I was moved to write the following a few years ago. You might find it interesting.
Cowboy Bob
June 18, 2011
November 16, 2004
The weather here is as nice as it gets anywhere in the world. The daytime temperatures are in the 80’s and the nighttime temperatures are in the 60’s. A fitting reward for four months of searing heat.
The Holy Month of Ramadan came to a close last Friday. We are now in the 4th day of a 5-day celebration of the Eid holiday following Ramadan. Virtually nothing is going on, so time weighs heavy for those of us who have to man our stations. I will be glad when it’s over and we are back on a regular work routine. Boredom has its limits.
One side benefit to this particular time is that there is practically no traffic on the roads. I can actually relax and enjoy the drive. Unless you have experienced driving over here, that statement doesn’t mean much. Suffice to say that, normally, it is a never-ending exercise in defensive driving. For the young who see themselves as immortal, a car is a toy. For those of use who have to keep an eye out for them, it is a lethal weapon. Come Saturday, that will be the rule. I dread it.
The last 20 kilometers of the drive to work is open desert. It is a barren landscape with a mysterious beauty. During Ramadan the Bedouins move to the outskirts of the city and there is a proliferation of tent encampments. Gone are the beautiful black and white goat hair tents which have historically been their nomadic homes. In their place is the same old grey canvass commonplace in other parts of the world. I have enjoyed watching the large camel herds as they move slowly and majestically across the landscape. Every morning I see the same lone shepherd with his flock of sheep, followed by his faithful black donkey. I often ponder the hundreds of years between his life and mine. I doubt they would want theirs to be any different. Perhaps they have a secret to the good life that is yet to be discovered by the likes of me. I will never know.
They have already started breaking camp and moving back into the desert. As they do, their campsites are tidied up and all that remains are blackened spots of earth left from their camp fires. Were it not for those, you would never know they had been there. It is almost as if they were an illusion; never existing in reality.
Life has changed dramatically for western expats what with the rise in religious zealotry and terrorism. It has started to wear on me. A routine limited to life behind razor wire and armed guards, with the daily drive to and from work, and a trip to the supermarket once a week just doesn’t cut it. It isn’t necessarily the freedom to go about at will, but the knowing that I can when I want to - that is the issue. In a country where all the men dress the same, it is hard to discern friend from enemy, something that cannot help but engender a constant level of anxiety.
I have long maintained that a person can be alone without being lonely. I tend to be a loner. I am not charmed by trite conversation and cheap small talk. I find it boring, and the people who inflict it on others even more so. Besides, if socializing requires attire of more than blue jeans, a sweat shirt and a pair of Birkenstocks, I consider that a formal occasion. Not my cup of tea.
The Internet has been a boon to me. I am probably better informed than I have ever been in my life. I never cease to be awed by the sheer volume of information available. The downside is that books tend to stay on the shelf and gather dust. A forgotten treasure. I don’t listen to music like I used to. Music nourishes my soul. I feel better when I listen to music regularly. Perhaps that accounts for some of what I like to perceive as creeping eccentricity rather than openly acknowledging the realities of the aging process.
I would like to think I am a realist. I tend to accept life pretty much as it is and I am not easily swayed by what others may think of me. I don’t mind looking and acting my age so long as it reflects an active mind and a sincere concern as to where all of the crap in the world is taking us. I am offended by the youth cult. It is pathetic that people feel like they have to dye their hair at the first sign of grey. What is even worse are the humongous amounts of money being spent on face lifts, Botox injections and eye jobs at the first sign of a wrinkle, particularly among men. Vanity is endemic to the industrialized world and I think we are the poorer for it.
I do think about my age more than I used to. I don’t cook as much now. It isn’t important anymore. I nod off faster and more frequently in front of the television set. I am annoyed about so much of what goes with the aging process. The worst are people’s inclinations to patronize me more than in years gone by. That is insulting and I am not very gracious about it. I hate the fact that hair now grows where it shouldn’t and doesn’t grow where it should. The ears are particularly fertile ground. I swear the hairs grow an inch every night. Thank God for tweezers, Isopropyl Alcohol and a good pair of eye glasses. Have I become what can aptly be described as a “biological compost pile?” That is a sobering thought!
One of the great injustices of the life process is the fact that hormones are wasted on the young and wisdom is wasted on the old. I would have been a real dynamo if I had the wisdom at 30 that I have at 68. On the other hand, if I had the hormones at 60 plus that I had at 30 I would no doubt have suffered a massive vascular blowout long before I reached 68. Where is the justice of it all?
I am put off by older people who constantly talk about it. Alright, so you are old and getting older. What is the big deal? I honestly believe that deep within each of us lies that vibrant specimen of what we were in our prime, which requires constant nurturing. I think talking about getting older all the time hastens the aging process. An active mind, a never-ending curiosity about life and this world, and a sincere desire to make this crazy mess just a bit better where and when we can is a tonic. Maybe that is why I always had such an aversion to golf. What is there to emulate in a bunch of silly old men in gaudy clothes hitting their balls down a fairway (not to mention that small talk issue again), when they could be immersed in all of the other exciting things going on in the world? An added bonus is they just might be able to make a change for the better.
One last thought. Condoleezza Rice for Secretary of State !!!! And we thought things couldn’t get any worse.
Well, this workday is drawing to a close. I think I will go home, change into some comfortable clothes and fix some brown rice and beans for dinner. That’s a bill of fare, rich in fiber, that should make for a good BM in the AM. Life’s pleasures are few.
November 17, 2004
I was in pretty good spirits when I wrote this. Admittedly, it is no literary masterpiece, but it is honest.
With the passage of time, it is easy to regress to a state of complacency after each assault on the senses. I have experienced it and observed it in others with each bombing and targeted assassination. It is amazing at how quickly we adapt and settle into a new routine.
In the long run I tend to believe all the palatial splendor around me is made possible by the wealth generated from the massive oil reserves under the surface of this peninsula. Not so. I stopped to fill my car with gasoline this morning, As I am predisposed to do from time to time, I casually struck up a conversation with the guys manning the gas pumps. I was hit yet again, right between the eyes, of the other reality behind all this opulence. It is a given that all of them are from Third World countries. They are the poorest of the poor. In this case, they are all from the Indian subcontinent. Each of them is on a 6-year employment contract. They work 12-hour days, 365 days per year, and never get to go home, even once, during that entire time. They are paid the equivalent of 186.47 US Dollars per month, which equates to 51 cents per hour. They live in absolutely squalid conditions, and subsist on such gourmet delights as fish heads and rice, chicken necks and rice, etc. Enough to make Wolfgang Puck salivate.
All of this perpetrated by yet another population that knows, with absolute certainty that God is on their side, the excesses not withstanding. True faith is humbling. Zealotry is frightening. Like most religions, both manifestations are to be found here just as they are in the U.S.A.
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