CP #4: Kabsa, Dancing Men, and Playing Games on the Floor

September 12, 2013

            When I dined with Mehmas, his friends agreed that we should eat together again soon. They decided Thursday, and Osama (Osi) got my number to send me their address. I wasn’t sure if I would have the energy (on campus since 2 to observe a class, then tutoring and our TEFL class), but I rallied. The apartment complex itself is super fancy. There were two guards who told me I needed a passcode to get in. Luckily, Osi answered and gave it to me. Then, I drove around a while before asking for directions to his building. I was impressed—it is not the typical college apartment complex, for sure!

From left: Youssef, Mansour, me, Mark, Mehmas, and Fahad

            When I arrived, Fahad ushered me up to their apartment. Who should I see in the living room but Mark Bishop! It turns out his conversation partner is Osama, who is good friends with my partner, Mehmas. The Kuwaitis quickly made me comfortable. They are such good hosts. They had put out little snack foods on the tables while they cooked the meal. Osama seemed to be the chef that night, and his kabsa was delicious. Kabsa is apparently a very common dish in Saudi Arabia and its neighbor, Kuwait. It is the same chicken and rice dish that Mehmas made for us the other night, but Mehmas insisted that his was bad and this one was better. My disagreeing did not budge him.

            I mentioned to Mark that when I was last served kabsa, I ate it with my hand. “Really?” Mark was intrigued. He asked for instructions, and once again Mehmas ate with his hand to keep Mark company. Osi did as well. I think I can speak for Mark as well as myself when I say that eating with our hand, especially a messy rice dish with yogurt sauce, pushes our comfort zone. I was so self-conscious that I was being messy, but of course the Kuwaitis didn’t think anything of it.

            Our after-dinner entertainment took the form of dancing. At first with a track that began with a countdown in English before rocketing into Middle Eastern melodies and then with “Wobble Baby,” Mehmas and Youssef began to dance. They held hands or linked arms along with Osama, and Mark was recruited as well. The lights were dimmed, and two disco balls projected squares of colored light around the room. The dance seemed like a shuffle with hopping. It reminded me a little of the way people dance to ska music, but less frenetic. The pairs faced each other and danced toward each other before backing up again. I admired the unselfconscious way the men held hands, interlocking fingers. Here, men very rarely dance together, especially while touching. However, Mehmas reiterated that men and women usually dance separately.

            “I can dance with my mother,” he told me, “or my sister or my aunt. But not my cousin.” I asked how women dance. “They shake their skirts,” he laughed, showing me how they lift their skirts around the knees to create movement. “And if they have long hair, they…” he tossed his head from one side to another. He then looked up a video to show me a girl who tossed her dark mane of hair while skipping around a room.

            “I would be so dizzy!” I told him, and he laughed.

            Where was I in all this? I sat on the couch and took pictures. I didn’t dare join in any fashion, even though I love dancing. Youssef approached me, arms outstretched, and invited me to dance with them. I told him, a little archly, “I don’t dance with men.” I don’t know if I was right or wrong to refuse.

Youssef argued a little. “My teacher and his wife went to Saudi Arabia, and his wife wore the abaya and the hijab. Here, we are in American culture. It is ok for men and women to dance together.” I just felt uncomfortable with the idea that they might feel guilty for dancing with me or be judged by another Kuwaiti there.

The dancing subsided, and the lights came back on. I noticed that everyone was pretty plugged into their phones. As the only owner of a dumb phone there, I wanted to change this.

“We should play a game,” I told Mark in a low voice.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I know a game…well, it’s a drinking game. But we could play it without a penalty. You pound your hands on the floor, and everyone has an animal sign that they make.”

I didn’t need to hear anymore. “Let’s do it!” I agreed.

Mark makes a fierce rabbit.

We convinced the Kuwaitis to join us in a circle on the floor. The explanations took a little while, but we got the game underway after three false starts. Mark had the great idea of choosing animal gestures (holding both hands up with two fingers by your head to be a rabbit, or hands as claws to be a bear) before we started. One of the false starts was mine, but we soon got the rhythm. The game works in the same manner as if we were tossing a ball. One person starts with their animal gesture, while everyone pounds on the ground twice. Pound pound *sign* pound pound *sign pointed to someone specific* The person who is looked at the second time now has to make their animal sound twice, choosing another member of the circle the second time. We were soon in stitches over the animal sounds, especially Mehmas’. He stole the show, bleating like a camel. He tossed his head back and threw himself into his camel impression, cracking us all up. “I do have 180 camels!” he reminded us.

Mehmas is pleased with his camel impression.

We played several rounds before asking the Kuwaitis to teach us a game. Still in a circle, we played a variation of a game I played in summer camp. Your hands are both outstretched, resting on the knees of the people to your right and left. One of your hands is on top of the other person’s, and the other is underneath. One person starts, slapping their top hand against their neighbor’s, and that person continues. I had played with a long chant, but their version was much shorter. Starting on Saturday, each person said the next day of the week. Osama actually kept mixing up Tuesday and Thursday. When Friday comes up, the objective is to slap your neighbor’s hand, making them out. If they jerk their hand away, though, you are out. I never had much luck, but Mark made it into the final 2 many times.

Some friends of Mehmas, a pair of Japanese students whose names now escape me, showed up around then. They were quickly served heaping plates of kabsa drizzled with yogurt sauce. They also tried eating with their right hands. The male student (he introduced himself as K) actually graduated from CIES and is now a TCC student. He and the female student knew each other from kindergarten in Japan.

I found it very interesting how some of the Kuwaitis confused Japanese with Chinese. Fahad kept saying Chinese phrases to the two of them, which they handled with a smile. “We don’t know Chinese,” they told him.

Another Kuwaiti asked, “Can you tell each other apart? I can’t.” His tone was not rude, though. It seemed purely inquisitive and frank. To their credit, the Japanese weren’t offended.

“We can tell if someone is from China or Japan or Korea, yes,” K said. “Can you tell where other Arabs are from?”

“Yes,” Mehmas affirmed, “As soon as they speak or sometimes by the way they dress.”

“Ah, we don’t have to hear them speak,” K said. “Just by looking at their faces, we can tell.” I thought this frank exchange was impressive because it’s something as white Americans we are conditioned not to say—a taboo subject, a racist joke if you admit to not telling Asians apart. But obviously the Kuwaitis were not inhibited and neither did they seem to be rude. They were curious and asked!

As soon as the Japanese couple had eaten, we requested they share a game. Their game also involved sitting on the floor in a circle. Someone starts, slapping their left hand on their right shoulder or vice versa. If they hit their right shoulder, the person on their right then has to slap a shoulder. If they choose their right, the game continues in that direction. If they slap their left, the game’s direction reverses. “Like UNO!” the Japanese girl told us. The first person begins counting at 1, and the next person calls out 2, etc. Eight, however, is a special case. You have to curve one hand over our head and one under your chin to make the shape of an eight, and your top hand determines the direction. Ten involves shooting another person in the circle, who then begins again at one. It keeps you on your toes and is very fast-paced! We spent a while playing, forgetting eight especially, but laughing the whole time. We then introduced the Japanese students to the other two games we had played. K had an impressive bark that he would vary, just as dogs do, including a little exhalation/snort. It was hilarious.

Mark and I headed out at the same time, since it was pretty late for a Thursday night. He told me, “You write so much, and I write like a paragraph. It’s like comparing Don Quixote to a children’s book!” I laughed, shaking my head. “If I don’t get a paragraph at least, I’m gonna be a little miffed,” he warned jokingly. Mark, I hope you enjoyed this account of our night at Osama’s!

Smoking hookah with our host, Osama. Youssef is in the background.