One of the best parts about living in Riyadh is drinking tea. The tea doesn't burst with interesting and exotic flavors like you'll find in Miss Tammy's Tea House in Boise. It isn't served by a shy, whispering girl who pours it from a charmingly crafted tea pot like you would find in Hong Kong. The tea itself isn't the the part I like, but the act of drinking it. Drinking tea means I'm sitting down with someone worth talking to, enjoying something warm in an overly air-conditioned building. I drink it with my work friends when our patients are tucked away snugly in their beds. I drink it with my patients when they offer, and we attempt a conversation in Arabic. I drink it with my Syrian family when I hang out at their house, laughing with the three guys as we watch YouTube videos on our iPhones while we listen to the news about the Syrian civil war in the background.
The tea does good things for my mood, but bad things to my teeth. After going nine months without seeing a dentist, the tea stains on my teeth were grossing me out. My teeth were starting to look like those found in the men working in the Riyadh souks who have feet covered in callouses and deep yellow armpit stains on their thobes. I'm too vain to let that look go for long, so I faced my fear of having my mouth ruined by an incompetent dental hygienist and called up the dentist recommended by the hospital. I had heard about the clunky van that picks you up and drops you off half an hour away, but it was going to be worth it to have a recommended dentist change my pearly browns back to pearly whites without accidentally knocking out an incisor in the process.
I stood outside my apartment complex waiting for the hunk of junk to pick me up, and after about five minutes an acquaintance stopped for a second to say hi to me. We chatted for a minute about dentists, then she said that she was also on her way to the dentist. As luck would have it, she had been to the one I planned on seeing, but she preferred the one within walking distance. If that's not a sign, I don't know what is. I told her I would join her, then cancelled my appointment as we walked through the beige labyrinth of walls that separates the hospital's massive construction site from the footpath taking us to the compound's main road.
The two of us chatted away as we hurriedly walked along Riyadh's sidewalks, otherwise known as the pedestrian death-zone. After we made it to the dentist's office miraculously unharmed, we approached the niqab-clad receptionist. My day really couldn't have gone any better because they had an opening for a cleaning right away. I stepped into a room that didn't do much to instill confidence. In fact, I don't think I had seen a dental chair and spit basin that old since...well, maybe ever. That didn't stop me. It was my lucky day and those tea stains needed to come off.
The hygienist came in and said in the classic Philippino sing-song fashion, "Helloooo maaaaaa'aaaam. How are youuuuuu?" She placed a pink napkin on my upper chest, then wrapped the chain around the back of my neck to clip it into place. She handed me some goggles. I've never needed safety equipment at a dentist's office before, but since there isn't much safety equipment on the numerous construction sites, I figure the universe has a way of balancing out. I put my goggles on and hoped for the best. She took about the same length of time as my hygeinist, Marcie, takes in Arizona. Then she left the room to find the dentist. While she was gone, I hopped out of the chair and took a peek in the mirror. She did an amazing job! They looked like my teeth would look if I hadn't sipped my weight in tea over the past few months.
I climbed back in the old-school dental chair, then ran my tongue over my smooth teeth and wondered why I had been so hesitant to go to a dentist in a foreign country. At that moment a man in his late 30's entered and completely justified my fears. He raised his aviator glasses with the air of someone who just stepped out of a leased red Ferrari. His oversized wrist watch looked heavier than my purse, and he was wrapping up a conversation on his Bluetooth.
The dentist traded eye contact for eye-mouth contact, then asked me to show off my choppers. I opened. I closed. I made no objection to the round mirror being inserted. As he had me in the "open wide" position with a mirror in my mouth, he did what all dentists like to do and asked me a question. Why do they do that? They know we can't answer properly with something preventing us from naturally moving our lips, tongue and jaws. It seems that they all like to show off their ability to understand a language known only to other dentists. Whatever the reason, he understood when I answered the question of where I'm from by telling him "A-air-a-ha." He proudly announced that he went to dental school in Arkansas. That did little to dispel my fears.
He took his fingers and tools out of my mouth, then had me bite one more time for a better inspection. He said, "Mashallah! If everyone had teeth like you, I wouldn't have a job. You are starting to have a few cavities forming near the back, but if you brush them a little more they'll be fine. Really, your teeth look beautiful."
I don't know why I always find myself doing this, but for some reason I need to let everyone who compliments my teeth know that they cost a lot of pain and my parents' money. I told him that I had braces for a couple years, and before the braces I had to have a surgery to expand my upper palate. He put the gloves back on, then took a look at the handiwork of the oral surgeon who separated the roof of my mouth 18 years ago. He complimented the surgeon, then again complimented my teeth. This time he said something about my teeth making my face, and especially my eyes, look pretty. I love how flattering Arab men are, but sometimes it makes me wonder the degree of innocence in their sweet words.
He left the room, presumably to do something dentisty. The sweet Philippina applied a fluoride treatment, then unclipped my bib. I wondered how much my bill came to as I walked towards the niqab-clad receptionist, wondering if my 700 riyals (roughly $185) would be enough. I asked her how much I owed, and she answered, "150 riyals." A hundred and fifty riyals! Forty bucks!!! Holy crap, am I in Mexico? I guess the answer to that question is, "Yeah, kind of."
I felt like I got a great deal on my lucky day as I walked out of the dental office. As I walked on the dusty marble stairs leading to the dusty streets, I noticed the dentist smoking near the door. I cheerfully waved and thanked him again. He flashed a smile, then said something that would have surprised me if I hadn't spent the past two years surrounded by Arab men. He said, "You know, you really should come back soon. Your upper molar is completely black and needs a filling." Yeah, I know that trick. I'll stick with the original, pre-flirtatious suggestion and just brush a little more. He wasn't an unattractive man, and he certainly liked spending money. Maybe if I meet a cute girl who has a thing for flashy dentists, I'll send her over for a cleaning. Who knows? If things go well he might ask her out for tea.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
"Iraq! Iraq! Iraq!" (That's my Arabic for "Fight! Fight! Fight!")
I’m a lover, not a fighter. Haha! Who am I kidding? I can be a real scrapper and there are few things I love more than giving a jerk a taste of their own medicine plus some. Saudi Arabia brings out the worst in people, and the longer I’m here the less it takes to bring out my inner fighter.
A little while ago I went with my friend Aladdine to a compound bar. We were outside eating our dinner at a picnic table when a man in his late 50’s walked over to us and asked if he could share our space with him while he finished his pint of beer. We agreed, then braced ourselves for the standard barrage of questions that accompanies any introduction here in Riyadh.
He looked at Aladdine and asked in a thick South African accent, “Are you Saudi?”
“No, I’m half Syrian, half-Lebanese.”
Then he looked at me. “And what about you?”
“I’m American.”
The man snorted, then nastily replied, “That’s your problem.”
I gave him “the American look” then continued my conversation with Aladdine.
The man ignored the obvious by asking, “Am I interrupting something?”
Aladdine showed more politeness than I felt like this guy deserved and answered, “No, not at all.” Those were the last words out of his mouth until the older guy left, opting instead for a front row seat of a verbal smack-down.
Then the guy decided to really make his feelings about Americans known. He said, “I would never work for a Saudi company or an American company. I’ll work for a British company or a German company, but I stay away from American companies.”
“I believe you. You probably can’t handle the work ethic Americans have. We don’t tolerate laziness the way other countries do.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s that Americans take care of their own.”
Hmmm…I’ve never heard or seen that one before. Americans are more performance-based than any other country I’ve seen. If anything, we’re guilty of NOT taking care of our own in the workforce because we’re frequently overly capitalistic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that one of the main premises behind Occupy Wall Street?
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I train people for my job and I’ve often seen it in American companies where the person I’ll train gets a promotion ahead of me if they’re American.”
“It’s probably because they do the job better than you.”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve had excellence awards for the past four years.”
“Then it probably has to do with your abrasive personality and your lack of people skills.”
“I don’t have an abrasive personality.”
“Yes you do. You interrupted a total stranger’s conversation only to insult their country. You don’t think that’s rude?”
“You’re taking this all the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s nothing personal.”
“I’m not taking it personally, I just think you lack the social skills that Americans value, so you’ll never get ahead in an American system. I think you’re a total ass hole, and I’m sure I’m not the first American to tell you that.”
“You Americans are all the same!”
“Why are you talking to me then? Isn’t there somewhere else you can sit?”
At that he walked away and mumbled, “Typical American.”
“Thanks!”
Aladdine looked at me and began to laugh. Yeah, he enjoyed the show. He said, “As soon as that man said that being an American was your problem, I knew you would get him. You would let him sit there, say a few things, then you would attack him and make him look like an ass.”
Mission accomplished.
A little while ago I went with my friend Aladdine to a compound bar. We were outside eating our dinner at a picnic table when a man in his late 50’s walked over to us and asked if he could share our space with him while he finished his pint of beer. We agreed, then braced ourselves for the standard barrage of questions that accompanies any introduction here in Riyadh.
He looked at Aladdine and asked in a thick South African accent, “Are you Saudi?”
“No, I’m half Syrian, half-Lebanese.”
Then he looked at me. “And what about you?”
“I’m American.”
The man snorted, then nastily replied, “That’s your problem.”
I gave him “the American look” then continued my conversation with Aladdine.
The man ignored the obvious by asking, “Am I interrupting something?”
Aladdine showed more politeness than I felt like this guy deserved and answered, “No, not at all.” Those were the last words out of his mouth until the older guy left, opting instead for a front row seat of a verbal smack-down.
Then the guy decided to really make his feelings about Americans known. He said, “I would never work for a Saudi company or an American company. I’ll work for a British company or a German company, but I stay away from American companies.”
“I believe you. You probably can’t handle the work ethic Americans have. We don’t tolerate laziness the way other countries do.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s that Americans take care of their own.”
Hmmm…I’ve never heard or seen that one before. Americans are more performance-based than any other country I’ve seen. If anything, we’re guilty of NOT taking care of our own in the workforce because we’re frequently overly capitalistic. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that one of the main premises behind Occupy Wall Street?
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I train people for my job and I’ve often seen it in American companies where the person I’ll train gets a promotion ahead of me if they’re American.”
“It’s probably because they do the job better than you.”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve had excellence awards for the past four years.”
“Then it probably has to do with your abrasive personality and your lack of people skills.”
“I don’t have an abrasive personality.”
“Yes you do. You interrupted a total stranger’s conversation only to insult their country. You don’t think that’s rude?”
“You’re taking this all the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s nothing personal.”
“I’m not taking it personally, I just think you lack the social skills that Americans value, so you’ll never get ahead in an American system. I think you’re a total ass hole, and I’m sure I’m not the first American to tell you that.”
“You Americans are all the same!”
“Why are you talking to me then? Isn’t there somewhere else you can sit?”
At that he walked away and mumbled, “Typical American.”
“Thanks!”
Aladdine looked at me and began to laugh. Yeah, he enjoyed the show. He said, “As soon as that man said that being an American was your problem, I knew you would get him. You would let him sit there, say a few things, then you would attack him and make him look like an ass.”
Mission accomplished.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Ana Lazim Shoof Woozen (That's my Arabic for "I Need to See Your Weight")
One thing I’ll never get tired of is watching people get on a scale. The scale on my unit is prominently displayed next to the nurses’ station, inviting everyone from the housekeepers to the members of the royal family to see how their body handles not getting enough exercise.
Saudis bodies come in two main sizes: XXXS and XXXL. They are either stick figures or watermelons. There’s the occasional outlier with a healthy body shape, but for the most part their weights are as extreme as their culture.
Whenever a group of gangly teenage girls walks through the unit, the scale is a more popular pit stop than Starbucks. They make a big production of it, with everyone around promising not to look but peeking anyway and giggling as they compare weights with each other. Although their abayas hide the main outline of their figures, the scale hides nothing. They frequently click their tongues in disgust, hoping one day they will have a normal body weight.
Even better than the giddy girls is a crowd of adult men. As they hoist their portly bodies on the scale, there is no pretense of wishing to hide their weight. The other men in the group hover over the scale monitor, cheering when it shows that their other thobe wearing friends are equally unhealthy.
As amusing as these frequent occurrences are, they’ve become predictable, a rarity in this unpredictable land. What is unpredictable, however, is how individual patients will each react when the nurse enters their rooms at 4:00 AM with the scale to take their daily weight.
Last week’s weight story weighed in at the best scale story so far. My patient was a cranky old man who was not quite 100% with it mentally. His son kept him company that night and listened to his incessant complaining. By the time I entered the room to take his 4:00 AM vitals and weight, the son had reached the end of his patience for his father. I told the patient that I needed to take his weight and he quickly refused. I didn’t push it. He’s old, he’s tired, he’s not feeling well, and even more importantly I would have to do a whole lot of assisting to get the old guy up to the scale. I let him know it was no problem, and began to leave the room.
Then the son stepped in. His lack of sleep combined with obvious frustration with his father kicked him into full gear. He told the father that we were going to take his weight whether he liked it or not. At this point he scooped the father up like he was crossing a bride over the threshold. Unlike the blushing bride, the father began yelling and squirming, somehow managing to shift the waist of his pants to below his scrawny rump. The son struggled to take the four steps to the scale, then dumped the father onto the scale. The pants dropped to the dad’s ankles, the dad yelled the entire time, and the son looked like he couldn’t wait to have one of his family members replace him at the bedside. After the weight was recorded, the son tried to lift the father up by the waist to put him back in bed. Nope! Nothing would be that easy! The father yelled, “Laaaaaaaaa!” (Arabic for “Noooooo!”) and held on to the scale handle as the son lifted the lower half of his body up. The dad acted the role of the world’s most awkward, immodest Superman while I pried his arthritic fingers off the handles and the son yelled at his dad to stop doing everything that crazy dads do that piss their kids off.
I somehow managed to suppress a laugh throughout this ordeal, then left the room as quickly as I could once I saw that the dad made it safely back to bed. With scale in tow, I left the room and saw one of my coworkers gape-mouthed and wide-eyed. She asked me what happened, and all I could do was laugh and point at the scale. No further explanation needed.
Saudis bodies come in two main sizes: XXXS and XXXL. They are either stick figures or watermelons. There’s the occasional outlier with a healthy body shape, but for the most part their weights are as extreme as their culture.
Whenever a group of gangly teenage girls walks through the unit, the scale is a more popular pit stop than Starbucks. They make a big production of it, with everyone around promising not to look but peeking anyway and giggling as they compare weights with each other. Although their abayas hide the main outline of their figures, the scale hides nothing. They frequently click their tongues in disgust, hoping one day they will have a normal body weight.
Even better than the giddy girls is a crowd of adult men. As they hoist their portly bodies on the scale, there is no pretense of wishing to hide their weight. The other men in the group hover over the scale monitor, cheering when it shows that their other thobe wearing friends are equally unhealthy.
As amusing as these frequent occurrences are, they’ve become predictable, a rarity in this unpredictable land. What is unpredictable, however, is how individual patients will each react when the nurse enters their rooms at 4:00 AM with the scale to take their daily weight.
Last week’s weight story weighed in at the best scale story so far. My patient was a cranky old man who was not quite 100% with it mentally. His son kept him company that night and listened to his incessant complaining. By the time I entered the room to take his 4:00 AM vitals and weight, the son had reached the end of his patience for his father. I told the patient that I needed to take his weight and he quickly refused. I didn’t push it. He’s old, he’s tired, he’s not feeling well, and even more importantly I would have to do a whole lot of assisting to get the old guy up to the scale. I let him know it was no problem, and began to leave the room.
Then the son stepped in. His lack of sleep combined with obvious frustration with his father kicked him into full gear. He told the father that we were going to take his weight whether he liked it or not. At this point he scooped the father up like he was crossing a bride over the threshold. Unlike the blushing bride, the father began yelling and squirming, somehow managing to shift the waist of his pants to below his scrawny rump. The son struggled to take the four steps to the scale, then dumped the father onto the scale. The pants dropped to the dad’s ankles, the dad yelled the entire time, and the son looked like he couldn’t wait to have one of his family members replace him at the bedside. After the weight was recorded, the son tried to lift the father up by the waist to put him back in bed. Nope! Nothing would be that easy! The father yelled, “Laaaaaaaaa!” (Arabic for “Noooooo!”) and held on to the scale handle as the son lifted the lower half of his body up. The dad acted the role of the world’s most awkward, immodest Superman while I pried his arthritic fingers off the handles and the son yelled at his dad to stop doing everything that crazy dads do that piss their kids off.
I somehow managed to suppress a laugh throughout this ordeal, then left the room as quickly as I could once I saw that the dad made it safely back to bed. With scale in tow, I left the room and saw one of my coworkers gape-mouthed and wide-eyed. She asked me what happened, and all I could do was laugh and point at the scale. No further explanation needed.
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