Shock at Sharq

"How long have you been in Kuwait?" The Bangladeshi taxi driver droned. He probably asked the same thing of every passenger.

"Today," I replied, laughing.

Suddenly, he was awake and with me. He laughed too. "So you are an expert and know the way home, yes?"

"Yeah, I know the streets well."

I did manage to direct him back to my corporate housing. Somehow. I knew it was the right turn after Fuddrucker's, was behind Le Meridien and parallel to KFC and Pizza Hut.

My British Airways 777 had flown in over the desert, the carpet under under the square, beige houses and tower blocks. Only black ribbons of highways cut through the neutral tones.

My employer's accountant and a driver met me. I went with the driver, and was frightened by the way he tailgated the accountant all the way to Boom Al-Kuwait house.

"Adequate" describes the new digs. I had to track down a towel along with toilet paper, and the cleaner has still not been sent up to remove the old food-encrusted pots and pans from the kitchen. The shower was a little warm, which is probably fine in the height of Kuwait summer but certain not on a chilly January day. When I tried to use the washing machine, I recoiled from an electric shock when I touched the rim. I could stay for over a thousand dollars a month, but instead am going to look at some other places as soon as I can get some managing agents on the phone.

It's Muslim New Year here. Not the best time to arrive and expect to get anything done, but my plan was to have a few days to recuperate after the flights. I needed it too. After two nights on airplanes, I didn't even worry about the appearance of dirty sheets in the apartment. Not like they disinfect airplane seats, I reasonsed, and that's where I slept for two nights.

After a long nap, I went to search for food. Hassan, the owner of the lodge, met me in the lobby. He offered to give me a lift to the nearby Sharq Mall.

"Sure," I accepted his offer. He instructed me to get a taxi back.

Hassan explained to me that he was Palestinian by ancestry, Jordanian by citizenship, but had lived in Kuwait all his life. He drove a new SUV, and like every other driver, slowed down to stare at the overturned car we passed en route to the mall. Four emergency vehicles blocked traffic.

"How does a car flip over like that?" I asked. The road was flat. All of Kuwait appeared to be flat.

"Speeding." Hassan nodded sagely.

Speeding appears to be a favorite Kuwaiti pastime, as indicated by the number of burned-out auto carcasses that dot the roadside.

The Sharq Mall—unexpectedly full of chains such as Chili's, Starbucks, Zara, Body Shop, Mango—shocked me.

I expected to see signs of wealth in Kuwait. But it wasn't just signs. It appears that everyone in the entire country is filthy rich. Thousands of people decked out in splendor wandered the mall corridors. Women's faces were caked with makeup, while men's heads were downright flammable with hair gel.

Some women wore hijab—the black flowing robes we are accustomed to seeing on women from Saudi Arabia. But many others looked like fairy-tale gypsies. Their long skirts flowed in colorful layers resembling petticoats. Sparkling sequins adorned scarves, and a quick look around indicated that the push-up bra market might be an area worth considerable investment. I had to laugh at the interpretation of "modest" dress. There was nothing modest about these fabulously dressed women in their tight shirts and princess outfits. In my jeans, button-up loose shirt, and scandalous uncovered hair, I was more modest by far. But the definition of modesty doesn't work like that. I may be dowdy compared to these fabulously dressed people, but I'm clearly an infidel.

At least no one here is going to ask me for money.

Nice View

I've arrived. In Kuwait anyway.

Here's a photo of the lovely view from the place I'm staying for the first few nights.

At first glance, Kuwait seems to be full of beige. Beige landscape, beige buildings, beige everything but for the black ribbons of road that cut through the neutral color. And when I look out the window, all I see is beige and men. And that wreck of a building next door. People did seem to stare at me when I walked down the street to the supermarket. Maybe next time I won't go out in my bikini.

Do Something New Every Day

I got to do two new things in London today.

London, for me, is not "new." It's a place that feels like home, looks like home, but costs twice as much as home.

My old pal Peter took me for coffee on top of the National Portrait Gallery. He's had five books published in Australia and the UK, and his first book is being printed Stateside in the spring. It was NOT my intent to swipe his book idea about going from Cape Town to Cairo by land when I launched MariesWorldTour.com (he immortalized his own trip in "Swahili for the Broken-Hearted" and hopefully people will realize that many of our similar viewpoints come from being pals while talking about Africa, not from me swiping him). Strangely, that is how life turned out. And we both did it in the same year. And so did Paul Theroux, although he started from the north. Peter and I had similar experiences, although he got to be in an Oscar-winning movie and I got to crack a rib and catch walking pneumonia. As for Mr. Theroux… well, life is different when you're a small fry like me. Or a medium-fry like Peter. No one famous was inviting us over for tea, that's for sure.

I meant to cover the entire planet, not "just" Africa. But things don't go as planned very often in my life.

Anyway, the two new things are:

1) I took a shower at Heathrow Airport. I took one at Gatwick before, when Herr Marlboro had just moved into a Portsmouth place that featured an old bathtub and no shower. But Heathrow's shower was new to me. Three pounds got me the rental of a towel. The Heathrow ones (in Terminal 4 in this case) are located in the Arrivals Men's and Women's Rooms. Much nicer than the Gatwick ones, which adjoin the public corridor.

2) I was randomly selected for a full body scan. Yikes! I was subjected to low-level radiation ("the same amount as what you'd get from two minutes of a long-distance flight) and a series of strange images were created of me, which were disturbing in their flabbiness. Three shots showed me from different angles. And the closer I stood to the backdrop, the more distorted the butt and hips were.

At least that's what I tell myself.

Anyway, it will probably give me early cancer, but it did get me to the front of the line.

Gorilla Tourist Trial

The BBC reports today that one of the men in the Rwandan gang that abducted and killed eight Bwindi gorilla tourists from Uganda in '99 was found guilty.

I imagine there are dozens of men in this gang and there's no way to know how many have not been tried. But from the account safari guide Mark Ross gave in his book, it sounds like the survivors could sure-as-hell identify every man who took them on the forced march.

Carriage House

I am totally in love with this house.

I asked Yancey where it was. He has taken Murphy on hundreds of walks around every street in Hamilton Park. He had no idea.

Today I found it. It's in the backyard of a historic brownstone right on Hamilton Park. It's even on my street, just two blocks away! It's officially a condo, and you can't see it from the street. You have to go through the brownstone to get to it.

But there is no way on this earth that I will ever have $500,000, even if I sell my place for $350,000 and the Kuwaitis decide I make awesome comic books for them.

Speaking of Kuwait, I go tomorrow. I have to change airports in London. Maybe I'll spend my down time in the library so that I don't have to spend any pounds.

How About This One?

The E-Swede (a man I've never met but have an Internet correspondence with) spotted this photo on my mother's blog. He reckons it would be a good one for my "I'm-an-author-you-believe-me-right?" shot. Whaddaya reckon?

Photos--squirm.

Who doesn't hate having photos taken of them?

I really hate it. As if I am not self-conscious enough already.

The book publisher wants a photo. Maybe a couple of photos.

I figure I'll send them a studio shot and a snapshot.

Here's some studio shots to choose from. I'll get to the snapshots later.

I welcome your opinions on which one I should use.

My mother took them with her new digital camera.

Burying the Lead (Not the Toxic Kind)

I was just at the supermarket. I was buying some spinach and two green peppers. The 10 Items Or Less line was plodding along.

The delay was caused by an old man, who had some kind of Coca-Cola coupon and didn't understand the related promotion. The cashier blustered something at him that confused him further. He gave up and said he didn't want them.

Meanwhile, the well-dressed couple in front of me looked annoyed. He sighed while she paged through a tabloid. She pointed out an item of great importance involving a celebrity's breast. He nodded disinterestedly.

They got to the front of the line, the old man having left sans Coke. The woman of the couple struggled when it was her turn to check-out.

"Debit or credit?"

"Credit. No, debit. No…"

"I already pushed debit."

"Okay, debit."

The woman stared at the keypad.

"Now what?"

The man became exasperated and pointed. "Push debit."

The cashier snickered and looked away, muttering "it's the end of the world."

After they pushed debit and left, the cashier howled with laughter, asked if the moon was full, and described the entire incident to me.

I guess life isn't that exciting when you have to work the register at A&P all day.

In the buried lead department, my pal Yancey has returned and taken back my security blanket (his pit bull). He was successful in his secret New Year's mission. He is now an engaged man.

Fortunately, he knows me well enough to have told his fiancée that there was no way I would give a speech at the wedding. I froze up the last time I was in wedding, and the groom's brother had to take over.

Uganda Court Frees Opposition Candidate

This is promising, although my guess is they'll find a new reason to keep the opposition candidate in jail. (And isn't it cool that in Uganda, someone with the name "Bosco" can be a judge?)

From today's Daily Monitor:

Court frees Besigye
KFM/Monitor Online
The High Court has ruled that FDC president Rtd. Col. Dr. Kiiza Besigye should be released immediately.

High Court judge John Bosco Katutsi ruled that the FDC president and presidential candidate was being held illegally at Luzira prisons since he had been granted bail and the Court Martial, under whose order he was being held at Luzira, did not have power to remand him since a stay of its proceedings had been ordered by Justice Remmy Kasule.

Besigye however remains at the High Court where Justice Katutsi is hearing the first of three charges leveled against the former- that of rape. The other offences Besigye is charged with are treason and concealment of treason.

Monitor Online will continue to bring you updates on this story

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Police battle FDC supporters

Reports from Central Kampala indicate that police were involved in running battles with FDC supporters who were advancing toward the High Court in jubilant mood after word went around that their leader Dr. Kiiza Besigye had been set free by Justice Katutsi.

The Curse of the Hippo

There is, my friend Scarfalonius told me, nothing wrong with a good wallow.

We all have them on occasion. Then we crawl up out of the muck and participate in life until something brings us down and we go wallow again.

And hippos wallow. Scarfalonius pointed out that hippos wallow all the time. They kind of cut out the middle-man, the part where they hang around acting normal and become depressed. They just wallow to wallow, not to get over something. They enjoy wallowing. Maybe they have it right.

H.M. and I had the Curse of the Hippo ever since the hippo chased us on the banks of the Nile. The Curse of the Hippo made him act like a renegade-bachelor-elephant and made me wallow like a hippo for four months.

But the Luck-of-Luc seems to have broken the hippo's hold for the new year. Luc the French-Bavarian (an old friend of Herr Marlboro's) did some strange e-mail time-traveling last night, reaching back from 2006 into the past (through a miracle of time zones) and coincidentally reminded me of the fun I had at Murchison Falls at exactly the moment I was e-mailing him a happy new year note. This wouldn't be so odd if we e-mailed all the time... but we haven't changed e-mails in months and it was 4:50 a.m. in Munich.

His good wishes seem to have worked. I woke up in a decent mood for a change. Took Murphy into the backyard in my pajamas. (I was in my pajamas, not Murphy.) And realized I wasn't wallowing anymore. I actually felt--gasp--optimistic.

Merci Luc for lifting the Curse of the Hippo. Now if you could just go do that to your old friend as well...