CP #3: A Parking Lot Adventure, Arabic Food, and Incense Burning

September 8, 2013

            Mehmas kindly invited Luis, Isabella, and I over to his place to eat Arabic food. I came, dragging a little, from a day full of Fulbright essays. Application essays are the most painful, aren’t they? Colony Club, where Mehmas lives, is a confusing place. He ended up having to ride his motorcycle around to find me! I saw some Brazilians I had met the day before at the beach. They were swimming, and they all shouted and waved. “Let’s go swimming!” one said, gesturing me towards the pool. I laughed, “But I don’t have my suit!” “Aww…” they chorused.

            Mehmas directed me to his apartment and raced ahead to tend to his dish. Inside, flavors of curry and chicken masala filled the apartment. I noticed he kicked off his shoes, so I did the same. It’s not American culture to do that necessarily, but it makes so much sense! Shoes are dirty.

            I sat near Mehmas while he cooked (he would not let me help, as I was a guest). Here’s the recipe as he dictated it to me (with him learning words like sautee, paste, and boil):

Chicken and Rice

1. Sautee onions in oil. When they are getting soft, add chopped tomatoes and sautee them as well.
2. When tomatoes are liquid/mashed, add chunks of chicken, curry powder, chicken masala powder, and about 4 cups of water.
3. After 10 minutes, add 2 cans of tomato paste, a bunch of cilantro (it was mounded high on a plate), lemon juice from about 4 lemons, and potatoes cut into chunks.
4. Let the mixture boil for 45 minutes.
5. As for the Basmati rice, soak in water and change the water at least three times. Make sure to clean the rice by moving it in the water with your hands. After the third change of water, let the rice soak for 10 minutes.
6. After it has soaked, it should only take 10-15 minutes in boiling water to completely cook.

Luis and Isabella were coming later because they leave Catholic mass at 7 pm.

However, time was passing without hearing from them. Mehmas asked me periodically with a frown creasing his brow, “Did you hear from Luis? And the girl…? Isabella! Isabella!” I called Luis, and he was stranded at Walmart after having gone there to buy a cake for the dinner. He had called a taxi, but it hadn’t arrived. I resolved to get him and was in the middle of a confusing set of directions from Mehmas and his friend Mohammed when Luis informed me that the taxi got there.

            Mehmas and Isabella live in the same apartment complex, so he asked me if I wanted to go with him while we found Isabella. Mehmas directed me to a nearby apartment but seemed hesitant to knock. I knocked, and a girl I didn’t know opened the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re looking for Isabella!” I explained. She replied, “I am Isabella.” My partner Isabella had warned me there were 3 Brazilian Isabellas in CIES. The other Isabella saved me, though. “Partner?” she asked me. “Yes!” I nodded gratefully. She ran to her room to find Isabella’s apartment number. We thanked her and went off to find building B.

            We wandered Colony Club, fruitlessly searching for building B. I swear there’s no rhyme or reason to its organization. We did find Luis, who was lost and looking for us. The three of us continued on, finally finding Isabella’s apartment….where no one answered the door. Mehmas had another idea. We returned to his building and knocked on another door, this one with a Brazilian flag in the window. I told the guys, “I’m not knocking this time!” Mehmas grinned. “Fine, fine, I knock.”

            Another girl I didn’t know opened the door. “Hi,” I told her, since the guys were hanging back and looking over the railing. “We’re looking for Isabella. Do you know where she could be?”

            The Brazilian student said, laughingly, “I don’t understand, but come in!” She reached for my arm and pulled me into her apartment. She ran to get her Ipad and began translating Portuguese to English. Once we figured out which Isabella (Luis remembered her name), the student exclaimed, “Oh!” She started typing Portuguese in to translate, but it’s close enough to Spanish that when it was written I could understand. Isabella had been at her apartment, but she had left 10 minutes ago….probably when we were wandering the parking lot. This helpful, resourceful student sent Isabella a facebook message saying which apartment we would be in. We thanked her, and Mehmas invited her to eat with us. “I skype right now with my boyfriend, but thank you!” she told us, smiling widely.

            At Mehmas’ apartment, he continued to hover over the stove, cooking the rice along with the chicken. Luis and I chatted with Mohammed, another student from Kuwait and Mehmas’ close friend. Mehmas served us heaping plates of chicken and rice, and we settled around the coffee table to eat. Luis asked, “Do you eat with these,” gesturing to the utensils, “or with your hands?”

            Mehmas said, “Normally our hand.” I ran to the kitchen to wash my hands.

            “Just the right one? Why?”

            I knew that. I called from the kitchen, “Isn’t the left one considered dirty?”

            The Arabs agreed. The right hand is for shaking hands and eating food. Mohammed also clarified, “Of course if we are eating cake or something, we use a spoon. We just use our hands for meals like this,” gesturing to the plate. Mehmas and I continued the meal, eating with our hands, while Luis and Mohammed ate with their silverware. I was enjoying myself. In Spanish, there’s a word that pokes fun at someone in an affectionate way. It is novelera, and it means you revel in trying new things. I kept asking Mehmas if there was a technique. “No,” he laughed, “You just eat!”

Mehmas in his summer dishdasha

            Suddenly, four of Mehmas’ friends poured in the door. They settled around the room, keeping us company. They were all guys from Kuwait, and the temptation was great for them to lapse into Arabic. Any time they did, though, Mehmas would chide, “Just English, please!” and gesture at Luis and me. One of the guys was dressed in what looked like a collared shirt that extended to the length of a dress. They told me it was a dishdasha, or pajamas. “We also have formal dishdashas,” I was informed. “One that is white, for summer, because it is cooler. And we have one of a darker color for winter.” Mehmas perked up and ran to his room to get his white, summer dishdasha to show us.

"Your family wears it this way!"

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            “Do you want me wear?” he asked Luis and me, running off to his room to change. He also came out bearing a small embroidered cap and a red-and-white head scarf. Before we knew it, he was in his clothes, letting us take pictures with him. The guys laughed, arranging his head scarf in different ways (some of which, judging by their laughter, are not typical. “That’s the way your family wears it!” they crowed). I learned all the words for ceremonial clothing for men. Of course, I asked about what the women wear, too. They explained that it depends on the family. Mansor told me, “Some women dress…like you,” waving his hand towards my shorts and tank top. I felt so naked and improper. “But in most families, the women wear a clothing that covers their bodies—abaya—and a scarf that covers their hair—hijab.” Other Kuwaitis wandered over and helped him explain. “Because we are Muslim, women are not to show their hair to anyone outside the family. But when they are 15, 16, 17, they can wear just hijab. 18, abaya and hijab.”

            “When do they start wearing the hijab? When they’re 8? 10?” I wanted to know.

            “Oh no, no, no,” they assured me. Fahad smiled delicately, saying, “When they become young.”

            “You mean, when they get their periods?” I asked forthrightly. They studiously looked at the ground while nodding.

            They also explained that men and women are separate a lot of the time, “so the women can be more comfortable, not wear the abaya or the hijab in the home.” I tried to maintain a look of polite curiosity. My strong opinions on what women should and should not be expected to do are also a mark of my culture. For goodness’ sake, I grew up hearing my mother argue that women should be able to walk the street naked unaccosted, that men should be able to control themselves regardless of the visual stimulation we may present. Quite a contrast! I think I was able to achieve a polite expression, and I definitely didn’t make any judgmental comments. Culture is such a tricky topic, and my mother told me today she was uncomfortable with my spending so much time with my Arabic partner and his friends. Her first concern is me, and she worries what they might be thinking of me. She can’t separate the culture and customs from the role of women in their society. At least for now, I can appreciate what I’ve seen (and of course, I’ve not been treated in any way other than with respect) without feeling like I’m “condoning” their practices, as she suggested.

            After the wardrobe vocabulary, Mehmas’ friends trooped out, leaving Luis, Mohammed, and me. Mehmas brought out “in-sentences” as he called it at first, which I quickly understood to be incense. I guess it’s an example of an uncountable noun because Mehmas kept wanting to say “incenses,” which just sounds wrong. He explained there are different kinds of incense, a common one just for the apartment and a very prized, expensive one that is used only for weddings and when very important guests come to visit. Burning it shows a lot of honor and respect for the guest. He showed me with pride the plastic bag of what seemed to be chunks of light wood. “1000,” he said, gesturing to the bag. I didn’t understand.

            “1000 dollars,” Mohammed clarified. Luis and I were shocked. Mehmas burned both kinds of incense for us in a type of chalice on top of a coal. He passed the chalice to Mohammed, who demonstrated how guests hold it under their chin and waft the smoke towards their face and hair. We did the same, enjoying the aromas. I felt so special to merit the burning of aoud, this special incense that reminds Mehmas so much of his family and his home.

            Along with the incense, Mehmas brought out three small boxes. “You know deer?” he asked us.

“Yes,” I said, while Luis looked confused. “Venado,” I told him, and his face cleared.

“You speak Luis’ language?” Mohammed asked.

“Yes! It’s very easy,” Luis said, smiling.

Meanwhile, Mehmas had opened his boxes to reveal three vials: clear, ruby red, and a darker red. “This is deer’s blood,” he told us. Mohammed eagerly put his hand out, palm down, and Mehmas wiped the applicator from the darkest vial onto his skin. Mohammed rubbed the backs of his hands together before rubbing them on his neck and cheeks. Mehmas gestured for me to extend my hand, which I quickly did, thinking incredulously I’m going to wear deer’s blood as perfume! He did the same with Luis.

The smell was delicate and faint, aromatic. The Kuwaitis clarified that it’s not pure deer’s blood; it also contains spices and oils. Mehmas also put the clear perfume on us as well, which smelled strongly of floral tones. I was enchanted. “I think we prefer the first one, but you both prefer the second,” he said, grinning knowingly.

We talked about homework and traveling to Mexico someday before I insisted on driving Luis home. It was the most polite argument I’ve ever observed or been a part of.

“I will pick him up,” Mehmas said firmly.

“You mean you will take him home,” I corrected.

“I will take him up.”

“You will take him home,” Mohammed and I reiterated.

“I will call a taxi! It’s no problem!” Luis argued.

Mehmas and I both told him no. I insisted and insisted, using direct eye contact with Mehmas and alternately pleading and cajoling Luis into submission with Spanish, until they let me drive him home. We made plans to have dinner on Thursday again. Luis and I left and talked in the car about how honored we felt to have been guests at Mehmas’ house.