On Misadventure No.5: The One Where I Almost Got Killed by an Iraqi Mad Man

This misadventure took place right after I deservedly earned my driving license and ventured to rent a car to assuage the humiliation of waving taxis who brush you off like you were a fly on a wall in Dubai summer heat.

I came back late one day, desperate to find a parking at 1 in the morning. Now I am wise enough to realize that I might just as well wish for aliens to abduct me and perform experimets on me than to find a decent parking after midnight. When I did find what seemed like a too-good-to-be-true parking, I stopped my car, shuffled home for a deep, guiltless sleep.

Events taking place at 7:23:46 AM the very next morning.
(Me and Friend walking towards the newly-rented car)
Friend: Why did you take us from the sandy road?
Me: We’re late man! (In my polite tone voice used to shut people up before the normal flow of nutrients and caffeiene runs its course in my veins)
As we walk we passed by an angry Iraqi man lining up some stones against the pavement.

Iraqi: God damn those people, blocking the parking entrance. Aren’t they ashamed of themselves? Damn them to Hell.

My friend stopped shortly, to find out what the man’s problem was.

Me: Yeah, yeah old man. Damn them sure!
Me (to friend): C’mon man, forget him. We’re already late.
(Seconds later)
Me: WHAT THE FUCK??
I stood in complete and utter shock trying to digest the unbelievable spectacle lying a few meters in in front of me.
I blinked a few times, to see if it was the haziness, or me imagining things after last night's late arrival.

My rental car had all 4 doors wide-open, and an orange construction cone mounted on the ceiling as if my car was a dunce, forced to face the wall, and a scibbled note was patiently waiting for me to unfold it on the windshield.

Let’s just say the note didn’t have any nice words except “You”

History does repeat itself, except the wearing cones part.

Me: Fuck, what the hell is this?
A bespectacled, bald Egyptian guy and a Sudanese magically show up. When I say 'magically', I mean that one second there was no one there, the next they pop out of nowhere. The duo would have been completely comical and laughable under different circumstances. The scene was reminiscent of early Arab dreams of unity. There we were; a Jordanian, Egyptian, Sudanese and not so far away, an Iraqi, discussing the neighborhood affairs like politicians should. I hardly supressed the urge to chuckle, but the garveness of the situation stopped me short.

Egyptian: Lei ba2a? (Why?)
Me: Why what?
Egyptian: (Lei 3amalt kida?) Why did you do this?
Me: Why did I do what?
Egyptian: You blocked the entrance for the garage. All those cars can’t get out now. People want to get to work. (Waving to a horde of parked, immobile cars, with people looking out of the window, relieved to be able to finally move, and enraged to see the source of their inconvenience - me)
Me (in my head): Shit!!
Sleepy Sudanese: (Lei ya zoooowl? ) Yes man, why?
Egyptian: We called the police to remove your car. They came and blah blah blah, yadda yadda.

As I was explaining to the Egyptian that I had no clue whatsoever, the Iraqi came chasing after me, running towards me, picking up a rock to squash me to my shameful death.
Iraqi: IT WAS YOU!! COME HERE!
Sami: Fuck man we're done! This is how it will end, in the hands of an Iraqi enraged mad man. Say your prayers quick!
Me (refusing to go away just yet, to my friend who was still in shock and stood motionless): Get in the fucking car quick.
Friend blanks out.
Me: REMOVE THE FUCKING CONE AND NOTE AND GET IN THE FUCKING CAR!
My friend snaps from his hypnosis and obliges.

Afterwards, all you can hear was the screeching of my tires skidding against the hot asphalt as I zoomed away through the narrow roads desperately dodging bystanders, looking behind my back for a black 4 wheel drive mounted by a fuming Iraqi.

When I knew I was safe on the highway, I started laughing hysterically, having known fully-well that I have got myself into yet another random misadventure, glad to be alive to retell it.

On Getting by in Dubai and Such

So it’s been a year (ok maybe a little bit more) since I landed in Dubai and started the best blog in the universe (Ok no one said I wasn’t the most shameless self-marketer and my self's biggest fan). It’s been a roller coaster since, though it tends to slow down as you grow with the city.

Here are a few unofficial pointers for getting by in Dubai that all sorts of people can make use of, but is intended to the particular niche that Jordanians are.

1- Get an Indian friend: If you think I’m joking, I’m not. Indians know the ins and outs of all the legal and illegal systems and pointers for getting through any process. If they like you, they'll help you. I advise to kindly refuse any sweets offered to you. That face you're pulling masking your pain won't pass as delight whatsoever.
2- Get a Lebanese socialite. It is no secret that Lebanese get well with almost every other nationality, because they secretly hide contempt for every other nationality. In order to know all your restaurants, hot spots, night clubs and brands you need to tag along a Lebanese socialite like a loyal dog. Beware that this lifestyle can ensure a le in your pocket and head. Proceed with caution.
3-Don’t get a Jordanian boss: Your fellow countrymen are most likely to use and abuse you on the pretext that you are their fellow countryman. What’s a couple of extra hours at the office between family? Before you know it you're a living incarnation of a zombie and you have bags the size of boxing bags under your eyes and you're stupidly smashing through glass doors. So you’ve been forewarned.
4-Get your shit sorted out: You can’t as much as pee in the bathroom in Dubai without having a proper residency. I suggest you get it sorted as quick as possible and don’t be a moron and stall as if nothing is at stake. A useful tactic is a strategy religiously followed by married women called the infamous nag.
(Flashback one year ago)
Boss: How is your task coming up?
Me: I’m almost done. When will my residency be issued?
Boss: It’ll be ready within the next 3 days, don’t worry

(1 hour later)
Boss: wanna have lunch?
Me: Sure, when will my residency be issued?

5- This pointer was made for my own personal preference. Spare us the “We have this in Jordan” lame-ass joke. I heard it so many times on every single aspect of Dubai life that it churns my stomach every time I hear it.
Newbie from Jordan(looking around Sheikh Zayed Road in awe): Hatha zay tloo3 il-shabsogh 3ina, hehe (This is similar to Shabsogh street (Ok the Jordanian version is much funnier, so if you don’t know Jordanian, well, you’re the one to blame)
Newbie from Jordan (Looking at Dubai Taxi): Hatha zay sarvees il-3abali 3ina, hehe (This is like the taxi ride at Al-Abdali. For some reason, I feel obligated to explain a little more about those particular taxis. They are white, faded 70-something Mercedes Benz that carry 4 people for the lavish rate of approximately 1 Dirham through certain long routes. It is worth mentioning that such luxuries as personal space and air conditioning are non-existent and that’s where the famous hand-roll above the window evolved from. No really, if you see a guy with his hand rolled above the rolled down window holding a cigarette stuck in traffic, you can know that he’s an evolved specimen from the early Taxi driver.
And the most popular one..
(Drum roll)
Newbie from Jordan(Looking at Burj Dubai): Hatha zay Bawabet 3amman 3ina, hehe..(This is similar to Amman gate towers) It is also worth mentioning that those are the first towers to built in the mountainous city of Amman. It has taken 2 years and 2 poor Egyptian worker lives and is nowhere near completion. Ah well..

In conclusion, please leave the knife-wielding, belt-carrying, negative, complaining, bitching and moaning, tight-jeans, flat shoes - wearing, gel-styling, pinky-fingernail-growing, "p" "b"-switching, chain-cheap-cigarette smoking-Jordanian self behind.
Oo mishan Allah ma tidfa7oona, mish na2seen..

(And yes, I left this untranslated for a meaningful reason)

On Coming to Amman and Such: Part II

"Last call to all passengers on flight EK902 heading to Amman. Please proceed to gate 14. The plane is boarding now." Bellowed the speaker

"Ok it's time." I mumbled to myself as I pushed myself into the waiting room, crowded with couples holding each others' hands, children chasing each other, babies sleeping in trolleys, Asian business men with feet resting on their briefcases and a lady exchanging business cards with a man whose left hand was dug deep in his pocket.

I opened the thick, paperback novel safely coating my passport and ticket. I handed the bulky Philipino attendant my boarding pass, who fed it into the machine and handed me a chipped boarding pass. As I walked past the gate, I got a familiar, eerie shiver in my spine. It is the feeling I get when I'm in a restaurant or café and leave without my keys, cell phone, or worse important documents.

Open book. Tickets, check. Passport, check. I felt my pockets. Keys, check. I felt my butt. Wallet, check. Alter ego. I picked my brain. Ummm where's my alter ego?

I looked back at Sami who was eyeing the board flashing Emirates logo, muttering the time and flight number.

"C'mon man. We'll be late. They're already boarding." I said straddling my laptop bag.

I pointed towards the fanatic group of people shoving and pushing eagerly headed to the place that they and me call home. People who in one way or another resembled me, shared the same heritage and traditions with me, yet at the same time were nothing like me. I quickly skimmed around for babies, wondering which one will maestro the orchestra of wailing children 5 minutes into the flight.

"I don't wanna go"said Sami
"WHAT?"
"I don't wanna go. I can't"
"Why not?"
"I don't belong there anymore. I just, I can't stand it there. It doesn't feel right. I've changed"
"Don't be silly, we had a great time last summer, what's wrong with you?"
"I can't stand the familiarity, the how-have-you-beens, the could-have-dones. The questions, the meandering, the picking. The whys, the who's, the where's."

He fell silent for awhile

"I want to be alone."

I looked at the plane emblazoned with Emirates airlines logo, parked outside, with a tube stuck into its guts feeding huddling people and their luggage into it, like an umbilical cord feeding an unborn child.

"Look man. I cannot miss this flight. I already told your parents that we are coming and they're expecting us. Or me. Whatever."

"I know. Say hi to them. Will miss your mom's food. But I just can't do it."

"Sir, are you getting onto the plane?" interjected the Philipino attendant.
"Yes, yes I am" I said defiantly.

I walked into the empty waiting room and through the tunnel, my heavy steps echoing against the walls, my bag beating against my hip. I sat on my seat, beside the window, fastened my seat belt and listened to the instructions. In case of emergency, the plane has 6 emergency exits, here, here and here. In the unlikely event of ..I mumbled after the virtual waitress on my screen. An isle across from me, sat a green-eyed brunette, with a gold chain proudly displayed on her chest. She was looking directly at me, long after I broke eye contact.

Even alter-egos, in make-believe worlds, need a break.

On Dating in Amman and Such

So I noticed that things have become quite serious around here, and I'm only assuming that my fans are missing my usual quirkiness.

So here goes nothing, again..

Today my topic of selection is dating in Amman. There can be no spot on God's given earth that is more complex in this aspect than Amman. (Ok maybe Saudi Arabia)

So you managed to convince that girl in school or work to see you after office hours after lots of negotiating, offers, counter-offers, counter counter-offers, you get the picture.
Now, the girl will go out with you for 1 out of 3 reasons:
1- She has nothing better to do with her life.
2- She feels like getting a free lunch/dinner/coffee.
3- She sees potential in pursuing a relationship with you.

So the girl walks into the meeting place and peers suspiciously around, like a hunting hound sniffing for tracks. This is done for a one of two of reasons

1- She wants to check if any of her blood-thirsty, broad-shouldered, knife-wielding brothers, cousins, 2nd cousins or x-boyfriends are around. (Please check my Amman corridor post to know what I mean)
2- She wants to check if you are good-looking enough and/or rich enough to be worth the 1+ hour out of her lifetime.

Let’s assume that no major relatives or acquaintances are around and you’re not as ugly as a mountain troll. The girl approaches and sits down. You make a few silly comments about the weather or work, crack a joke or two, ask a one or two questions. And somehow the girl starts yammering about one of the things you instigated. Now, If you like the girl, and would actually like to also pursue a relationship with her the best thing to do is:

SHUT THE FUCK UP

Ok let me rephrase.

Put a sock in it. Bite your tongue. Stuff a foot in your mouth. Whatever you choose.

She doesn’t want to hear anything about your 2-day vacation in Syria with your homeys, or your fake promotion or options in your car or your cousin in Dubai who you will move with soon. Let her blabber her brains out about her shitty job, abusive boss and jealous coworkers. Fact is, the more she blabbers the more she likes you. If she sits and stares into space or plays around with her food or drink, then you’re in deep shit and pretty much ruled out already, because no, she’s not daydreaming of how awesome you are or what you will name your 3rd baby, she’s thinking about that other guy who is the exact opposite of you and doesn’t need to flaunter his alleged assets or care much for her feelings and why the hell isn’t she with him now instead of the endless bore that you are.

Here’s the tricky part. Just because her mouth is moving up and down endlessly doesn’t mean you shouldn’t understand the words are coming out of that hole called mouth because there’s a 50% chance that those words actually mean something. So I’ll strike it up a notch and say

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN.

I know how hard it is to concentrate and how easy it is to drift into thoughts about WWF, 50-inch LCD’s, Playstation 3, Pamela Anderson running on the beach naked and so but it’s worth it.

Halfway through the date women tend to fiddle with their cell phones, no matter how interesting you are. Women are in love with their cell phones and most probably she is texting her best friend whom by now knows all about you, something along the lines of “its goin good J” or “this sux L” or “am bored :@” depending on how much you listen to my advice.
So she looks at her watch and it’s 8:09PM already and she says that she must leave. I suggest you listen to what she said if you don’t want to confront her knife-wielding, tongue-twisting, 1992 BMW-riding cousins to beat the daylights out of you.
If your cell beeps a little before midnight with a gentle message wishing you a good night and sweet dreams, then you have to know you have been given the green light to ask her out for a second date.

Which I hope for your sake you don't scew up.

The Rocking Horse

Well, the natural course of thing that preludes are followed by the actual main parts..Duh..

Here goes nothing..

When I read this, it feels like someone else wrote it. Some different person, yet I know it is me, 7 years ago in a dark room, in Amman..I feel like talking to the writer. To ask him about his opinion on things. And I imagine if I ever got the chance to talk to that person I wouldn't tell him anything, I wouldn't open my mouth.. I would just like to sit there and listen for hours and hear out his naive, childish opinions on life, love and dreams and hopes he holds on to them as long as possible..

And so it goes..

It was quiet, star-less summer night. Large, gray clouds veiled a silver, luminous moon. It appeared like a shy, young girl hiding foolishly behind transparent curtains. A gentle breeze blew sending involuntary shivers all over my body. The breeze carried the scent of wild jasmine and the sweet smell of strawberry-flavored argeeleh smoke.
I looked upon our “football-field” A dusty road .Two rocks were sufficient to make a goal. The constant kicking, stomping and occasional falling of the kids sent a cloud of dust making the kids seem like restless ghosts. I shifted my sight to the balcony next to ours. A miserable, tense teenager sunk deep into his tawjihi textbook, clenching it tightly like a pirate would clench to his treasure map. He wandered back and forth like a newborn gazelle that has lost its mother, unnoticing my sympathetic eyes. From the horizon the figure of an exhausted, filthy yet strongly built man shaped. It was the cotton candy guy. He was empty-handed except for a single pack of cotton candy. Usually, he would shake the whole neighborhood with his fresh, joyous shouts and sweet tunes of his harmonica. Today he was mysteriously silent.

The doorbell rang destroying my utopia. I opened the door. The heart-warming face of my father greeted me. “We have visitors” he said. With him was a ragged, untidy man in his mid-thirties. His unshaved beard made him look like a werewolf. He had clumsy features and dark, vacant eyes. He smiled baring yellow, smoke-stained teeth. Holding his hand tightly was a 7 or 8-year-old kid. He wore jeans shots baring bony, hairless legs. On his wrist was a large Casio watch with all its unnecessary accessories. He seemed anxious. Something was familiar about that kid. I realized I was staring at a mirror image of myself 10 years ago. The guests entered.
“We’re gonna sell our rocking horse” my father whispered into my ear. I was dumbstruck. All of my childhood memories hid inside that horse just like the Greek soldiers hid in the Trojan Horse before opening the city for their final assault. I guided our guests to the horse. I turned on the lights of the basement to reveal the horse. He seemed older and weaker than last time I saw him. Dust covered him and rust built-up between his hinges. Some spider even built cobwebs all over his body. The kid jumped enthusiastically on his back. He smiled a wide, ear-to-ear smile as he rocked back and forth, back and forth. Bittersweet memories rocked in my mind, just like the horse; Most kids enjoyed pretending to shoot each other to death, harassing girls or beating the Hell out of a defenseless kid. Yet on his back I slayed hundreds of sinister, cold-blooded dragons, I dueled valiant, iron-covered knights and saved the beautiful Princess before escaping with her to a deserted island. When the darkness of my bedroom would seem too scary and threatening, I would take refuge next to him and he would protect me from all the goblins and ugly trolls. I used to spend hours caressing his hair and stroking him gently; he would answer with a smile .He taught me the secrets of the universe in exchange for a few lousy cookies I fed him. Sometimes I would talk about the real-life dragons I lost against, I would complain about the bullying “knight” of my schoolyard and weep over the Princess whose heart I tried uselessly to win. He would nod understandingly and sometimes, just sometimes, he would speak with a god-like voice lightening my burden. Then we would share our triumphs and forget my losses. He was my best friend.

“I want it Daddy, I want it!” the kid cried beggingly. “You can have it” I answered unbelieving the words I just said. The kids’ eyes twinkled like little stars and he jumped up and down like a bunny. “Thank you, thank you!” he repeated. The kid’s father carried the horse away. Conflicting emotions raced inside me. My eyes moistened and my lower lip trembled as I bid the horse farewell. I managed a crooked, half-smile, knowing that another kid’s childhood has just started.

The horse winked back to me.

The End(for now)