the room was suddenly silent except for the whimpered Koran verses escaping the pursed lips of the young woman. You could have cut the tension with surgery shears. RN calmly met MD’s patronizing stare despite the creeping fingers of crimson slowly making their way up her neck in her signature blush. Just when RN was certain MD was going to stalk out of the room leaving the biopsy needle protruding out of the patient’s pelvis like a Saudi oil rig, MD broke the gaze muttering something about protocol, and the remainder of the procedure was slightly tense, but thankfully quick, quiet, and relatively uneventful.

My point here is that though it is important to know the language, it is also just as important to know your limitations, and to be honest about the range of your abilities both with yourself and others.

Fi

xo

Language is Power

Language is power. Power to learn, grow, understand, and expand personal, professional, cultural, and geographical boundaries.

I am realizing this more and more every day. I know now that language is the link between truly understanding a culture and simply accepting (or rejecting) a culture based on your own (possibly incorrect) interpretations. I am quickly learning that one cannot truly state understanding of a culture simply by living in it for an extended period of time. In this case, opinions of what one may observe are based solely on whatever frame of reference our own cultures have instilled on us as we have grown up. To truly grasp the intricacies, history and breadth of a culture, we have to be able to ask our own questions, and we need to hear the answers based on the response of one who answers from the heart and soul of the culture in which we are but humble visitors. The language connection is much more profound than simple verbal communication, though dialogue is undeniably an important component.

Language in the nursing world is critical:

In terms of the more obvious gains, the more Arabic I learn, the better I can care for my patient in terms of assessment, explaining medications, procedures, etc. Another crucial component of care for me is psychosocial considerations which includes but is not limited to, being able to chat and bond with my patient, as well as being able to joke around a bit when appropriate.

On the next level, speaking even a bit of Arabic, shows an effort is being made on the part of the nurse, and this generally serves to gain a moderate amount of extra respect from the patient. Respect generally leads to compliance, something which is often difficult to attain in my work. The respect earned is amplified if one can actually put a few sentences together. If interest is made clear, many patients will willingly teach the eager learner (a.k.a. me) new words on a daily basis. This in turn takes language still to the next level as the teaching and learning serves to greatly strengthen the therapeutic bond between nurse and patient (= greater compliance! Hamdullallah! See below for translation…)…not to mention, the pronunciation attempts often provide comic relief for both.

As a general rule, trust is directly proportional to the breadth of the vocabulary built up. As knowledge grows, the nurse can better explain medications and procedures, and the patient feels the nurse truly understands voiced concerns, and can thus ask questions about their care and treatment. As the tables are turned in terms of language anywhere outside of the hospital, I can strongly attest to the loss of control and humbling resignation when one cannot voice a concern or ask a simple question to get what one needs. The benefit to gain honourable mention with mastery of this level of language is the power to negotiate and compromise…a skill which is incredibly important working as a nurse in Saudi culture!

The last level, and one which I am only just starting to understand and graze the edges of, is the deeper understanding gained of the culture as a whole based on the actual use of words and structure of the language itself. For example, there are many expressions used which involve reference to Allah (God):

- “Hamdullallah” (thanks be to God) is used generally after anything positive e.g. in response to “how are you?”, “the procedure is over”, “did you sleep well last night?”, etc. The word is often accompanied by a finger pointing up, and a quick glance to the heavens…

- “as-salamu-aleikum/wa-aleikum as-salam” (peace be upon you/and upon you peace) is the standard greeting and reply in Arabic. It is EXTREMELY important to reply to this greeting in the proper way

- “inshaallah” (with God’s will) almost ubiquitously accompanies any (positive) action one is hoping or intending to happen in the future, e.g. “inshaallah I will be there at 8pm”. It can sometimes be frustrating at first as an outsider as realizes that God’s will often pushes that meeting back to 9pm or later…however, after a bit of time here, one inadvertently starts using the expression just as freely, and accepting that God’s will sometimes has its own schedule…

- “wallah” is an expression for which I have not quite figured out an exact translation yet, as there seem to be many. It seems to be most often used as “well then!”, “oh my God!”, or “no way!” though I am sure many of my Saudi friends are cringing at these Canadian interpretations of mine!

- “mash’allah” is also another one I have not yet deduced a proper translation for…this one is sort of like “wallah”, but more of an endearing expression which is frequently used after gaining knowledge of a new piece of positive information pertaining most often to a person e.g. following “my sister is getting married” ( ;) ), or “I was accepted into university” (inshaallah!)

Once one is able to recognize just how often these expressions are used as well as the contexts in which they are spoken, one begins to realize just how seamlessly intertwined Allah is in the everyday life of a Saudi National.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all my Arabic-speaking friends who put up with my constant barrage of “how do I say this in Arabic? What does this mean?”. Shukkran jazeelan koolo intum. Inshallah ana kalam Arabi alatool gabel shugulee hina kalass sabaa shahar!

I have a story to share with you about knowing the limits of your knowledge (or lack thereof) of a language, but as it is too long to tack on to this post, I will leave you on the edges of your seats until next week!

Xo

Fi

PS - The Arabic script above means "Allah".

Tuning into MuchMusic, Florence

So you want a closer sample of Italian life. A real “taste” of Italy, if you will. Your wish is to be granted more easily than you think. Chocolate. Simply take a bar of chocolate (preferably dark), and melt it, chop it, grate it…then add it to just about anything – presto, you have instant Italian fare. The pastries were the most obvious, of course…whether it was dark Italian chocolate nestled in the core of a flakey, buttery croissant (still warm from the baker’s oven), little curls of chocolate spilling out of your morning cornflakes box (yep – you actually buy it that way!), or little shards of dark deliciousness stirred in with the exquisitely creamy vanilla yogourt for your afternoon pick-me-up. Perhaps you may wish to indulge in a small espresso-sized “Italian hot chocolate” at your favourite corner cafe….why such an indulgence? Hot chocolate in Italy is just that – a cup of melted chocolate, perhaps mixed with a few drops of cream (just enough to haughtily insinuate that it is worthy of the liquid serving receptacle as opposed to a knife and fork).

Oh, and let’s not forget the Italians’ version of peanut butter….Nutella. Nutella is a spreadable chocolate that can be used more or less anywhere you would use peanut butter (though I would not recommend it with jam…). For those of you who are not familiar with this indulgent delight, it is the same chocolate that graces the soft centre of a Ferrero Rocher chocolate. Most commonly in Rome and Florence, it could be found smeared in generous amounts over hot Belgian-style waffles being cooked on sizzling buttered irons by street vendors. During the enjoyment of this delicacy, the consumer may be forced to assume a “pike stance” (standing with hips bent at 90 degrees) as the Nutella, made runny by the heat of the fresh waffle, develops an affinity for clean shirt fronts (trust me – I know). Other common Nutella uses include sandwiches, or for the “no frills”/skip-the-middleman approach, a large spoon is a notably effective vessel for the direct tub-to-mouth technique (this particular method is tried and true…).

For the record, I was not able to get through the above paragraph without a trip to the kitchen for a slice of chocolate. Ok, maybe 3.

Perhaps one of my favourite experiences, was something that many of you may take for granted:

On our first, day in Florence, Mum and I were strolling through the streets in the early morning, watching the historic centre of the city wake up. The scooters and the ubiquitous tiny energy efficient smart cars and three wheelers bounced by, their intended straight-line trajectories made choppy by the ancient, uneven cobbles their tires were reluctantly forced to negotiate. It was still fairly early and as we sat there, the shutters on the windows of the old stone buildings yawned into the beams of the sleepily rising sun as they were pushed open by the morning light-seekers. The smell of fresh coffee seeped out of every crevice as early risers sought to nullify their morning lethargy with a shot or two of thick, hot espresso. There was a stone ledge, slightly set back from the sidewalk, and as we strolled by, I impulsively plunked myself down on it, watching the scene unfold in front of me. After 10 mins, I could see that Mum was raring to go again, while I on the other hand, was feeling as though the warmth of the sun had fused me to the spot for the time being. Thus, I sent Mum down the street for 30 mins to burn off some energy, and as I watched her patter off, I realized that this was the first time in 4.5 months that I was aware of being completely inconspicuous and invisible to everything and everyone around me. I sat on my perch in the middle of the steadily increasing hustle and bustle, and no one paid an ounce of attention to me, or glanced at me twice, and there was no one forced to protectively “watch over me” in the background while I pretended I was alone. The only honks were the pre-pubescent, high octave toots of the smart cars as they squeaked their disapproval at the scooters swerving between them. It was bliss. I could have sat there all day, but I think Mum may have exploded if she hadn’t had an outlet on which to expend her (enviable!) seemingly never-ending energy! (Love you Mum!)

One of the things I find the hardest about living in Saudi is the lack of music. English music is considered “haram” (forbidden) in Saudi, and even traditional Arabic music is only found in certain situations. In the rare instance that a live performance is put on, it is only open to viewing for men. There is no music in the malls, or floating out of open car windows. Having been brought up in a very musical family, and having a sister who is an incredibly accomplished and talented musician, I have cultivated a deep love and dependence on music, with a special place in my heart for classical orchestral. One of my hopes while in Italy was to attend at least one performance. Unfortunately, we missed a performance by the Rome Symphony Orchestra by one day as we were traveling to Florence, and a performance by the Florence Orchestra by one day as we were traveling to Rome. Luckily, after a tip from our wonderful B&B host Giovanni, we found out about a choral concert that evening in Florence’s oldest church. The church was tucked away down a narrow alleyway, off of one of the streets in the historical centre. We forgot about the unforgiving rigidness of the old wooden pews we were perched on as the 16-member choir sung a capella, their voices dancing off the curving stone arches supporting the intricately painted cathedral dome ceiling.

The highlight of the night for me, however, was on our walk over to the concert. As we crossed one of the many open “piazzas” we became aware of the smoothly bowed strains of a violin being played. Open eared, we were lured towards the source of the beautiful sound, and soon found ourselves in the then-empty archways of the famed and majestic Ufizzi Gallery, where just that day, we had elbowed our way through the mosh pit of tourists for a chance to see original Devincis, Michelangelos, and Raphaels (well WELL worth it…).

The young man playing was lost in his music, swaying as his fingers danced and slid over the regal neck of the instrument, which seemed merely an extension of his body as opposed to a foreign object nestled under his chin. The familiar rush of emotion I get when listening to good classical music (for those who don’t know me well, I am a loyal Vancouver Symphony Orchestra groupie) was so intense from 4 month+ repression, that I actually started crying. I pulled the hood of my jacket up over my head, and sank onto a nearby stone ledge, tears streaming down my face, and soaked my body and my soul in the waves of melody swirling around that ancient, empty pillared piazza. I sat there for 10 mins before Mum gently nudged me out of my reverie to say we were going to be late for the choir concert. After dropping a few euros into the young man’s open violin case, I reluctantly followed Mum down the road, the tendrils of the musician’s song growing quieter as they gently curled in the air around us for several blocks.

I have now been back in the Kingdom for 2 weeks, and am very much enjoying a change of pace while working nights. The workload is much more manageable, and I now actually have the time to really get to know my co-workers. Last night, after we had finished our nightly routines, the five of us sat down to a wonderful Christmas dinner we had all contributed to. Our fare was an eclectic mix of Iranian, Sweedish, Canadian hippie, and Philipino influences, and under the circumstances, I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather have spend Christmas than with my “Saudi family” on E-1. Thanks ladies!

Hope all of you in the other hemisphere are all having a wonderful holiday

Miss you, love you

Fi
xo

The Politics of Leather

Buon giorno

I am back in the desert following my little excursion to Italia. I would go back in a heartbeat, though upon my return, I would not be without 2 things; a better command of the language, and my bike. It is no coincidence that there was flooding around Florence and Rome during our stay - I am quite sure that I left oceans of drool on the gorgeous Tuscan hills as I bike-lessly watched them roll by from the bus window. I will be back, and I will leave no turn virgin to the touch of my Bontragers (those are tires for you non-bike obsessed folks).

The language on the other hand will involve the avoidance and prevention of such dire situations as the following: Tall, dark and gorgeous Italian man approaches tall Canadian woman silently appreciating the beauty of the winding and cobbled Tuscan streets. TD&G releases a string of Italian into the electric airspace between them with perfect eyebrows raised in question. CW unfortunately has not even learned to say “I don’t speak Italian” in Italian, and is reduced to an awkward and apologetic “no Italian” as she turned the color of Mama’s arrabiata sauce. TD&G painfully attempted again, with palpable awkwardness, as CW wondered if she could somehow mime out “let’s just drink wine and stare into each others’ eyes”… alas, all CW could muster was a lame shrug and a smile, which, in good sport was mirrored by TD&G as he gave a small wave and walked away, looking back once to smile again. Advice to my female friends: DO NOT go to Italy without at least learning the essential phrases for basic survival such as “I would love to have a glass of wine with you”, “a tour of the city would be grand”, “I prefer red to white”, and “yes, you can pick me up at 8pm”.

It is no coincidence that Italy is shaped like a boot. This is a frank geographical prelude to “you-are-going-to-spend-a-ton-of-cash-on-fine-Italian-goods-if-you-come-here”. I willingly submitted to this stark reality which faced me immediately upon disembarking from the plane, as I was greeted by Prada, Gucci, and Dolce & Gabbana in the airport lobby.
In Florence, the street vendors peddled their goods in the shadows of the stunning Duomo, and filled every corner of the Piazza Republica with the smell of fine Italian leather. There is something important you need to know if buying a pair of Italian leather gloves (for the record, I am now the proud owner of 2 pairs…): Gloves are a very personal thing, and should not be tried on unless the buyer has unquestionable intent of purchasing. My first experience involved innocently picking up a pair of gloves off the display (just to test out the sizing) to admire how the soft, brown leather hid my knobby knuckles and made my long awkward fingers look rather sophisticated. I was just turning around to show Mum, when the other glove was swiped from my hand, and a tug on the tips of my gloved fingers violently unmasked my gnarly hands to a scathing vendor who was loudly voicing his disgust in Italian (here I was happy I did not know the language!). I was so taken aback as I had no idea what offence I had committed – I made a quick exit from the booth with the man yelling at me in broken, sarcastic English/Italian. Everyone stared as I stumbled down the uneven cobbled walkway, eager to escape the hostile onslaught I had somehow provoked…

Mum and I decided that he was just biased against English speakers, and decided to try our luck with a sweet little old lady at a glove booth at the opposite end of the market. She didn’t speak a word of English, so I politely pointed at the pair of gloves I wished to try on, and she pulled out my size from the overflowing, chipped wooden drawers under the display. They fit perfectly, but unfortunately, she did not have the exact color I was looking for. As I tried to communicate this to her and thank her for her time, the once cute little wisps of white hair at her temples suddenly seemed to curl into hissing snakes as she unexpectedly morphed into Ms Hide (typo fully intended)…she furiously made a “V” with her middle and index finger and stabbed the air uncomfortably close to my eyes, then jabbed her crooked, arthritic thumb at the display. Once again, I was the victim to a verbal assailment of unwarranted intensity which caused heads to turn for half a block in each direction. As I once more slunk off with Mum in tow (Mum wide eyed and laughing as one can only be following such a situation), I mustered up my last bit of pride and meekly approached a short, robust man at a booth tucked back from the others who was patiently tolerant of my ignorant feats (whatever they were), as 5 minutes later, I was walking away admiring my 2 pairs of brand new gloves. Unfortunately, Medusa’s booth was on the way back to our B&B from downtown, and while she may have been old, those years of smoking, pastry eating and wine drinking had in no way chipped away at her hippocampus, as every time we walked by her, she scathingly shot daggers at us from under the loose folds of her eyelids. I made sure my newly gloved hands were always unobstructed from view as we passed by.

Ok, a couple more stories to share, but I will save them for next week…as per usual, I have made an epic novel out of one story.

Ciao!

Fi
xo

Mona goes to IKEA

Would the Mona Lisa still be the Mona Lisa if the curators at the Louvre decided to save a buck or two and put her in an IKEA special? Of course she would…but only to those astute enough to appreciate and identify that it is still Mona batting her eyelashes through the somewhat distorted plastic “GULD ALNARP” (only $7.99 CAD) overlay. However, I think few would disagree with me if I were to say that for the most part, Mona would lose much of her mystique if bordered by cheap pine…

That is not to say that there aren’t other frames in which our Lady would look equally as alluring. Each frame brings attention to a different feature within the portrait which may not have been noticed before. None of the frames are necessarily better or worse…just simply “different”. Of course, according to human nature, it is inevitable that one will prefer some frames over others as different frames accentuate the features which strike each individual personally…however, despite having chosen a favourite, are you still able to see the beauty in the way the other frames feature Mona? Can you impartially appreciate how someone else may find a completely different border beautiful even if you don’t?

Ok ok… those of you who know me are aware of my ongoing obsession with analogies and metaphors, so I will get to the point…

When I first started nursing in Riyadh, and up until very recently, I was continually coming home frustrated and dissatisfied with my days at work. I felt that my practice was being hugely compromised by the limits being set by the system within which I was working, and consequently, the care I was delivering was immeasurably inferior to that which I had been giving at home. This is no wonder, as I have recently realized that I had been looking at the picture of my current situation framed with a border meant to accentuate the things important to the Canadian eye. Viewed through what I now understand was an extremely ethnocentric lens, the picture I was looking at was grey and vexatious. Over the last couple of weeks, I have started to experiment with different frames, which are starting to bring out the complex beauty in that exact same picture which I had not very long ago found so austere. As I learn more and more about culture and tradition, I can now see that, what is best for patients in Canada, is not necessarily best for patients in Saudi, (though there is a moderate amount of cross-over that has proven beneficial).

Though my Canadian frame still feels more comfortable I can see now that it is just not right for this picture. Thus, I have put it up in storage, for use again 8 months down the road (but who’s counting?). The longer my Saudi frame nestles comfortably around the borders of that same picture, I am enthralled with the newly uncovered intricate details to which I had been so blind before…

In conclusion to my lengthy metaphorical musings, I will say that I think that developing a keen eye for re-framing situations over which we have no control could prove extremely beneficial…try on a few different ones, do your best to examine each in an impartial manner, and you may be surprised at how your outlook on a situation can be transformed.

I will leave you with a story that many of you will find amusing…I want to be extremely transparent about the fact that there is another side of the coin to the rather heartwarming story of the Baba in “This One” (see Oct 17th entry).

I have learned the hard lesson of how to tell the difference between a hard headed traditional Saudi man whose respect needs to be slowly gained over time, and a Saudi man who is just generally not a very nice person (and believe me, I have encountered both in recent weeks). Once again, those of you who know me are aware that being extremely passionate about the addictions and concurrent disorders population I work with at home, I have a fairly high tolerance for letting things “roll off” of me. That threshold was recently crossed. Unfortunately for both myself AND the patient, it was on an extremely busy day where my nerves were slowly fraying, on day 6 out of 9 (with two single days off), and when I was just getting over an illness. I was more reactive than I would normally have been, and al I have to say is that he was not simply a "traditional Saudi man whose respect could be gained over time"…without going into too much detail in order to maintain patient confidentiality, there is now one patient who has banned me from taking care of him, and I think that is better off for both of us... Two steps forward, one step back…

For those of you who are interested in reading further, I have recently met an extremely dynamic and inspirational woman who writes a wonderfully transparent and commendably impartial blog about her experiences as an former American diplomat, now married to a Saudi and living in the Kingdom. I would encourage you all to check out her blog at www.americanbedu.com (Mrs A. Bedu, I hope you don’t mind me posting the link!). She is also notably more vigilant than me in terms of regular updates to the site...!

I am off to Italy in 4 days, so inshallah (with God’s willing), my next entry will be typed one handed as my other hand will be occupied by a large wine glass filled with a good Chianti….

Xo
Fi

The Paper Bag Princess

Finally – a day off…read “A” day off. Have been running around like a schizophrenic hunting the CIA lately, and there is no lag in sight until the beginning of December. The marvelous news is that on the 4th of December at 0120, I will be granted a 12 day long honeymoon with my Canadian passport (which is kept by security and I have to go through multiple lines of defense to gain access to) to ITALY. Not only that, my dear Mama Mac is flying in from T.O. to meet me for the length of the sojourn. Together we will join forces in the ogling of hot Italian men and the consumption of copious quantities of really really good red wine…I mean…in the studious appreciation of Roman culture and architechture…heh

The story today goes back to mine and Bec’s Oct 18th trip to the “Princess Sooq”:

We had heard rumours of this place – a flea market of sorts, where princesses ditch all their old clothing and fancy dresses, and common folk can come and pick through the discards. Legend had it that one could quickly acquire an entire new wardrobe for SR 50 (roughly $15 CAD). Bec and I decided we were going to find out if this fabled upscale Arabian Goodwill actually existed. We hired ourselves a hala (taxi service from the hospital) who assured us he knew where it was, and set off in a direction we had not yet been, brimming with visions of a vintage Eden. The brimming excitement slowly bubbled over into a flood of horror as our cabbie turned off the main road and began weaving his way down back alleyways, dodging piles of rubbish rotting in the clogged gutters. We were doomed. We were being taken to the underground chop chop (see blog entry Aug 22) storage space and had no doubt been slotted for execution for shopping scarf-less in the Kingdom Mall last week. We watched a mangy 3-legged cat, macerated skin sliding over its protruding ribs as it zig-zagged its way down the uneven stained pavement (narrowly escaping becoming a 3-legged and TAILLESS cat thanks to our cab). We passed several rusty hinged open doors which left no further doubt in our minds as to what the archaic “Saudi style” toilet consists of…luckily we did not have the chance to see a demonstration of how one was to use it…

Then, all of a sudden, we came to an open area, and our cabbie glanced into the rearview mirror and grunted “here”. We looked out the window at the mounds of garbage…no wait…those are…clothes? Bec and I looked at each other. Then back out at the cess pool of no doubt once vibrant fabrics, now browned by…well, let’s not think about by what. We paid the cabbie to wait for us RIGHT HERE for an hour, and I stepped out into a puddle of what I am still telling myself was a wee oil spill.
The next hour was quite possibly the most amazing shopping experience I have ever had…once we got over the fact that we would likely have to do some time in the autoclave upon our return to the hospital, we realized that this excursion needed not one hour, but 3 or 4! As we dug through the absolutely over the top beaded and detailed custom made princess dresses, and the mounds of old bags, scarves and casual wear, we gained insight into the culture of female Saudis we could never have gotten from observing the ubiquitous black flowing floor length cover-all abayas gliding around the city.

Treasures found? Oh yes indeed. Several dresses (SR 10 each – about 3.00 CAD), one of which I had altered (for SR 20), and wore to a super fancy black tie ball in the Ambassador’s Gardens at the British Embassy (see above picture). Also, a brand new Fendi purse for SR 5 (about 1.50 CAD), as well as a Pierre Cardin bag, also for SR 5.

Hope everyone had a good Halloween. Also, if anyone has been to Italy and has any suggestions as to “must-sees”, I would love to hear from you. Our tentative plan is to spend a few days in Rome, then head to Tuscany/Florence for the remainder of the 12 days, with possibly a little excursion up to Piedmont if time allows. Mum has informed me that Sicily is out of the question, so I will have to put that off until next time…

Xo

Your Paper-bag Princess

Fi

"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