So Much Depends Upon a Red Pickup Truck

It was early in the evening when I arrived at the beach, at that point in the day when the sun-blanched desert sky turned from white to pink to a deep, inky blue.  As I was heading down to the water, I found a group of fishermen who were pulling in their nets for the evening.

At least ten stood at each side of the net, a mixture of men and boys, and a few others were assigned to each truck.  There were more than thirty, in total, and as they bustled about up and down the lines and from one side to the other, it was easy to observe that each one knew his role in the operation.  In the midst of this group were a couple of ancient men who had been fishermen so long that they were more leather and salt water than flesh and blood.  I decided to call them Peter and John, and I'm sure that if I spoke better Arabic, they could have given me an eyewitness account of when the Portuguese landed in Oman. 

These two  energetically trudged from place to place, pulling in the line, admonishing young boys, or looking into the sea to watch the end of the nets.  After watching for a few moments, I took out my camera, chose my lens, and approached with a slight feeling of timidity, as I planned to photograph them until they asked for money or told me to stop.  I wasn't certain if they were completely accustomed to tourists or engrossed in their work, but for whatever the reason, I went by unnoticed.

Standing to the side, I watched as two old pick-up trucks carved ruts into the beach, mimicking the waves as they moved up and down the sand.  Each time they backed into the sea, I wondered if they had made their last run, but then they would power their way out, dragging more of the net in with them.  At the apex of each pull, a young man standing in the truck bed deftly stacked the new lengths and gave the order to reverse. 

On more than one occasion, the nets caught on the bumper or the exhaust pipe and threatened to tear.  These were the best moments for some opportunistic boys to remove some of the smaller fish from the sides of the net and place them in plastic grocery bags with their other gleanings. 

At some point during this process, a young man toward the end of the nets captured a sizeabale fish.  He held it aloft for approval, and then passed it to the shore.  Once examined, it was placed in a pile with a few other large fish that were being closely guarded.

After several zig-zags across the beach, the trucks were quite near each other, and the nets were almost fully retrieved.  The trucks made one last pull, side-by-side like a pair of mechanical draught horses, and the nets were in. 

A whooshing sound came from the fish as they floundered and flapped their tails in the old green nets, the last bit of the sea escaping them and spraying into the face of a boy positioned to keep them from fleeing.

Of course, all of this activity drew in a number of onlookers, and before I knew it, there was quite a crowd gathered about the fishermen.  Peter and John, the two ancient fishermen, continued to bustle about, opening or tying the nets, examining fish, and giving directions. 

With the nets collected, the men were free to evaluate their catch and talk with prospective customers, and I decided to leave in search of my own dinner.

Hello Goodbye

So, something amazing happened last week. It. rained.  Not only did it rain, but it rained for at least a solid fifteen minutes.  We came about this freak desert rainstorm whilst we were out "wadi bashing," a term that makes insurance adjusters and my mom cringe.  As my friend Brady and I were heading out from town, he mentioned that if one didn't know better, they might think that it was raining off in the distance.  We both responded to that comment with various hmms and other sounds that intimate one is considering whatever was just mentioned, but we both knew that it wasn't really raining.  Because of this, we diverted our attention back to trying to find the appropriate wadi to bash (according to Emily Post's fourth edition, bashing the wrong wadi is considered a great faux pas).

As we approached our turn-around point (read blew past), we noticed that the "rainstorm" was still going on in the distance.  We came to the conclusion that it must be a sandstorm, something I had never seen in person, and decided to experience the desert's version of rain.  The only problem was that our sandstorm theory quickly disintegrated when Brady saw a lightning bolt.  It was actually raining.

First, the breeze picked up, and blew the smell of rain across the blacktop and through the jeep.  Then it started to sprinkle.  This only lasted for a couple of seconds before we were being pelted by giant drops of water.  It was great.  One humorous thing that accompanies rain, or any sort of liquid on the road, is watching the locals panic.  The man in front of me slowed down to less than five miles an hour, and another one pulled off the road completely.  It's not unlike that day each year where the roads in Dallas are "icy," and so the state shuts down.  It was also around that time that something with windshield wipers decided to go on strike.  Apparently, they had grown quite accustomed to their time off, and didn't really feel like going back to work.  This was circumvented by turning the wipers on and off again (if the relay was bad, why not break the switch as well?).

The storm was over shortly, and within about the same time frame, half of the town had driven the 25 minutes (though they made it there in 7) to join their friends in panicking over road conditions, getting their suv's stuck in the mud, and having an all-around good time.  Sadly, because I was driving, I didn't get to take any pictures of the storm proper, but I took a few that show the tail end and the after effects.

This was the valley that we drove through (you can see the road on the right) and the tail end of the storm.

 

Brady decided upon a walkabout after the storm.

This was after the tornado and the creepy woman on the bicycle.

It still amazes me that anything (or anyone) lives here.

To the best of my knowledge, wadis are a lot like arroyos (sometimes they even come in color).

Brady had to sneak in one last John Eldredge moment before we went back to town.

Today Was a Good Day

Something rather irregular happened the other day. I got two things done. I know, two. I'll give you a few moments to finish being underwhelmed.

...

There. It came as a bit of a surprise to me as well. As it turns out, there are a few differences between living in the States and living in the Arabian Peninsula. Let's look at a hypothetical example.

Let's say that my friend's car battery dies, and he has asked "me" to pick up another one while he is at work. If this seems like a simple enough task, then you are looking at it all wrong. Let's imagine that my friend drives a car that has what should be a fairly common battery. As such, "I" imagine that this will be over quickly, and "I'll" have his car running again in no time. "I" (this is still hypothetical, mind you) go to the first place, and ask the man if they carry the specific battery in question. Things are already off to a pretty good start because he speaks a fair amount of English, along with at least two or three other languages, and seems to be rather friendly. Nevertheless, the friendly anglophone does not, in fact, have the battery "I" need. He assures "me" that he will have it at 3:00 p.m. sharp. Translated from English to English, this means that the battery is not there, and will certainly not be there at 3:00 p.m. "I" certainly don't fault the man, as it is customary in his culture to avoid displeasing people, and so instead of saying "no," he says that it will be in later.

So, it's off to the next place. The people here are also quite friendly, and do what they can to help "me." The only problem is that they do not physically have the battery there. The battery is at their other location, on the other side of town. The other side of town is about at least an adventure and a half away (on top of this one), and the odds are tipped slightly against them having the battery as well. Pass.

The third, and final, stop is at the dealership. Now "I" understand that, as a rule, one should seldom go to the dealership to procure parts. You have to understand that we are about knee-deep in adventure now, and "I" am ready to stop hopping out of the car when the heat index is 119 degrees. So, "I" go in and speak with the nice man with the tie and the gold pinky ring, and for the third place in a row, he's more or less cordial. In fact, instead of charging "me" 300 AED for the battery, he only charges "me" 250 AED, which was a small, but unexpected discount. "I" pay 300 AED cash, and he gives "me" 15 AED for the change. Must be time for a new pinky ring. Since "I'm" elated to finally have a battery, and because "I'm" not certain about how things work here, "I" head back to the flat with my shiny new box of electrically charged acid.

Now you can see how one small task could easily turn into a full day of work, and how a day's amount of work might be completed in a week (and that isn't even factoring in government holidays, days that are exceptionally hot, etc.). At this rate, I'm hoping to be done with last week's to-do list by sometime in early October.

P.S. For those of you who are confused about how we went from having two tasks accomplished at the beginning of this post to having only one at the end, I would say that you are starting to get the hang of things.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

One of the great things about living in another country is the vast opportunity for adventures. Instances of famous adventures from the past are the Wright Brothers' fixed-gear tour of the United States and Tiffany's 1987 Mall Tour, not to mention those of Pete and Pete. What do two out of the three of these aforementioned things have in common? The color orange. Enter jelebi.

I believe that my first introduction to jelebi was at LuLu, and I have to admit being caught off-guard. I imagine that you are thinking "Brian, you clodpate, of course you find jelebi at LuLu. In fact, I only purchase LuLu jelebi." Nevertheless, I had never heard of jelebi until we were introduced on aisle five. Jelebi's first iteration was in box form (also known as the larval stage). I chuckled a couple of times, put the box back, and then continued perusing the grocery store. Toward the end of our shopping excursion, I was suprised by a different kind of jelebi. It looked beautiful, glistening in its shrink-wrapped package, so orange and sanitary. How could I pass up jelebi a second time? Especially since this wasn't the shelf-staled, mass produced impostor jelebi. No, this was jelebi that had been painstakingly crafted of the finest flour, sugar, and rose water by loving, latex gloved hands in the LuLu bakery. It was truly a marriage of old world quality and new world convenience. Needless to say, my new friend jelebi rode home next to me (actually in the trunk) all the way back from LuLu.

It pains me to say that things quickly deteriorated when we got back to the flat. I suppose that buyer's remorse set in the moment I tore open the shiny cellophane wrapper. I was hoping to be greeted by the exotic scents of orange and bergamot mixed with Indian spices, but jelebi smelled nothing of the sort. In fact, it didn't really have any sort of a smell until I had my nose immediately next to it. That was the first warning sign. As a side note, other non-odiferous items that immediately come to mind are rocks, concrete, and kashi -- things generally found in the pavement portion of the food pyramid. This was only confirmed when I picked up jelebi. It was surprisingly heavy and much more rigid than I expected. Jelebi's coat was somewhat oily and sticky, kind of like tarmac. My best guess was that this was to slow the oxidation process. I decided that there had been enough stalling. It was time to try jelebi.

Now, everybody knows that adventures are best enjoyed when a test-subject comes along, so I enlisted my friend Brady. Thankfully it wasn't really a hard sell, since Brady is almost always ready for an adventure. I mention Brady's willingness to participate in order to avoid any legal ramifications from unforeseen future medical issues henceforth labeled "the jelebi effect" or "jelebitis." This picture was taken while Brady and jelebi were struggling to assert dominance (Brady was also mentally reviewing his insurance coverage).

As you can see from this photo, Brady made the initial move, maintaining a tactical advantage over jelebi, and then counted to make sure that he still had all of his teeth (jelebi is known to simultaneously attack the cuspids and taste buds).

This was after bite number two, when jelebi had properly aerated. It often takes on a more robust, mature flavor when at least twenty minutes are given between bites.

As it turned out, jelebi was colored orange to warn potential predators, much like a poison dart frog. The adamantine exoskeleton concealed a disturbing oozing liquid "matter" that even Mr. Thoreau would have avoided. Overall, I was a bit disappointed with jelebi (which may come as a shock to you). I don't know if it was the tooth-chipping hardness of the outside, or the strange goop in the middle that tasted like a mix of Karo syrup and cheese balls. Nevertheless, look for fun jelebi serving ideas and recipes in our holiday issue.