Beware of the Idle Expat Wife

(Written October 2011) So we’ve been in Kuwait over a month. And I’ve done the “settling in to the house” thing, I’m working on the “exploring the city” thing, I’m waiting on the “receiving our stuff” thing, but I’m definitely fully entrenched in the “filling my time” thing (beyond reading and writing). Which means two things, crafting and volunteering.

The former is marginally thwarted by the lack of having “our stuff” – with my crafting and sewing supplies not ranking high enough to ship them out early. So instead of doing, I’m amassing ideas and projects left and right, from quilting, to making baby clothes and nappies, to making tablecloths and napkins, to making napkin rings, necklaces and jewelry. I’m ordering supplies online and bookmarking websites and YouTube videos with wild abandon and just a touch of desperation.

As I mentioned before, I did attend a “Meet and Bead” meeting, that’s held once a month here in Jabriya. It’s basically a “Stitch-n-Bitch” for beaders. It was great fun seeing all of the amazing projects people are working on and is definitely something i'd like to do again. It also made me realize that I am not a “beader”; I am a “stringer.” All I do is string bead after bead. True beaders apparently employ actual stitches and weaving techniques to create patterns and shapes. So I’m going to take a class or two to learn some fundamental beading skills. Then I’ll start going through the multitude of videos awaiting me in my bookmark file to further enhance my beading abilities. Oh, the joy to be had!

On the volunteering side I’ve done a few things. I helped organize, sort, and purge the local expat library. It’s comprised of 100% donated books, so the variety can be striking. From hundreds of mysteries and thrillers, to romance, lots of child-rearing books (guess you either read and utilize, or never the get the time to read so you pass on to the next hopeful), some odd travel books, children and teen books, lots of religion books, and even some Econ and Algebra textbooks. In both Cairo and here, I make use of the library a lot. So when they asked for help organizing piles of new donations, I figured it was only fair.

My next volunteering also involved books. I had heard that American volunteers were needed to staff a booth at the Kuwait International Book Fair. How exciting! So I convinced a friend to volunteer as well, and we signed up for two evening shifts. Let me interject here and point out that in most volunteer “jobs” there are two fundamental problems; first, trying to find someone willing to give up their free time to do something that’s often rather mundane (stuffing envelopes, manning a booth, sorting donations, etc.), and two, being said person and having absolutely no guidance or information on what you are actually supposed to be doing, beyond seat-warming. The Book Fair fell in to the latter category.

The booth had really nothing to do with books at all. It was basically set up for the purpose of handing out information on studying abroad – in the U.S. So all the information we had was on two organizations, Amideast and StudyUSA, who can help students do that. Well, that’s wonderful. But what the heck are we doing here then? There was one employee from each organization who was also there with us (thank goodness!) so basically we just tried to keep people occupied until they could actually speak to the person who knew anything.

During a lull in the excitement, I did take a moment to wander the fair. I’m not sure what I was picturing, but any “International Book Fair” sounds exotic and intriguing. It was quite packed, with families bustling through, competing for space with the vendors’ carts coming by selling sodas and snacks, like we were at the county fair. And as I wandered, I came to realize that while definitely international, with booths from Dubai and Doha, among others, it was almost entirely books in Arabic. For a little variety, there were a few booths with some children’s books in English, and the seemingly displaced man with books in Japanese in the booth next to ours.

In our booth we did have some books for sale. But I did wonder whether someone just found boxes of remainders in a closet and said, “Let’s sell them at the Book Fair!” Most were in Arabic, and were scientific or political. We had stacks of Colin Powell’s book, “My American Journey” in English, as well as some American Readers that were well out of print (and were full of encyclopedic chapters on the 1900s, some poems, and even a song entitled, “The Drunken Hillbilly”). We also had a few children’s book in Arabic and the Arabic translation of Truman Capote’s classic, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. Now, I’m a huge fan of both Capote’s and Hepburn’s renditions, however between the drunken hillbilly and a lovely story of Ms. Golightly and her antics as an “American geisha” (Capote’s preferred term, as he openly disputed that she was a prostitute), I’m not entirely sure these are the best images we want to convey of typical American life. Though that could explain the heightened interest in studying in America.

My most recent volunteering stint, was at a huge American Halloween party. They’d set up games all over the lawn, then they split the groups into zero to five-year-olds, and six to ten-year-olds, and went trick-or-treating through the parking lot where certain participating parents had decorated their cars and were handing out candy to the buzzing broods. I truly love Halloween, especially seeing the little ones’ costumes. There were some fabulous costumes this year, including a three-year-old Princess Leia and her little brother Yoda (I’m assuming there was some parental nudging with those choices), lots of superheros and villains, witches and princesses, a Shrek or two, and lots of parents all decked out as well. I went as a Volunteering Expat Wife and think I pulled it off with great flair (our costume box is coming, some day).

So I said I’d help with the “pizza distribution.” Sounded a little industrial, but I figured I could handle it. Luckily there was another volunteer, too. I found her sitting in the patio area where she said she’d been banished to by her eleven-year-old. We chatted as we waited to hear from “Papa John’s” with the delivery (yes, they are here in Kuwait competing against Domino’s and Pizza Hut). When the call came, I followed her out to the gate pulling a very rickety clattering metal cart. “How many pizzas are we getting?” I asked. “Forty,” she said. Yikes!

It took some finagling, but we managed to get the cart through the gate to the delivery guys. She paid him the 115kd (almost $400) and we then proceeded to stack up thirty-nine cheese pizzas and one mushroom (that was labeled “chicken BBQ”) on the metal cart. With incredible luck we got the cart and pizzas back through the gate unscathed and started our slow trek back to the patio area. She took the lead and pulled the cart while keeping a hand on one of the stacks, and I brought up the rear, holding the other stack and keeping an eye on both stacks as they leaned precariously. “You know what we have here?” I said, looking at the tilting towers. “Don’t say it.” “Really? But they’re such perfect leaning towers of pizza.” (Groan with me, not against me.)

So we then set up and distributed the pizzas with mild confusion, but eventual happy diners. Another parent was helping us and kept telling all the kids, “Now don’t forget to brush and floss tonight!” One little girl dressed as a dinosaur, following her pumpkin-cloaked mother holding their pizza, proudly reported, “We brush, but we never floss.” To which the parent wasn’t sure how to respond. I think I saw pumpkin-mom cringe a little.

Not all of my Expat Wife doings are this well-planned or thought out. Some of them are whim-inspired and completely spontaneous. Like the papier-mâché pig. I’m going to blame this moment of tunnel vision on my friend Robin. She knows me well enough to know how to plant the seed. All she did was call up to discuss possible table centerpieces for an event she was planning and we were musing about different animal-related themes. “You could do papier-mâché animals!” I said. “But how?” “It would be easy, just use a balloon and a paper towel tube, cut it up to make the legs and a snout.” “Okay, why don’t you make me twenty and ship them to me.” Ha, ha, very funny. Seed planted.

I slept on it, thought about it, saw the balloons bobbing in the wind at the Halloween party, and on my way out asked to take two. Before I knew it I was online researching how to make damn papier-mâché paste and then whipping up a batch of the ooey gooey goodness. Then I was cutting and taping the legs and snout in place, then shredding newspaper and suddenly making a pig! My husband came down to the kitchen just as I was finishing. It was also the moment that I realized I probably shouldn’t have grabbed our Arabic newspaper to make a pig, of all things (remember, it’s one of the forbidden Bs). My husband’s look went from confused, to bemused, to all-too-alert. “You’re not going to leave it like that, are you? With the Arabic showing?” he said with just a touch of worry. “No, no, don’t worry. I’m going to cover it with another layer of white paper.” (No one will ever know…) So we now have a beautiful white papier-mâché pig who will eventually be painted pink, once I find some paint. And no, I’m not making nineteen more or becoming a papier-mâché exporter. My whim has faded. Such is the life of an idle Expat Wife. Beware of low-hanging whims.

Expat-Wife Truths

(Written October 2011) This is our second move overseas, and I'm still waiting for someone to hand me the pamphlet entitled, “So, now you’re an Expat-Wife.” Of course, if they did, it would probably just say, “Good luck. Don’t drink the water.”

Depending on the source, we're called different things. We can be “trailing spouses,” though it leaves an impression of unwillingness, or we’re simply the “spouse” or “dependent.” My term of choice is Expat Wife.

There are no qualifications needed to be an Expat Spouse, other than being married to an employed person who's sent overseas. And while the employee has some changes to deal with in moving to a new city, such as a new desk, new co-workers, new pencil cup, their primary job often remains the same. For the Expat Spouse, however, life can be very different. It’s like starting over every two or three years. You have to learn new cities; find new grocery stores; figure out what that bumpy iridescent yellow vegetable, or fruit, is and whether it can go in a fruitcake; you have to figure out what’s dish soap versus laundry soap in a variety of languages that often include a script you’ve never seen before. It’s a never-ending series of wacky fun and great adventure (or frustrating trips and tear-inducing outings, depending on your mood).

For some, being an Expat Spouse actually entails some social obligations, meaning dinners and parties. Luckily for me, we don’t have such demands. If we did I can imagine my evenings could be full of shooing cats off the dining table, removing them from begging at the feet of our distinguished guests, attempting to explain what texturized vegetable protein was and why it sort-of tasted like meat, all the while trying to remember what fork to use and make sure my husband doesn’t dribble the soup.

Many Expat Spouses are stay-at-home parents who have a part-time job or some volunteering on the side. However, if they have a career that is easily transferable, such as teacher, nurse, yoga instructor, writer, they can bring it along with them regardless of their locale. If they aren’t so lucky to have a transportable career then they might be able to find a job locally, however typically the duties and salary are both significantly smaller than what they're used to.

Those parents who choose not to work often find themselves running to and from shopping, school, tennis practice, soccer tournaments, boy scouts and play dates, so it’s not like their days are dull. For me, however, I’m currently in the middle. I’m in that waiting-to-adopt-a-baby-so-don’t-want-to-work phase. Which is a little nebulous at best.

So for now, I’m taking it slowly and frankly enjoying the quiet. I get to read a lot (started book #4 on day 19); get to watch DVDs loaned from friends here; I keep the house tidy and arranged to hire a part-time housekeeper; I write a lot; I try to watch what the neighbors are doing, but with our six-foot privacy wall, I have to do it from the second floor and have yet to see anything more exciting than cars being washed. Basically, I’m June Cleaver 2011, without the crinoline and pot roast.

But, as peaceful and idyllic as it sounds, I know it will get boring. I am forcing myself to get out and I have gone to some social events, including a monthly “Meet & Bead” which was actually great fun, with mostly Arab women who spoke perfect English (though every third word was in Arabic), I volunteered to organize some new book donations at the little expat library and help out a local book fair, and I’m trying out some of the “ladies clubs”. (My husband keeps pushing me to join the Ladies Auxiliary Club because I’m sure he thinks it’s a front for some nefarious underworld crime organization – beware of the Jello molds and macramé!)

I do find myself at times realizing it’s four o’clock and dash about to make sure the kitchen is cleaned and I’ve thought out something for dinner. It’s an odd existence. Once there’s a child here, my quiet will be filled. But until then, I feel a need to have “accomplished” something so when my husband comes home and says, “How was your day?” I can say more than, “I read, napped with Chuckles, wrote some bits, then watched a DVD with Louie.” There’s this push-pull in my head. I gave up a career to follow my husband around the world, so I shouldn’t feel obligated to fill my days with productivity. Then again, he’s working all day, so the least I can do is plan out dinner and make sure the kitchen’s cleaned. Depending on the day (and the mood), I’m fully behind one or the other.

Yesterday, my Expat Wife doings started relatively simply. I opened the gate for my husband to head off to work, then decided to water the trees. Then sitting in the living room I found that the “musty” smell my husband had commented on was definitely present, so I started to snoop around and quickly found the source. Louie the kitten had left us some slightly smeared fecal gifts on one of the wingback chairs. Luckily I had a stash of Oxyclean at the ready, so I quickly scrubbed the evidence away.

Because of the injuries to his back legs, Louie has periodic bouts of spontaneous poopings. He just can’t control it. But after days of scrubbing out spontaneity throughout the house, I hit the research today and found a name for it, fecal incontinence. So now, I’m researching what we can do to help him (and us) in addition to the daily pumpkin he’s receiving by researching such enticing topics as, “Fecal incontinence in cats”, “Rectal, anal & colon problems”, and “Spinal injuries in cats”. The glamour just never ends. So, after I complete my research tasks, I think I’ll start checking out the macramé sites. I think I could go for a little nefarious activity once in a while.

"So, what's Kuwait like?"

(Written October 2011) Prior to arriving in Kuwait, I will admit I knew very little about it. I can remember hearing on the news about Iraq’s invasion in August 1990 and for the seven months after. But beyond that, Kuwait was nary a blip in my mind.

Even once we knew we were coming here, I didn’t research it much. I found so little on modern-day life in Egypt that I figured Kuwait wouldn’t fare much better. Besides, the few things we did hear beforehand didn’t really ignite my interest or enthusiasm. Learning that you should bring lots of hobbies with you so you don’t have to leave the house for the six months of the year the temperatures are in the roasting range, does not exactly fill one with excitement and eagerness to arrive at said location.

But now we’re here, and we just “missed” the hot season, according to the heat-stroked individuals we met upon arrival. (It was 108 degrees Fahrenheit, and that’s NOT the hot season?! Oh dear.) And as I’ve been slowly researching Kuwait’s history, I have to admit that its modern tale is rather impressive.

The history of Kuwait can be traced back to at least 2,000 or 3,000 B.C., thanks to some artifacts found on one of its nine islands. Kuwait itself covers only a little more than 11,000 square miles (just a touch larger than Maryland) – and probably less than a quarter of that is actually populated. It’s neighbors are Iraq to the northwest and Saudi Arabia to the southwest, with the Arabian Gulf bordering the east side and providing it with 124 miles of coastline. We’re definitely between Iraq and the Hajj place here. (Get it?)

The land itself is extremely flat, with just one sandstone cliff on the northern shore of Kuwait Bay. The one thing that has made it appealing to travelers and merchants for the last 4,000 years has been its natural harbor (the only other one in this area is in Bahrain) and it’s access to fresh water through underground wells.

Oil was discovered here in 1938, under the helpful gaze of the Brits, and within a few years it was being readily exported. Kuwait gained its independence from Britain in 1961, but even fifty years later the English-effect is very prominent (lots of traffic circles, most signs in English, lots of schools named “English Playtime Group” and “English School for Girls”, and thankfully piles of Cadbury chockies).

Due to the devastation of Saddam’s invasion, a lot here is categorized as “before the invasion” and “after”. Even the environment took a huge hit. For more than 250 days during the occupation, over 700 oil wells burned out of control. Prior to this, there was apparently plentiful wildlife, including lizards and snakes and small mammals, and even back around 1900 there were cheetahs and ostriches running wild. Since 1990, the wildlife has not returned (though my husband spotted wary geckos at work the other night), however Kuwait does lie on a migration route so birds (other than the pigeons we see tottering about our yard) can apparently be spotted heading elsewhere. The cats and I shall keep on the lookout.

The human population is around 3.3 million (quite a drop from Cairo’s daily hordes of 20 million). But only 1 million of them are actual Kuwaitis, the rest are expats, with many coming from India, Pakistan, and Egypt.

Present-day Kuwait is an odd mixture of the old and the modern. Due to the vandalism and destruction from the invasion, much has been rebuilt just in the last twenty years. And because of the money flowing through the country, they went for impressive in appearance and grand in scale. The skyscrapers that encircle the city are modern stunning architectural marvels. The villas are palatial and the different neighborhoods start to look like a collection of amazing modern sandcastles. (I can’t help thinking that everyone was given a cube of sand and carved out their home from it, making it personal, but with an underlying “sameness” about it.)

In addition to the outcropping of skyscrapers, the western-world’s influence is everywhere, and not always in a good way. You can’t go a block without running by a McDonald’s, Starbucks, P.F. Chang’s, Friday’s, Krispy Kreme, Subway, or Burger King (the one on Gulf Road is reputedly the largest in the world). And due to a massive desalination project started in the 1950s, there is a lot of greenery and landscaping around, at least in comparison to Egypt. I mentioned how much I liked all the greenery to a friend who’s been here almost a year and she said, “Greenery? Where?” I guess it’s all about perspective.

So when asked, "What's Kuwait like?" I tend to say, "If you squint a little, the Kuwait of 2011 can look a little like southern California; sunny, sandy, palm trees, nice highways, lots of cars and a Taco Bell on the corner." So I will continue to enjoy my bean burrito under the shade of a well-watered palm tree, at least until it's roasting time.

Together Time

(Written November 2011) The fact that my husband and I can now claim that we have managed to get lost in Egypt, England, Tanzania, Italy, and now Kuwait, not to mention countless states in the U.S., has quite possibly elevated us from our mere “Getting Lost - Professional” status, to “Getting Lost - Master”.  We’re awaiting the judges’ final decision.

Now, in general we don’t mind getting lost.  It’s truly inevitable, even with all of the gadgetry available.  And moving to a new city, let alone new country, pretty much ensures that we’ll spend a few weeks, or more, getting lost.  For example, this past Saturday we made the simple mistake of turning left, when we should have turned right, trying to attend a brunch we’d been invited to.  We knew something was amiss when we were told to look for the villas on the right, but all we saw was the Arabian Gulf.  “Do they live on a houseboat?” I asked.  “They must be close to the border of Iraq, considering the distance we’ve traveled,” muttered hubby.  We were both wrong; and after a 90-minute drive that should have taken us 12 minutes, we corrected our mistake, bade farewell to the border guards and finally found the house.

The previous weekend we had taken my husband’s new boss and his wife, who had just arrived, out to a large supermarket we’d been to twice.  Coming from the boss’s neighborhood (a new area for us), however, spun us completely in circles, but after driving in a few more circles and tacking on an hour-long side-jaunt to the airport and back, we finally made it. 

We were told when we arrived in Kuwait that it really wasn’t possible to get truly lost, “You just might find yourself not where you want to be.”  Well, we have been doing a bang-up job of repeatedly finding ourselves where we don’t really want to be.  An added frustration is that Kuwait City is relatively small.  I have heard and read several comments that Kuwait itself is just a little smaller than New Jersey, so driving around Kuwait City, would be like navigating Trenton – eventually you should get it.  We’re still waiting. But in the meantime, despite our lack of bearings, we’re doing our best to look at all these driving adventures as “together time,” with periodic bouts of the crankies and some irrationality thrown in for fun. And next time we'll bring brownies for the border guards.

Deranged Moments and Lessons Learned

(Written October 2011) So I am slowly settling in to life as an expat again.  I’m trying to set up some type of schedule or routine, which will ensure that I shower daily.  I ventured out yesterday in a taxi to a new grocery store because I heard they had some higher-quality cat food.  They had a few cans, which I grabbed, but otherwise it was a little too posh for my comfort level, and my initial intention of grabbing some fresh veg for dinner was quashed when I saw their broccoli was $7 a head.  All in all, the cat food, some bread and juice cost me as much as the taxi there and back – about $14.  But at least I showered.

I then spent an hour in the afternoon doing some tree pruning and “picking up” the yard.  In hindsight, I should have reversed these activities, as the heat of day was peaking around 96 degrees while I was out huffing about.  I started by trimming off some of the smaller branches from the trees that interfere with our gates.  This was all well and good, until I got a little too ambitious and snapped the scissors in half on a thicker branch.  So, feeling the pruning moment had passed, I decided to check out the sidewalk area that wraps around two sides of our corner villa.

We have two gates, one for pedestrians and one for cars.  We primarily use the car one, so as I walked out of the pedestrian gate, I was surprised to see that the sidewalk on this side of the house was littered with all matter of, well, matter.  There were broken concrete blocks strewn about, dead leaves piled up from our trees, miscellaneous paper trash, an old tire, dried palm leaves, and a broken kitchen trash can complete with trash.  So I started by dragging all the big stuff around the corner to the driveway, where we put our trash out (which is picked up seven days a week, thank goodness).  I dragged the trash can, adding bits of paper trash along the way.  I rolled the tire up the sidewalk and around the corner.  Then I lugged the concrete blocks over to the small palm trees along the road, and stacked them up.  I dragged all the dried palm fronds around to the pile, all the while trying not to stab myself with their four-inch spines.  The highlight was probably when I had to drag a large rotting wooden pallet, using a broom as a tether.  I then started sweeping all the sand and dust into the road, hoping the entire time that no one came running out of their villas to admonish me.

As I worked, I looked around at our neighbors’ sidewalks; they were relatively spotless and trash-free (we do have one neighbor a few houses down who has an interesting collection of ever-changing living room suites displayed on his front lawn, from wicker, to fabric, to wooden – he’s either remodeling, or eccentric, only time will tell).  The other thing I noticed, was that no one was out and about.  Other than the steady stream of cars going by (why are there so many cars driving through a neighborhood?), I was the only human out.  I do realize that as the “lady of the house” (which brings to mind calling cards, smelling salts and hoop skirts), the last place I should be is outside sweating profusely and lugging about old tires.  Never in Kuwait would you see anyone but a housekeeper or gardener out doing manual labor.  I’m sure my behavior was quite scandalous and I hope I have not ruined my husband’s reputation as a manly man unable to control his sadly deranged wife.

This morning, after opening the gates for hubby to leave for work, I decided to water some of our trees while I was out and the weather was a cool 82 degrees.  As I turned on the hose, I noted our front porch area was covered in dust from a mini-sandstorm we’d had the week prior.  My attempts to brush the dust off with the ancient yard broom I found, had been less than successful.  So I figured I should hose it off properly; which I did, with great gusto.  Unfortunately I found that the slope of the marble at our front door wasn’t sufficient enough for the water to run off down the step, so I continued hosing generously, then dropped the hose to water some trees, while grabbing the ancient broom to swish the water off the porch.  All was accomplished and I finished watering the trees and went inside.

As I entered, two of our cats, Chuckles and Louie, were sitting on the dining room rug looking at me as if to say, “It wasn’t me!”  I looked down to see a huge lake of water across the marble floor heading in to the living room.  Apparently our front door needs some sealing.  So I grabbed some towels and started mopping up, all under the watchful, but not helpful, gaze of Chuckles and Louie.  I managed to soak it all up and ran to the laundry room with an armful saturated and dripping towels.  Then I went to my “fix it” list, and under “broken light above stove” added “seal front door”.  Never-ending fun in the life of an expat.