Taco Tuwednesday and the dangers of toy airplanes 10/9/2014

Being an American from America there are a few things I have been lucky enough to grow up knowing.

The first is the value and precious nature of freedom.  The ability to do and say what you feel and to have it all meticulously transcribed by the government for use at a later date.

The second is one of the most important thing I suppose a human can know - something that makes life worth living.  

Something magical.

Something special.

Mom?  Yeah.  I got the job.  I know!  Yeah I will probably commit suicide in two weeks.  Free shirt, though.

This something is one of the keys to existence.  It is the the science of happiness.  The rule of joy.  The top item on the shopping list of satisfaction....deep frying the shit out of stuff.

Oh hey, you like that oreo?  SKABAM NOW IT IS BETTER.

Butter?  I guess I can do something with thSKABAM NOW IT IS BETTER.

DEEP FRY MY COFFIN AS WELL PLEASE. BECAUSE SKABAM THAT MAKES IT BETTER.

I am not saying that deep fried things are better than freedom, I am simply saying the freedom to deep fry things is better than everything else ever.

Look around you.  Go on - look.  See that thing that just caught your eye?  Heat oil to 375F and bread that bastard and throw it in there for a few minutes until golden brown.  I don't care what the object is, it is better with a hearty coating of bread crumbs and oil.  That is nature.  

That is fact.

**disclaimer** if what you saw was your kid or another human, don't deep fry that.  It isn't as tasty as you'd think and it isn't worth the paperwork.

I know we are opening up McDonald's all over the world, here in Bahrain they deliver, (1722-1722...the first number I memorized here.  No, YOU'RE a fat kid.) but if we are to truly spread the wings of freedom over this land we need to have less stores that serve boring things like McFalafel, and more stores that serve this:

Which food group is represented here? The delicious one.

So here I am in Bahrain, The small island nation in the Arabian Gulf where there is some unrest and protest.  Overall it is a very happy place, but there is some turmoil that manifests in scheduled protests and small tire fires. 

Seems like the perfect place to test my theory.  I will start small and slowly expand.  Do not want to spread peace too quickly, so I have to make sure my theory is sound.  In order to begin Operation DTF, (Down To Fry, you perv) I decided I would try it on my coworkers first.

Now, what to use as bait, I wondered.  It was a Tuesday, so the first thing in my head was: "TACOS!"

To be fair that is usually in the top 5 of things that pop into my head anyway, but this made more sense than it usually did.  It was settled.

Taco Tuesday.

My place.

On Wednesday.

Shit.  

Oh well, close enough.

I didn't let on the tacos I would be serving would be open-mouth kissed by the glory of hot oil.  As far as they knew it was just some flour and meat-gredients wrapped up and slapped on a plate.  I was so DTF I couldn't wait to get everyone over to show them just how DTF I really was.  You start with a little prep work...

The trick is not to have sex with them.  Yet...

Some chicken and some beef.  This would satisfy most palettes.  If it didn't, surely the next ingredient would.  The one Great Unifier.  The greatest hero in all kitchendom.  The One Ingredient to rule them all...

My Preciousssssssss.....

HOT OIL YA'LL!

Taco Tuwednesday was a hit!  Little did people know I was running scientific research on them - the tacos tickled the tastes too terrifically!  All alliteration aside, everything went really well.  I had brought peace to a kitchen in Riffa, Bahrain.  Where would I attempt to bring my peace next?  Who else would appreciate how DTF I am?

I am currently planning phase "Tue" of Operation DTF.  It may actually just be more Tacos next month or something.  I tend to have a poor follow-through with a lot of things.  That will give the stores time to replace their Asian Food Selection - which is where you find a majority of the Mexican food ingredients.

Shhhh..just....just let it go...

And here I am on the morning after.

Everyone went home full and happy.

I was happy that they were happy, and I strolled downstairs after regaining consciousness this morning, (thanks, tequila!) to start my day with a nice bowl of children's sugar cereal, try to think of something to write about.  Tacos?  Sure - I can fill up half a page with that.  But nothing really funny had happened to me - "what on Earth would I write about?" I thought to myself whlie STEPPING ON A DAMN TOY AIRPLANE.

No, Mr. E.  I expect you to DIE!

First of all, it is an awesome airplane.  I know that.  This is a lucky kid to have the joys of powered flight at his fingertips.

Hell, when I was his age we used to grab on to the nearest pterodactyl and fly uphill both ways to holy shit I just became my dad...

Anyway....yep.  Look at that devious little fucker.  Positioned perfectly to inflict damage...almost too well for a child.  Was it his parents?  This was not an attempt to kill me, it would have been on the stairs.

This was a warning.

This was a power play.

Perhaps my bid for peace had interrupted someone's plan for unrest?  Was there to be no peace here? Could my total DTF-ness not save the world?

I think I have some friends who are DTF and have something to say about that...

Psychological damage and a The Roundabout's lies 10/7/2014

Bahrain and Texas have things in common other than the sand and the cops with mirrored shades, they also share a similar devious quality.  While you could fit Bahrain into Texas 909.71 times, they actually have a connection in time and space.

In Bahrain, things are always about 20 minutes away, much like how in Texas everything is "right down the road."

So what?  I will tell you what...

I've been hurt before.

When my Uncle in San Antonio first told me we were going to the store "right down the road" I was foolish enough not to bring rations for the inevitable 6 hour trip to the gas station.  Men die out there going "right down the road" in Texas, but you don't hear about that on your news programs.  Much like purgatory, they are stuck wandering the Texas desert, hungry and half mad from dehydration. Cursing the fact they believed something was actually "right down the road." Dallas is NOT right down the road from San Antonio.  I know they are close on a map, but at 80 milers per hour that is still a 7 week trip.

Alaska?  That's right down the road.

If you are going to lie to me, I prefer that you know you are lying.  I can tell when people are lying.  I am a teacher, that is about 70% of my job description.

You did your homework?  Lie.

You had to go to the far bathroom and that's why you took 20 minutes?  Lie.

You like my class?  Lie.

I am good at this.  But here, much like in Texas, the lie is so nefarious and innocent even the person, or GPS unit, doesn't realize they are lying.  This lie has wormed its way into the brains of the public. They know that 20 minutes will take 4 hours, but they honestly believe against hope itself this time will be different.

"This time I will get to the store and back in no time.  It is only 20 minutes away, what could go wrong?" is said before anyone goes to the store here.

Only several hours later, after they have peeled themselves out of their car and have time with their thoughts comes the crushing realization they've knowingly lied to themselves and believed it.  Again. Like a thief in the night the lie escapes through an open window, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your own foolishness for reassembly and use at a later date.

How does this work, you ask?

When you get home from going 20 minutes away, usually between 2 and 7 hours later, you actually convince yourself you knew it was a lie and you immediately forgive the lie.

The lie will be wiped clean.

Erased.

Nice Canadian tuxedo, McFly.  It is so bad your family is actually erasing itself from history.

But how can this happen?  Even as I write this I am doubting my own convictions.  A sneaky lie, indeed.  There is no single way this lie does its dirty work.  When you use your GPS or Google Maps it will tell you the destination is between 14 and 22 minutes away.  There isn't a lot of traffic here.  It is just running up the rood.  You believe it to be true.  A satellite tells me something, I fucking listen. 

Satellites know their shit.

How many sensors do you have again?  Are you trying to decide if each finger counts as its own sensor?  Yeah, I will listen to the machine orbiting Earth, thank you.

We still haven't answered the question.  We walk out the front door in Bahrain, curse the heat, (have I mentioned the heat?) and off we go in our little air conditioned coffins for the next 4 hours.  I think the main culprit has to be one of the most deadly animals in all the world.

The type of animal that can look so innocent, and yet cause so much pain, death, and destruction.

I am of course talking about: The Roundabout.

Look kids!  Big Ben, Parliament. 

I have vivid memories of this scene from European Vacation.  Poor Clark, he just can't get left!  But this was my only experience with this deadly creature we call The Roundabout.  I grew up in a town that celebrated the new traffic light, where the shops at the mall were actually closed on Sunday.

As children we heard tell of a nearby town, Taneytown, (pronounced TAWney-town because fuck you, English language) where there was a circle.  Many a brave middle school student hopped on their bike only to give up before they got there because you see, Taneytown was right down the road from where I lived. The lie begins.

One day I got the chance to see The Roundabout.  What was it?  Was there a yellow car trapped there for all eternity?  Would I see Big Ben and Paliament?  I was about to find out.  I will stand here before you and tell you with 100% certainty I expected to find a scene like this:

Looks like traffic going down the drain.

But this was not the case.

This was not the case at all.

This is an aerial photo of this Taneytown The Roundabout I had heard so much about - The Roundabout I grew up in fear of.

This is a recent photo.  You can imagine what it looked like 25 years ago.  That's right - the fucking same exact way.

This was it?  Not only was it not a scene of car carnage, but there were actually no cars there.  In fact, the only time I had to yield at this The Roundabout was when a cow decided to cross the road in its bid for freedom.

It was a lie.  This The Roundabout was a puppy dog.  A sheep in sheep's clothing.

Or was it...

This was a tool for traffic flow.  Even the Mythbusters proved, ("proved") the The Roundabout was much more effective than a 4-way stop intersection.  There are rules and they are logical ones - you can review them here with this exciting interactive animation on how not to commit vehicular homicide when you enter a The Roundabout:  How to drive through a The Roundabout

Look, I truly love this little country and am more than impressed with how they do many things here. If you ever have the chance to visit this place, jump at it - it has a rich and vibrant people and culture. A deservedly proud island nation.

So how can this happen?  How can the travel not only confuse humans, but GPS as well?  Is it just traffic?

Sometimes there are traffic issues at the The Roundabouts here, but apart from accidents they almost always are steady paced and the wait isn't too long.  Traffic isn't where they suck the time away from your 20 minute drive.  It comes from the fact that in order to go somewhere 20 minutes away you must drive 20 minutes past it to the next nearest The Roundabout in order to turn around.  It doesn't help that as a rule, everything in this country is on the other side of the rood.  No matter which direction you approach Manazel, our home-tool store, it is on the other side of where you are.

In fact, the only thing not on the other side of the rood in this country is the chicken, because fuck trying to survive crossing the roods here.

I know about time and space from watching too much TV - and I am at a total loss as to how this is possible. Likely has something to do with Quantum Tunneling.

Here is an example.  I mentioned Manazel, so here is Google Maps telling me how to get there:

I live in Squiggleylettertown.

First thing you notice is that son of a bitch is 20 minutes away.  I could drive the opposite direction and it would still tell me it is 20 minutes away.

And here is a timeline of a 20 minute drive from my villa to Manazel:

2:15 PM - 20 minutes away

2:18 PM - 17 minutes away

2:22 PM - 13 minutes away

2:23 PM - 12 minutes away

2:26 PM - 9 minutes away

2:27 PM - 8 minutes away

2:30 PM - 5 minutes away

2:33 PM - 2 minutes away

2:35 PM - 4 minutes away

2:44 PM - 2 minutes away

2:49 PM - 2 minutes away

3:10 PM - 2 minutes away

6:25 PM - 1 minute away

6:26 PM - Just kidding, 2 minutes away

6:58 PM - 1 minute away

7:31 PM - 0 minutes away, but it closed at 7:30 PM.

How can this happen?  Let us investigate a little more closely...

Somehow it is on the other side of the rood if you are coming from the other direction as well.

Oh, so you just drive past Manazel a little ways and make a left.  Go to the first The Rounabout to make a U-Turn...oh but this The Roundabout doesn't let you go all the way around.  It has concrete barriers for no obvious reason and people are parked all over in it.  Okay, at the next The Roundabout do a 180 which then takes you back to the first The Roundabout that you couldn't go around because of the parked cars all in it and the concrete barriers which were placed there for no obvious reason.  After that The Roundabout you can enter the access street and...wait...how the hell is it on the other side of the rood again!?

It is like running a marathon only to have your legs give out on you within sight of the finish line.

Like reading a very long book and finding the last page has been torn out.

It is like watching a movie and having the ending somehow replaced with a shaky and poorly edited home video of your own birth.

Okay I don't know about that last one, but you get the point.  I understand things are evolving here in Bahrain, and I don't even mind the fact this driving past things and concrete barriers for no obvious reason thing is a thing at all.

I don't mind that if you are thirsty in Bahrain and want something from your fridge, all you do is walk past the fridge, into the driveway and spin around 3 times, come back in and go around the The Roundabout by the stairs only to see the fridge is now on the other side of the kitchen.

What I do mind is how the lie forces itself into our heads and forces us to believe in it.  Even I am sometimes victim of this lie.  But not today.  I am going to the store and I know it will take a long time.  But I mean, not that long.  It is just right down the road after all...    

How to get back where you started.  It is about 20 minutes away.

Stompy and gloryholes 10/6/2014

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.

The good news is, since I chose the well-paid profession of education, I have had crappy cars my whole life.  My first car, a 1974 VW Super Beetle broke down on the way home from the dealership where I bought it.  I have gone through more engines than Mario Andretti.  I have actually taken people on tours of my hometown to show them the many places I have broken down.  I am a local legend at the 24 hour Walmart auto section and among questionable mechanics in my hometown.

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.

The Law of the Conservation of Energy says that energy can't be destroyed or created, it can just change forms.  Well, this means all those porn back rooms have been floating through the aether, just searching for a new home.

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.

So that was my day.  Began with near disaster, and ended with gloryholes and elephant heads in the shape of balls. Not a bad way to turn the day around, if you ask me.

Brunch you in the face 10/3/2014

So it is the Friday before Eid, and the island is about to lose its damn mind.

On this holy holiday celebrated because God was happy someone didn't get murdered for a change, but then had an innocent critter murdered instead, there are goats and lambs all shaking in their adorable little hooves in anticipation of the festivities.  It is Eid, and it is time to par-tay!  The weekends here are usually quite busy.  All of the morally ambiguous Saudi's come over the causeway with their temporary Russian or Filipino girlfriends to embrace the liberal culture that keeps Bahrain well paid.  But couple the usual influx of money and sin with the fact that people don't have to work on Sunday?  Phewwwwwww.  Let's do this!

Okay, well...let's do this slowly!

There are very popular brunches all over the world.  Some are on Sunday morning in the States, some in Dubai are on Thursday night.  No rules, just eat and drink and be merry.  Here on island, however, the biggest ones will be on Friday afternoon.  This way you can get all banged up on Thursday and still make it out on Friday to get all banged up.

Science!

The brunches are plentiful, and range in price from expensive to really expensive, but on an island where people are getting paid well to put up with the heat it is a chance to kick off your sandals and pour some liquor into your face-hole for 4 or 5 hours.  Our location was strategically chosen because it is way to damn expensive and my friends here don't know how to shop around for value.  The food is insanely good, the beer is Fosters, but it still has alcohol in it I believe.  The champagne is...okay don't drink the champagne.  Seriously.  My friend said it reminded her of the wine she used to make in her sink in Kuwait.  I had to try it.

I feel as though she was being generous with her comparison to sandy Arabic sink wine. 

The secret is throwing-the-fuck-up every time you drink it.

We call some cabs and prepare for the sorta smelly, full of hope, 8 dinar ride to Eden - also known as the Crowne Royal Plaza Hotel.

This buffet at the Crowne leaves no doubt as to the awesomeness inside from the moment you pull up front.  It has the look of something I can't afford and shouldn't be allowed into, but all are welcome (with 24 dinars) to come in and share a meal.  Or, more accurately, 7 meals, all in a four hour span.

Give us your huddled masses yearning to eat too much, but not your poor.  

Keep walking, Mr. Broke McEmptypockets.  Keep walking.

Now I could get some professional pictures of the spread at the Crowne Royal Hotel brunch, but I know you would rather see the shaky unprofessional and oft blurry images I snapped with my phone before being knocked out of the way by a Russian hooker who wants sushi more than she wants to be my special hourly friend.  Whatever, Nadia.  Enjoy your raw fish.  I have some sanpape...I mean champagne...to drink.

Tell my family and friends I died doing what I loved...eating without them.

Not so bad, right?  You pay for it and it is unfortunate that no matter how hungry you are, no matter how starved you may feel, no matter how you pace yourself or try to outsmart the buffet, it will win.  It will always win.  The only way you can win with the buffet is to drink so much you forgot you lost.  

That's how tough this buffet is - even when you win, you lose.  Some say the taste of defeat is bitter or sour.  I prefer to think of it as delicious and full of the savory sweetness of baby back ribs with the aftertaste of çrepes and freshly made-to-order sushi.

This is the kind of defeat where you don't so much hang your head as hang your gut in shame.

From noon to four in the afternoon everyone is excused from looking like a pig, which are rare in this Muslim country oddly enough, by shoveling food into their face.  Some enjoy the ambiance and company, some come to eat until their stomach is stretched more than the skin on Joan Rivers' face, and some just get shit-canned drunk, but to truly play this game correctly, you must do all three.

Like the guy in the Hawaiian shirt who tossed all of his cookies and cakes and steaks all over the front steps as he was leaving - then passed out in what can only be described as "staircase yoga".

I took a picture of him, but this picture of Nick Nolte actually looks more like he did than he did.

But time marches ahead.  Like sand in an hour glass, inevitability becomes the very reality you reside within.  It is the four o'clock hour.  You don't have to go home, but you sure can't stay here.

Actually, it is a hotel.  You could stay there.

You are full, have developed a healthy buzz, and like any responsible adult, you want to go out to a bar.  Bars in Bahrain do not exist in and of themselves.  Bars are not legally allowed to have a bar all by itself.  That wouldn't be the proper Islamic way to do things.  But slap that puppy in a hotel and all bets are off.  That is Islamic as fuck, apparently.  Bahrain is the liberal center of the Gulf, and this is why people come here.  This island is an island oasis.  But don't drink the water at this oasis.  You'll die.  Have a beer or shot instead.

And thank goodness it is what it is.

We decided to go to the 7th floor of a nearby hotel to one of my favorite bars...I mean hotel restaurants...deep in the heart of Manama.  A place called Kicks.

Look how nice this place is!  A truly family establishment where people come for a quiet chat and some nibbles.

Yeah, I'm sure that is exactly what it looks like for about 30 seconds after they open the doors up to the after-brunch crowds.

At 5 PM we walk in, all a little crooked, and this is the sight before our eyes:

FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON.  NOT TWO IN THE MORNING.  FIVE.  IN THE AFTERNOON.

One trick an eatery can play on its customers is to block out all the light so they can't tell what time it is.  Just like Vegas, you don't know if you have been there for an hour or three weeks.  The bar was already deep into karaoke mode when we arrived.  Drunken stumbling was the main mode of transportation here.  It really is 5 o'clock somewhere, Jimmy.  And it is at Kicks.

The thing about brunching is this: people that don't usually drink all day and all night like I do are presented the opportunity to get sloshed early, and then, because their bodies and brains are completely taken by surprise, continue on into the night.

You talk to people you normally don't talk to. 

You dance with people you normally wouldn't dance with.

You take pictures of your teaching buddy, who just got thrown out of a western bar in the basement of the same hotel...well, to be accurate, we both got thrown out into the street after he crashed into the back offices, and we deftly circled around and came back in only to be thrown out again, only to circle around deftly and come back in to a staff that was defeated by our determination...as he dances a booty dance to Journey because he didn't realize Sir Mixalot's "I Like Big Butts"had just ended.

The photo has been altered to protect the identity of Chris Noer, Villa 887, Road 3671, Block 363, Riffa, Kingdom of Bahrain

All in all it was a great evening.  People got the kind of drunk that makes for an awkward cab ride home because they want everyone to be silent because "they don't know what its like to deal with us people".  Food was eaten, drinks were drank, and a dog pissed on my steps when a few people, and a dog, came over after the night was over.

Now I say "the night was over"- but we were home before 9, and I would bet most were asleep about 30 seconds later.  Now, today, I simply wait for the lack of eye contact everyone shares as they, for lack of a better word I will use "remember", what they did the day before.

But I must go, it is almost noon and I am not trying to limp away from this holiday kick-off weekend, so...bottoms up!

Handicrafted Elephants and being too tired (High Five!) of bikes 10/3/2014

While you were reading some stupid blog I was out in the really real world getting things done.  Yesterday I actually got to leave work on time, so I hit the ol' gym and faked a workout for an hour or so, and then came home.  Oh, but while my day was ending, my night...my night was just getting ready to begin, my friends.

The night time is my favorite time to read a book...or stack animals.

I am a fan of wheelin' and dealin'.  I like the art of hunting down stuff that someone doesn't want and is selling for a price that is at or below my distorted view of how much things cost.  Now, all this being said, I suck at it.  Like, really hard.  I will find a bargain and somehow end up spending three times as much as buying new.  Especially because of the exchange rate of the Bahrani Dinar, it is really easy to see 8 BD and not compute it to be a bit over $20 American.  I get excited!  What can I say.  I see anything for 1.100 BD and I think it is a hell of a deal, only to realize later I just spent $3 on a tiny eraser shaped like a ladybug. But I still enjoy it, and Bahrain has afforded me the opportunity to really get my hooks into this type of bargaining.

My weapon of choice in this particular stack of sand in the Gulf, is none other than expatriates.com.  This website is like the slutty little brother of Craigslist.  It has a place for everything, but since English isn't exactly a first language around here it can get...hilarious.

Beds that come with their own wet spot

The country of Bahrain is very populated by expatriates, mostly from India and other gulf countries.  This is very evident if you ever leave your house.  I have no issue with Indians here, they have mostly been very kind and friendly, and their food is too good to have any ill feelings towards them, but they are everywhere!  If you stop anywhere in this country and just look around, you'll see 6 cars being washed by a 7 Indians, (always seems to be one extra not doing anything), an Indian guy on a bicycle with a bucket, or a few Indians crossing the street in a creative spot.  The street crossing here is something I can't decide if I admire or I hate.  It seems people cross in packs as well, maybe for the same reason herd animals travel that way.  That lion can't eat us all, right?  Let's bring Vishnu along...he has a limp, that should buy us some time.

''

This wouldn't be a problem if you just learned how to ollie in your wheelchair, Vishnu.

But to the point at hand: I had a good day shopping yesterday.  Not only did I find an item I had been searching for for a few weeks, but I happened to stumble across an item that I can't believe I have been forced to live without for all these years.

Let's start with the big item.

I got a bike!

Now while you catch your breath from the shock and awe of me finding a bike, lemme 'splain.  People that I work with had their bikes shipped over, or bought them new.  Not a problem, but I wasn't going to pay 200 dollars to ship a 60 dollar Wal-Mart special, so I figured I would get one here.  I go to the store and they are like 110 BD for the cheap ones!  Multiply by 3 and step off a few to get that in US Dollars.  No chance.  My fat ass won't get $300 out of a bike - I will be lucky to live out my years here with how I treat my body.  It is a temple, but it is a temple that likes chicken nuggets and liquor on a regular basis.  No way.  So I decided I would just be patient and get one when it came up on the site.

And now we wait.

There were a lot of these:

1200 BD?  For...a bike?  Two wheels and a few pedals?  That thing that will eventually just have flat tires and be covered in my laundry?  No thanks.

And also a lot of these:

Wait...it is a bike for infants?  And they out grew this bike in a year!?  How big is your damn baby!  Your poor vagina!

Just didn't seem to be any bikes that were for grown ups and in my price range.  But yesterday, I found it.  Red and glorious and 30 BD.  More than I wanted to spend, but I had waited for a while and wanted it.  A quick email exchange and the deal was struck.  25 BD and I would meet him at Ramez Mall, only a few minutes away.  Perfect!

I get into my sweet 2000 Kia Sportage with 4WD decals, (add an extra 5 HP each) and off I go.  I usually head out early because hate being late, and I wanted to hit the ATM.  I pull into the mall, the winding way out-of-the-way entrance of which is a lovely little diversion in the the aluminum and toilet fixtures section of Riffa, over a "speed bump", (metal thrown in the road) and into the lot.  The ATM is right out front, this will be easy!

Noooooooope.

And this line went on for another 20 people.  The poor ATM must be worn raw and walking funny today.

Only one ATM in the whole mall, and it was Wednesday night ATM line night for the local Indian population.  I have never seen anything like it.  It was like Greg's sister from 8th grade was flashing guys her tits and you had never seen a boob before so you go over and there she was, but you were nervous and...and...wait what?

So this was a no-go.  Lines were being cut and people coming in and out.  Each person was both depositing and taking out money - I don't know why, you ask them - and it was taking forever.  So I hustle back to my sweet 2000 Kia Sportage with 4WD decals, (add an extra 5 HP each) and I head over to the nearby Lulu.  I know they have a Chase ATM in there and it NEVER crowded.  

It was crowded.

Really crowded.

I park about a kilometer away and run in, just to find at that exact moment the Chase ATM crew opening up the thing.  Okay, bad luck but I can wait.  As long as they don't start talking to their friends who just happened to wander by.

Well shit.

Fifteen minutes later and they are done the 3 minute job.  I run in and get my money and back I go to meet the guy.  After finding him we have a conversation which could best be described as "what?"  I was there to get a bike, yet he had no bike.  I saw no bike.  He didn't have bike one.  The legendary Bikeless Tribe of East Africa had more bikes than this guy.

No problem, with much slow talking and him saying "okayokayokayokayokayokay no problem okayokayokayokay" we managed to sort out that I would follow him to his place, not far away. Easy.

Well, it was certainly not far away.  It was about 300 feet away from the mall where we met.  He could have walked the bike over or...oh I don't know...rode it.  Instead I had to follow his gigantic SUV through the death lot, (it's like a parking lot but deadlier) to his house.  I go in, the bike checks out, and boom!  I have a bike.

I shall name thee, Carl the Bike.

But the real item I was keen to get my hands on was the collectible I found on the same site.  This was the kind of item you know is meant to be yours the instant you lay eyes on the price.  This would be something that I would keep with me through all of my travels.  This...this was Stompy.  

Oh hell yes.

After quickly recovering  from my swoon I sent an email asking about Stompy, but I didn't want to let on how excited I was.  She replied it would be best to talk on the phone so I called her.  We both spent the next 5 minutes confusing each other while attempting to communicate in a meaningful way, but I got the gist that once her husband got home he would call me.  Perfect!  A bike and Stompy!

I would like to submit for your investigation the email exchange between myself and this nice lady.

Me:  Is this still available?  Would you take 8 BD for it? Thank you!

Maya: Its still availabl.8.500 is k?u plz call me  on 3------1. Thank u.

Here I call her and we make out some kind of arrangement.  It goes on:

Me: I will call you back this afternoon before 6 then.  I am in Riffa, I would need directions where I can meet you - somewhere public would be best.  Thank you for your time!

I am polite as fuck, by the way.

Maya: Yah fine.i will cal u aftr my husbnd reachd home.he wil meet u.u can come to him nd see the elephnt.thnk u

You're not imagining this.  Maya, who barely speaks the language, can email like a 15 year old girl sending a text to her friend about how OMG Jstn Bbr is SO sxy LOL.  Whatever, like, for real, though.  I would have Stompy soon enough.

When I hadn't heard from her by 6 like she said, I sent an email.

Me: My number is 3------8. I can pick up the elephant either tomorrow or this weekend if that is easier.

Still polite as fuck.  P as F.  

Maya: Yah sure sir.actually we wil shift frm here aftr 1 week.i wil kept the collectbl piece until d comingmonday.thnk u.

Oh oka...wait what?  So is it for sale?  Why are we shifting?  You mean this Monday?  You want to keep it for another 2 days?  Will life be empty without it?  I must have Stompy!

I didn't know how to ask "Can I still buy it?" without sounding like an idiot, so I just went for it.

Me:  Will I still be able to buy it? I will be here during Eid so any time next week works. Thank you.

P as F. And leads to one of my favorite replies ever.

Maya: Yez u can com anytim.3------9 is ma hubbys mob no.u plz cal to dat no.

Do me a favor and say that last part out loud.  

Ma hubbys mob no u plz cal to dat no.  

Sounds like I am auditioning for a one-liner alien cameo in a Star Trek fan fiction to be shown and not liked on YouTube.  

It sounds like I don't know how to read things backwards, yet I am trying anyway.

And I love it.

And I will love Stompy as well, assuming I can cal hubbys tom at dat mob no.