One sign that you have been delivered to the developing world, or as the laymen say, a piss poor country: all the automobiles seem similar to those driven by your high school graduating class, and you're over 40 years old. Another sign: Your waiter hasn't reached puberty. More, you want some more: The people with machine guns on the street are NOT police officers. MC Hammer styles are currently fashionable. Books are simply photocopied photocopies. Women's underwear is still large enough to fetch water from the stream. People actually appear to be Happy. And, computerized reservation systems are still something of the sci-fi dream world.
A typical encounter with a long distance transport carrier, such as plane, train, bus, or camel caravans by Ali:
I'd like a ticket for tomorrow, please.
Sorry, full.
Ok. How about the day after?
Sorry, full.
How about the meter on your bullshit guage?
Sorry, what?
When is the next available ticket?
Maybe four days. I don't know.
Thank you.
You are welcome.
An inevitable fact of travel is that one needs to get from one location to another. If you are without private transport, and are not up to playing Moses for the next 40 days, then you're gonna need some help. If you've got time, and want to experience the chaotic face of a nation, then you'll need a bus - a loose term for any vehicle larger then a Taxi accepting paid passage.
You're ready to journey from one city to the next. Apparently, you've upset the local Sheik with your potty mouth and free Bacon handouts, sponsored by Costco. You have to leave town the next day or face off against the town's defending thumb wrestling champion, in which your fate shall be decided. You go to the bus station. There is no such thing. You go to a seedy storefront where bags of rice and overstuffed cartons block your view of the counter. A drawing of a bus looms overhead. Sorry, Full.
Here's how it went down: {And this should act as a guideline when facing the defiant FULL).
The bus was due to leave at 9:30 in the morning. You know it won't leave until 10am, BUT you've got to get there early to secure prime jockeying position. You are without ticket and face a possible lynching. A late night at the Hookah gallery and visiting friends in your stomach don't get you there until nine.
Luckily, the competition was slim. Although, not literally. A heavy-set black gentleman, perspiring quite juicily through his long white sateen robe and mosaic skullcap was guarding the bus door entry. His graying beard and confident eyes spoke of experience. His full door blockage -- just great technique. Normally, you befriend the bus driver with laughter, self-deprecating remarks about your government, and some free cigarettes. Then, you simply wait at the door opening, in full view of his magistrate for approval to enter the bus. Cause there's always one extra seat on these FULL buses. But as any home improvement novice will tell you, nothing is as easy as it seems. Fat Albert's Father would not budge. His significant girth was preventing any face time with the Driver. And drivers on a waiting bus like to lean away from the wheel chatting idly to the loaded cattle, possibly due to their acknowledgement that the next 15 hours will be spent facing forward, chewing handgrown amphetamines and dodging runaway camels. So a position in front of the windshield was practically guaranteeing checkmate to my immovable adversary. What to do? Seats were filling up fast, as BigBoy carefully allowed each passenger to enter before swinging back into fully guarded position. And lining up behind him…Shit, more competition. The father-son team looked weak as they thought Allah would help them as they carelessly smoked cigarettes and gazed at the passing traffic. Those two girls probably thought they could use their charm, but you can thank the Holy Clerics for screwing you there. Ain't no man gonna be wooed by a pair of eyes and a frumpy black tablecloth. No cleavage, no lips, no legs, damn girl, you ain't got nothin'. It makes you wonder what Ladies Night at the AliBabba Disco is like. I'm thinking Pac-Man. Two-eyed ghosts chasing the guy around a room. Although, shouldn't he be chasing them? Anyway…a couple of stragglers were trying to distract the Grand Poobah from the door, but they were wasting their time. One college age guy seemed to be texting somebody already on the bus. Clever. Inside maneuvering. Please, Driver, my cousin is suppose to be on this bus but he just got out of the hospital, can you please get him on, our grandma is expecting us. No way, buddy. That is not going to work this time. Why?
Politics. In theocratic states, controlled by Sultans and Imams, the concept of politics holds about as much weight as a Women's Lib class. But Americans, we know how to work it. We give the public an infinite amount of choices, let them shake hands & kiss babies, and on election day…well, I guess its normally the person with the most dough, but being that your humble author lacks the funds to bribe a populace spoiled by the endlessly milked Oil Titty, he would be required to win the old fashioned way - Handshakes, smiles, & 15% off on their next Oil Change.
There were alternatives to the main candidate. Sure, he held good position. And would probably not lose the lead. But the Dictator never sees the coup. He's got no idea. He's eating a large diamond encrusted bowl of Frosted Flakes, surrounded by his armed cabinet, when in comes dessert, delivered by three wait staff and a dancing trio of Kalishnikovs. The plan was to work the crowd. In the time before departure, many passengers are milling outside the bus, knowing they are imprisoned for the remainder of the day. As individuals, these people are of little help to you. However, if you gain enough support, and make an alliance, the masses demand for their new friend to accompany them on their bumpy adventure may propel you to victory.
Play the foreigner card. You are the celebrity. The one everybody is looking at. They want to practice their basic English. You want to impress them with your 7 words of Arabic. But with so little time, you needed a key endorsement. Not any passenger would do.
Our eyes locked. It was him. He would save me. A police Sergeant. His finely pressed olive green slacks and medallioned jacket gave him the stature of military hero.
No, I am not in the army. But I am in charge of the local Police force.
You're English is quite fluent, did you pick that up from watching COPS.
Funny, I know this show. But I was studying in Miami. I stayed for 7 years and even trained with the local police before returning home.
Don't get personal in politics, and don't make waves. You're never gonna secure a vote if you deal with real issues. Get the streets paved. Build a park. But, please, for Christ and Allah's sake, leave the human rights stuff alone. C'mon,now. This guy lived in Miami for 7 years. He must have some liberated views on the role of women in Islam. Just a couple of questions, then we'll get endorsed.
After your time in the states, do you think that women should now be able to spend time with other men, dress as they choose, and have more say in their marriages?
I understand why you ask this, but you must understand that Islam has much respect for women. Here, in Oman, we have three women ministers. We are most respectful of women. But they must respect the Man, respect the family, and respect tradition. These are not things that we should be changing. They are allowed to be with their husband in the home, but outside of the house, they should remain covered and only be with women.
Would you vote for Hillary Clinton as President if you were still in the States, and legal?
Yes, I like her.
People are claiming she is a lesbian. Would you still vote for her?
No. I don't think I could do that then.
I had such high hopes for him. He was sending his sister on the bus so she could finish her studies in Yemen. He thought about my question and expressed his wish for his sister to remain pure. The Latin flesh of Miami must have really scared him. I needed an endorsement, quick.
You're a really interesting guy. You may be back in the States one day, and need a place to stay. Here's my email. Contact me and I'll take you to all the best Strip Clubs and Donut Bars. And because the Miami police are some of the most trusted in the States, I'm sure you're doing a great job.
Endorsed. Since when do Politicos care about the views of their constituents? Everyone saw us smiling and shaking hands. He appeared to brag about the encounter to other Robesters nearby. A group of three passengers approached me immediately upon the Sarge's disembarking.
Hello. How are you. From where do you come?
America.
Its good place, America. You like our country.
Yes. Very much. Especially the police. Do you know my friend?
Yes. Aziz is a good man. Many people like him.
Look. I don't have much time, but can I count on your vote when the bus driver tries to give out the last couple of seats. I promise to entertain you with stories of the American Dream, and I will also let you have full access to my music collection including rare tracks by Kenny G and Motorhead.
I am sorry. We do not understand.
I hope to ride the bus with you today. I think we will have fun time. Yes.
Yes. It will be nice.
Tough call. That may have been like getting the endorsement of some regional Knitting Club, but they held an electoral vote the size of Iowa and Minnesota.
Shit. Some of the other freeloaders were loading their baggage onto the roof. Were they aware of something I wasn't? You've got no ticket. That's like bringing a condom out on a first date. Failure guaranteed. I wouldn't pre-load, but the minutes were ticking.
Oh my. What just happened? Not now. This wasn't happening. The bus was getting ready to leave. But that thing in Black just caught my eye. How? All campaign thoughts were off. The details were becoming clearer, as one slowly recognizes the reality of the previous night's inebriated mistakes. But opposite. Yes, opposite. Everything was improving. The way her curves hugged the silky black fabric. The carefree manner in which she threw her veil incarcerated face back, and chuckled innocently with friends. The soft almond creaminess of her hands. The deliberate pointing of her feet away from Mecca, sending me some furtive message, of "meet me at the back of the bus, cause there's more fabric where this came from." And the eyes. The Cleavage of Islam. Why are other women spending their life savings on clothing, gym memberships, botulism injections, hair stylists and big bouncy Red Balls? Save time and money. Eat what you want. And keep your hair that boring shade of brown you've hated since your first subscription to Teen magazine. Actually, a key difference between American Black communities and Conservative Arab countries…there are no hair salons in the latter. Barbershops. You can even see men getting facials. But the estrogen has been driven underground. Alas, With most of the body invisible, a woman's entire sexuality was peering out her eyes. And after three weeks, I finally noticed it. Had the Native Indians been right? Were the eyes really a window to the soul? We normally have to overcome an assault of Mac make-up products, Miss Sixty Jeans, tramp stamps, the false advertising of push-up bras, chemically treated hair and well defined trapezius muscles to remain solely on those two little things. Men are judged through them daily. And yet we belittle fashion and praise our turkey in the oven, don hole strewn undies and unkempt hair. But these eyes, these Arabian Almonds, onyx pupilled and bewitchingly beautiful. If a man gets caught in their crosshatch, an entire late night Cinemax movie is revealed. And I may have been developing my first masturbatory memory. It would require the mending of previously viewed porn, several weeks old, along with some extreme mental photoshopping, but it could be done. Arggghhhh…so many eyes, so little time. A candidate would soon be chosen.
The horn started to blare. Departure was imminent. I jammed my pasty face between Biggie's shoulder and the door. The Driver had disappeared during the campaign. The new arbiter of admission, a scruffy faced 20 year old in an uncharacteristically dirty robe, checked off passengers on the clipboard. The remaining candidates were closing in from behind. Big Pappa was a rock. My only shot was for a vice-presidency position. Two seats were empty, but one was occupied by a large plastic bag. I hate plastic. Forrest Whittaker's Father was sent to the office to purchase a proper ticket. There would be no bribing. Fine. Muslims like honesty. If he was some Hindu dude back in India, he'd charge me double and stick me on the floor, just the way BabbaGanesh likes it. So, John Amos won, but his departure from the doorway ensured my minute or two to kiss ass. I used one of my 7 arabic words to say Bush was a "crazy person." Then I pointed to my constituency in rows 4 and 5. Waving and smiling. Something was said to the Clipboard. Yes. Yes. V.P. elect. But with no promise the bus would be there when I returned, I hurdled the father-son team pushing from behind. I tossed the baggage guy a 35 cent note to ensure that my backpack made it on the roof, already piled six feet high with assorted luggage. Then jumped 5 steps at a time to find myself in a ticketing nightmare. The counter was three deep. Boxes everywhere. And one guy doling out tickets.
The insurgency was growing. Father & son reunion had entered. Were they trying to outmuscle the Infidel? Here's where an adult life spent at crowded bars wins out over an adult life spent prostrating on portable rugs and sitting idly around the Hookah. There was a small opening. Two middle aged men with wide grins were about to back out of line. A one and a half second gap would be the only daylight before the crowd would quickly conceal it. No time to think. I shot through the foot long canyon like a Jewish girl in the West Bank. A bearded man with crooked glasses had my elbow knock them straight. Still in campaign mode, I managed to glance an 'excuse me' smile while still pushing forward. I did it. Touching Bar. Ready for the drink. What was that smell? ChristnAllah, go figure. Who was two bellies up to the bar…none other then my archrival, Dutch Santa. Amidst the shouts for recognition, he cleverly used his stature and loud voice to usurp my newly gained position. Bastard. But like a pair of Handcrafted silicone melons, I thrust myself over the Bar, and jammed a wad of cash into the unsuspecting BusBartender's hand. Islam says, "You accept the payment, you honor the contract." No time to gloat. The horn was tooting its final warning.
Handing over my ticket was like finally stepping into that club, the one with no windows and no sign, that you passed every day for a year, so eager to see what it was like. You enter, exulted that nobody gets to come into this place. And then you step inside and realize why. Do all objects of desire lose their lust once they've been obtained? Maybe this is why elected officials continually fail to deliver. They spend so much time in pursuit of the position, romanticizing the glories, believing what they say, that when the pulpit is finally reached, it's far less glamorous then they previously thought. So, instead, they decide to eat long government expensed lunches with the Sugar and Cotton Lobby.
The bus grew smaller upon entry. Anybody over 5 foot 8 would be eating their knees for the next 15 hours. The back four rows were a jungle of darting eyes, no longer sexual, just plain frightening. Were we going to a Grim Reaper convention? No teenage romance on this roadtrip. With only nine rows, and one section of solitary window seats, I felt blessed to land a separate cushion. Ah ha. Big Daddy likes the plastic. Clever fella left a bag of garbage on prime real estate. He probably figured the driver would assume the seat taken, and he'd be left with the back-up seat guarantee. Which is what happened.
As the bus pulled away, I watched the losing candidates stare longingly for their lost seats. Too bad suckers!!! Next time, you'll stop trying to raise money over the phone, and work it, the old fashioned way. Wait a second. The driver stopped. It was Dad and Junior. But they lost. Was he pulling a HinduHarry? C'mon, there's limited leg room back here. I need the aisle. Would you look at that? The two seats on the other side of the aisle, came equipped with the ultimate "Bitch" seat. This thing flipped out from under the seat and took up the scant alleyway where my feet were resting. They didn't even campaign. They weren't even worthy of the write-in vote. Political appointees. Ringers from the start. Should've known.
Shortly into the journey, it was evident why bus travel is intrinsic to discovering a country. The entire male portion of the bus began speaking their 3 to 4 basic sentences of English to me. Which, is far better then my 7 words of Arabic. Everybody offered food. Nuts, Dates, Chips. People competed to buy me tea at restroom breaks. Can you imagine somebody sharing their food on the Greyhound? Actually, would you want to be sharing that toothless guy's stale beef jerky?
The father and son turned out to be a boss and his assistant. They supervised fish packing plants along the Yemeni Gulf. They expressed pride in their Omani homeland, and warned to be careful in Yemen. Does every country assume it's neighbor is somehow beneath them? They also talked about how much more liberal Oman was, because there a woman could show her face. Now you see how the blue and red states are formed here. All the ladies wear black. But the liberals get to show the chin to the forehead, universal sign of freedom.
The assistant wore large ghetto style headphones, while occasionally reading his miniature copy of the Koran. Perhaps he was looking for some new hip-hop lyrics. More strangely, his English was relatively fluent, but he spoke with an Indian accent. Apparently, his coworkers are all Indian. Everytime he spoke, I smirked. Maybe he thought I was interested. But I couldn't stop laughing at the sight of an Arab guy speaking English with an Indian accent. If I could have put him in conversation with an Indian guy who spoke English with a French accent, then my trip would not need the entertainment of the in-flight movie.
Much like SUV's full of whiny kids, buses need a way to entertain, lest they be subject to mutiny. The feature film from last week's bus played School Ties, twice. To recap, a boarding school full of young handsome men welcomes a newcomer, Brendan Fraser, cinematic legend from such masterpieces as Encino Man and National Treasure. But trouble is brewing. Matt Damon, formerly known as Ben Affleck's love interest, starts becoming jealous toward the newly popular Fraser, star of the football team and robber-baron of Damon's love interest. But Damon finds out that Fraser is a Jew. And nobody likes a Jew in boarding school. Soon, Fraser is forced to deal with an institution full of anti-semitism. So…Arabic subtitles are flashing across the screen. American football holds as much appeal in the Middle East as a bacon stirred martini. But when the words "JEW" start flashing across the screen, scene after scene, attention is roused. At this point, my entertainment became the bus. It wasn't quite like watching a horror movie in an all-Black movie theatre, but it certainly wasn't quiet. Actually, much to my surprise, nobody got up and started shouting, "Kill 'em. Kill that Jewboy." Followed by that one big guy with foam dripping from his lips, biting the cushions off the seats, leading the crowd in a Homecoming chant of "Jews Will Die. Jews Will Die." Maybe they knew Fraser was just another earnest Canadian. But did the guy who chose this video have any idea of its content? You'd think the Bourne Identity would be more appealing. A bus full of Muslim Arabs only occasionally looked up to see what was happening to that big headed Jew. Maybe the Arabs didn't really want to Annihilate their semitic nemesis after all. There was hope for peace in Israel now. I would call the President, immediately.
The Border crossing bus opted for classier fare. A movie about renegade Stealth Bombers. The audience normally prefers action films. The only thing one needs to know is that a team of Stealth Fighter Pilots has the central computer system of their planes gain a life of its own. Soon, the Stealth is leading it's pilots to death. I was embarrassed. School Ties was darkly comedic. But this was appalling. As if a thousand H.A.L's and Short Circuit #5's didn't already exist., some untalented script writer convinced a bank to fund this crap. And the Arabs were eating it up. I wanted to turn in my passport. Right there. Give it to Sanford, up front. People from Oman, or Turkmenistan, or Micronesia, they don't have this problem. The rest of the world isn't basing their opinions on the content of your cinema. But as Americans, we are nothing more then the product of our films. We all drive Fast & Furious. The television is the single biggest disseminator of culture the world has ever known. Yes, even bigger then Ghengis Khan. And the number one entertainment device in the world remains the television. And nobody puts out more television shows and more movies, especially flicks with high quality affects then Hollywood. That's great for a producer's bank account and a city full of intoxicated Extras. But I don't want people comparing me to Keanu Reeves. Or Sinbad. Or that guy Raymond that everybody loves. You end up in this Dubya Bush apologist situation: "Look, most Americans don't support them, and we don't know how they got on TV, but we're waiting for their careers to finish so we can put this episode behind us, and move on."
The Fundamentalists. The one's responsible for making you take off your shoes at the airport. Those guys who watched Speed one too many times. They are always complaining about the undue influence Western Cinema is having on their traditional Islam ways, and its contaminating culture of corruption among the young Muslim mind. Well, maybe I agree. Maybe I have some slight agreement with long bearded men residing in caves, living off Ramen noodles. Enemy No.1 isn't coming for our freedom. They don't care about code Orange or Code Pink. These guys are film buffs. That's all. They're sick of getting these direct to video movies with emotionally vapid acting. They want art-house. They want all those cool little indy films with miscellaneous film awards on their covers. Except the ones from the Indianapolis Film Festival, which even the Mujahideen agree is a complete farce. They demand more shows like Six Feet Under and Twin Peaks. And compelling European films, the kind that make you horny and sad in the same 90 minute period. They're tired of the Bikini Car Wash Company series. If we're going to show 'em tits, hike up distribution of Last Tango in Paris, or anything by Almodovar. These guys got class. And if we continue to dump our second rate cock-jock flicks on the Arab market, the Terror War will only grow stronger.
Meanwhile, camels and goats were competing for limited road space. Desert Mountains hugged the Emerald waters below. The air was warm and the stink far from volatile. We were approaching the Yemen border. And I had forgotten to get an entry visa at my local embassy. Crossing borders by land, in the 2nd to 3rd worlds, allows a first hand glimpse of the corruption that eats away at these countries. But it's also a moment that Hollywood has accurately portrayed on film. Expect a barren cinderblock room. One desk. Three pairs of legs. Smoke thickening the air. A large framed fading photo of some leader. And a giant ledger book. One of the three plays good cop. The other plays Bad. And the third is the intoxicated extra, laughing at the whole affair. Locals never have an issue. They've got no money, anyway, and are simply waved through. But a Westerner, you're a fresh piece of Ass at San Quentin. One of three things can happen. You can convince them to sell you a visa for 3-4 times the going rate. They can refuse to listen to you, deny you entry and send you finding your own way back across a desolate no man's land. This is sometimes a harsh reality due to a foreigners difficulty in entering our own country. It's pointless to explain economics and tell the pock-faced officer that there is no rationale for seeking illegal residence in one of the 10 poorest countries on Earth. And the third possibility is Death between Borders, the result of the previously exited country's refusal to allow you back in. Think Tom Hanks in Terminal, but without the Indian janitor and no Food Court. That would've been a decent bus movie.
In an odd turn of events, my former competitor, one half of the father-son duo, had agreed to accompany me into my "private" interview. We planned to counter the expected good cop/bad cop with the kind Infidel, jovial Local combo. The setting was script perfect.
As translated from associate:
Good cop: Welcome to our country. From where do you come?
Bad cop: You don't have a visa? Where is your visa? You must have visa to enter.
Third cop: Haha. Haha. {burp}
Associate: Hey, no problems, huh. He's with me. He's a good guy.
Infidel: I'm really sorry. I will buy the Visa here. It won't happen again.
Bad Cop: You can not buy a visa here. You have to go to embassy.
Good Cop: Wait. Maybe we can do something for him.
Associate: Did you guys see that Barcelona game last night. They looked great.
Third Cop: Haha. Haha.
Bad Cop: I don't like this idea. You should not be here without Visa.
Good Cop: We have some Visas. How much are you willing to pay?
Infidel: (emptying pockets) I've got 40 dollars in cash and a credit card (these places don't know what to do with credit cards but Hollywood has alerted them to its replacement of our cash system)
Associate: I saw this girl's calf yesterday. It was pretty hot. You guys should have checked it out.
Third cop: {burp}
Bad cop: No good. You can't come.
Good cop: Give us 80. No problem. We sign everything here.
Associate: Did you guys here about the new Habibi record? I've got a copy if you want to listen.
Bad cop: I'll be back. Don't let him in.
Good cop: 80 is not a lot for you. Rich country, America. Ok. 80 is fine.
Infidel: {speaking in broken Arabic} George Bush is a crazy person. Mohammed is a good man.
Good cop, Third Cop, and Associate: {Laughter}
Infidel: Look, I just found 20 more dollars. Here's 60 dollars. {Place into hands to prematurely force contract}
Good cop: Ok. Ok. You are good man. Welcome to my country. {Ledger book closes, money goes into shirt pocket}
As anybody who's crossed into Tijuana can attest, changing borders by land offers an opportunity to see the power of an imaginary line.
In an instant, everything changes. The neatly pressed white robes of the Omanis were replaced by long sarongs and open buttoned shirts for the Yemenis. Some even carried around automatic weapons while others harbored a kind of traditional sword, a bit too close to the Islamic Seed bank. Buildings were made of stone, but somehow, never completed. The pothole ratio increased, while the amount of visible women remained the same. Camels seemed a bit less nourished, and mounds of plastic flanked the road sides. Plastic bottles and bags have destroyed the 'toss your rubbish' in piles system that has followed mankind. No longer can a local expect to see his food scraps eaten by the Earth or a passing animal. Nobody buys fruit anymore without a plastic bag. Even packaged foods have become readily available sometimes replacing locally grown products with processed ones. But there was something more intriguing then rows of plastic debris. What were all those men doing huddled around in corners, or sprawled out along the ground with big bags of green leaves.
They are chewing Qat. This is a local thing. Many people are doing this.
Its legal. Right by all the police. What is it like?
Yes, here is no problem. But other countries do not allow. It is like you have dreams of being the king, but you are not able to go to sleep. Relax, but very awake.
Cool. Like coke and weed in one leaf.
You should try. You may like.
Of course.
Intermittent doses of sleep and views punctuated by undeveloped coastline rivaling any in the Caribbean were finally brought to a halt, when the bus stopped to release my two friends. It was time for work. An Oman man with an Indian accent had more English to learn. They invited me to spend a few days working at the Fish Factory with them. Sounded like it could have been a good experience, but the thought of smelling like rotting vagina for the following week overcame any desire for a cultural experience. I was quite impressed that a Boss and associate just rode the ultimate bitch seat in a cramped bus for the past 10 hours. Somehow, I don't imagine the same situation happening back home. Hey, boss, there's no plane to the factory, and the closest airport is a 9 hour drive away... Then, either you go by yourself, or find somebody to go for you.
Within minutes of waving goodbye, a new emissary had been delivered. A highlight of Arab peoples, at least the 50% you have access to, is their overwhelming hospitality. As an approachable foreigner, you are constantly bombarded with invites for food and conversation. The media may portray the Arab world as seething masses waiting eagerly to devour the first White Devil who enters their boobless lair, but the reality is quite different. You are devoured by warmth and kindness, in every effort possible to make you feel comfortable, even if it requires people to say, America is good country, I like very much America. Thorough conversations have taught me this is not entirely true, due to current American politics (and who can blame them?), but locals go out of their way to avoid confrontation.
My new friend was a student at a Yemen university where tuition costs were far below those of his native Oman. Ahmed made himself present during the previous conversations, but now he held a monopoly on the Infidel. He maintained a rather intriguing role during the journey: Errand boy for the women. For the entire trip, not one word was exchanged between man and woman, except for those uttered to Ahmed. Was this considered derogatory in Islam? Was he the overtly Gay one that Mohammed could accept as having no temptation toward the darting eyes and ebony ghost costumes? A dangling limp wrist, elongated cranium, and sharp sense of dress may have seconded the theory.
How come all the women ask you to get them beverages and snacks at the rest stops?
They are my friends. And sometimes they are not wanting to get up from the bus.
I understand, but they are only talking to you and no one else on the bus. There are probably many cute women under there but no one is speaking to them.
It is forbidden in Islam to talk publicly with a woman who is not your wife or family.
This is not true. I now know that this is an assanine Arabian tradition and that it is not mentioned in the Koran.
I am not sure why then, but we are not suppose to. Would you like some cookies?
But you ARE talking to them, and getting them all these things. Why is that? Are you the non-threatening Gay friend that has existed since pre-Mesopotamia days?
What? I am not talking so much with them, and only I am helping them. This is ok.
I left Ahmed alone. He seemed helpless to explain that perhaps his latent sexuality was driving him into the waiting harem of his admiring hags. I kept hoping that maybe his English teacher was an Italian so that one day somebody could enjoy a conversation between Ahmed and the Assistant. His studies comprised such rigorous subjects as Tennis, Swimming, and Basketball. A 'Sports' major. This is as Islamic as a Keg-Stand competition. Outside of football (yankee soccer), the concept of sporting is practically non-existent, unless one counts 4 wheel driving in the desert or the daily prostration exercises.
Do you plan on teaching physical education in school?
Yes, I think this is what I do.
Do gym teachers wear tight shorts here?
No, we are wearing robe but the students will be changing for sport.
Ah, yes. Another perk of the gym teacher. You get to watch the students in the Locker Room.
What is locker room?
He was such a nice guy. I couldn't let him know that I was onto his secret. But if you're looking for a way to be with other men, there is no better society on Earth in which to reside. Streets are almost completely vacant of women. Men spend long hours sitting in groups or pairs, even walking with hands interwoven. Families don't ask questions about your social life when you have been cavorting with fellow males. Better here then Alabama.
The seaside had disappeared into a blanket of darkness. The stars had quieted the audience, as a new film was about to begin. Were they line dancing? What was with the head bobs and New Kids on the Block moves? A private investigator followed a really bad man. Occasionally, he would find his love interest and fall into bed with her. Then the man he was investigating would find him, chase him through the house, and the entire scenario would repeat in a different location. Periodically, the P.I. and his lover would begin a dance, in which over 100 similarly dressed extras would appear from behind. Head bobbing, spinning, leg kicks, more head bobbing. It was like a retarded version of the Rockettes. This was Bollywood.
The only film industry to churn out more cinema then Hollywood, cousins Bolly do it using the rejected scripts of direct to video movies, and punctuating them with choreographed dancing. The oddity of all this entails a brief knowledge of Indian society. Conservative. Sari covered. Dark skinned. Whereas Bollywood films are only inhabited by the lightest skinned actors, wearing skin-tight attire that even Britney Spears would find too revealing. At least Americans copy the slutty dress of our Golden Screen Icons. How do Indians manage to find conservative ways to dress when their cinematic heroes look like Subcontinental Playmates. This is further proof of the cultural bias of Fundamental Terror groups. They tolerate a nation whose only cinema product entails Tom Cruise look-a-likes dry humping J. Lo Shivas to the rhythms of Menudo remixes while utilizing scripts even the Porn Industry found too vapid. America gave you Titanic. We gave you The Godfather. We even sent you Animal House. Maybe you should be directing your terror at Bombay. If you look closely at our music videos, especially the ones turned out by Boy Bands and Girl Divas, you will clearly see a disclaimer, that reads: "We, the American people, governing body, and all legal entities, take no moral or intellectual responsibility for the trash you about to witness." Legislators have mandated it since the surprise international comeback of the Backstreet Boys. Americans are making an effort to change. But those Indians think they can get away with it. Time to boycott your nearest Call Center.
15 hours. An addictive Bollywood song that refused to exit the memory bank. Swollen kneecaps. We made it. The taxi vultures were preying outside. Somebody spotted the white guy. Now they were fighting for that coveted entry door position. Of all people, it was my former political adversary, now known as Amir, who used his sizeable girth to distance the new meat from my waiting attackers. Handshakes and email addresses were exchanged. More food was offered for the hotel ride. I noticed a few eyes, like a cartoon character in a night scene. They were wishing me sweet dreams and 'in another life' encounter. The aspiring Gym Teacher refused to let me get in the taxi alone. He accompanied me to four different hotels until we found one with a flushing toilet (man, you should have seen that one turd), and cable television. For some reason, he demanded I have access to cable. But I don't even have cable at home. Why not. You must have the cable. It is so very good. Look. We have the ShowTime here. Ahmed left me alone in my new host nation, ready to spend a another day on the campaign trail. But amongst the giving and gracious Arabs, a friendly foreigner always seems to win here.
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