It was a glorious, (hot as hell - really, have I mentioned that? It is a tad warm here) morning on the Pearl Island of Bahrain. The holiday of Eid is in full swing and people are just raring to get to burning those tires. It was decided to run to Amwaj, the man-made island to the north of the main island, and grab some food and do a little shopping. You know, white people stuff. It is early, 8:30 or so, and I figure if all goes well we should be there by a little before 9. Perfect, get done all my shopping and chores so I can get home and get back to being restless.
Off we go up the rood, the one that the poor girl inside the Google Maps program tries to pronounce with fantastical failure each time. About 2/3 of the way to Amwaj I notice a little swerve in the rear of my Kia.
Some fries with that shake.
A little hitch in its giddy-up.
So, doing 100 km/hr in a deathtrap that could kill me at any moment, I decide, (the car did this for me as I was screaming like a monkey whose tail had just been run over by a steamroller covered in salt and lemon juice) to pull off to the side of the road. How flat can one tire be?
The answer to that rhetorical question is: flat as fuck.
I've changed my share of tires...and your share of tires...I have changed a lot of people's shares of tires. This will be no problem. Honestly, what could go wrong with changing a tire on the side of a highway in a construction zone in a foreign country, while in the middle of the desert when it is 43 degrees Celsius, (110 F) on the black asphalt when your stalker, the Sun, is leaning over your shoulder not helping but being a general pest?
Damn right my spare was flat.
When I bought the deathtrap-mobile the spare had air. It had so much air it rhymed. I checked. I may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night and my momma's baby boy checked the spare. But that was about 3 weeks ago. A lot can happen in 3 weeks.
TV shows can get canceled.
Seasons can change.
21 days can go by.
Tires can release 35 PSI of compressed air back into the atmosphere at a rate which wouldn't alert the owner.
A lot can happen.
In a country where the cops are generally indifferent to, well everything, I guess...I was surprised when I was rolled up on by a pair of young officers with mirrored shades. After convincing them it was my car, and if I was going to steal a car it would have been way nicer than the deathtrap-mobile, he and his pal rolled off into the distance.
He even took my phone number before he left, so, ya know, fingers crossed
He was an officer and a gentleman and he didn't shoot me. If that ain't love...
A friend came and took me and my no-air-spare to Sitra and a tire shop. Not surprisingly, the guy there was very friendly and not only pumped it back full of air, but also did the soap check to make sure it would hold air long enough to nurse the deathtrap-mobile back for some new shoes.
These are ridiculous. And no, they don't come in my size. I checked 3 websites.
Fast forward to being back at the car - I changed the spare faster than "the old man" in Christmas Story and off we went back to Sitra. The tire shop didn't the correct glass slipper size for the deathtrap-mobile so another shop had to be sought out. I know I needed 4 new tires. My plan this week was to make the deathtrap-mobile just a smidge safer by getting 4 new tires. So I wasn't too bothered when the guy told me I needed 4 new tires. I mean, not like I could use this one again:
The deathtrap-mobile has not found a way to kill me...yet.
So I wasn't bothered by the suggestion, but I was bothered he thought that not only was I born at night, but it was in fact last night. After looking at 107 BD, (about $270) for all 4 I asked where another tire shop was. The number magically changed to 97 BD. My eyebrow nearly got lost when it shot up in to my hairline. I shook my head as the number magically again changed to 93 BD.
Look, I get it - car shops rip people off. I know I am not going to leave here with the deal of the century, but I am also not going to leave here walking funny, either.
90 BD was the settled price for all four and out the door. Labor, balancing and all that. I feel that was just above fair so I was pleased.
BUT NOT AS PLEASED AS I WAS WHEN I SAW MY CAR LOOK LIKE IT COULD HOVER!
Roods? Where we're going we don't need roods...
I get the new shoes on the deathtrap-mobile and off I go to Amwaj Island.
Hey - how old are you? Old enough to remember video stores before Blockbuster? The local ones?
Yeah, me too. Sucks being this old. But, that means you remember the shady back room of the video store, often with a beaded door to alert the clerk I was sneaking into the room, where they keep what can only be referred to as the nectar of the gods...of course I mean porn.
Back in my day we had to watch this uphill both ways in the snow.
And I know where they have found it...
Psssst. Hey...hey buddy. You want some sausage? I don't mean my penis...probably...
One of the joys of living in Bahrain is that while it is a Gulf country, it is very liberal because of all the expats. And we like our pig. It is non-negotiable - bacon or run your country without us. So the solution here is to hire these unemployed video store porn rooms that are in need of purpose, replace the "N" with a "K" and fill them full of a different kind of meat. Glorious pig meat. But to kind of pretend they don't do that, they tuck these glorious meat holes...or "gloryholes" for short...into the back of expat laden markets.
Shopping concludes with exchanging money for goods and off I go to something that will make this whole day just that much better.
I am going to get Stompy.
Just to solidify how western this place is with its gloryholes and meat markets, we decide to meet at a friggin' Baskin Robbins. The most Muslim of all ice creameries, 31 flavors for your 72 virgins. Honestly, I would have been disappointed if it wasn't at a place as ridiculous as that.
I order something with whipped cream because I am a fucking grown up, and wait for the arrival. Not long after, in walks someone with a bag. I couldn't describe the man, I was too busy looking at the contents of the bag he was carrying.
I know it looks like balls. I know. But just...seriously. Balls. My elephant has balls for a head.
I laid the money on the table in what can only be described as a move that would have been done with the same deftness and care as if I was buying stolen gems, and take the bag home. Stompy was coming home. And look how happy he is!
Dragon Age 2 included for scale and to remind you I am a grown up.
I swear, Ryan-- Your blog is the perfect accompaniment to my morning coffee :).
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