I have received an overwhelming number of email queries from the more tasteless among you regarding what time of year I would recommend a weekend trip to Durham, North Carolina, to tour the key sites involved in the infamous Duke University lacrosse team legal fiasco. As a City of Medicine native, would I recommend photographing the lacrosse team’s shabby gray house against the vast blue of a Southern June afternoon or the flame-colored explosion of autumn leaves? Since the relevant courtroom is open to tourists only when court isn’t in session, when do I anticipate low caseloads at Durham’s city courthouse? Do I recommend a trip just after the high school lacrosse season ends, as this is when lacrosse sticks, perfect props for a photograph, might be the least expensive at Play-It-Again Sports? Do I know when the team of preservationists and cultural historians plans to open to the public a replication of Mike Nifong’s office at the time he first heard of the allegations over the phone?
I apologize for my inability to respond personally to your queries; you will have to settle for a thoughtful, albeit untailored, response. The answer is now! Why? Because I will be in Durham to give you a special tour infused with the knowledge and perspective of a local who was not even living in North Carolina during the events and their fallout! Free of charge! I’ll even throw in a special Local Haunts Tour with trips to the Bojangles where all the cool kids buy sweet tea on the way to Riverside High School; the Target that now sits on the former site of South Square Mall, where I sometimes hung out and acted sullen; and, weather permitting, the statue of a seated James B. Duke, who allegedly stands every time a virgin walks by (we’ll walk by together and then argue about who ruined the experiment!). Lodging and lunch are included.
["What the hell is going on?" you ask. "This isn't The Llama Blog unless you're in Islamabad! What am I reading? Help!" Ah, gentle reader, do not despair! I will be back in Islamabad soon enough. But for the next two weeks or so I am in North Carolina to see a doctor at Duke. If you were somehow planning on coming this way, I'd love to see you!
I am on the plane as I write this, and I am surrounded – surrounded! – by rich, over-indulged, loud, demanding, squirming children between the ages of 5 and 12. It’s all worth it, though, because every time a male flight attendant makes eye contact with me and asks me what I want to drink in an effortless, unaffected manner, I spend several exhilarating minutes reveling in what’s it’s like not to be treated like some stupid, incabable, best-ignored sub-human thing.]
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Revving up American Identity
You must first understand this: Our house is bugged. Our cell phones are tapped. Men with antennae-studded cars sometimes sit in front of our house. Though opaque, lined curtains cover every window in our house, when the guards need something (an almost hourly occurrence), they somehow know to knock on the window of the room we occupy. Griff’s translator and our housekeeper are usually inside. The second we step outside our front gates, we are zoo animals in a moving cage – people stare incessantly. Usually, if we have to go somewhere, our driver takes us. We live perpetually in a reality television show that will never be aired: someone is always listening or watching or both.
When I don’t feel too mired in an Orwellian dystopia, I buoy myself by imagining an episode of Real World Islamabad. The best part of the show takes place in a dim ISI control room shaped like a narrow rectangle; here work the poor souls assigned to listening to every word we speak and write. A huge dinosaur of a computer with blinking green and red lights and a punch card reader covers the entire length of one long wall. The opposite wall is a one-way mirror; one the other side stand ISI middle managers and, of course, the television crews (how meta is this?!?). Garbage pails overflow with empty Jolt cans and aspirin vials and Mentos wrappers. Ten young men in uniform (two for each source: email, car recordings, house recordings, my cell phone, and Griff’s cell phone) sit in uncomfortable office chairs facing the hot and very loud computer. The eight responsible for audio surveillance wear enormous head phones plugged into the computer. The two others sit by a shoot, through which tumble copious dot matrix print-outs of our emails. At the end of the day, each ISI agent formulates a report of his findings – meaning, of course, that from five primary sources come ten secondary sources that will each require review by at least two more people, who will no doubt need to document their findings. The main sources of drama in this part of the show are the moments when one of the ISI agents falls asleep and one of the middle managers bangs on the glass.
But when this experiment with mental quasi-escapism provides little relief, the time comes for an exercise in denial. And so, at night, when there’s very little traffic, Griff and I wrest the car keys from our (reluctant) driver and brave the left-side drive. Though it is impossible that our car isn’t bugged, it is possible to imagine it is not – maybe because we are moving, because no one else is in the car, because no one is rapping on the windows, because we feel like we are together in a small space with confines that we control. We turn up the music and sing loudly; we make strange noises and faces; we say incredibly obnoxious things; we laugh. It is the only time we ever feel like we are alone together, even though we aren’t, really.
We look forward to these car rides more than our destinations. The twenty-minute drive to the gym, once seen as a liability, is now an incentive to work out. “Forgetting” the map and getting lost on the way to a friends house is a relished experience. Somehow we've become more American than we ever were, ignoring our blackening carbon footprints in favor of that illusion of freedom, that Janice Joplin "nothing left to lose," known as the open road.
When I don’t feel too mired in an Orwellian dystopia, I buoy myself by imagining an episode of Real World Islamabad. The best part of the show takes place in a dim ISI control room shaped like a narrow rectangle; here work the poor souls assigned to listening to every word we speak and write. A huge dinosaur of a computer with blinking green and red lights and a punch card reader covers the entire length of one long wall. The opposite wall is a one-way mirror; one the other side stand ISI middle managers and, of course, the television crews (how meta is this?!?). Garbage pails overflow with empty Jolt cans and aspirin vials and Mentos wrappers. Ten young men in uniform (two for each source: email, car recordings, house recordings, my cell phone, and Griff’s cell phone) sit in uncomfortable office chairs facing the hot and very loud computer. The eight responsible for audio surveillance wear enormous head phones plugged into the computer. The two others sit by a shoot, through which tumble copious dot matrix print-outs of our emails. At the end of the day, each ISI agent formulates a report of his findings – meaning, of course, that from five primary sources come ten secondary sources that will each require review by at least two more people, who will no doubt need to document their findings. The main sources of drama in this part of the show are the moments when one of the ISI agents falls asleep and one of the middle managers bangs on the glass.
But when this experiment with mental quasi-escapism provides little relief, the time comes for an exercise in denial. And so, at night, when there’s very little traffic, Griff and I wrest the car keys from our (reluctant) driver and brave the left-side drive. Though it is impossible that our car isn’t bugged, it is possible to imagine it is not – maybe because we are moving, because no one else is in the car, because no one is rapping on the windows, because we feel like we are together in a small space with confines that we control. We turn up the music and sing loudly; we make strange noises and faces; we say incredibly obnoxious things; we laugh. It is the only time we ever feel like we are alone together, even though we aren’t, really.
We look forward to these car rides more than our destinations. The twenty-minute drive to the gym, once seen as a liability, is now an incentive to work out. “Forgetting” the map and getting lost on the way to a friends house is a relished experience. Somehow we've become more American than we ever were, ignoring our blackening carbon footprints in favor of that illusion of freedom, that Janice Joplin "nothing left to lose," known as the open road.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Koh Phangan (an island) and Bangkok
Unless you're Ansel Adams, I generally feel you shouldn't impose your landscape shots on other people. To do so is only marginally better than copiously documenting your ability to follow a recipe on your blog. But I want to convey, once (and badly -- I know I am a terrible photographer), that Thailand is a magic place sublimely over-saturated with color.
Maybe, at the Sapphire Restaurant, if you don't want a Coke, you'd like a Cock or Cock Light.
Regrettably, we did not take the Snoop Dogg tour of the island Koh Phangan. I could never decide if Snoop was a play on the word sloop -- it seems unlikely. 
I dedicate this shot to Pakistan.
In Bangkok before we left:
I never got around to calling Pot Head, unfortunately.
Here we are in a park in Bangkok.
On our last night in Thailand we went to a sprawling, five-story shopping mall. I'm in the frequent habit of deriding consumer culture, but after three months in Islamabad, I walked through the crowded, florescent-lit halls and sustained trembles of appreciation for Adam Smith.In Pakistan, I have only seen women's undergarments on sale in one place, Chen One Department Store. There, next to the women's changing closet, was a door with a sign that says, "Ladies Only. Very Private." I looked inside, of course, and found pairs of white, polyester, waist-high, decidedly-not-French-cut granny panties; laceless beige slips; and one black, opaque, knee-length, sleeveless nightgown that provided more coverage than a conservative cocktail dress.
The mall in Bangkok, in contrast, has a glut of lingerie stores that all fell between Vicky S and Fredericks of Hollywood. The Larry Flint fare must be elsewhere. I thought this poster, on one store window, was especially funny. I was imagining that you could walk in and say the appropriate food name (if you can't read them, the labels say cranberries, oranges, peaches, lemons, papayas, cucumbers, and sweet potatoes), and then someone would bring you corresponding selections from the Peach Line or the Sweet Potato Line or whatever. I didn't go in to find out, though, because I liked imagining that process too much to discover it only exists in my head.
Griff has a Dairy Queen Green Tea Blizzard.
Ronny bids us farewell, Thai style.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Bangkok and Ko Samui
The Shanghai Inn's bathroom was so fabulous that it had a birdcage with fake birds!
This is the rave room.
Pink taxis!
Griff, on the island Ko Samui, demonstrating what he would do if he found a snake.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Detox
At the Islamabad airport, before I departed for Bangkok, I got frisked in two curtained-off "ladies' screening" stations because if men and women walked through the same metal detector we might contaminate each other with electro-magnetic particles. I filled out three forms that asked obsessively for my "husband's/father's name," and each time I wrote Griff's name (sorry Dad) only because I like imagining the poor soul who reads the immigration cards trying to figure out how my last name isn't the same as Griff's. And as Griff and I boarded the bus that would take us from the terminal gate to the plane, the driver said to me, "Excuse me! Madame! You must sit on the lady's seat!" He pointed to a single chair separated, as though a quarantine, from the rows of benches. I turned and watched Griff walk away from me and sit down. I looked again at the lady's seat. My right fist tightened into a white ball, and I quickly grabbed my right wrist to be sure I would not throw a punch at the driver. As I lowered myself into my seat, I reminded myself that I was on my way to Thailand, that I would have deliverance if I could just get myself on the God damn plane without committing my first assault.
This is how I was, teetering on the edge, primed to go from pleasant to ballistic at Ferrari speed, when we touched down in Thailand. At the airport, all the conveyer belts and departure/arrival screens worked. The place was not crawling with 19-year-old boys in uniforms with semi-automatic weapons. Women accounted for half of the crowds. No one stared at me. I felt as though I was in shock.
When we walked into our fabulous Asian Art Deco hotel room, which has purple walls and red doors and colored paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, I felt hopped up on e at a rave. The colors, the vibrancy, and the creativity all mesmerized me as though I were a prisoner who had just emerged from solitary confinement. Finally, I wrested myself from the pulsating kaleidoscope, to go for a walk. As we exited the hotel lobby, the doorman looked at me, put his hands together, as though in prayer, and bowed his head. My first reaction was that I wanted to drop kick him. What I saw, fresh from Islamabad, was the Thai version of the gender bullshit that prevents nearly all Pakistani men from shaking my hand. But before my rage surged beyond my control, he bowed to Griff, who had the sense to bow back. And I realized suddenly that I had just been incredibly rude to this man in that I had refrained from exchanging his greeting – just as, in Pakistan, I’m supposed to refrain from making eye contact with men. I bowed, and he laughed, and I, though uneasy with expressing unmitigated delight in public, laughed too.
When we wandered into a coffee shop, I noticed people all around me laughing. I was certain, at first, that they were laughing at me, and I hurriedly checked to see if my fly was unzipped or it I had a piece of lettuce wedged between my teeth. I couldn’t find anything wrong, and just as I considered leaving, I realized that the people around me were not only laughing about something completely unrelated to me, but also that they weren’t even thinking about me. I was nowhere in their minds, and with this revelation came the most profound sense of deliverance. I was free.
And I felt free, too, walking around outside. No one stared at me. If I wanted to put my hair in a ponytail, I could simply lift up my arms and do just that – I did not have to wait until I got home or contort myself strangely to avoid the dire event that my shirt might ride up to reveal a sliver of skin. I wanted to thank every maniacal taxi driver who sped past me instead of slowing down with his head hanging out the window to watch the apparently fascinating spectacle of a Western woman perambulating. If I accidentally brushed up against a man, I said excuse me, and neither of us thought anything of any meaning had occurred. As I spoke to Griff, I felt a lightness, a foreign sense of abandon, that I struggled to diagnose. And then I realized I felt liberated because I wasn’t worried that the room was bugged or that ISI agents were listening to me.
Near the end of the day, a motorcade with a member of the monarchy drove by us, and my first thought was that I had better skedaddle to avoid the cross fire of an assassination attempt. And then I noticed that there was only one security officer on the sidewalk with a gun. And that none of the people in the cars had guns trained on the crowds. And that the onlookers were cheering and smiling. Because this was something akin to a parade, and I, finally, was in no way part of the spectacle.
This is how I was, teetering on the edge, primed to go from pleasant to ballistic at Ferrari speed, when we touched down in Thailand. At the airport, all the conveyer belts and departure/arrival screens worked. The place was not crawling with 19-year-old boys in uniforms with semi-automatic weapons. Women accounted for half of the crowds. No one stared at me. I felt as though I was in shock.
When we walked into our fabulous Asian Art Deco hotel room, which has purple walls and red doors and colored paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, I felt hopped up on e at a rave. The colors, the vibrancy, and the creativity all mesmerized me as though I were a prisoner who had just emerged from solitary confinement. Finally, I wrested myself from the pulsating kaleidoscope, to go for a walk. As we exited the hotel lobby, the doorman looked at me, put his hands together, as though in prayer, and bowed his head. My first reaction was that I wanted to drop kick him. What I saw, fresh from Islamabad, was the Thai version of the gender bullshit that prevents nearly all Pakistani men from shaking my hand. But before my rage surged beyond my control, he bowed to Griff, who had the sense to bow back. And I realized suddenly that I had just been incredibly rude to this man in that I had refrained from exchanging his greeting – just as, in Pakistan, I’m supposed to refrain from making eye contact with men. I bowed, and he laughed, and I, though uneasy with expressing unmitigated delight in public, laughed too.
When we wandered into a coffee shop, I noticed people all around me laughing. I was certain, at first, that they were laughing at me, and I hurriedly checked to see if my fly was unzipped or it I had a piece of lettuce wedged between my teeth. I couldn’t find anything wrong, and just as I considered leaving, I realized that the people around me were not only laughing about something completely unrelated to me, but also that they weren’t even thinking about me. I was nowhere in their minds, and with this revelation came the most profound sense of deliverance. I was free.
And I felt free, too, walking around outside. No one stared at me. If I wanted to put my hair in a ponytail, I could simply lift up my arms and do just that – I did not have to wait until I got home or contort myself strangely to avoid the dire event that my shirt might ride up to reveal a sliver of skin. I wanted to thank every maniacal taxi driver who sped past me instead of slowing down with his head hanging out the window to watch the apparently fascinating spectacle of a Western woman perambulating. If I accidentally brushed up against a man, I said excuse me, and neither of us thought anything of any meaning had occurred. As I spoke to Griff, I felt a lightness, a foreign sense of abandon, that I struggled to diagnose. And then I realized I felt liberated because I wasn’t worried that the room was bugged or that ISI agents were listening to me.
Near the end of the day, a motorcade with a member of the monarchy drove by us, and my first thought was that I had better skedaddle to avoid the cross fire of an assassination attempt. And then I noticed that there was only one security officer on the sidewalk with a gun. And that none of the people in the cars had guns trained on the crowds. And that the onlookers were cheering and smiling. Because this was something akin to a parade, and I, finally, was in no way part of the spectacle.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Shalwar Kamiz pants usage #37
Q: Is it possible to use my Shalwar Kamiz pants to look like Henry VIII, but without the cod piece? Can this be documented without the help of an assistant?
A: Yes.
A: Yes.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Time Finally Hits Peoria
Our story begins in Peoria, 1975. From our black and white television screens, we learn of far away places: a jury convicts Nixon administration officials Haldeman, Erlichman, Mitchell and Mardian; Khmer Rouge insurgents capture Cambodia; the United States evacuates the final 1,000 troops from South Vietnam. We watch on our maize-colored, textured, faux-velour sofa. We smile approvingly at our cream and silver curtains, which so nicely augment the hospital-white walls: oh, yes, we like a house that looks clean in addition to being clean. We are proud of our plastic gold and fake crystal chandelier, which we thought seemed a little too new-money-showy at first, but now, we admit, adds a certain pizazz to the room. When we get up for an American cheese and mayonnaise sandwich, our socked feet patter on the pale salmon carpet. Also, we seem to have two dogs.
But we cannot stand still against time, for she will wash over us if we do not swim with her current. There comes danger: toxic chemicals contaminate Love Canal, NY; Jim Jones and his 900 followers perish; Three Mile Island leaks radioactive material; Ronald Reagan takes the helm. We are moderately happy that the human genome project is getting funded, and though we don't see any kids in Peoria tampering with those illegal substances, we figure if that's what the kids are doing elsewhere, for lack of heartland values, what could be wrong with Nancy Reagan's Just Say No campaign? Now that we have a color television we do, however, find her red outfits to be a little showy. But we purse our lips and remember we ought not to resist the hurrying winged chariot. We get the furniture upholstered a nice Nancy red, and then we spend several days sitting in the living room and feeling quite modern, basking in modernity. Under this influence, we allow our children to hang up some pictures, but we feel a little uncomfortable with all the strange symbols and designs -- they may be related to that satan worshipping, and though we stay tight-lipped on that topic, we do send an extra check to the Just Say No campaign. We even get a new light fixture, but we are not sure about the durability of a metal one.
We are not sure if the dining room ought to double as an exercise space (see treadmill and yoga mat), but eating and running seem to be emblematic of these modern times.
[I'm not sure that we've arrived yet at uber-hip Islamabad, 2007. But will you at least give me, say, Pittsburgh or Cleveland or Cincinnati? 1987? 1993? Or am I asking too much?]
But we cannot stand still against time, for she will wash over us if we do not swim with her current. There comes danger: toxic chemicals contaminate Love Canal, NY; Jim Jones and his 900 followers perish; Three Mile Island leaks radioactive material; Ronald Reagan takes the helm. We are moderately happy that the human genome project is getting funded, and though we don't see any kids in Peoria tampering with those illegal substances, we figure if that's what the kids are doing elsewhere, for lack of heartland values, what could be wrong with Nancy Reagan's Just Say No campaign? Now that we have a color television we do, however, find her red outfits to be a little showy. But we purse our lips and remember we ought not to resist the hurrying winged chariot. We get the furniture upholstered a nice Nancy red, and then we spend several days sitting in the living room and feeling quite modern, basking in modernity. Under this influence, we allow our children to hang up some pictures, but we feel a little uncomfortable with all the strange symbols and designs -- they may be related to that satan worshipping, and though we stay tight-lipped on that topic, we do send an extra check to the Just Say No campaign. We even get a new light fixture, but we are not sure about the durability of a metal one.
We are not sure if the dining room ought to double as an exercise space (see treadmill and yoga mat), but eating and running seem to be emblematic of these modern times.[I'm not sure that we've arrived yet at uber-hip Islamabad, 2007. But will you at least give me, say, Pittsburgh or Cleveland or Cincinnati? 1987? 1993? Or am I asking too much?]
Smackdown: Sameena v. the art teacher
1.
Sameena, who has strategically chosen a drawing bench next to Emily's, spends several minutes leaning to one side so she can closely monitor the progress of Emily's abstract soft pastel rendition of what was meant to be "an evil-looking plant." The art teacher, who has been working her way around the room helping students, comes to Sameena.
Sameena: (pointing to Emily's art) Don't you think she should add more dark shades to those leaves?
Art teacher: You need to pay attention to your own work.
Sameena: But look at her leaves don't you think she needs darker shades?
Art teacher: Sameena, please turn around and work on your own drawing.
2.
Sameena: (to art teacher) Maybe if you have time I could stay after class for a while and you could help me make this look more realistic.
Art teacher: Hmmm. I don't think--
Sameena: I just need you to help me for a while after class.
Art teacher: I can help you now.
Sameena: After class would be good for me.
Art teacher: No, no, I really don't have time.
3.
It is very hot in the art studio, and Sameena, as usual, is dressed in all black with her head tightly covered. Sweat is dripping down her forehead. The art teacher, a woman in her mid-forties, wears make-up, huge earrings, a see-through white shalwar kamiz, white high heels, and no head covering.
Art teacher: (pointing at Sameena's head) Just take it off. It is very hot. No one is here.
Sameena shakes her head.
Art teacher: Who is here? It is just us women. Take it off. It is too hot. No one is here. What are you afraid of?
Sameena pauses and looks all around her for men. Seeing none, she takes off her black scarf to reveal long, shiny, black hair.
Emily: (relishing the moment a little too much) Your hair is beautiful.
Sameena: (glowing) Thank you. Don't you feel so good about your drawing? Because I look at my own and inside I feel whole and complete like I am at peace and satisfied because I know that what I've created is beautiful.
Emily: That's great.
Sameena gets up and props her drawing board against the front wall of the classroom for everyone to see.
Sameena, who has strategically chosen a drawing bench next to Emily's, spends several minutes leaning to one side so she can closely monitor the progress of Emily's abstract soft pastel rendition of what was meant to be "an evil-looking plant." The art teacher, who has been working her way around the room helping students, comes to Sameena.
Sameena: (pointing to Emily's art) Don't you think she should add more dark shades to those leaves?
Art teacher: You need to pay attention to your own work.
Sameena: But look at her leaves don't you think she needs darker shades?
Art teacher: Sameena, please turn around and work on your own drawing.
2.
Sameena: (to art teacher) Maybe if you have time I could stay after class for a while and you could help me make this look more realistic.
Art teacher: Hmmm. I don't think--
Sameena: I just need you to help me for a while after class.
Art teacher: I can help you now.
Sameena: After class would be good for me.
Art teacher: No, no, I really don't have time.
3.
It is very hot in the art studio, and Sameena, as usual, is dressed in all black with her head tightly covered. Sweat is dripping down her forehead. The art teacher, a woman in her mid-forties, wears make-up, huge earrings, a see-through white shalwar kamiz, white high heels, and no head covering.
Art teacher: (pointing at Sameena's head) Just take it off. It is very hot. No one is here.
Sameena shakes her head.
Art teacher: Who is here? It is just us women. Take it off. It is too hot. No one is here. What are you afraid of?
Sameena pauses and looks all around her for men. Seeing none, she takes off her black scarf to reveal long, shiny, black hair.
Emily: (relishing the moment a little too much) Your hair is beautiful.
Sameena: (glowing) Thank you. Don't you feel so good about your drawing? Because I look at my own and inside I feel whole and complete like I am at peace and satisfied because I know that what I've created is beautiful.
Emily: That's great.
Sameena gets up and props her drawing board against the front wall of the classroom for everyone to see.
Friday, July 27, 2007
When your parents join you at the frat party
A gray-haired man in aviator glasses, a Hawaiian shirt and ill-fitting black jeans grapevined as will.i.am asked, "What you gonna do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk?" A fifty-five-year-old woman with an ill-layered blond bowl cut, plastic glasses and a fanny pack did the twist as she mouthed, "It's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes. I am getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off." A pink and blond preying mantis of a man, holding a Campari with orange juice, bent his knees and head to the rhythm of, "You know it's hard out here for a pimp when he trying to get his money for the rent." To "Summer of '69," which the DJ played twice (ah, Sameena, this is dedicated to you), a woman with a frizzed rope of brown and silver hair attempted West Coast swing with a squat man in hipster bowling shoes and your grandfather's short-sleeved light blue shirt tucked hospital-sheet tight into pleated khakis.
My friends and I stood on the sidelines of the Canadian Club's patio-turned-dance floor. Behind us a pool lay still and empty. Balloons and strings of lights hung above the makeshift bar. The moon, pale and almost full, hovered just above the line of trees that concealed the razor-wired wall. (If you went to college with me, think Colonial Club in the waning days of its heyday, just before the evangelical coup. Otherwise, think wedding reception at the Cleveland, Ohio, Sheraton.)
There were all the signs it was time to go to another party. Except there wasn't another party -- not that night and not on any other night. This was the only party, over and over and over again.
I have a well-practiced ability to sit on that narrow and dangerously safe perch of ironic detachment. At sad movies, when I begin to feel upset, I quickly shift to a consideration of how the film does the work of manipulating my emotions. When I watch a tragedy unfold on television, as soon as the suffering begins to sicken me, I analyze the news media's presentation of the event. When I go to a museum, I imagine the artist choosing colors. When I attend a performance, I guess the intentions of the choreographer or director. And so, I could keep with these inclinations by smiling smugly to conceal my shyness and desperate desire to dance. Or, if just for a few hours, I could just be. I could live inside myself for once. I could listen to music without an awareness of all the labels and constraints that accompany my acquired sensibilities and my sense of my own, already somewhat shattered, identity.
Things were going well. My friends and I invented new dances and nursed the gin and juice. We pretended the DJ hadn't already played several of the songs. We were rude, in the most Western way, to the boys who came to grind, in the most Western way, behind us (Boy: "Is this all you got for me?" Us: "Go away." Boy: "Come on! Show me some more!" Us: "Go away." Boy: "I could show you a lot more." Me: "Please don't.") And then, at the end of the night, when we were drenched in sweat and hoarse from singing, the dj spun "Gold Digger," a song that apparently hasn't gotten any radio play outside the U.S. All the Europeans and Asians stopped dancing and looked confused and watched as I, in full rap-operatic mode, belted out, "If you fuckin' with this girl, then you better be paid. You know why. It takes too much to touch her. From what I heard she got a baby by Busta. My best friend say she used to fuck with Usher. I don't care what none of y'all say, I still love her."
My friends and I stood on the sidelines of the Canadian Club's patio-turned-dance floor. Behind us a pool lay still and empty. Balloons and strings of lights hung above the makeshift bar. The moon, pale and almost full, hovered just above the line of trees that concealed the razor-wired wall. (If you went to college with me, think Colonial Club in the waning days of its heyday, just before the evangelical coup. Otherwise, think wedding reception at the Cleveland, Ohio, Sheraton.)
There were all the signs it was time to go to another party. Except there wasn't another party -- not that night and not on any other night. This was the only party, over and over and over again.
I have a well-practiced ability to sit on that narrow and dangerously safe perch of ironic detachment. At sad movies, when I begin to feel upset, I quickly shift to a consideration of how the film does the work of manipulating my emotions. When I watch a tragedy unfold on television, as soon as the suffering begins to sicken me, I analyze the news media's presentation of the event. When I go to a museum, I imagine the artist choosing colors. When I attend a performance, I guess the intentions of the choreographer or director. And so, I could keep with these inclinations by smiling smugly to conceal my shyness and desperate desire to dance. Or, if just for a few hours, I could just be. I could live inside myself for once. I could listen to music without an awareness of all the labels and constraints that accompany my acquired sensibilities and my sense of my own, already somewhat shattered, identity.
Things were going well. My friends and I invented new dances and nursed the gin and juice. We pretended the DJ hadn't already played several of the songs. We were rude, in the most Western way, to the boys who came to grind, in the most Western way, behind us (Boy: "Is this all you got for me?" Us: "Go away." Boy: "Come on! Show me some more!" Us: "Go away." Boy: "I could show you a lot more." Me: "Please don't.") And then, at the end of the night, when we were drenched in sweat and hoarse from singing, the dj spun "Gold Digger," a song that apparently hasn't gotten any radio play outside the U.S. All the Europeans and Asians stopped dancing and looked confused and watched as I, in full rap-operatic mode, belted out, "If you fuckin' with this girl, then you better be paid. You know why. It takes too much to touch her. From what I heard she got a baby by Busta. My best friend say she used to fuck with Usher. I don't care what none of y'all say, I still love her."
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Have You Ever Really Loved A Woman: Sameena Update
Emily arrives late to art class. As soon as she walks through the door, Sameena hurriedly remove her bags and boxes of pastels from the drawing bench next to hers.
Sameena: You must sit here.
As though she is climbing into a dentist's chair, Emily flashes a sick smiles and sits. She surveys the day's task -- a mound of leafy potted plants -- and then she pulls out a small drawing board (2 x 3), and begins to cut a piece of paper to the correct size.
Sameena: (reproachfully) This is a very large composition so what are you thinking using such a small drawing board. You go get a large one right now how could you possibly use a small one.
Emily nods, choosing the path of least resistance. She begins to draw the plants, though she uses purple instead of green pastels. Five minutes pass. Sameena looks over at Emily's paper.
Sameena: Have you ever in your life seen a plant that color?
Emily: No, I guess I haven't.
Sameena: Then why would you draw it?
Emily: Well, I guess for that very reason.
Sameena raises her eyebrows reproachfully and turns away. Five minutes later, Sameena tries to speak to Emily, but Emily, in something of a trance, doesn't hear. Inpatient, Sameena reaches over, makes a fist, and knocks very loudly on Emily's drawing board. Startled, Emily sucks in her breath, making a high-pitched noise.
Emily: Did you need something?
Sameena: Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: (leaning closer) Excuse me?
Sameena: Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: I'm so sorry. I can't hear you.
Sameena: (rolling her eyes and sighing with irritation) Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: I'm really sorry. I just can't--
Sameena leans over and writes "Brian Adams" on Emily's drawing paper in brown pastel.
Emily: Oh. Well, not really.
Sameena: (offended) How can you not like Brian Adams I love him he is my very favorite.
She puts both hands on her heart and breaths heavily and closes her eyes. Emily smiles, misreading this performance as intentionally hyperbolic.
Emily: Oh, you're funny.
Sameena: Why is it funny?
Emily: Oh, it's not. I meant that --
Sameena: He is everything why is it funny?
Emily: Really it's not. It's not funny at all. I'm very sorry
Five minutes pass. Again, Emily enters her trance and Sameena tries to speak to her. Sameena, again, quickly resorts to knocking loudly on Emily's drawing board, and this time, in surprise, Emily jumps, leaving a stray purple mark on her artwork.
Sameena: What time are you leaving today?
Emily: When art class ends, at 12:30.
Sameena: Sharp?
Emily: Sharp.
Sameena: Why must you leave then?
Emily: That's when the driver is coming to get me.
Sameena: First you must instead come with me to the cafe I will show you all the art there. It is amazing and you must see it.
Emily: Unfortunately, not today.
Sameena: You must see it otherwise you are only harming yourself.
Emily: I really do have to leave today at 12:30. I'm sorry. Maybe a different day.
Sameena sighs loudly, rolls her eyes, turns away, and pouts demonstratively.
Sameena: You must sit here.
As though she is climbing into a dentist's chair, Emily flashes a sick smiles and sits. She surveys the day's task -- a mound of leafy potted plants -- and then she pulls out a small drawing board (2 x 3), and begins to cut a piece of paper to the correct size.
Sameena: (reproachfully) This is a very large composition so what are you thinking using such a small drawing board. You go get a large one right now how could you possibly use a small one.
Emily nods, choosing the path of least resistance. She begins to draw the plants, though she uses purple instead of green pastels. Five minutes pass. Sameena looks over at Emily's paper.
Sameena: Have you ever in your life seen a plant that color?
Emily: No, I guess I haven't.
Sameena: Then why would you draw it?
Emily: Well, I guess for that very reason.
Sameena raises her eyebrows reproachfully and turns away. Five minutes later, Sameena tries to speak to Emily, but Emily, in something of a trance, doesn't hear. Inpatient, Sameena reaches over, makes a fist, and knocks very loudly on Emily's drawing board. Startled, Emily sucks in her breath, making a high-pitched noise.
Emily: Did you need something?
Sameena: Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: (leaning closer) Excuse me?
Sameena: Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: I'm so sorry. I can't hear you.
Sameena: (rolling her eyes and sighing with irritation) Do you like (inaudible)?
Emily: I'm really sorry. I just can't--
Sameena leans over and writes "Brian Adams" on Emily's drawing paper in brown pastel.
Emily: Oh. Well, not really.
Sameena: (offended) How can you not like Brian Adams I love him he is my very favorite.
She puts both hands on her heart and breaths heavily and closes her eyes. Emily smiles, misreading this performance as intentionally hyperbolic.
Emily: Oh, you're funny.
Sameena: Why is it funny?
Emily: Oh, it's not. I meant that --
Sameena: He is everything why is it funny?
Emily: Really it's not. It's not funny at all. I'm very sorry
Five minutes pass. Again, Emily enters her trance and Sameena tries to speak to her. Sameena, again, quickly resorts to knocking loudly on Emily's drawing board, and this time, in surprise, Emily jumps, leaving a stray purple mark on her artwork.
Sameena: What time are you leaving today?
Emily: When art class ends, at 12:30.
Sameena: Sharp?
Emily: Sharp.
Sameena: Why must you leave then?
Emily: That's when the driver is coming to get me.
Sameena: First you must instead come with me to the cafe I will show you all the art there. It is amazing and you must see it.
Emily: Unfortunately, not today.
Sameena: You must see it otherwise you are only harming yourself.
Emily: I really do have to leave today at 12:30. I'm sorry. Maybe a different day.
Sameena sighs loudly, rolls her eyes, turns away, and pouts demonstratively.
Monday, July 23, 2007
The Cannon
No Dad, I did not visit Fort Macon secretly (see "Getting the Hell out of Dodge"), in a last, desperate gulp for Americana before I departed for Pakistan. The cannon picture (below and in the right column) is from Copenhagen. Afterward, we purged the germs of past violence with Enya, group hugs and dandelion necklaces.
"The best lack all conviction, while the worst [a]re full of passionate intensity": a Sameena update
At art class last week:
Sameena hovers behind me. She leans in and then rests her hand on part of my drawing, smudging it. "You need to darken this part when I look at that pot I see darker colors are you going to make this darker?"
"Hmmm. I'll consider that."
"Make it darker. There are darker colors I can see them right now and so you need to look."
"Thank you for your help."
"All I want to do right now is read Yeats poems and paint pictures of them."
"Oh. That sounds like fun."
Sameena recoils. "No! Not fun Emily. Not fun. It is very very serious." Sameena walks away, bristling at my sacrilege.
Sameena hovers behind me. She leans in and then rests her hand on part of my drawing, smudging it. "You need to darken this part when I look at that pot I see darker colors are you going to make this darker?"
"Hmmm. I'll consider that."
"Make it darker. There are darker colors I can see them right now and so you need to look."
"Thank you for your help."
"All I want to do right now is read Yeats poems and paint pictures of them."
"Oh. That sounds like fun."
Sameena recoils. "No! Not fun Emily. Not fun. It is very very serious." Sameena walks away, bristling at my sacrilege.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Methodology
At 8 a.m., we leave Islamabad. With the sun hot but still low-hanging, we pass guarded McMansion fortresses, the white table-clothed Pizza Hut, and the teal and khaki Saudi-Pak Tower. Soon the streets, as smooth and straight as Eisenhower's best artery, disintegrate to cracked, jagged roads. The pines, tiger lilies and banana trees shrivel into rocks and roots that pockmark the brown, dusty earth.
We are in a white, Suzuki mini-bus, circa 1970. The two benches in back, facing each other, have been upholstered in a felt camouflage appropriate for duck hunting expeditions. The air from the open windows batters my face and hardens my contact lenses. My shalwar kamiz, wet with sweat, sticks to my back and chest, and I am glad I remembered not to wear white.
Next to me is my translator, Asma. She is 23 and a lanky 6 feet tall. She has just finished an undergraduate degree in business administration, and her father, a retired colonel, has the misguided impression that she might learn something by working as my assistant. In the front are Fiaz, our guide, and our driver, who will not make eye contact with me. I nurse an Evian bottle of coffee, trying not to choke or spill every time the Suzuki lurches after hitting a pothole.
Eventually, we come an intersection with a single-lane road, and here we turn. When the road narrows to a dirt path, we get out and walk through a low-slung maze of attached cement and cinder block houses. Plastic wrappers, bones and corn husks fill the gutters. In flip flops we navigate rocks, mounds of donkey excrement, and rivulets of unknown fluid.
Finally, when we come to one of many nearly identical metal doors, Fiaz knocks. A woman in a shalwar kamiz answers the door, and we enter to find an audience of thirty barefoot kids between the ages of 5 and 12 sitting in rows on the floor. I take off my sunglasses and shake the teacher's hand and say, "Salam alakem! Shukriya for letting me visit your class." She nods nervously. I turn to the kids and flash my best elementary school teacher smile. "Salam alakem!" I say. The kids stare without smiling. I wait. They stare. "Hello? How are you?" Still no answer.
At first, we watch what was already happening in the classroom. Sometimes the students are reciting poetry in Urdu. Sometimes the teacher is correcting homework and the students are doing nothing. Sometimes the teacher is calling the students up to her chair, one by one, for a short lesson, while the rest of them do nothing. Evenutally, Asma, in Urdu, asks the teacher to conduct an English lesson. The teacher nods. Sometimes she calls on a student and says, "Parts of the body." The student stands up and says, with jerky accompanying motions, "This is my head this is my mouth this is my ear this is my neck this is my arm this is my leg this is my foot." Then the teacher calls on another student who does exactly the same thing. And then another. Sometimes the teacher writes five letters on the board, and a student recites them. Sometimes the teacher says, "Fruits," and the students in unison chant, "Apple Mango Peach Banana Grape!" And one time, the teacher opened a book and copied onto the board, "Today we will learn the difference between 'this' and 'that.' 'This' refers to someone or something close by. 'That' refers to someone or something far away." The teacher then moves on to math. Or Islamia.
After thirty minutes, I take the teacher's hand in mine and smile and say, "Shabash," which means very good. And then we leave and drive to the next school. And then the next school. And then the next. They are all in cement rooms with no desks and no electricity and nothing on the walls. Sometimes there are books. Usually there is a blackboard. In my notebook, I distinguish them by the color of the teacher's shalwar kamiz and my impressions of her presence in front of the students.
These are what the Pakistani government calls informal schools -- schools they create in partnership with NGOs for students who do not have access to formal, public schools. (The public schools here, incidentally, are not free.) The teachers are usually 18-year-old women who have finished 10th grade and who hold classes in their families' living rooms. My job, as a consultant to an NGO, is to visit the schools, write up an assessment and then make a list of recommendations.
Usually, after the final school of the day, when we are Islamabad-bound in the Suzuki, Asma asks me if I have yet determined my "methodology" or if I have started writing "my report." "Not yet," I say, "I'm still doing some preliminary work." And then I think guiltily of the colonel, who wanted his daughter, I'm sure, to learn about the social sciences or rubrics or quantitative analysis. But what methodology can I impose on my main observation, which is that teaching, even if you have all the resources and training in the world, is very hard. What rubric explains the inconceivable challenge of teaching if you are young, if you only finished tenth grade, and if all you yourself learned in school was rote memorization. And how do you quantify the bravery of teaching a language you don't know yourself, of standing in front of a class with zero professional training, of attempting to teach colors and vocabulary without visual props, of combating illiteracy when half your students have books and none has paper and pencil.
We are in a white, Suzuki mini-bus, circa 1970. The two benches in back, facing each other, have been upholstered in a felt camouflage appropriate for duck hunting expeditions. The air from the open windows batters my face and hardens my contact lenses. My shalwar kamiz, wet with sweat, sticks to my back and chest, and I am glad I remembered not to wear white.
Next to me is my translator, Asma. She is 23 and a lanky 6 feet tall. She has just finished an undergraduate degree in business administration, and her father, a retired colonel, has the misguided impression that she might learn something by working as my assistant. In the front are Fiaz, our guide, and our driver, who will not make eye contact with me. I nurse an Evian bottle of coffee, trying not to choke or spill every time the Suzuki lurches after hitting a pothole.
Eventually, we come an intersection with a single-lane road, and here we turn. When the road narrows to a dirt path, we get out and walk through a low-slung maze of attached cement and cinder block houses. Plastic wrappers, bones and corn husks fill the gutters. In flip flops we navigate rocks, mounds of donkey excrement, and rivulets of unknown fluid.
Finally, when we come to one of many nearly identical metal doors, Fiaz knocks. A woman in a shalwar kamiz answers the door, and we enter to find an audience of thirty barefoot kids between the ages of 5 and 12 sitting in rows on the floor. I take off my sunglasses and shake the teacher's hand and say, "Salam alakem! Shukriya for letting me visit your class." She nods nervously. I turn to the kids and flash my best elementary school teacher smile. "Salam alakem!" I say. The kids stare without smiling. I wait. They stare. "Hello? How are you?" Still no answer.
At first, we watch what was already happening in the classroom. Sometimes the students are reciting poetry in Urdu. Sometimes the teacher is correcting homework and the students are doing nothing. Sometimes the teacher is calling the students up to her chair, one by one, for a short lesson, while the rest of them do nothing. Evenutally, Asma, in Urdu, asks the teacher to conduct an English lesson. The teacher nods. Sometimes she calls on a student and says, "Parts of the body." The student stands up and says, with jerky accompanying motions, "This is my head this is my mouth this is my ear this is my neck this is my arm this is my leg this is my foot." Then the teacher calls on another student who does exactly the same thing. And then another. Sometimes the teacher writes five letters on the board, and a student recites them. Sometimes the teacher says, "Fruits," and the students in unison chant, "Apple Mango Peach Banana Grape!" And one time, the teacher opened a book and copied onto the board, "Today we will learn the difference between 'this' and 'that.' 'This' refers to someone or something close by. 'That' refers to someone or something far away." The teacher then moves on to math. Or Islamia.
After thirty minutes, I take the teacher's hand in mine and smile and say, "Shabash," which means very good. And then we leave and drive to the next school. And then the next school. And then the next. They are all in cement rooms with no desks and no electricity and nothing on the walls. Sometimes there are books. Usually there is a blackboard. In my notebook, I distinguish them by the color of the teacher's shalwar kamiz and my impressions of her presence in front of the students.
These are what the Pakistani government calls informal schools -- schools they create in partnership with NGOs for students who do not have access to formal, public schools. (The public schools here, incidentally, are not free.) The teachers are usually 18-year-old women who have finished 10th grade and who hold classes in their families' living rooms. My job, as a consultant to an NGO, is to visit the schools, write up an assessment and then make a list of recommendations.
Usually, after the final school of the day, when we are Islamabad-bound in the Suzuki, Asma asks me if I have yet determined my "methodology" or if I have started writing "my report." "Not yet," I say, "I'm still doing some preliminary work." And then I think guiltily of the colonel, who wanted his daughter, I'm sure, to learn about the social sciences or rubrics or quantitative analysis. But what methodology can I impose on my main observation, which is that teaching, even if you have all the resources and training in the world, is very hard. What rubric explains the inconceivable challenge of teaching if you are young, if you only finished tenth grade, and if all you yourself learned in school was rote memorization. And how do you quantify the bravery of teaching a language you don't know yourself, of standing in front of a class with zero professional training, of attempting to teach colors and vocabulary without visual props, of combating illiteracy when half your students have books and none has paper and pencil.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Opportunity Costs
Last week, I sat down in our living room with Roya, our housekeeper's 17-year-old daughter. I had offered to help her study for her A-level exams, British-administered subject tests that count towards college admission. I had assumed I would tutor her in a subject in which I have a moderate natural facility or at least a basic working knowledge -- English, literature, history, writing. The softer the subject, the better, but I figured I could even pull it together to explain basic psychology or mathematical concepts that precede the Taylor series (this is where I topped out in both my high school and college calculus classes -- that bastard Taylor must relish the precise demarcation of my intellectual limits). "What can I help you with?" I asked. Roya reached into her navy blue backpack and pulled out The Cambridge A-Level Guide to Economic Principals.
I sustained a wave of mild panic. I have never taken a course that even tangentially addressed economic issues, and I am not far from thinking that a gross domestic product is toilet water or cooking grease or the sludge in a clogged drain. "I need help with this," she said, opening her book and pointing to a practice exam question involving trade, cost-benefit analysis, opportunity cost, and production possibility curves. For a moment, I considered apologizing to her profusely and saying that I just couldn't, in good conscience, help her with economics. But there was the problem that if I didn't, who would? I seemed to somehow be not just her best, but also her only, source for economics help.
I bit my lip and read the definitions of the relevant concepts in her textbook glossary. I decided that the opportunity cost of me helping her was quite low: If she already didn't understand these principles, and had been struggling with them for a few months, the worst-case scenario was that I would supplant her misconceptions with my own. This circumstance, along with the fact I wasn't charging for my services, meant that the cost-benefit analysis came out in favor of me continuing. And so, despite my miserable lack of qualifications, I spent the next two hours trying to explain these principles to her through a fabricated example involving a shoe factory, a polluted river, the Marriott corporation, and tax-hungry local government officials. She will be back on Monday.
I sustained a wave of mild panic. I have never taken a course that even tangentially addressed economic issues, and I am not far from thinking that a gross domestic product is toilet water or cooking grease or the sludge in a clogged drain. "I need help with this," she said, opening her book and pointing to a practice exam question involving trade, cost-benefit analysis, opportunity cost, and production possibility curves. For a moment, I considered apologizing to her profusely and saying that I just couldn't, in good conscience, help her with economics. But there was the problem that if I didn't, who would? I seemed to somehow be not just her best, but also her only, source for economics help.
I bit my lip and read the definitions of the relevant concepts in her textbook glossary. I decided that the opportunity cost of me helping her was quite low: If she already didn't understand these principles, and had been struggling with them for a few months, the worst-case scenario was that I would supplant her misconceptions with my own. This circumstance, along with the fact I wasn't charging for my services, meant that the cost-benefit analysis came out in favor of me continuing. And so, despite my miserable lack of qualifications, I spent the next two hours trying to explain these principles to her through a fabricated example involving a shoe factory, a polluted river, the Marriott corporation, and tax-hungry local government officials. She will be back on Monday.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Swimming Friend, Reincarnated
Setting:
Art class. Behind Nomad Art Gallery juts a glass-enclosed room with a corrugated aluminum roof and a brick floor littered with pencil shavings and charcoal crumbles. Outside, surrounding the gallery, trees thick with rubbery leaves and over-long, groping branches block the heat and brightness of high noon; the studio feels dim and cool. Inside, eight young women sit in a crescent, each perched on a bench with a drawing board propped up on her lap. At the center: a large terra cotta pot on a stool. The women focus intently on their subject as they sketch its likeness. All the women except one, an American, are Pakistani. Occasionally the room erupts in Urdu conversation, but for the most part the only noise is the whir of the fan.
Characters:
Sameena, a Pakistani, is a recent graduate of Rawalpindi Model College for Girls. She wears a long black robe, a tight black headscarf, orange high heels, and glasses with thick, almost-hip, black frames.
Emily, an American, wears jeans and a long, embroidered shirt.
Scene One
Emily is drawing a lopsided, asymmetrical rendering of the pot. Her top teeth gnash into her bottom lip and her eyes narrow in deep concentration. Sameena leaves her bench and installs herself directly behind Emily, who remains in an almost hypnotic trance as she erases and then draws and then erases and then draws the the lip of the pot. Suddenly, Sameena reaches down and grabs Emily's drawing board.
Sameena: I just need to borrow this.
Emily: Ummm--
Sameena carries the board over to her bench and then compares the two amateurish sketches. She makes several adjustments to her own drawing, surveys the results, and then returns the board to Emily.
Emily: Um, right. Thank you.
Emily raises her eyebrows and fishes her iPod from her bag and plugs the white headphones into her ears. She begins to draw again, slowly reentering her trance. Meanwhile, Sameena, fishes a ruler from her pink schoolgirl's pencil holder, gets up from her bench and returns to her station directly behind Emily. For a long time, Sameena just watches Emily, who acts oblivious, though her upper lip trembles in irritation.
Emily: (turning off her iPod) Did you need something?
Sameena: I'm watching you.
Emily: I see that.
Sameena: Keep drawing. I need to watch.
Emily continues to shade her pot, which looks more like an amoebic parasite than a piece of earthenware. Suddenly, Sameena reaches down to Emily's drawing and, with her ruler, measures the spacing and angles of various lines.
Emily: Um--
Sameena: I copy your drawing.
Emily: Well, I--
Sameena: I will draw just like you.
Soon, art class ends, and Emily begins to pack up her supplies. Sameena, glancing at Emily's progress, hurriedly crams all her pencils and papers into her bag and rushes to the door, where she stations herself. When Emily approaches the door, Sameena positions herself to block Emily's exit.
Sameena: What are your studies?
Emily: Well, I'm going to be teaching American literature at Quaid-i-Azam University in the fall. In the U.S., I --
Sameena: You like British literature I love British literature who is your favorite poet mine is Yeats what is your favorite novelist mine is Emily Bronte.
Emily: OK. Yeats was actually--
Sameena: I read literature all the time I love literature do you also.
Emily: That's wonderful that you like to--
Sameena: Contact information?
Emily: Excuse me?
Sameena: Contact information give me.
Emily: Um, sure.
Emily scribbles her phone number on a piece of paper, and then leaves the art studio by walking around Sameena and then sliding into the sliver of space between Sameena and the door.
Scene Two
A series of text images come in succession on a large screen:
1
Thursday, July 12
2
Text message, 9 pm:
Hi Emily, im Sameena of galery do u remembr .wat r u doing lady ? Wel i'm reading an interesting novl by Hardy. Hav u taken diner or not yet? Rply
3
Text message, 9:45 pm:
Dear Sameena, Thank you for your message. I already have dinner plans. I hope you have a good weekend.
4
Text message, 9:48 pm:
Oh no thnkx betwen frends, isn't it.? Wel im reding "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" have you read? I hop we both 'literature lovers' wil have good time rigt.
5
Text message, 10:30 pm:
Have a nice night of reading.
6
Emily's call log:
Unanswered calls from Sameena
9:15 pm
9:29 pm
10 pm
10:15 pm
Outgoing calls to Sameena
nil
7
Friday, July 13
8
Test message, 11 am:
Hi Emily ! Did u cal me on this no? infact this is my Dad's cel no, my cel no is 03009821653. OK hav a good lunch bye Sameena
9
Emily's call log:
Unanswered calls from Sameena
10:58 am
11:02 am
11:15 am
2:30 pm
Outgoing calls to Sameena
nil
Scene 3
Friday, July 13, 3:30 pm
Emily stands on her treadmill, which is in her dining room. She wears huge white shalwar kamiz pants and a green T-shirt that says MASON in yellow across the chest (see "On being a frog.") She pulls her hair into a ponytail and slides a Battlestar Galactica DVD into her computer, which sits at eye level in front of her treadmill. She starts to run, and soon she has found a rhythm. On her computer screen, Number Six, whose spine glows red during sex, tells Dr. Baltar that she's not a human, but instead a Cyclon. And then Emily's phone rings. She intends to silence it, but the phone slips in her sweaty hands and she realizes she has accidentally answered it. She rolls her eyes, stops the treadmill, and pauses Battlestar Galactica.
Emily: (breathless) Hello?
Sameena: Hello Emily I am Sameena do you remember who I am?
Emily: Yes, from art class.
Sameena: No I am your new friend who loves literature and we met together drawing in the gallery.
Emily: Right. Art class.
Sameena: Did you call me this morning on my my father's cell phone?
Emily: Um, no. I didn't call you or your father this morning.
Sameena: You called me on my father's cell phone and I am calling you back to make sure you are OK.
Emily: Thank you for your concern.
Sameena: Are you OK I was worried that you called my father's cell phone.
Emily: I'm doing just fine.
Sameena: What are you doing right now?
Emily: (quickly) Thank you very much for calling, Sameena. I really appreciate your concern, but I am running out the door right now on a very important errand, and I regret to tell you that I have to go. Right now. But please have a great afternoon.
Emily hangs up and restarts the treadmill and the DVD player. On the screen, the first Cyclon attack destroys the pristine serenity of the lake and forest behind Dr. Baltar's home.
Art class. Behind Nomad Art Gallery juts a glass-enclosed room with a corrugated aluminum roof and a brick floor littered with pencil shavings and charcoal crumbles. Outside, surrounding the gallery, trees thick with rubbery leaves and over-long, groping branches block the heat and brightness of high noon; the studio feels dim and cool. Inside, eight young women sit in a crescent, each perched on a bench with a drawing board propped up on her lap. At the center: a large terra cotta pot on a stool. The women focus intently on their subject as they sketch its likeness. All the women except one, an American, are Pakistani. Occasionally the room erupts in Urdu conversation, but for the most part the only noise is the whir of the fan.
Characters:
Sameena, a Pakistani, is a recent graduate of Rawalpindi Model College for Girls. She wears a long black robe, a tight black headscarf, orange high heels, and glasses with thick, almost-hip, black frames.
Emily, an American, wears jeans and a long, embroidered shirt.
Scene One
Emily is drawing a lopsided, asymmetrical rendering of the pot. Her top teeth gnash into her bottom lip and her eyes narrow in deep concentration. Sameena leaves her bench and installs herself directly behind Emily, who remains in an almost hypnotic trance as she erases and then draws and then erases and then draws the the lip of the pot. Suddenly, Sameena reaches down and grabs Emily's drawing board.
Sameena: I just need to borrow this.
Emily: Ummm--
Sameena carries the board over to her bench and then compares the two amateurish sketches. She makes several adjustments to her own drawing, surveys the results, and then returns the board to Emily.
Emily: Um, right. Thank you.
Emily raises her eyebrows and fishes her iPod from her bag and plugs the white headphones into her ears. She begins to draw again, slowly reentering her trance. Meanwhile, Sameena, fishes a ruler from her pink schoolgirl's pencil holder, gets up from her bench and returns to her station directly behind Emily. For a long time, Sameena just watches Emily, who acts oblivious, though her upper lip trembles in irritation.
Emily: (turning off her iPod) Did you need something?
Sameena: I'm watching you.
Emily: I see that.
Sameena: Keep drawing. I need to watch.
Emily continues to shade her pot, which looks more like an amoebic parasite than a piece of earthenware. Suddenly, Sameena reaches down to Emily's drawing and, with her ruler, measures the spacing and angles of various lines.
Emily: Um--
Sameena: I copy your drawing.
Emily: Well, I--
Sameena: I will draw just like you.
Soon, art class ends, and Emily begins to pack up her supplies. Sameena, glancing at Emily's progress, hurriedly crams all her pencils and papers into her bag and rushes to the door, where she stations herself. When Emily approaches the door, Sameena positions herself to block Emily's exit.
Sameena: What are your studies?
Emily: Well, I'm going to be teaching American literature at Quaid-i-Azam University in the fall. In the U.S., I --
Sameena: You like British literature I love British literature who is your favorite poet mine is Yeats what is your favorite novelist mine is Emily Bronte.
Emily: OK. Yeats was actually--
Sameena: I read literature all the time I love literature do you also.
Emily: That's wonderful that you like to--
Sameena: Contact information?
Emily: Excuse me?
Sameena: Contact information give me.
Emily: Um, sure.
Emily scribbles her phone number on a piece of paper, and then leaves the art studio by walking around Sameena and then sliding into the sliver of space between Sameena and the door.
Scene Two
A series of text images come in succession on a large screen:
1
Thursday, July 12
2
Text message, 9 pm:
Hi Emily, im Sameena of galery do u remembr .wat r u doing lady ? Wel i'm reading an interesting novl by Hardy. Hav u taken diner or not yet? Rply
3
Text message, 9:45 pm:
Dear Sameena, Thank you for your message. I already have dinner plans. I hope you have a good weekend.
4
Text message, 9:48 pm:
Oh no thnkx betwen frends, isn't it.? Wel im reding "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" have you read? I hop we both 'literature lovers' wil have good time rigt.
5
Text message, 10:30 pm:
Have a nice night of reading.
6
Emily's call log:
Unanswered calls from Sameena
9:15 pm
9:29 pm
10 pm
10:15 pm
Outgoing calls to Sameena
nil
7
Friday, July 13
8
Test message, 11 am:
Hi Emily ! Did u cal me on this no? infact this is my Dad's cel no, my cel no is 03009821653. OK hav a good lunch bye Sameena
9
Emily's call log:
Unanswered calls from Sameena
10:58 am
11:02 am
11:15 am
2:30 pm
Outgoing calls to Sameena
nil
Scene 3
Friday, July 13, 3:30 pm
Emily stands on her treadmill, which is in her dining room. She wears huge white shalwar kamiz pants and a green T-shirt that says MASON in yellow across the chest (see "On being a frog.") She pulls her hair into a ponytail and slides a Battlestar Galactica DVD into her computer, which sits at eye level in front of her treadmill. She starts to run, and soon she has found a rhythm. On her computer screen, Number Six, whose spine glows red during sex, tells Dr. Baltar that she's not a human, but instead a Cyclon. And then Emily's phone rings. She intends to silence it, but the phone slips in her sweaty hands and she realizes she has accidentally answered it. She rolls her eyes, stops the treadmill, and pauses Battlestar Galactica.
Emily: (breathless) Hello?
Sameena: Hello Emily I am Sameena do you remember who I am?
Emily: Yes, from art class.
Sameena: No I am your new friend who loves literature and we met together drawing in the gallery.
Emily: Right. Art class.
Sameena: Did you call me this morning on my my father's cell phone?
Emily: Um, no. I didn't call you or your father this morning.
Sameena: You called me on my father's cell phone and I am calling you back to make sure you are OK.
Emily: Thank you for your concern.
Sameena: Are you OK I was worried that you called my father's cell phone.
Emily: I'm doing just fine.
Sameena: What are you doing right now?
Emily: (quickly) Thank you very much for calling, Sameena. I really appreciate your concern, but I am running out the door right now on a very important errand, and I regret to tell you that I have to go. Right now. But please have a great afternoon.
Emily hangs up and restarts the treadmill and the DVD player. On the screen, the first Cyclon attack destroys the pristine serenity of the lake and forest behind Dr. Baltar's home.
But is it art?
It is hard to say why one would want to imitate these (a representative sampling). Hopefully my dear artist friends -- Greg, Mike, Drew, Spencer, Martha, Max, Pete, Christy, Susan, Alexandra, and probably someone I'm ungraciously forgetting -- are not too horrified. If you have any suggestions, please do let me know! Really, I mean that. I am anxious to draw something else, like, I don't know, an apple. Or a person.
Channeling Poe's manic depiction of monotony:
Aliens in Hell
Rebellious refusal to draw a pot or a bell.
Channeling Poe's manic depiction of monotony:| Keeping time, time, time, | 100 |
| In a sort of Runic rhyme, | |
| To the throbbing of the bells, | |
| Of the bells, bells, bells— | |
| To the sobbing of the bells; | |
| Keeping time, time, time, | 105 |
| As he knells, knells, knells, | |
| In a happy Runic rhyme, | |
| To the rolling of the bells, | |
| Of the bells, bells, bells: | |
| To the tolling of the bells, | 110 |
| Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, | |
| Bells, bells, bells— | |
| To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. - Poe, "The Bells," lines 100-112 |
Aliens in Hell
Rebellious refusal to draw a pot or a bell.
On being a frog
The shalwar kamiz pants have multiple functions, among them, Use #32: the frog costume. Here is my best frog impersonation (imfrogination?) just after employing my pants in Use #67 (rare): running machine attire.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
The Protestant Work Demon
For the past week, Griff has stationed himself in a hotel somewhat close to the Red Mosque. He sleeps and writes and writes and writes to the low thunderclaps of artillery fire, which have come to be white noise. In the Post and on NPR, he has expertly documented, through copious submissions, the standoff between the Pakistani government and a group of radical fundamentalists. (No, he is not in the line of fire. On your behalf, I am abstaining from my favorite past time: crafting hyperbolic, if not fallacious, imagery. Please note that I have not written that he is the next blond Bond, sprouting gills that allow him to breath tear gas or shimmying down elevator shaft cables or sneering at rattling window panes before cannonballing through them.)
Meanwhile, I am no patient, waiting, doting Penelope. I need a job. Very. Badly. Lest I go crazy and resort to a blog dedicated to dyspepsia and boredom. At first, I tried to quell my Lutheran (both Germanic and Protestant!) work demon, Franz, by suggesting he apply for jobs with Goldman Sachs or a relief agency in Darfur or the White House public relations office. He discovered, however, that I had not gotten him a multiple entry visa, and so he instead opted to oversee me in a slavish search for purpose. In case you wanted some factual information (yawn) from this blog, thanks to Franz's prodding, I have arranged to teach two university courses in the fall, one on the American short story and the other on the American news media. Our blond Bond will be a guest speaker for the latter, of course. I am supposed to spend the next six weeks doing consultative assessment work for a national NGO that runs schools for street children, though since I haven't yet started and since I am in Pakistan, it would be presumptuous to put this in anything but a conditional future tense. I am also taking an art class, which is incredibly fun. If you would like a picture of a lopsided and poorly shaded pot, please let me know, as I'm lousy with them.
Meanwhile, I am no patient, waiting, doting Penelope. I need a job. Very. Badly. Lest I go crazy and resort to a blog dedicated to dyspepsia and boredom. At first, I tried to quell my Lutheran (both Germanic and Protestant!) work demon, Franz, by suggesting he apply for jobs with Goldman Sachs or a relief agency in Darfur or the White House public relations office. He discovered, however, that I had not gotten him a multiple entry visa, and so he instead opted to oversee me in a slavish search for purpose. In case you wanted some factual information (yawn) from this blog, thanks to Franz's prodding, I have arranged to teach two university courses in the fall, one on the American short story and the other on the American news media. Our blond Bond will be a guest speaker for the latter, of course. I am supposed to spend the next six weeks doing consultative assessment work for a national NGO that runs schools for street children, though since I haven't yet started and since I am in Pakistan, it would be presumptuous to put this in anything but a conditional future tense. I am also taking an art class, which is incredibly fun. If you would like a picture of a lopsided and poorly shaded pot, please let me know, as I'm lousy with them.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Getting the hell out of Dodge
In Islamabad there are no clubs of the dance, billiards, or music variety. There are no cinemas. There are no bowling lanes or mini-golf courses. There are no stages, no amphitheaters, no pavilions, no coliseums. There is one museum, accessible only by private tour -- until now, I didn't realize how much, for me, the appeal of a museum comes with anonymously drifting from cold room to cold room, all attention on the art and none on me. And for all the lack of formal public performance, I live on constant display. With so much staring, there comes an exhaustion from prolonged consciousness, a fatigue born of being too aware of oneself, too present in the physical reality of the moment for too long.
These circumstances breed a desperate desire for escape -- a hunger so fierce it overrides personal qualities I had previously considered the immutable building blocks of my sense of self:
Case Study #1
In the U.S., my criteria for deigning a film worthy of my time included an enthusiastic-bordering-on-orgasmic review by Anthony Lane in The New Yorker, the approval of select friends, the disapproval of other select friends, and, for the final round, at least two hours spent agonizing over movie theater schedules and asking whether I really wanted to potentially waste three hours of my life on a movie that might fail to find a place among timeless cinema classics. Fearing recognition as the type-A, fussy, uptight individual I am, I previously kept the movie-selection process closed. Now you know why I have somehow never seen a movie with you but I have accompanied you on countless four-hour walks.
And yet, did I go to Illusions, the Tower Records of illegally copied DVDs, and buy 15 pirated movies for $1.20 each? Yes. Did those movies include Bring It On 2, Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, and the Indiana Jones trilogy? Yes. Did I greedily devour Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, a remake of Dirty Dancing set in a highly sanitized version of 1950s Cuba? Yes. Did I watch while lounging on the couch downing masala-flavored potato chips? No,I ran on the treadmill. But I've only been here 8 weeks.
Case Study #2
As a child, my father took me to enough Civil War battlefields that I developed a blanket intolerance for ruins, fields with historically important mini-craters, and forts. I harbor a special hatred for Fort Macon, which I came to boycott my sitting by myself in our maroon Honda Accord and writing poems with lines like, "There is no place so hellaciously hot as Fort Macon/ with broken fortress walls on which you could fry bacon."
And yet today, I could not say yes fast enough when my friend asked me if I wanted to LEAVE ISLAMABAD to visit Taxila, a town about an hour away. We drove, Gillian Welch blasting, to several fields with piles of gray rocks left behind by one Alexander the Great, among others. It is true that I did not appreciate the rocks in the way my father would have, but they were still very exciting, being gray and hot and from a far off time.
These circumstances breed a desperate desire for escape -- a hunger so fierce it overrides personal qualities I had previously considered the immutable building blocks of my sense of self:
Case Study #1
In the U.S., my criteria for deigning a film worthy of my time included an enthusiastic-bordering-on-orgasmic review by Anthony Lane in The New Yorker, the approval of select friends, the disapproval of other select friends, and, for the final round, at least two hours spent agonizing over movie theater schedules and asking whether I really wanted to potentially waste three hours of my life on a movie that might fail to find a place among timeless cinema classics. Fearing recognition as the type-A, fussy, uptight individual I am, I previously kept the movie-selection process closed. Now you know why I have somehow never seen a movie with you but I have accompanied you on countless four-hour walks.
And yet, did I go to Illusions, the Tower Records of illegally copied DVDs, and buy 15 pirated movies for $1.20 each? Yes. Did those movies include Bring It On 2, Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, and the Indiana Jones trilogy? Yes. Did I greedily devour Dirty Dancing Havana Nights, a remake of Dirty Dancing set in a highly sanitized version of 1950s Cuba? Yes. Did I watch while lounging on the couch downing masala-flavored potato chips? No,I ran on the treadmill. But I've only been here 8 weeks.
Case Study #2
As a child, my father took me to enough Civil War battlefields that I developed a blanket intolerance for ruins, fields with historically important mini-craters, and forts. I harbor a special hatred for Fort Macon, which I came to boycott my sitting by myself in our maroon Honda Accord and writing poems with lines like, "There is no place so hellaciously hot as Fort Macon/ with broken fortress walls on which you could fry bacon."
And yet today, I could not say yes fast enough when my friend asked me if I wanted to LEAVE ISLAMABAD to visit Taxila, a town about an hour away. We drove, Gillian Welch blasting, to several fields with piles of gray rocks left behind by one Alexander the Great, among others. It is true that I did not appreciate the rocks in the way my father would have, but they were still very exciting, being gray and hot and from a far off time.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
American Identity Distilled: Islamabad Idol
When I first imagined the Diplomatic Enclave, the walled-off sector of the city with all the embassies, I envisioned a square mile of well-irrigated and exquisitely landscaped gardens dotted with mansions. Holland's embassy would rise among a sea of tulips. The British would maintain a Buckingham Palace replica amid a rose garden maze. Maybe the Australians would have a kangaroo preserve in their foyer, the way the MGM hotel in Las Vegas keeps a lion in a plexi-glass cage. Ambassadors would take tea on stone benches, dabbing their foreheads with monogrammed handkerchiefs, engaging it highly diplomatic conversations:
"It is certainly hot in Islamabad."
"It certainly is."
"Soon there will be monsoons, of course."
"Yes, there will be monsoons. In fact, we plan to put up our plastic monsoon dome next week."
"Oh?"
"Indeed. We have an extra one, if you'd like to borrow it. I know yours cracked last year."
"That would be splendid. Iran extends her warmest thanks to Israel."
"The pleasure is Israel's."
And so I was shocked and rather disappointed to discover that once you penetrate the dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards, you find more dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards. It is a little like being on the campus of a prison (because, naturally, I've been on the campus of many prisons), where each embassy is it's own gray fortress. Untamed weeds grow in the no man's land that stretches between between the edge of the road and the compound walls.
After I recovered from my disillusionment, I foolishly imagined that I might enter Eden or even Giovanni's Garden if only I could weasel through one more layer of security. And so, the weekend before last, I harvested an occasion to visit the American compound, which includes the embassy, some residences, and the American Club. The event was Islamabad Idol, a karaoke night that riffed off American Idol (reruns of which are, incidentally, on TV nearly every night -- in my world, Melinda Doolittle is still in the running).
The American compound is not so Emerald City so much as it is University of Oklahoma - Stillwater. Think 1970s brick utilitarian construction and grass and some gestures at landscaping in the form of potted ferns. The inside of the American Club building has all the sterility you would expect, replete with picture-free cream walls.
As for Islamabad Idol, it was a strange night. About 30 people stood spread out on a patio that could have comfortably held 150. Nineteen-year-old marines in too-tight shorts and Hawaiian shirts sang, "You Raise Me Up," and NSYNC's "Bye, Bye, Bye," with too little ironic remove. Intermittently, two young women, who dubbed themselves The Filipino Girls, did synchronized dances to "Let Me Clear My Throat," and I wondered what it would mean to be compelled to choreograph and practice their act for such a small and strangely desperate audience.
"It is certainly hot in Islamabad."
"It certainly is."
"Soon there will be monsoons, of course."
"Yes, there will be monsoons. In fact, we plan to put up our plastic monsoon dome next week."
"Oh?"
"Indeed. We have an extra one, if you'd like to borrow it. I know yours cracked last year."
"That would be splendid. Iran extends her warmest thanks to Israel."
"The pleasure is Israel's."
And so I was shocked and rather disappointed to discover that once you penetrate the dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards, you find more dreary walls and rolls of razor wire and armed guards. It is a little like being on the campus of a prison (because, naturally, I've been on the campus of many prisons), where each embassy is it's own gray fortress. Untamed weeds grow in the no man's land that stretches between between the edge of the road and the compound walls.
After I recovered from my disillusionment, I foolishly imagined that I might enter Eden or even Giovanni's Garden if only I could weasel through one more layer of security. And so, the weekend before last, I harvested an occasion to visit the American compound, which includes the embassy, some residences, and the American Club. The event was Islamabad Idol, a karaoke night that riffed off American Idol (reruns of which are, incidentally, on TV nearly every night -- in my world, Melinda Doolittle is still in the running).
The American compound is not so Emerald City so much as it is University of Oklahoma - Stillwater. Think 1970s brick utilitarian construction and grass and some gestures at landscaping in the form of potted ferns. The inside of the American Club building has all the sterility you would expect, replete with picture-free cream walls.
As for Islamabad Idol, it was a strange night. About 30 people stood spread out on a patio that could have comfortably held 150. Nineteen-year-old marines in too-tight shorts and Hawaiian shirts sang, "You Raise Me Up," and NSYNC's "Bye, Bye, Bye," with too little ironic remove. Intermittently, two young women, who dubbed themselves The Filipino Girls, did synchronized dances to "Let Me Clear My Throat," and I wondered what it would mean to be compelled to choreograph and practice their act for such a small and strangely desperate audience.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Family Planning
Setting: A furniture store in the basement below a veterinarian's office in an Islamabad strip mall
Characters:
American woman, wearing a long, loose embroidered shirt and sunglasses
Afghan man, wearing a tan shalwar kameez, a khaki photographer's vest, and a white cap
In front of Pets and Vets, a rottweiler lies sprawled and panting on the sidewalk. White gauze encircles both of his paws, and a long plastic tube connects his shin to an IV bag that has been affixed to the railing with twine. Through the glass storefront, we see a golden retriever with superficial head abrasions tied to the door handle, and behind him two small rooms: one crammed with dog kennels, all full, and a cattery of stacked chicken wire cages.
To the right of Pets and Vets, a cement staircase leads into a basement furniture shop crammed with antique Pakistani and Afghan tables, shelves, bureaus, and tables stacked up to the ceiling. A film of dust covers everything, and the room is dim.
Man: All my children are in school here. But when they finish, I will move back to Kabul.
Woman (tracing a tribal pattern on a table leg and then looking up): Oh. How many children do you have.
M: I have six. Four girls and two boys. Do you think that is too many?
W: Oh no, of course not. Do you?
M: It is enough. After the sixth, I was worried my wife would have six more! But in 12 years no more have come.
W: Hmmmmm.
M: Want to know why?
W: Well --
M (interrupting, with exuberance): I went to the family planning clinic!
W: Right.
M: The Canadians, they taught me! They taught me to use birth control! No more children!
E: Ah.
Characters:
American woman, wearing a long, loose embroidered shirt and sunglasses
Afghan man, wearing a tan shalwar kameez, a khaki photographer's vest, and a white cap
In front of Pets and Vets, a rottweiler lies sprawled and panting on the sidewalk. White gauze encircles both of his paws, and a long plastic tube connects his shin to an IV bag that has been affixed to the railing with twine. Through the glass storefront, we see a golden retriever with superficial head abrasions tied to the door handle, and behind him two small rooms: one crammed with dog kennels, all full, and a cattery of stacked chicken wire cages.
To the right of Pets and Vets, a cement staircase leads into a basement furniture shop crammed with antique Pakistani and Afghan tables, shelves, bureaus, and tables stacked up to the ceiling. A film of dust covers everything, and the room is dim.
Man: All my children are in school here. But when they finish, I will move back to Kabul.
Woman (tracing a tribal pattern on a table leg and then looking up): Oh. How many children do you have.
M: I have six. Four girls and two boys. Do you think that is too many?
W: Oh no, of course not. Do you?
M: It is enough. After the sixth, I was worried my wife would have six more! But in 12 years no more have come.
W: Hmmmmm.
M: Want to know why?
W: Well --
M (interrupting, with exuberance): I went to the family planning clinic!
W: Right.
M: The Canadians, they taught me! They taught me to use birth control! No more children!
E: Ah.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
In Bhurban, Pakistan
A massive snail!
Keeping an uncomfortable distance apart in front of the Pearl Continental Hotel.
Evil.
U Can't Touch This (no, you really can't -- it's a Muslim country)
The shoes are hot. You know they are.
Quick Sand
There are certain topics that I feel generally should not be blog fare. Chief among them is food -- do any of you read all those blogs dedicated to tedious descriptions of food preparation ("after my fifth spoon stroke, a nugget of hardened baking soda dispersed" or "at minute 23 in the oven, the top of my banana bread loaf darkened from tawny to toffee")? I am horrified by both the existence of these blogs and also the Betty Crocker perfect photographic documentation. If you read them, I really must know why. Other black-listed themes and items include scanned-in travel itineraries, photographs of flora (unless maybe there's a Jesus-shaped leaf that suggests the Second Coming), and, of course, the weather.
But I will make an exception (being god of the blog) for the monsoons, which are just beginning. I hear that soon the rain will be violent and dramatic, with lightening breaking the sky and heavy clouds bearing down on the verdant landscape. This has not yet happened except in my self-conscious twist of verbiage. But it did rain all day today, Seattle-style, and at 6 pm, despite some drizzle, Griff and I took the dogs for a walk. We'd been outside for about 5 minutes when Griff stepped in a mud puddle next to a highway (think something between Route 1 and I-95) and then promptly sank. He put his other foot down, and soon he was up to his knees in mud and stuck. He leaned over, onto all fours, and tried to dig himself out with cupped hands, but to no avail. For the next fifteen minutes he lurched back and forth until he emerged dripping, like a very messy candle, with several pounds of mud.
Islamabad is not, for the most part, a place where people smile or otherwise express joy very much in public -- the men's faces often look, to my Western eye, serious or guarded or stoic. The experience of being outside transformed, though, as we trudged back to the house, both laughing, and every man who passed us in a car or on a bike or on foot at least grinned. It was somehow really very lovely.
But I will make an exception (being god of the blog) for the monsoons, which are just beginning. I hear that soon the rain will be violent and dramatic, with lightening breaking the sky and heavy clouds bearing down on the verdant landscape. This has not yet happened except in my self-conscious twist of verbiage. But it did rain all day today, Seattle-style, and at 6 pm, despite some drizzle, Griff and I took the dogs for a walk. We'd been outside for about 5 minutes when Griff stepped in a mud puddle next to a highway (think something between Route 1 and I-95) and then promptly sank. He put his other foot down, and soon he was up to his knees in mud and stuck. He leaned over, onto all fours, and tried to dig himself out with cupped hands, but to no avail. For the next fifteen minutes he lurched back and forth until he emerged dripping, like a very messy candle, with several pounds of mud.
Islamabad is not, for the most part, a place where people smile or otherwise express joy very much in public -- the men's faces often look, to my Western eye, serious or guarded or stoic. The experience of being outside transformed, though, as we trudged back to the house, both laughing, and every man who passed us in a car or on a bike or on foot at least grinned. It was somehow really very lovely.
Friday, June 22, 2007
The Swimming Lesson
A few days ago I joined the gym at the Marriott, or should I say gyms: there are two fitness centers, labeled "Ladies" and "Gents" in silver cursive on glass doors. It's a good thing, too, because no man could possibly contain himself, let alone exercise, while I use the bench press thirty feet away wearing my size XL, paint-stained Riverside High School sweatpants.
The women's gym is, at most, 250 square feet. It has two elliptical trainers, one with a broken handle; two treadmills; an ancient stairmaster with a screen that looks like a dot-matrix print-out; one of those 20-exercises-in-one weight machines featured in 1980s home gym infomercials; and, in a pile on the floor, a few free weights that are often slippery from a ceiling leak. On a day when the air conditioning was not working especially well, my friend and I decided to crash the men's gym. We are, I think, technically allowed to do this, though I have yet to see another woman break the barrier.
The men's gym is, of course, in size and quality, akin to a smallish Washington Sports Club -- it has a glass wall that looks down on a pool, flat-screen televisions tuned to FashionTV (in Pakistan, this is the equivalent of soft-core porn), a ceiling tiled with Bose speakers, a balance ball, and new weight machines that, in their instructional diagrams, show pony-tailed women performing the exercises. Most men using the gym are from Western Europe or Australia, and so they appear completely unruffled by my presence.
Yesterday, after lifting weights among the men, I decided to swim laps in the women's pool, which is tiny and bathwater warm (this seemed compelling at the time, though now I couldn't tell you why). I'd completed three pool-lengths of breast stroke and had begun to mentally restructure a chapter of my novel when a woman at the opposite end of the pool, wearing what could have been my high school's wrestling team uniform, yelled and beckoned for me to come over to her at once. I rushed over, thinking there was an emergency. "I need you to teach me how to swim," she said. "Actually, I'm thinking you could just give me a few pointers. Just some tips."
I am at my least gracious when anyone interferes with or interrupts my workout, and so my first response was to try to think of a plausible reason to cancel or delay the swimming lesson. "I'm not a very good swimmer," I said, remembering the summer I was on the swim team and came in dead-last, by a margin of several seconds, in every event.
"You are a great swimmer," she said. "It won't be difficult for you. I just need a few little tips so I can improve."
"Sure," I said finally. "Why don't you show me what you can already do."
She lunged forward and then started thrashing violently, eyes squeezed shut, until she righted herself by grabbing the top of my swimsuit and pulling it down to my waist.
"So," I said, putting my bathing suit back on. "You don't really know how to swim at all."
"Just a few pointers. Just some tips."
I spent the next hour trying unsuccessfully to teach her to blow air out of her mouth and nose while under water. "So I breathe out and then in under water?" she kept asking.
"Um, not exactly."
At the end of our session, after I'd acquired a bruise and grown light-headed from demonstrating the proper way to blow bubbles, she said, "From now on let's come to the gym at the same time."
"Hmmmm."
"Give me your phone number. Also, we could hang out on the weekends. We could hang out all the time."
"Well--"
"It will be great!" she exclaimed. "I cannot wait. It will be so much fun!"
The women's gym is, at most, 250 square feet. It has two elliptical trainers, one with a broken handle; two treadmills; an ancient stairmaster with a screen that looks like a dot-matrix print-out; one of those 20-exercises-in-one weight machines featured in 1980s home gym infomercials; and, in a pile on the floor, a few free weights that are often slippery from a ceiling leak. On a day when the air conditioning was not working especially well, my friend and I decided to crash the men's gym. We are, I think, technically allowed to do this, though I have yet to see another woman break the barrier.
The men's gym is, of course, in size and quality, akin to a smallish Washington Sports Club -- it has a glass wall that looks down on a pool, flat-screen televisions tuned to FashionTV (in Pakistan, this is the equivalent of soft-core porn), a ceiling tiled with Bose speakers, a balance ball, and new weight machines that, in their instructional diagrams, show pony-tailed women performing the exercises. Most men using the gym are from Western Europe or Australia, and so they appear completely unruffled by my presence.
Yesterday, after lifting weights among the men, I decided to swim laps in the women's pool, which is tiny and bathwater warm (this seemed compelling at the time, though now I couldn't tell you why). I'd completed three pool-lengths of breast stroke and had begun to mentally restructure a chapter of my novel when a woman at the opposite end of the pool, wearing what could have been my high school's wrestling team uniform, yelled and beckoned for me to come over to her at once. I rushed over, thinking there was an emergency. "I need you to teach me how to swim," she said. "Actually, I'm thinking you could just give me a few pointers. Just some tips."
I am at my least gracious when anyone interferes with or interrupts my workout, and so my first response was to try to think of a plausible reason to cancel or delay the swimming lesson. "I'm not a very good swimmer," I said, remembering the summer I was on the swim team and came in dead-last, by a margin of several seconds, in every event.
"You are a great swimmer," she said. "It won't be difficult for you. I just need a few little tips so I can improve."
"Sure," I said finally. "Why don't you show me what you can already do."
She lunged forward and then started thrashing violently, eyes squeezed shut, until she righted herself by grabbing the top of my swimsuit and pulling it down to my waist.
"So," I said, putting my bathing suit back on. "You don't really know how to swim at all."
"Just a few pointers. Just some tips."
I spent the next hour trying unsuccessfully to teach her to blow air out of her mouth and nose while under water. "So I breathe out and then in under water?" she kept asking.
"Um, not exactly."
At the end of our session, after I'd acquired a bruise and grown light-headed from demonstrating the proper way to blow bubbles, she said, "From now on let's come to the gym at the same time."
"Hmmmm."
"Give me your phone number. Also, we could hang out on the weekends. We could hang out all the time."
"Well--"
"It will be great!" she exclaimed. "I cannot wait. It will be so much fun!"
Islamabad: Teaming Petri Dish
Last night I got acutely ill with my fifth microbial visitor in as many weeks; I have been sick so much that, after a normal digestive proceeding, I exit the bathroom with a warm sense of self-congratulation and, no doubt, a piece of giardia-contaminated toilet paper stuck to the heel of my shoe. (Expats here talk about blighted bodily functions with the frequency and compulsion of big time investors discussing stock market fluctuations -- it is even an appropriate topic to discuss over dinner).
At the urging of several friends who insist they've never heard of anyone with the same sick to healthy ratio of days, I called the doctor, a wonderful woman who works for the Canadian High Commission. She did not buy my theory that I have a rare disease that exhibits itself in frequent and seemingly isolated bouts of communion with the toilet, and I thought this was good news until she told me that instead I have the exact profile of a sub-sub-set of expats who are extremely, as she euphemistically put it, "sensitive" to the microbial world of Pakistan. In other words, I am Modern Medicine's captured spoils in its ceaseless war with Natural Selection. I was supposed to be the chaff, the unselected, the termination point for whatever heritable lines of constitutional weakness I am, thanks to Cipro and Flagyl and bleach, perpetuating. This sounds almost criminal, doesn't it? I feel a little like a character in a Jane Austen book, one of those timid, bonnet-headed ladies who has afternoon spells and a frequent need for Mr. Darcy's dampened handkerchief. Or like one of the women, laid up with "brain fever," that Sherlock Holmes saves from that diabolical Professor Moriarty.
At the urging of several friends who insist they've never heard of anyone with the same sick to healthy ratio of days, I called the doctor, a wonderful woman who works for the Canadian High Commission. She did not buy my theory that I have a rare disease that exhibits itself in frequent and seemingly isolated bouts of communion with the toilet, and I thought this was good news until she told me that instead I have the exact profile of a sub-sub-set of expats who are extremely, as she euphemistically put it, "sensitive" to the microbial world of Pakistan. In other words, I am Modern Medicine's captured spoils in its ceaseless war with Natural Selection. I was supposed to be the chaff, the unselected, the termination point for whatever heritable lines of constitutional weakness I am, thanks to Cipro and Flagyl and bleach, perpetuating. This sounds almost criminal, doesn't it? I feel a little like a character in a Jane Austen book, one of those timid, bonnet-headed ladies who has afternoon spells and a frequent need for Mr. Darcy's dampened handkerchief. Or like one of the women, laid up with "brain fever," that Sherlock Holmes saves from that diabolical Professor Moriarty.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
She's viscious
I have been inundated with requests for me to take pictures of myself pretending to do karate in my Pakistani clothing in front of a mirror.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
