I realize that a post about Ramadan drawing to a conclusion
is about as timely right now as a job stimulus plan in the U.S. (please click
here and push the red button to complete this joke), but I have a lot to catch
you folks up on. Since I last checked in, Ramadan has indeed ended. Stores have
opened back up. Once again, we could all indulge in the pleasures of eating and
drinking in public. Eid also came and went. After a month of fasting, Eid is
the week-long celebration in the Muslim world (and parts of Michigan) that
occurs at the end of Ramadan. During Eid, I moved to my permanent residence,
Yaqut Tower #1106, which is located behind the Holiday Inn Hotel on Airport
Road. This is basically what amounts to my address. Many have been confused by
the seemingly purposeful exclusion of addresses in what is an otherwise very
purposely planned out metropolis. I can only surmise that since there is no
centralized mail service, addresses are not that important. However, it can get
a bit frustrating when trying to give directions to one of the multitudes of
Bengladeshi delivery drivers. The extent of my local geographic guidance
consists basically of saying, "Behind the Holiday Inn on Airport Road. It
is the tall white building with green windows," followed closely by,
"BEHIND. HOLIDAY INN HOTEL. AIRPORT ROAD. TALL BUILDING. GREEN
WINDOWS." For the full effect, please try to roll those r's and lengthen
those o's while you imagine said conversation in your head. Also, repeat that
last part about four or five times and hang up your imaginary phone in
exasperation.
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| View of Sheikh Zayed Mosque from my balcony |
After having a portion of my furniture delivered, my
appliances delivered, and my appliances repaired, I finally began to settle
into my new place (sometimes yelling directions slower and louder does, indeed,
work). It is a 21 story building occupied mostly by new teachers. This makes
carpooling rather convenient. I did my best early on to win over the largely
South Asian staff that keeps this place going. My fondness for cricket was
clearly advertised in hopes of bridging this gulf. I learned that the
maintenance man's name was Ramadan, which was a rather presumptuous choice by
his parents. I talked with him quite a bit in broken English about cricket and
securing "illegal" cable. Who knew that "illegal cable
installer" was such an international profession? I eagerly awaited the
arranged day for Ramadan to bestow me with about 500 channels for 250 dirhams
(about 68 dollars). The setup took a lot longer than both of us anticipated.
After several hours of signal searching, Ramadan was happy to show me all 571
of my channels. Unfortunately for me, all but about 8 or 10 were Arabic,
Lebanese, Syrian, Sudanese, Eritrian, Bahraini, or Qatari channels. But let me tell
you though, that Syrian dramatic programing is...well...about as riveting as
you would imagine.
Once that disappointment of an evening was concluded, I sent
Ramadan on his way and got ready to set out for the local grocery store. The
evening had already extended longer than I had planned, and I was just hoping
to get some late night food in my stomach. On my way out of the building, I ran
into Ramadan again, who mentioned that he forgot his mobile phone in my
apartment. I quickly went to retrieve it, and then almost as quickly realized
that my apartment would not open. Immediately, I realized that this was because
I had put a key in the deadbolt on the inside (not locked), which kept the key
on the outside from inserting all the way (don’t think about it too hard, just
go with the story). I returned to give Ramadan the bad news. "This is
very, very bad," was his refrain. How to break into an 11th story
apartment with a solid wood door became the question of the evening. The obvious
choice (to one of us) was the balcony. All we had to do was go to my neighbor's
apartment and climb over. Well, if you know me, you know there is absolutely no way that I was going to climb out on an 11th floor balcony,
hang over the edge, reach over, and climb onto another balcony. So I watched as
Ramadan found an old plastic chair, sat on the railing, and attempted to use
his hands (pressing flat-palmed on the glass dividing our balconies) to keep
him from falling 11 stories to his death because I left a key in my lock. The
irony was not lost on me during this moment. While I was celebrating Eid that
week and the end of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan, I was anticipating viewing
the end of another Ramadan. This one was an under-payed Bangladeshi maintenance
man who installed illegal cable.
As my neighbor (who I barely knew outside of saying
"hi" while passing in the corridor) and I watched, Ramadan carefully,
but not too carefully, made his way to my balcony, only to find the balcony
door locked. I thought we were lucky that he had made it to my balcony without
falling to his death. Surely we were pushing our luck. Being the responsible
party, I envisioned having to travel back to his village hometown and share the
bad news with his family. As the barefoot, dirty, children ran up to me, all I
could do would be to offer the remnants of this, once, marginally successful
man. His kin would then break into sobs around me.
Fortunately, this did not happen, and Ramadan made it back
to safety. We could assessed what we both agreed was a very, very bad
situation. The only remaining option was to drill out the existing lock and
replace it with a new one. I shoved some dihrams into Ramadan’s hand and sent
him on a late night search for a locksmith shop. I waited about a half hour
before I became too restless to remain useless. I knew the key was on the
inside of my lock. It just had to be coerced out somehow. Seeing as mechanical
concepts are not my strong point, I decided to violently thrust my key into the
keyhole, repeatedly, in the hopes that the key on the inside would somehow
wiggle out. Well, wouldn’t you know it, that arguably inane idea actually worked. I happily re-inhabited my apartment and waited for
Ramadan to return so that I could say, “Thanks for nearly killing yourself, but
I managed to get into my apartment with a little thing we like to call good
ole’ fashioned American ingenuity.” When he did return, he seemed to accept the
events with resignation, confusion, or a combination of both, and then, with
little more than a wink and a nod, he disappeared into the night.
