Things I will remember about Kuwait

I normally like to write coherent posts, with a beginning, middle and end but – a little like life in Kuwait – this post is going to be a bit incoherent, filled with pieces and parts that don’t quite fit together but are tantalizingly close to adding up to something. I’m just not sure what, yet.

So – welcome to my Kuwaiti-fied world, a place I inhabited for upwards of two years. Here’s a smattering of sticky bits which will cling inside my brain for the rest of my living days. (I anticipate more coherent posts are still to come. Probably.)

Things I will remember about Kuwait:

The daily heat-soaked crackle of the Arabian sun hanging in a spotless blue sky

Brushing my teeth year-round with warm water

Getting scalded in the shower due to the water pre-baking in our rooftop tank on 120-degree summer days.

Mud rain leaving sandy brown splotches on our silver car

SUVS regularly crossing three lanes of traffic to exit the highway at the last moment

Holding my breath every time we circled through a traffic roundabout, praying – inshallah – that we’ll make it through unscathed even as the surrounding cars continually threaten to scrape or T-bone us.

The compact white busses everywhere, used as private school busses and to transport groups of third-country national workers to and from work. Most come equipped with little window curtains.

Porsches, Bentleys, Maseratis – Oh my! Luxury cars everywhere, even parked carelessly half in the road or halfway across a parking spot.

Witnessing children who have popped their heads up through their vehicle’s sunroof / Kids bobbing around in a car’s back seat / Babies sitting in the lap of a driving mother – all while the cars careen down the road.

Flipping from station to station on the car radio, hearing only male voices singing traditional Arabic music until we hear Lizzo purr “It’s about damn time” from the BBC World Service station

Mile after mile of massive three to four story villas stacked one after the other with no room between.

Charming little roadside water fountains (sabeel) in neighborhoods, shaped like little Kuwait water towers or giant coffee pots or lanterns

White-robed Bidoon (stateless Arabs) walking the median at traffic lights, selling scarves or head dresses.

The ‘banana men’ sitting by the side of the roundabout, with a fold out table and metal hanging rack selling tiny yellow bananas.

The ‘ice cream men’ sitting by the side of the road on folding chairs near their small, refrigerated bike carts

The ‘watermelon man,’ parked in a sandy field near our grocery store with the pickup truck loaded with watermelons.

Wondering how any of the men above make a living, with so few people stopping to buy their wares?

The sight of a sharp metal scythe carelessly placed on my windowsill the day the workers came to shimmy up our palm tree to cut down the ripe dates from their netting.

Hearing the call to prayer played in the grocery store and, upon our return home, hearing the Friday morning sermon broadcast from our neighborhood mosque while we unload our groceries from the car.

Getting up during the night and hearing the muezzin’s voice echoing in through the bathroom window.

The smell of perfume—permeating my son’s clothing and homework on his return from school each day and wafting out from my Kuwait dinar bills in my wallet and clinging to any clothes I purchased at a mall when I pull them out to try them on again.

Dodging the numerous perfume sellers offering to spray hubby or me, a job held at the fancier malls generally by handsome men wearing dark suits.

Spotting at the mall a woman swathed in head to toe black, with even her eye slit veiled, so she was guided by her companion.

Regularly seeing billboards advertising the services of plastic surgeons for women. Witnessing the results of those services on the faces of the women I see at the mall.

Being truly impressed by the eyeliner and eyebrow pencil skills of the local women. My own face is always so…bare.

Sifting through the Kuwait-themed goods for sale in shops in February. We think the US loves its Red, White and Blue? I see you and raise you to Kuwait’s love of Red, White and Green (and Black!). The flag is everywhere in February – even in giant multi-story form hanging from balconies – and in multicolor light displays outside, similar to our Christmas holiday decorations.

Appreciating the thoughtful sideways head bobble by our Indian handymen and our housecleaner when a decision is being made.

Being addressed as “Madam” (me) and “Sir” (Wil) when interacting with service staff.

Welcoming a tiny gecko, small as my fist, who sunned himself on the wall outside my home office.

Chuckling at the four roosters who became frequent visitors to our front yard during our final couple of months in our home

Cats, cats and more cats, especially the sleek, scrawny, long-eared Arabian Maus who leisurely patrolled the neighborhood.

Catching sight from the highway of flocks of camels ambling along in the desert.

Waiting to resume my YouTube workout video while ads in Arabic encouraged me to visit amusement parks in Dubai or to wash my dishes with Fairy liquid or my dishdashas with Tide.

The portraits of the smiling Emir and Crown Prince always on display throughout the city and the closures of businesses and museums on the day the Emir died.

The odd experience of having an actual palace – Bayan Palace – in my neighborhood and regularly driving by grand, ornate residences owned by members of the royal family.

Passing the ruins of a bombed royal palace, a relic of the Gulf War, on our weekly drive to the grocery store.

Savoring every glimpse I gained of the shimmering azure water of the Arabian Gulf, sparkling as we drove along the Gulf Road.

In the evening, looking up past palm trees to admire a full moon, floating in a purple sky.