Thursday, December 18, 2008

Train to Riyadh

--December, 2008: Saudi Arabia










I closed my eyes, and I could see the Arabian Gulf just as I had left it that afternoon. The sun was still cruel at the edge of the desert, but the invading dust had settled, and everything had been swept clean. Hard daylight made the water look glassy and deceptively cool just beyond the salt-caked beach. There was no sign of the bombs being tossed somewhere beyond the sharp horizon. Still, it was a world at loggerheads with the heat.
I opened my eyes, touched my own reflection in the window, and waited for the present to overtake me. Time was different here. My mind tried to race to the tempo of the countryside slipping by—a sallow wasteland lapping at the window, making me forget, trying to make me sleep.

There were large stones scattered over the desert floor. Random boulders stood sentinel, like Lot’s wife turned to salt over and over again. Ghastly shapes looked on from a distance. Smooth stretches of sand flowed behind them and down the rippling valleys among the dunes, crisp against the sky. Moments became hours as the beige land rolled and tripped beneath the scrub. Gradually, the tired afternoon sun coaxed golden highlights and long, comfortable shadows from the underbrush.

A pair of shining, dark eyes appeared over the top of the seat in front, and smiled. They were too big for their tiny face, too beautiful. I winked playfully, first left then right. They laughed, and bounced out of sight, down into the muffled rhythm of the train.

A few moments of childish whimpering, and the eyes reappeared across the aisle. They belonged to a little girl dressed in taffeta and crinoline. She sat on the lap of a kindly old man. In his desert-soiled ghutra and thob—the shifting gingham head-cloth and Biblical white robe—he was Abraham playing across time with the new Hagar. She prodded the old Bedouin, and he pushed her gently, both of them toying and cooing.

Ma tibghi hada?—don’t you want this?” His large, fleshy hand dangled a shiny bracelet before her eyes.
La, la.” She pushed it away. But her dark eyes flashed coyly, and she began pulling gently at the teasing hand. “Illa, abgha, abgha...—I want it, I want it!”

Narju intiba...!” The public address system spewed a flood of static and feedback into the coach. I straightened my back against the cool vinyl, and gathered my quilted jacket up off the seat. In spite of the stifling heat outside, the train’s air-conditioned comfort had turned to wintry cold.

Electrical sputtering dissolved into a clear sound, the unmistakable music of the Arabs. An enchanting rhythm swept over us, as the sound of tortured stringed instruments ebbed and flowed. Joyous and plaintive; passionate, seductive. Unashamed of itself, it stirred, deep beneath the skin.

Through half-closed eyes, I watched the Bedouin and the child. Caught up in the unsettling music, she began to struggle against his fatherly embrace until, like water through a broken dam, she poured across his lap. A spark of grace seemed to pass through her as her toes touched the floor.

She began to dance, with the old man watching her in simple adoration. She spread her small arms softly to her sides, first one, then the other. In perfect time with the warming rhythm, her hips began to rise and fall, a child’s parody of adult sensuality. The movement, small and tentative at first, grew with the music, and she scanned the crowd for admiring faces. She saw my drowsy smile, and laughed.


The door opened suddenly at the end of the coach, and a portly, middle-aged Pakistani emerged from the din. He hopped and stumbled into the aisle with his carton of refreshments pressed against a half-raised thigh. His young Sri Lankan assistant followed, fighting with the access door behind them and muttering under his breath. In a tightly swung arc, the carton’s weight brought the vendor to what should have been his first customer, an urbane Saudi gentleman immaculately attired in Biblical polyester. But the gentleman recoiled as the carton of stock landed with an assertive thud on his armrest. At the same time, the assistant lost his battle with the door and plowed into his supervisor, who in turn thrust the carton onto the hapless passenger’s spotless white robe.

The Saudi glared at the filthy container pinning him to his seat. His anger surfaced a moment later, and rumbled. The Sri Lankan’s dark eyes flitted nervously among the passengers. I looked away, unable to cope with Laurel and Hardy in third-world translation. Once again, I let the desert, the train, and the music lull me to complacency.


“Hi! Hoe are you? Fine? Fine? Hoe are you?” The vendor seized my hand and shook it vigorously, with an engaging, crooked smile across perfectly straight teeth.

“I’m fine. Fine…thank you…and how are you doing…this weekend?” My voice bounced along above our locked and bobbing hands. I struggled out of my stupor and tried not to stare at the fascinating stains on his once-white shirt. “What happened to the fast train?” I asked, reclaiming my hand.

A muddled cloud dampened his sparkle. He looked down at the largest stain, disoriented.

“I thought they were going to put on a fast train to Riyadh,” I explained. “Sometime this week, wasn’t it?”

“Fast? Train? No. No fast train. Ah, yes! Apter one month, fast train apter one month.” His tone was more authoritative than it needed to be.

“Oh, it’s a month now, is it? That’ll be some time before the Second Coming, I guess.” I tugged absently at loose threads, winning my battle with guilt. This was my time for soaking up the Kingdom, for peaceful contemplation. Society and manners would just have to wait; school, in short, was out.

“Fast train. Apter one month. New. All new. Different. All new and different.” Each word was a scaled mountain. I gestured that I had no need of refreshments, he echoed a few good-byes, and I waved foolishly, immediately regretting my lack of Judeo-Christian charity.

The large man shouldered his wares and pushed on, with his assistant trailing meekly behind him. After the dark perma-pressed trousers ambled out of sight, a handful of coins clinked against the seat’s metal parts. They came to a muffled landing on the threadbare carpet that ran the full length of the coach. The Sri Lankan’s square shoulders fell to the floor, and his bony hands darted frantically across the wine-colored runner silently retrieving the coins. With each movement of his lean back, printed flowers danced on his silk shirt against the glaring overhead light.

Then the music stopped.

The silent backwash was instantly flooded with train clatter and conversation in half a dozen tongues. With the little dancer cuddled on his lap, the old Bedouin turned a deeply furrowed, desert-worn face to the rear of the coach. He stared expectantly at a small space where seats had been removed to create a place for prayer. His heavily brilliantined head of jet-black hair tossed a pungent, sweet scent into the lingering bouquet of gamy chicken and spice.

Beyond the polished hair, a lithe Saudi teenager sprang to his full, imposing height. As he stepped into the aisle, his head-dress slipped awkwardly to one side. Long fingers reached up to adjust the flowing, white sumada, setting it more securely on the embroidered skull cap. He repositioned the simple black crown that held it in place, then tossed the loose fall back over his shoulders. Tugging gently at the soft, white cloth, he brought it to a jaunty peak over his high forehead. Suddenly, he bent down over his friend, who had looked away from the narrowing horizon still glowing across the desert. They whispered mischievously to each other; then the towering youth turned to walk up the aisle and join the others for prayer. His right hand seemed to pull him along, swaying limply out in front.

As he passed, another young Saudi greeted my obvious curiosity from across the aisle. He had the face of a cherub oddly punctuated with a scraggly beard.

“You are Muslim?” His accent in English was soft, his manner gentle.

“No. Ana masihi,” I said, returning the language favor. Messianic, I said—a charming, primal word for Christian, with portentous possibilities.
Titkallam ‘arabi?”

Shweya bass. Adrus—I’m learning Arabic, but I still can’t speak it very well,” I recited in textbook Arabic.

Lazim tisallim—You must be Muslim. You, you will become Muslim.”

“Why?” I said in English, stifling an indignant chuckle.

“Because the man is not happy.” Just then he seemed to take on a guru’s glow. “The man is not happy,” he repeated, “because there are many changes. Some are good, but together they are not good. Islam will help you to be happy. Lazim tisallim—you must become Muslim.” Judging from his unfailing grin, it had made him very happy indeed.

“But how do you know, in this country, if a woman is beautiful?” I challenged without meaning to, this time.

Lazim tisallim. Then you will know.”

Inshallah—God willing,” I said, to respect and to end the conversation.

Inshallah,” he replied, and stood for prayer-call as two columns of black cloth floated between us.


I turned toward the rich ochre tones filtering through mottled glass, and counted five camels in the distance. They were running fluidly across the sand, their legs gathering, reaching, gathering and reaching. In my mind, I could hear the music playing again; and my own muscles flexed and relaxed, over and over, as I watched the camels.

The forward thrust in the neck, the supple flow. Legs gathering, reaching, gathering—
“It's a show,” I whispered to no one in particular. The dark eyes smiled at me again over the top of the seat. “It’s the Greatest Show on Earth,” I said, smiling back. I thought of black columns, and floated between the desert and the dream.

Thrust, flow, gather, reach—
Alhamdulillah.

Thrust, flow, gather, reach—

Praise God.

And I slept.
































© Copyright 2008 by Cary Kamarat . All rights reserved.

Please share your travel experiences and impressions by clicking on the word ‘comments’ below. Alternatively, send your comments to the author directly at dinosasha@juno.com.



Monday, November 24, 2008

American Powwow

--November, 2008: Nanticoke Indian Country, Delaware




Powwow is the Native American way of visiting with old friends and making new ones. In the time between two harvests, the Nanticoke Indian Powwow brought the nations together beneath towering stands of maple, oak, and pine. It was a day when the rhythms of the drum connected old and new Americans with each other, with Mother Earth, and with Spirit, in the Indian way.




I had driven inland about ten miles from the Delaware coast, to the town of Millsboro. Down the road from the Nanticoke Museum, I parked in a large clearing bordered by lush walls of sassafras and grapevine hung with over-ripe fruit. Smiling volunteers guided me to where newly painted tractors pulled the long carts that carried visitors from their cars to the ceremonies deep in the woods.

I chose to walk along the trail to spend more time with sweet, rich country smells. Between one tractor and the next, there was just enough time to imagine what it was like to live on this fertile land in the time of the First Nations, walking toward the Powwow grounds with the drumming and music getting closer and closer.





When I reached the crowded clearing, it reminded me of one of those little villages in Europe that go from town to country in a few short steps—no tapering off, no suburbia, no milling around on the edge of town. Look one way, and it’s countryside, wild and free; look the other, and it’s the bustle of civilization—or in this case, what looked like the social event of the year. The dances and honor songs hadn’t even begun, but the event was clearly in full swing.









Scanning the crowd, I realized how much the American Indian Powwow has come to resemble a really large church picnic, at least in Nanticoke Country. Not altogether inappropriate, since the United Methodist Church had provided lots of manpower and logistic support for the event. But in the midst of all that apple-pie familiarity, there was something else going on.



I could see that the Powwow had done more than gather in the Nanticoke Nation. The range of traditional dress ran from mere traces—a ribboned fringe, a hair-tie, a feather—to full if not flamboyant attire; and there was a very full racial and ethnic range of people sporting all the variations. It was obvious that truly all the nations the Nanticoke had embraced throughout the years—including the tribes of Europe and Africa—had been duly gathered in.



I thought of all the Americans I’ve known who have claimed Indian heritage, from one-half or one-quarter, down to even the tiniest percent. In a sense, all of us must have a certain share in our common Native American heritage, simply by virtue of having been born in Indian country. After all, people of European background claim African heritage by birth on African soil; and humankind is tribal, global and everything in between. Enlightened by my Sunday morning epiphany, I no longer felt like an outsider looking in. Neighborly ease and friendly folks helped me feel welcome as I went off in search of severed roots.


I had been advised to bring my own chair, since Powwows don’t always have enough seating for all comers. A blanket was all it took to reserve a place in the dancers’ circle, on the benches just inside the roped-off arena. These were filled to capacity, along with much of the outside ring of folding chairs. Some spectators sat as if they were there for the duration, chatting as comfortably as on a home visit. But the sitting and rising of a constantly milling crowd seemed to give everyone the rest they needed, when they needed it. There was a clear sense of ‘go with the flow’ that made room for all important things. I followed the crowd through a pervading scent of pine, toward the beckoning smell of barbecue and fry bread.



For all the heavenly smells, I had a devil of a time finding plain fry bread with nothing on it. I wasn’t looking for the taco variety, or barbecue—just that deep-fried doughy experience so bad for the arteries but so good for the soul. When I finally got around to burying half my face in all the soulful goodness, I got several understanding grins from passers-by. One woman teased, “Good, isn’t it?”—winking as if we were old friends from way back—her long, dark braids falling gracefully over a sky-blue dress, down to the matching fringed blanket she carried over her arm. She seemed to accept the muffled enthusiasm of my choked reply as all the response that was needed.


I had missed the morning service that opened the Powwow, and was told there had been nothing particularly ‘Native-traditional’ about it. “Just a United Methodist service,” according to my angel of information. I could never understand how a faith imposed by conquerors could develop such firm roots that they managed to survive such a long history of abuse. But faith and love seem to dwell comfortably in the present, along with the Powwow.

The Grand Entry—an opening parade of elders, dancers, and organizers into the arena—is another positive, modern twist on potentially oppressive memories. Preceded and honored by the American flag and other banners, the entry seems to carry no negative trace of its forerunner, which was the forced procession through town announcing Indian dances for public amusement. There is, indeed, a very strong sense of honor and decorum as the flag, normally carried by U.S. Veterans, signals respect for the duality of modern Native American existence. There is both respect for this country and for all who have fought for it as well as memorial honor for all the ancestors who have fought against it.
The song that framed the Grand Entry seemed to meld everything physical and spiritual around us. Chief Norwood had handed me a kind of holy-card along with his welcome:

“Jesus Loves You, Celebrate! God is Love. He wants you to remember your Spirit...”

And with the sudden silence still reverberating at the end of the procession, an opening prayer carried the same American Indian sensibility forward, into the dance:

“God of all creation and of all people, we come together today to worship you...”

The dancers had all been encouraged to wear traditional clothing, but no one was left out when the moment came. And there were dances for everyone—the gentle, understated movement of the women’s dance, the informal solemnity of the dance for veterans, the stumbling innocence of the dance for tiny tots, the dazzling color and bold strength of the warrior’s dance. The list went on, with experienced and novice performers all following behind Head Dancers. The routines for particular steps—snake, buffalo, trot dances—could be followed and learned on the spot, with leaders allowed to make a complete circle before others joined in.

The ceremonial drumming and vocables were ideal accompaniment for a leisurely stroll through the broad array of arts and crafts—pottery and jewelry, paintings, wall-hangings and dream-catchers, shawls and ribbon shirts.




Mother Earth’s Own Herbal Therapy offered natural herb packs for aroma therapy and the relief of pain. Artist Eli Thomas handed me his card, a torn bit of matting board that looked more artistic than torn. “The earth is our mother, the sun is our brother, nothing stands alone,” he said, explaining one of his paintings. Mark Barfoot sat sociably engrossed in his craft, among love flutes, dreamer drums, and lionheart knives hewn from elk bone. He shared a trade secret as he tightened a drumskin: “Elk skin’ll last for seven generations. Deer won’t last more than about two years. So I use elk skin. I just put aloe round the rim skin, and it’s a lifetime guarantee.”





As I watched a few relaxed browsers through the web of a large dream-catcher, I couldn’t help wondering how differently things might have turned out if only, after the first Thanksgiving, our country’s first two nurturing cultures had continued to respect and learn from each other. If only, instead of conquering the West, we had somehow managed to build it together.




From that rarefied perspective, an old dream-catcher legend came to mind:

Many years ago, on the Great Plains, an elder had a vision. Iktomi, the great teacher, appeared in the form of a spider, and began to spin a web with the old man’s willow loop. As he spun, he talked about the circle of life—our passing from infants to children, and on to adults, then our final return to infancy in old age.

“But in each stage of life,” Iktomi said, spinning his words, spinning his web, “there are both good and bad things. If you focus on the bad, you will go the wrong way. But if you pay attention to what is good, you will go in the right direction.”

The teacher finished his web and handed it to the elder. “You see,” said the teacher, “it is a perfect circle with a hole in the center. You may use this web to help your people. If you follow the Great Spirit, the web of life will capture your good dreams, but the evil ones will fall through the hole and will no longer be a part of you. Make good use of your dreams.”



· http://www.elithomasart.com/
· http://www.turtleislandarts.com/, http://www.wolfcreekart.com/
· Mother Earth’s Own Herbal Therapy, (570)-436-0012

© Copyright 2008 by Cary Kamarat . All rights reserved.

Please share your travel experiences and impressions by clicking on the word ‘comments’ below. Alternatively, send your comments to the author directly at dinosasha@juno.com.

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