Arid Letters

The Diary of an English Teacher in Arabia

Kilo of Paki gold and some bonus pollen


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Saudi Aromaha

In the months before I left for Saudi Arabia, and during my recent vacation back home, I’ve picked up one common sentiment from a majority of strangers or acquaintances when they first learn I’m working in KSA. Questions like “Aren’t you worried?”; comments like “Stay safe over there”.  These words reveal a general anxiety about the idea of living or working in Arabia. Granted, maybe people are more inclined to xenophobia in my region of America than some other places. Middle America is a conservative bastion, which carries some unfortunate side-effects, such as a propensity for using terms like “towel head” or ignorance of the geographic fact that the place where I work is separated from regions of conflict by thousands of miles and multiple socio-/political borders. I suspect this confusion has roots in conflating “radical Islam” and “conservative Islam”. This generalization is about as accurate as lumping together Branch Davidians and the Amish.  But more about that in my next post.

You’ve probably picked up by now that I’m not in the least bit worried about getting my head cut off or anything like that. The only time I’ve feared for my life is when I’m riding in an unlicensed taxi cruising 160 km/hr (~95 mph) in the “fifth lane” (actually the inside shoulder of the freeway)

The hard shoulder, or "Saudi fifth lane".

The hard shoulder, or “Saudi fifth lane”

while the driver is searching YouTube so he can show me a specific dabka dance from his home region (this one).

All things considered, my life here is kind of boring. (About as boring as dabka to be honest. Seriously I come from a country where my grandma can still swing her partner and dosey doe at a square dance.  USA is home of the Charleston, b-boys, and Party Rock Shuffle.  In the context of these Western dance traditions, dabka seems catatonic and castrated, like some Dziga Vertov b-role of a Walking Dead clog troup.)  Whether or not Arabic dance styles are exciting (and some of them certainly must be – I mean, belly dancing, right?) my life here is not terribly (exciting, that is).  I spend my free time watching movies and getting angry at people on the internet.  On the weekends, I go to KFC, usually alone.  I try to wake up early so I can get in a jog before work.  I’ve finished eight books and five one-thousand-piece puzzles in a month and a half.  I definitely spend zero time hiding from MERS or dodging terrorists.  In terms of mundanity, I might as well be in Omaha, Nebraska.

The comparison between Riyadh and an insular, quasi-rural-but-still-metro environment like Omaha holds up in more ways than one. For example, let me tell you about my weekend. This weekend, I went down to Al Kharj with my friend Memo.

Memo and I

Memo and I

Kharj is where I worked last year, about one hour south of my current location in Riyadh. Guess what crazy desert adventures Memo and I had this weekend. Did we wrestle camels in the midst of a sandstorm? Nope. Throw sheikh-sized fistfuls of Bedouin gold at a harem of houris with everything veiled except their intentions?  Negative. Did I dodge stray RPGs from militant laillaha mouth breathers? Wrong again. What we did is Memo and I set up a chicken coup.

Actually it was a pigeon coup.  And actually we didn’t so much set it up as just go and pick up a handful of Pakistani day-laborers from the designated Paki day-laborer chill spot, and they set up the pigeon coup.

Some Paki day laborers chilling at the designated pick-up-Paki-day-laborer spot.

Some Paki day laborers chilling at the designated pick-up-Paki-day-laborer spot

(The similarities between Pakis in KSA and Mexicans in USA are numerous and will have to get more focus in another article, but for now just see I told you about that Saudi is like Omaha thing).

So my summer in USA was spent kind of hanging out with family and yknow mucking out my grandpa’s rabbit shed,

Grandpa Brubacher is definitely not cuddling this bunny.  He's doing some sort of farmer evaluation before either butchering it or keeping it alive only so he can eat its babies.

Grandpa Brubacher is definitely not cuddling this bunny. He’s doing some sort of farmer evaluation before either butchering it or keeping it alive only so he can eat its babies.

or spreading garden waste in the pen for my brother’s laying hens.

This chicken is so stupid why is it in the chicken feeder.  Chickens are so dumb that ending their life and consuming their flesh or stealing their unborn fetuses for the same purpose would me make me happy even if they weren't delicious.

This chicken is so stupid why is it in the chicken feeder. Chickens are so dumb that ending their life and consuming their flesh or stealing their unborn fetuses for the same purpose would me make me happy even if they weren’t delicious.

Upon return to Saudi, I’ve apparently just gone from one hobby poultry species to another. Life is kind of the same everywhere.

It’s not the first time that I’ve had this feeling: a sense like I’ve found my way into exactly the same kind of place that I came from. I first experienced it last year, on a massive dairy farm outside of Al Kharj.

If you're eating a Danon yogurt product anywhere in the Middle East, chances are it came from here - the Al Safi dairy.

If you’re eating a Danon yogurt product anywhere in the Middle East, chances are it came from here – the Al Safi dairy.

Often on weekends, I’d head out to this factory farm where I taught business English, and avail myself of their gym and pool facilities. One Friday night, as I was floating in the pool, laughing with my Arabic dairy farmer friends, and I thought of my grandfathers (both retired dairymen), uncle (still milking), and father (who worked as a dairy farmer when I was young).  I realized that I must be destined to spend my life in the immediate vicinity of folks who know their way around cow tits. I’m so blessed.

Moses once promised the children of Israel to “bring them up to a good and broad land, a land flowing with milk and honey” (Exodus 3). Coming from the Midwest I always knew he was referring to my neck of the woods.  My family is from the dairy capitol of America. The last place I lived, I got to to help establish a population of honey bees.

miss you guyzzz buzzz thankz for teaching me how to magic

miss you guyzzz buzzz thankz for teaching me how to magic

I was sad to leave behind the American Heartland, rich in nature and resources, but I was interested to discover what my “new life” in Saudi Arabia would be like. How could I guess that I’d spend my weekends hanging out on dairy farms and becoming a connoisseur of Middle Eastern honey. There are many shops here which sell nothing but honey and honey-related products.

Honey store in Riyadh.

Honey store in Riyadh

I love to visit and sample honey from Yemen, Pakistan, Syria, and of course every corner of Saudi Arabia, from Jazan to Tabuk. When I leave, I’ve always got a kilo or two of whichever strikes my fantasy. It costs maybe fifty riyal, or right around ten dollars, and I always push the shop keeper until he throws in a free portion of bee pollen.

Kilo of Paki gold and some bonus pollen

Kilo of Paki gold and some bonus pollen

Read this article in two ways. 1) Read that people and places are the same all around the world. At the risk of sounding like a Reading Rainbow platitude,

Go anywhere.  (On Starship Enterprise)  Be anything.  (If you can fund it on Kickstarter)

Go anywhere. (On Starship Enterprise). Be anything. (If you can fund it on Kickstarter).

I want you never to forget that from every corner of the planet, no matter the climate or culture, humans are all kind of the same and all want the same things. 2) Read that wherever I go, me, personally, I’m always drawn in a somehow magnetically inevitable fashion to the things that have defined my entire life. Let me tell you a couple stories to illustrate this:

Last year, a Saudi acquaintance invited me to his house for dinner. After dinner, he invited me to drive out to the desert with him and look at the stars. As we sat together, chatting and sipping coffee, he began to get, shall we say, very hands-y. “Hands-y” as in he was touching me a lot, with the clear hope of touching me more. Let me be clear that he wasn’t really molesting so much as just hitting on me.  I was never in any danger, but I’d never been in quite such a situation and felt more than a bit awkward, as I’m sure you can imagine.  This guy was my only way to get a ride back in from the desert, so I was kind of at his mercy.  In the US it would be as simple as “sorry not interested homie”, but I wasn’t (and still am not) sure what the local etiquette is in such a situation.  At just this very moment, a desert dog came trotting past us, maybe fifteen yards away. I leaped to my feet and whistled at her. She seemed quite well trained and responded agreeably to my gestured commands. She came, lay down, and believe me that hound proceeded to get a very vigorous belly rub. I was of course overjoyed, as I love dogs, so I freely gave her sweet puppy kisses on her desert dog nose and scratched her dusty belly as she whimpered and grunted in pleasure. This interaction had an added benefit: my amorous companion would now come nowhere near me, as Muslims of course have a strict taboo against dogs. I’m still confused about which taboos Saudis are comfortable flaunting and which they respect, but I definitely know that I love dogs, and even though dogs aren’t loved in KSA, I found one at just the right time. Or maybe she found me. Anyways, I’m always with the dogs.

More recently, I spent the weekend at Memo’s. I woke up early on Friday morning (jum’ah weekly holy day for Muslims, the same as Sunday in the west). I ate a bowl of oatmeal with honey and bee pollen, then I went outside to lay in the grass. That’s right, Memo loves grass, and keeps a pretty respectable lawn flourishing inside the walls of his courtyard. (All the houses are walled in. So it’s not exactly like Omaha I guess. The thick walls and barred windows are maybe more like, say, Kansas City convenience stores.)

As I inhaled those universally sweet sweet grass fumes, I wondered whether I should pass my day reading or binge watching 80’s post-apocalypse flics on YouTube. Then it hit me. Right now, the place I’m in is Saudi Arabia, but I’ve always been in the same place.


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Barren Blooms

crazy eyes look less conspicuous when you’re surrounded by cactuses

One of my recent discussion prompts was this: “Tell me about when you were a little kid. What did you like to do for fun?” Of course, I didn’t expect the students to have the same responses as Western kids, but I assumed that everyone had a favorite game or hobby from their childhood. But I couldn’t believe the absolute uniformity my guys answered with. “Football” and “video games” – these were the only answers I received, in class after class. Almost 200 students, and I struggled to find a single different answer.

Of course, this was inconvenient, because it gave me little material to practice the grammar lesson. But, I wasn’t so much annoyed as befuddled, so I asked them in more detail, giving examples from my childhood: “Someone, I’m sure, liked riding bicycles? Pretending to be an animal? Playing with blocks or Legos? Finger painting?”

One of my best students finally responded:

“Here, we don’t do different things like in America. The father wants his family to stay home, and we don’t, um… ishoo [slang: 'waddya call it'] the things for play only …”

“Toys?”

Aywa [slang: 'yeah'], we don’t have much toys like kids in America. We play football and relax in al-jurooz (a place in Saudi houses like an old-fashioned sitting room). Now, play video games and watch movies also. But on the weekend, I don’t do much things for fun. I play video games and watch football only.”

It goes without saying, the desert is very barren, for the most part. But as I continue to settle into this culture, I understand more and more that the character of the environment is also reflected as a uniformly sparse character among the people who live here. Sometimes, I imagine that the environment must slowly program the genetics of its inhabitants. I don’t just mean the evolutionary concept of physical adaptation – it’s more of a shared personality between place and people. My idea is probably oversimplified and unscientific, but when a Saudi friend invites you to the desert, where you just sit and drink coffee for five hours, doing nothing but surveying the rocks and sand, you begin to understand the origin of his mono-everything worldview and austere attitude.

maybe got carried away with the whole "get away from it all" thing

maybe got carried away with the whole “get away from it all” thing

I’m beginning to feel the process of desertification in my own personality. Occasionally, Saudi friends invite me to their house for dinner. An evening with a Saudi goes something like this:

  • Arrive at eight. Settle on a couch in al-jarooz.
  • Sip coffee and tea from miniscule cups for the next two hours. You will discuss either Islam or work. (Of course, all the women are sequestered in their own portion of the house for the evening, except when they set up the meal in the dining room).
  • Dinner is served around ten p.m. Everyone sits cross-legged on the floor around a communal platter of rice and chicken, which is eaten with your hands. (The food and coffee is delicious, but more about that in another post. Right now I’m whining.)
  • After dinner, return to al-jarooz and repeat the tea-coffee-restrained conversation ritual until one or two in the morning (or whenever you can conjure a reason to excuse yourself).

That’s it. No board games, no walks in a park, no playing with pets or working together on a project . We don’t discuss music, or history, or politics, or new ideas. (Please don’t think this is representative of 100% of Saudi people, or 100% of my evenings on the weekend. I have made friends with some outstanding, progressive, intelligent, and active guys here. I’m only describing my general experience and what seems to be “normal”).

Where I initially felt confined or bored during these evenings, I’ve now learned to slip into an expectation-less trance. Just like my vocabulary has slowly melted due to constantly using the simplest phrasing available, my vibrant, scattered attitude and habits have eroded, leaving only a bedrock like some sort of bland, unsought zen. “Everyone here” used to mean “them”, now it means “us”.

During the work week, I teach for absurd lengths of time: 7 a.m. to 2.45 p.m., then back to the office at 4 to prepare for my 5 – 9 shift. Sometimes I’ll tutor an extra student after work or on the weekend. My life now: work, sleep. On the weekend: alternately eat chicken and rice with my hands, or politely circumvent encouragement to become a Muslim. .

Fatigued from long hours, inept management, and an extreme environment, it’s tempting to simply give up. Thankfully, I live with another American teacher, and we work to stay vibrant in our limited free time. Like the pioneers first carving out homes on the unforgiving Great Plains, we remind ourselves that, with hard work and a resilient mindset, we can thrive anywhere – even here. So I read. I have solo dance parties in my bedroom. I’ve started drawing – not very well at it, but I enjoy myself.

it's just science, k?

it’s just science, k?

more science

more science

To my family and friends, I apologize for not writing frequently these past couple months. This suffocating work schedule really cramps my style. For self-preservation, I spend my limited free time with phone and computer off (the internet here only works half the time anyway). Usually, I spend my down time on our roof – a space we work to make colorful and alive. I’ll tell you more about my roof in another article.

This post sounds pessimistic, but I want to finish with positivity: we can flourish anywhere. My family moved from Michigan to Iowa when I was 12 years old. As we parted, a teacher told me: “Bloom where you’re planted”. Some places, it’s difficult to bloom, but it’s never impossible. Don’t forget that.

keeping my head just above the "I hate it here" waterline

keeping my head just above the “I hate it here” waterline


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Transit Kaleidoscope

I’m a little disappointed in the content I’ve written for this blog. I – WE, really – probably expected something different. We expected crazy stories about the strange things here in Arabia – camels, scorpions, mosques, veiled women, oil wells… I don’t know, what DID we expect, anyway? Something DIFFERENT, I guess.

But the reason I only sporadically have something different and strange to write about, is that I spend more time noticing the things that aren’t different, but the things that are the same.

So let me tell you a story, about something that has stayed the same: hotel rooms.

A year and a half ago, I was sitting in a hotel room in a strange town – Huron, SD, the definition of “strange town” if ever there was one. I was there doing a few weeks of training for my new job in insurance sales – this was going to be the job where I saved up money to settle down and start a family and turn my plans into reality …

Well, it’s like Grandpa Brubacher told me just last week. We were sitting in a Culver’s in Wausau, Wisconsin, and he said, “Boy, stop trying to plan so much. A lotta things are gonna change and you won’t be able to change ‘em.”

Gramps is a wise guy – I mean, my plans sure changed a lot since last April. In fact, that week, as I suffered through the training for my new job, was also the week I made my decision to go abroad. Everything changed that week. You changed, so we changed, so I changed my plans. That’s all a guy can do when he’s sitting alone in a hotel room.

But this is all wrong. I told you there was going to be a story about things that are the same. That was my plan, when I started writing this, but I keep encountering deviations.

Here’s something that stays the same: nights spent alone in hotels in strange towns. Tonight, the town is Manama, Bahrain – more of a city than a town, sure, but still a strange place.

Here’s something else that stays the same: if you’re in a strange city, alone in a hotel room, you have some strong drinks in the evening. I still remember how bitter that overdone coffee tasted every night in Huron. Tonight, I think it’s tea – double bagged, with so much sugar that there’s a layer of crystals left in the bottom every time I empty the cup.

The tea is sweet. So is Bahrain. It’s 3.30 a.m. right now. Jet lag and strong drink will keep you up too late, or have you up too early, or something. I can’t tell. It’s always changing.

I’m trying to reel it in here. I’m sorry, I really am. But things get so foggy when you’re in transit. Memories, time zones, plans … They all run together until all you can do is dance on their grave and puke them up out the other end of the kaleidoscope until the future looks more mixed up than that abortionist’s dumpster of a metaphor that I just pulled out of the blender.

In writing classes, they’ll say, “Show, don’t tell.” The funny thing is that “show, don’t tell” sounds more like telling than showing.

But the outcome always outweighs the decision, that’s what we’re getting at here. So I’d better start showing you some stories. The people want pictures!

Next time … I promise I’ll tell you a good story. That’s my plan, anyway. But tonight, I only have chopped up, scrambled, tiny pieces of stories, running together … You find yourself in a strange city, can’t remember how long you slept or when/where it was, you’ve got too many hours on the plane behind you, and kilometers to go before you sleep (all respect to Robert Frost). And the only thing to do is have some strong drink in an empty hotel room in the early early morning. So I pour some more tea and play some music that I would usually detest, but under the circumstances, so far from home, it makes more sense.

You guys, it’s a true story: I’m listening to Sheryl Crow tonight. Strange cities and empty hotel rooms have a way of making things like Sheryl Crow sound ok. You have plans, they change, no problem. You think we know who I am until we find out that you don’t know who we are, but that’s ok too – it’s all people. Time and plans and stories all run together, and the drink is still hot and strong.

Empty hotel rooms in strange cities have a way of invalidating doubts and regret. But make no mistake … Every single day, I still wish you could be here with me.


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A Look at the Syrian Question – from an American in Saudi Arabia

This blog post regards the current situation in Syria.  I have committed myself, for the most part, to avoiding political opinions on my blog.  However, I have formed some ideas, due to staying here in Saudi Arabia, that I think may be unique, and perhaps helpful to some of my readers in the United States.

The Case Against US Intervention:

  • The United States has a war hangover.

    Hopefully, our recent experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan have taught us some things.  Making war is expensive.  We must have an exit strategy.  In the Middle East and Central Asia, going to war with one problematic party will bring another problematic party to power.  And we’re sick of dealing with these issues.  Many of these same problems from Iraq and Afghanistan will be present in Syria if we choose to involve ourselves.

  • US intervention in Syria would turn into another proxy war with Russia.

    I would like to believe that the days of the Great Game are over.  Allying ourselves with insurgents, or unpopular governments, for no other reason than to gain power in a region is barbaric.  The United States, Britain, France, and Russia have a shameful history in this region of meddling in previously autonomous communities as a way of making war against each other without getting their hands dirty.  This must stop.

  • Just like in Egypt, US support for the insurgency will probably turn into US support for an oppressive, ultra-conservative “Islamist” regime.

    I must take time to point out that these ultra-conservative “Islamist” regimes are not in line with the attitudes and goals of the majority of Muslims across the world (but this is a topic for a different post).  However, the point stands that, just like US support for the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt, if we help depose the Assad regime it will equate to a defacto support for Al Qaeda and other tafkiri elements.

The Case for Leaving the “Syrian Problem” to the UN:

  • Chemical weapons are an issue for the global community.

    This means, despite the added hassle of navigating Russian and Chinese objections, we must deal with this issue as a global community.  This is exactly the sort of situation that the United Nations was created to handle.

  • Some might object:
    “If the UN decides to act, won’t most of the forces deployed still be American planes dropping American bombs?”

    The answer is probably “Yes.”  Unfortunately, the US has allocated a disproportionately large amount of funds towards turning ourselves into a global police force and a frightening war machine.  While our education systems suffer, we protest that we can’t afford universal health care, and our innovation in progressive energy production lags behind the Germans and Chinese, we still support a larger military force than the next top five nations combined.  However, this does not give us a mandate to use our military might, it merely highlights our misguided priorities. 

 

Saudi Arabia’s Opportunity and Responsibility:

  • The Syrian problem should be resolved by the country’s neighbors. 

    Saudi Arabia, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Egypt, Israel, and Turkey should be the countries stepping forward to help their neighbor.  Why has it become America’s job to take care of everyone’s problems from the opposite side of the planet?

  • Saudi intervention would give the country a chance to attain a new level of responsibility and respect on a global scale.

    The Saudi military industrial complex, specifically the Air Force and Navy, have a large amount of resources and technology that have never been deployed.  I see this first hand, as I spend the first half of my work day teaching English at a Saudi military university.  If the country wants to be considered globally relevant, they should be willing to step forward and take the lead on the Syrian problem.  This could be conducted in an air-support-only, no boots on the ground fashion, in the same way that America has been considering.

  •  Saudi could work towards her dedication to curtailing Al Qaeda influence.

    Many Americans are not aware of this, but the Saudi government is every bit at war with Al Qaeda as is the US government.  Al Qaeda terrorists have repeatedly attacked targets in Saudi Arabia, and the Saudi regime has ongoing anti-terrorism operations, including a “terrorist rehabilitation program”.  If Saudi took a hands on approach to neutralizing the crises in Syria, the country could simultaneously quell the influence of Al Qaeda and other tafkiri elements that have played a leading role in the insurgency. 

 

I’m well aware that I don’t have all the answers to the Syrian problem.  I don’t pretend to be an expert on Middle Eastern politics.  But living and working closer to the problems has made me aware of some things that I think many Americans don’t consider.  I hope that reading this has helped you consider an alternative solution to the Syrian problem, and most of all I hope that peace will prevail, in the Middle East and around the world.


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We’re All Gonna’ Make It

To be honest, I didn’t think I would like teaching. If anyone doesn’t know, I was homeschooled, and this contributes to a certain discomfort in classrooms that began the moment I entered university. (Well, actually it began the moment I started attending public high school in the middle of junior year, but that’s a needless detail. So why did I add it? Why am I not deleting it? Because it’s MY BLOG, NOW STOP ASKING QUESTIONS.)

When I started tutoring ESL students in South Dakota, I was similarly indisposed to the classroom setting. I like passing on knowledge, sure, and I like helping people. But I just don’t like being in school – no matter whether I’m sitting at a desk or standing in front of a white board. I get fidgety. My thoughts jump all over the place. I don’t like people. I want to go outside. This is my brain on drugs…. Whoops, wait, no, I mean “This is my brain on school”. Anyways.

When I signed up to teach in Saudi Arabia, I did it as a means to an end. I knew that I wanted to travel. The money is good. Arabia and Islamic culture have fascinated me for awhile. So, “Sure”, I thought, “I’ll be a teacher, if it gets me there”. But, to my joy, I’m finding out that – money and adventures aside – I just like teaching!

Here’s why:

1) I like young people.
Did I really just say “young people”? Does that make me an “old people”? Well, no. I’m not much older than a lot of the “kids” I teach. But I like youth culture, with all its new ideas and questions and subversiveness and occasional angst, and teaching is a great way to keep myself right in the middle of it.

2) I like farming. “What? I thought he was teaching?” Here’s what I mean. I like cultivating things. I like checking in on them every day, feeding and watering them, watching them grow, and eventually eating them. O.k., so I haven’t eaten any students yet, but I do have some nice vegetables sprouting on my roof. You get my point.

3) It feels good to organize ideas.
My mom doesn’t believe in ADD. I do. I’ve been diagnosed with it by two separate people with licenses to evaluate and label things like this. I’m not saying I need drugs for it (although, to be honest, drugs make things a lot easier), but what I AM saying is that, sometimes I feel really frazzled and disorganized. This is stressful. It’s unpleasant. So when I have to sit down (because it’s my job to do this after all), and plan out a lesson, write out a conversation using a certain set of vocabulary, tie it in to some simple grammar, and neatly package it in the context of a pop culture reference, I feel good. Things come into focus. I calm down. I chug a bunch of green tea, do some pushups, and I make a plan – a lesson plan, a game plan, a life plan, I’m not sure. But it’s good for me.

4) I like simplicity.
This ties in to my last point. Let me tell you a bit more about the students I teach. Most of my classes are what my school calls “Foundation” and “Level 1” students. This means they have a very small handful of vocabulary (most of which they got from TV), they can introduce themselves, and that’s it. They’ve invariably received a PITIFUL grammar education, so as I teach conversation and pronunciation (which is my job), I also try to work in some simple grammar lessons. “We say ‘my’ and ‘your’. What are these? ‘Possessive pronouns’. A possessive pronoun is an adjective. What’s an adjective?” Etc. I like this. I repeat and repeat these things to the same students, because nobody else is doing it as far as I can tell (except for David), and it takes them a while to catch on. And I’ve found a sort of zen in the simple repetitive nature of teaching English grammar. Keep it coming baby.

5) I like sharing knowledge.
This world has the potential to be a scary place. Governments and systems and habits continue to cause a lot of problems. In the face of all the scientific, medical, and social progress we’ve made, places like Saudi Arabia (not to mention the US) have a long way to go before we can feel like we’ve “made it”. But I believe, like any teacher must, that we’re all going to make it. So while I help students learn a language, I also get a chance to help them learn to think, to learn manners, to experience a bigger culture than their own. This country has a terrible problem with idiotic driving and rampant littering. As my readers are probably aware, there are much larger issues with gender roles and freedom of expression which it is not my place to address in this blog. But if I can help a handful of folks evolve into slightly more enlightened people, I will feel like I’ve done a good job.

THAT is why I like teaching.


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Where In The World Is Simeon Brown?

Go ahead, just start off by listening to this.  You know you want to.
*
Now that we’ve pondered the musical question, “Where in the world is
Carmen Sandiego?” perhaps I can more adequately answer the question,
“Where in the world is Simeon Brown?”
*
The short answer is – Al Kharj, Saudi Arabia.  It’s a really nice
place (no offence to Sheldon, Iowa – the original “Really nice place.”)
I’ve been here since the end of May, so going on three months now.
Al Kharj is a “farming community” – or it was at one point.  It is
still the home of some of the largest dairies in the world.  (The Al
Safi dairy, located southwest of Al  Kharj, is one of the primary
suppliers for Danon products).
*
Al Kharj is a city of roughly half a million people.  It is a cheap
place to live.  Food is cheap everywhere in Saudi Arabia, since the
government subsidizes costs, but transportation and housing are also
only a half or a third of what they cost in a larger cities like
Riyadh, Dammam, or Jeddah (granted – even these costs are considerably
lower then what I’m used to paying in the USA).
*
Al Kharj is a city full of friendly people.  In my short time here,
I’ve made many friends – Saudi, Egyptian, Yemeni, Syrian, etc.  Do not
believe the negative messages touted by Western media; Arabs are
friendly, generous people.  I feel safer on the streets of Al Kharj
then I would on the streets of a major metropolitan area like
Minneapolis or Chicago (well, I feel safer from crime, although the
insane driving here is another story altogether…).  Since I’ve been
here, friends have invited me into their homes for meals, they’ve
taken me shopping, and have guided me on tours through their farms
and, um, camel ranches? I guess? I’m not sure what you call a herd of
camels in the middle of the desert.  But, yeah, they showed me that
too.  Good friends.
*
Al Kharj is only an hour drive south of Riyadh (less if you hire a
crazy driver and tell him you want to get there fast – I only made
that mistake once).  This is nice, because I can enjoy the benefits of
a smaller city during the work week, but still easily bump up to
Riyadh on the weekend if I’m so inclined.  My city is also just a few
hours to the west of Dammam and the Persian Gulf, and a few hours to
the north of the “Empty Quarter”, a picturesque area of clean, red
sand and rolling sand dunes, which I have still yet to tour.
*
Al Kharj used to be located on top of one of the largest natural
aquifers in the country.  Unfortunately, a booming population has
mostly drained this supply, and now the city’s water comes largely
from desalinated sea water, like the rest of the country.  However,
the presence of this aquifer was enough to establish the city as one
of the major farming communities in Saudi Arabia, as I mentioned
above.
*
Speaking of water, one of the things that living in Saudi Arabia has
taught me is how truly precious water is.  Growing up in middle
America, I kind of took water for granted, with our cheap, delicious
supplies of fresh lake and river water supplying every city.  Of
course, it’s a different story here in the desert.  One doesn’t have
to look far to be reminded what a struggle it has been to build a
civilization here.  I plead with my fellow westerners – never forget how precious water is.  With many scientists warning of climate change in different incarnations, it’s never too early to start practicing smarter conservation practices.  I pretend that I’m on a mission to Mars when I use water now – using the smallest amount possible for washing dishes, showering, etc.  I’m not
perfect, but I’m getting better at it.
*
Salaam!  More coming soon! Simeon.


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Lizard Noodlin

Back in Iowa they used to do something like this with Flathead Catfish called noodlin.  Here in Saudi they go noodlin for the local desert lizard, called the “thub.”  Here’s how it works:

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Step 1: Get a bunch of water. You’re going to need this for later.

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Step 2: Try to stay awake on your trip out to the desert. We had to wake up really early to beat the heat. We probably still didn’t beat the heat. It’s always hot.

Step 3: Find a lizard hole and start dumping water in there. If the lizard is home, it will believe it's raining and, if you're very quiet, will stick it's head out.

Step 3: Find a lizard hole and start dumping water in there. If the lizard is home, it will believe it’s raining and, if you’re very quiet, will stick it’s head out.

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Step 4: When the lizard pokes its head out, grab said lizard by the face. This part might be tough. The little buggers are really stuck in there. And sometimes they bite.

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Step 5: Repeat until everybody’s got a lizard. These are the two that David and I are eating for supper tonight.

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Step 6: Try to stay out of the sun while you’re hunting. It gets pretty hot out there, and the Saudis told us it would make us crazy if we didn’t cover our heads.

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RE: “Don’t let the heat get to you.” Is it just me or does lizzy look like she’s into it?

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