Dispatch From The Desert #5

(Image of Honey Bunny from "Pulp Fiction" borrowed from blogs4bauer.blogspot.com. I sure hope he or she doesn't mind.)

I am losing my patience. The cook, Azhar, is out with a broken foot, which I believe I alluded to previously. Consequently, we've dined out every night since she got hurt. That's where my patience, or lack of it, comes in.

When I am in the city proper, I blend with the rest of the tourists, but when I stay in 6th of October, there are a lot less people to blend with, so I stick out. I've spoken about the middle class, and how...unkind...they can be. And since we've been eating out, I have really felt the brunt of that unkindness.

Part of the problem is that no one can figure out exactly which slot to put me in. I look Arab when you look at my skin, hair and features, yet I have a pierced nose, tattoos, and I am dressed as a Westerner, often complete with a cigarette butt hanging out of my mouth (well, it's not really that bad--I mainly hold it in my hand while I smoke--it only hangs out, unaided, when I have to get in my purse). So the class-conscious people can't figure out where to put me. The poor people don't care, but the snooty middle class people sure do. Which brings me to Honey Bunny from "Pulp Fiction."

The other night, we dined at the Engineers Club. Clubs are a big part of life here. They are private, and have all sorts of facilities for the members, including things like a nice restaurant, a pool, tennis courts, and special items for sale offered at reduced prices. My father, being a retired civil engineer, belongs to the club.

We walked into the dining room, and suddenly, I found myself the object of approximately 80 curious stares. After looking at my clothing, many people simply dismissed me as a "hawaga" (foreigner), but a lot of the women kept staring, and staring in a very rude manner. When we took our seats, we were seated near a family of five: parents and three daughters, ranging in age from approximately 8 to 13. Unfortunately, I was right in the line of sight of the mother, and she immediately began giving me ugly looks and speaking to her husband and daughters about something. If looks could touch you, I would have been covered in bruises and bleeding profusely. The girls, not yet having learned the subtle art of covert peeking, just turned around in their seats and gawked. They were staring in such a focused, intent manner, that others in the room started staring, as well. Since my father was busy speaking with his driver about various things, I had nothing to do but look around me at the decor in the room. But every time I met a pair of eyes, my smile was returned with either a frown, or a funny look they have here, which includes pursed lips and grumpy eyebrows, which is meant to show displeasure. And they were the ones staring at me!

As we waited for our food, I became aware that almost every woman in the room was giving me disapproving looks, and many were staring and making comments. I made a comment to my father about it, and he looked around, and said, "Maybe you should just ignore them." I tried. I really did, but it was pretty annoying. So then, a thought struck me. "Dad? How much does a well-paid professional engineer make here? Per month, I mean." It turns out that unless the engineer works for a foreign firm, which is very rare, as foreign firms bring in their own people from other countries, he makes approximately $1400-$1600 per month. That's right. Per month. I asked some more pointed questions, and finally, trying to figure out who makes a salary comparable to any American salary, I asked if there is no one in this country who makes more than about $2500 per month. The answer was yes. Someone who sits on the board of a company, or the general manager of a big firm, might make as much as $3000 per month, but part of that will be money from "baksheesh," meaning, in this case, money paid in bribes or skimmed for personal use. And that's when I lost it.

Sitting there, having all those women just...staring...and in such an ugly manner. No smiles when I made eye contact. Nothing but disapproval. And cataloging my faults, complete with pointing fingers. And mentioning them to everyone at the table, and then not even being discreet about their laughter. And most of all, acting like they are better than me, probably largely due to money! I started to fantasize about pulling a Honey Bunny.

What I wanted to do was stand on the table, and scream, "Alright all you smarmy motherf*****s! I've had it! I won't take your money. I won't take your lives. (I was planning on just being armed with a dinner fork, anyway.) But I also won't take your bullshit looks anymore. Either look at me nicely, and smile at me, or don't look at me at all. I'm done with your shit! And by the way, my husband makes more money than your husbands do. Bitches!"

After that, after I had Honey Bunny firmly in my mind, I found dinner quite pleasant. She may not be a nice girl, but she makes a wonderful dinner companion.