I have tried for you: the Mallorquin diaries... at the crossroad of cultures. But dónde está el semaforo *?

Picture this. French girl, born and bred in Paris, spends 4 years in the UK where her brain gets all rewired in English. No, I am not being a snob, I promise, but I feel like I have been rebooted inside and if French is my mother tongue it doesn’t feel that natural to me anymore. French is in my brain, my heart and soul are in England while my body is, very obviously, in Spain.


So here we go, a froggie with a rosbeef tongue (langue de boeuf, mwahahah) moves to the chorizos'. Well, not quite chorizo actually – enseimadas, and it seems this is a meaningful difference.
 

As explained in the previous episode, I moved to Majorca without any preconceived idea of Spain, or any preparation whatsoever. I had never attended a Spanish class in my life, I had thus not even the slightests idea about the language, and the culture was totally unknown to me – leaving aside the usual salsa, tortilla y corrida gazpacho. I am almost ashamed to admit that I was not familiar with the concept of Catalan vs. Castillan, this  rivalry of two cultures that coexist in Spain, to the point that I once spent 30 min in a bookshop wondering whether I was meant to be buying a Catalan or Castillan grammar book. There, I said it, I was clueless when it came to all things Spanish.

People, be at rest, I have seen the light, and I am now blinded by it. I got not one, but 4 grammar books, all in Castillan, for Catalan has been moved further down in the list of languages I need to learn. One thing at a time, you see, there is mucho trabajo to be done here.

Anyway, newsflash fo Clem: Majorca is part of Spain, but it is not Spain. Once again, I have found myself in a place that defines itself as the island, by opposition to the mainland, although this time this island is pretty much self-sufficient and a trip to the mainland is seen as a hassle rather than a treat. Majorca is part of the Balearic Islands, that claims its belonging to the Catalan network – a claim that is constant, obvious, sometimes loud, but very endearing.

I work for Camper, one of the most Majorcan companies, one that makes the Majorcans proud, and that they wear en masse. I am amazed at the number of Camper feet that cross my path on a daily basis, and at how every Majorcan I meet knows someone who works for Camper. My Majorcan landlord was appeased  by the mere mention of my employer’s name – it cancelled out all needs for financial guarantees. Bless.

I am probably what is pompously or romantically called these days a “child of the world”, for I don’t really belong anywhere, and the nationality on my passport is not necessarily the one that is the closest to my heart today, or will be in 10 years time. Annoyingly though, every time I land in a a new place, I realise that the natives are proud people and I feel jealous. I remember my resentment in Oman, for I am not an Arab nor a Muslim, and it seemed the country or the people would never open to me, that I could not belong. I did not stay long enough to find out for sure, but it seems I could have made it in the end! Well it has been the same here, probably even more frustrating as the land of my origins is in theory rather close to Spain in location and culture.

Majorcan people are Mediterranean, and they embrace life as such. Life is not half lived here: people don’t like, they love or hate, in equally large - but never half - measure, they don’t speak, they shout, and whoever shouts the loudest always wins, they get excited or disappointed, they party like crazy or mourn for days, they sing, they dance, they feel – indifference doesn’t seem to exist. But hear this, Majorcans don’t just happen to live in Majorca, they belong to the place and own it at the same time, they revendicate their regionalism as the base of their identity. There is them - and the rest of us. That I feel very strongly, and resent sometimes. 

On top of this all, and unsurprisingly for most of you, Majorcans speak Mallorquí - a derivation of Catalan which is half way between French and Spanish, but with a very nasal and foreign music to it, close to undecipherable for non-natives. They tend to speak it every chance they get, and that, my friends, can be a big fat pain (TBC).

* Dónde está el semaforo? Where are the traffic lights?

I have tried for you: (4th country in 4 months) The language issue

Day 1 (Dias uno)

I knew I had forgotten something, I knew it, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
I had packed a bikini, 5 pairs of shoes, 3 new books for the evening and 2 pairs of sunglasses, yes, I had these too. My 73 suitcases would be delivered in Palma later this week, I had left everyone my personal email address, my phone charger was in my bag and I had enough nail polish bottles on me to change color every day for a week. I really couldn't see what it was, but the minute I hopped into a taxi at Palma airport, it became obvious.

I did not speak a word of Spanish. Literally. I had entirely forgotten to rehearse the basic: "please can I go to hotel xxx". I mean, I had briefly looked at some kids program, learnt how to say "yellow" and "crocodile" (undoubtedly useful, especially when paired together), but it did not occur to me I might need some more words than these 2 in my voc book.

Well you'll be glad to know I managed. However, this really is where I think my 3 and a half years in the UK have changed me: I have innocently and unconsciously been playing "English on Holidays" since yesterday evening. I have assumed all along that speaking only English would be enough and that there would always be someone to understand me. It is true and it has worked so far, but it feels wrong somehow, and I can't keep shouting at these poor Spanish people any longer.

Lying in my bed yesterday evening, I found myself looking for a telenovelas that would provide useful words doubled with stylish clothes, while accepting to display the tv's subtitles function. And I watched, and watched, and watched some more - the show was called "Angel o Demonio" and could be competing with "Home and Away" for the 2nd place on my top 5 chart.
However obvious the plot was, I soon realised my language learning curve would be steep.
I was back to square one, fast rewind to one morning of June 2007 at Southampton airport. Only then I knew how to say and spell "bread and butter".

First day at work today, and because of my dark hair (my flour-coloured skin is certainly not giving me away), I have been misunderstood for a Spanish chica and tsunamised with floods of Spanish sentences, to which I was only able to reply, in English, time after time, desk after desk: "oh, I don't speak Spanish... for now". And hide behind an embarrassed smile.

It turned out my computer was not ready this morning and my boss was in a meeting, so she left me to my own devices. Luckily, I own one device that's loaded with Spanish apps, which I have been watching and listening to for a couple of hours. Today I learnt the word "spoon". It is that bad.

Wait, I didn't even know how to say "goodbye" to my taxi driver yesterday. One lame "ciao" later, my new life had begun, and there obviously was some work left to be done.

Roger y fuero for now*.

*Roger and out, which means goodbye in VHF (radio) language, for you, newbies.

I have tried for you: leaving Oman.

There were long days and short nights, sunny hot days and starry warm nights. 

There were sunrises and sunsets, all shades of pink and orange and purple and blue.

There was no rain, not one drop - all of it saved for a certain October week in St Malo, France.

There were tanned white-smiled people and paler white-smiled people, who welcome me on their team to take on a tiny bit of a much bigger challenge, who played by my rules, who showed me patience, understanding and trust.

There, I have been happy, I have been sad too. I have been happy again. 

I have asked questions, so many questions, and listened to answers, skeptical sometimes, amazed, most of the time. There still are things I don't get but it seems I understood the most important parts. I have grown up, matured, learnt, shared and taught.

Time has been scarce, and I haven't written one third of what I wanted to, so many ideas are still spinning in my head. I guess that's what happens when life gets in the way! 

I enjoyed every minute of the experience and maybe, one day, I'll put it all on paper.

Leaving was hard. I miss Oman and my life as it was then and there, but time has come to jump head first in a new chapter. Less sand, more snow. Oh well... At least I get to use my winter wardrobe this time!

I'll keep you posted!

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 5, I like it here.

I used to hate routine. Routine meant being boring, and a grown up. Ewwww. Until recently, being a grown up was the last thing on my list. And then I decided I liked being one.

Here in Muscat, I live for my routine. I try and stick to a few things in my day which make me truly happy and comes 6 o'clock, comes my favourite time of day which I wouldn't miss for anything.

I try as much as I can to be outdoors, or at least out of the office when the sun goes low. It is at this precise hour we call in French "entre chien et loup", literally "between dog and wolf", which I am more tempted to rename "between pink and blue", as far as Oman is concerned. It is that very time when the heat balance gets inverted, when warmth doesn't come from up above anymore, but from down below, when the sun is being eaten by the sea, and the air suddenly becomes breathable, while the earth is releasing a day worth of accumulated heat and odors.

The sunset in Muscat lasts for long and the air is filled with the most amazing scents. Grilled meat, roasting flowers, fire, an earthy smell whirlwinds in the breeze. A great quietness fills the atmosphere, everything becomes peaceful at once, and suddenly every single bird around starts singing. It is the most impressive feeling, of peacefulness filled with what could be noise, but echoes as quietness.

At that very time of day, I am usually sitting outside a coffee, on a beach, taking it all in. I am in the middle of it, right now, looking at capoeira dancers, brown skins and white trousers, groups of kids and mums, fully clothed, swimming in the sea, Omani families taking a stroll and 4x4 driving past. The light is amazing, orangy-pink, with a hint of sadness. Yet another day has gone.

The temperature is dropping and the air becomes soft and light on the skin. The ground is now releasing the heat it has stored over the day, and my feet are burning through the sole of my shoes, radiating in my legs.

People turn into shadows against the sky. The big Mosque must be lit already, and soon I will drive across a Muscat getting ready for prayer, calling another day to sleep in the songs of the muezzins.
I embrace that time of day, every day.

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 4, The food-shopping experience.

Welcome to LuLu

I am currently standing in the queue at "LuLu", where I have done my every-second day shopping. All the queues go back way into the central alley, it looks like I am in for a treat!

Food shopping in Muscat is quite an experience.

There are 4 major supermarket brands here, plus a few corner shops which I haven't visited as I am not feeling that adventurous enough yet. I find the supermarkets intimidating enough for now.

The most expat of all supermarkets is Al Fair. It is as close as you can get to Waitrose or M&S (or Monoprix, for the Frenchies), it is big, airy, clean and stocks most of the Western products, including incidentally loads of Waitrose branded stuff (more than I could ever buy on the island !). It is ideal when looking for ...eeeerm - a Western brand of bio-pot yogurt. To be fair, you can find anything anywhere, but Al Fair stocks most of the Western brands, and fancy, imported, "I miss home" type of food. Mainly, the place is safe, shopping is quick, shoppers are a majority of expats - and it is not many of them at once. Al Fair was perfect for the transition period between England and Oman, and still is a great solution for fresh salads and office lunchbox food. On a side note, it is quite expensive - food is not cheap in Oman and Al Fair makes sure this is never an understatement.

It has been 10 min since I started writing, my trolley has not moved an inch in the queues. 5 more people behind me. The man in front has 2 trolleys and is looking at me intensely. Yeay.

Next supermarket down the line is Sultan Center, which is not as nice as Al Fair but fairly clean at first glance, not too packed and close to home. Crazily expensive - a step up from Al Fair but not exciting foodwise -  or experience wise. I have given up on Sultan Center, although something tells me I will probably go back there again when the weather gets nicer, as it is at walking distance from the flat. I have never, to that day, walked any further than a 20 meters distance outside. They say I have to wait until November, or I will melt on the pavement. So I wait, and in the meantime, I drive!

I have just realised I am standing by the ice-cream aisle. Bummer. Haägen Dazs Phish Food anyone? Stu?! It will be melted by the time I get to the cashier, I might as well eat it now. Oh, it even comes with a spoon !

Luckily for the French bits left in me, there are 2 massive Carrefours, located in Muscat's busiest shopping malls. These Carrefours offer a broad range of French, English and Indian supplies - from cornichons to ready-to-cook popadoms, from Nutella to Jell'o. However, they are much closer to the UK idea of a "cash and carry" (French  -  grossiste Metro), where most things are sold in packs of 5 (e.g. 5 jars of mayo in one go - I know a Lucy who would be happy !), where rice comes in 20kgs bags (guess you need a dedicated rice closet in your kitchen, but at least the rice issue is sorted for the next 5 years) and chicken is sold in pairs, like shoes, but without the cardboard box.




And then, LuLu. LuLu is the Middle-East equivalent of Carrefour - except it is so much more glam' and glittz' and "wow, is it Christmas yet?"- from the outside, anyway. From the inside, both supermarkets offer the same customer experience: shopping is mainly in bulks, people-stareage is constant (and scary),  thus trolley accidents are frequent, population density is high, and amount of time spent shopping is wayyy too much.

Lulu stocks the biggest amount of products I have ever seen - most of them I did not even know they existed, goods are imported from Malaysia and India, as well as Lebanon, Australia, Europe and the US. They have the most scary range of fruit and veggies, from green-furry pink sea-urchin looking balls to pretty rose and green peary-appley things, and much more, with names like rambuttan, logan fruit, snake fruit, durian or dragon fruit. Excuse me - how do you cook it? Oh, I have to eat the skin as well? But it smells / tastes awful! Oh well.


The population who shops here is Indian in majority, multicolored saris for the not so many females, and traditional kaftan/linen trousers for the men. There are also quite a few Omani men and their kids, but hardly any Omani women. So it is a lot of white-dishdashes (the traditional male Omani long dress), a handful of black headscarves and abbayas (the long black dress worn by Muslim women), and the rest is Bollywood, bar the singing/dancing bit. A lot of shouting and running and nudging. It is intense.


Now down to 6 people in front of me, but still slightly more trolleys than people. Mainly Indian and Omani men, one Indian woman and one blond (expat!) man, with his blond baby daughter. Westerners are so easily spotted. Hint: they are the only men not wearing a dress and are usually more red than tanned.


At LuLu, people stare. By stare, I mean: stop, look at me, general body scan, eye lock, won't move until I have cleared their field of vision. Not so nice - even when you're used to it. It had me worry about my wardrobe choice for long minutes, as it often brings the feeling that I must be somehow disrespectful in the eyes of Islam. Thank God, Oman is not Saudi, and being stared at seems to be the worse that happens. However, I always, always avoid the place if I my knees and elbows are not covered, there is no wearing shorts or a tank top at LuLu, it would be social suicide. I also try and keep my head down as much as I can, but sometimes I have to reach something on a top shelf, and then I have to acknowledge all those glances at my person. In the end, it is all about confidence, and the more I shop at LuLu's, the better I get at it !

Apparently, people here stare at expats  because we are exotic. Sorry, but you people are exotic. You eat rotten muddy roots for pudding (this sweet Tamarind looks seriously yummy, doesn't it just?). Sorry, I will be sticking with Holland cherry tomatoes.


LuLu and Carrefour make me travel me further away than Oman, it almost feels like I am going shopping in India (or in the idea I have of India anyway). 4 weeks ago, I would never have ventured away from Al Fair. I have now started seeing LuLu as a personal cultural experiment, and I spend more time looking at people than worrying if people stare at me. I guess that's why It takes me 2 hours to fill my fridge for 2 days!


Made it to the cashier after 30 minutes queuing, we haven't exchanged more than one word, and two smiles - probably because he hardly speaks English, and it is obvious I speak no Arabic. Shoukran!
Me, my 5 bags, my un-funky fruits, my exotic knees and elbows are going home now !

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 3, The Ramadan food "issue".

The Grand Mosque at sunset - the break of fast.

Another 2 or maybe 3 days to go before Ramadan is over in Oman. It is a relief, I can tell you, for those who fast, indeed, but also for those who don't.

The start of Ramadan was declared in Oman for the 12th of August by the Ministry of Endowments and Religious Affairs. The whole declaration is linked in my mind to a rather arcane story of moon-sighting that I am still trying to get my head around... and after reading pages over the internet, it still is very vague so I have decided not to go there, for your sake and mine. 

I was flying back to Oman on the 12th of August, and my first encounter with Ramadan was the Oman Air hostess's voice saying: "Welcome to Muscat. We kindly remind all non-Muslim passengers that it is forbidden to eat and drink in public places between sunset and sunrise during the Holy month of Ramadan. The outside temperature is 37 degrees, and it is 0930, local time". Had I been wide awake at that precise moment, I would have thought: "Can someone explain to me how am I meant to go through a whole month working in an office without eating, let alone drinking (water), during my waking hours? It is 37 degrees outside, you'd have to be crazy not to drink. Plus it is breakfast time. No way, it doesn't apply to me: I am no Muslim".

But I was still dozing, exhausted from the lack of sleep, thanks to the painfully early breakfast (notice the origin or the word - came as an epiphany to me - "break of fast") served on the plane - at 0300 am, right before sunset.

This was only the beginning. I was thinking it would be interesting, eyes-opening, and a fun experience to have. It turned out to be fascinating and definitely mind-broadening. Fun, not so much.

The company where I work being only young, there was no precedent and it took a few days to adjust and create a "Non-Muslim Ramadan-friendly zone" for us to proceed to our non-fasting ritual. The number of expats around decreases dramatically during Ramadan, and there was only 3 or 4 of us in the office. Nothing had been arranged yet, and for the first 2 days of Ramadan, we did not dare get on with the topic of lunch. We did not dare speak out loud about food, full stop. Oh, we were thinking about it alright, but just couldn't ask about the logistics without fearing of offending anyone. 

Off course, all public places - needless to say restaurants - are closed between sunrise and sunset. Going out for lunch was not an option. Supermarkets are open (for some seriously borderline sadomasochist reason - I shall write about this later), but where to eat the food? In the car? Forbidden. Some people even say that you could get denounced to the police by a keen citizen if seen. We could have gone home, but non-Muslim employees tend to have more work during Ramadan, because Muslim people finish their day at 2pm, which is when Europe is getting on with work - and we work with Europe on a daily basis.

So I experienced total fasting until 3 pm on day 1, and that was no fun at all. Another 3 and a half hours before sunset. How do they do it, I wondered. How do you not faint or fall asleep or just, simply, slip and grab a sip or a bite? They are used to it, trained from a young age (7 or 8 years old), is their answer. Past day 2, there is no complaining of hunger, no mention of food, they just get on with it. I still struggle understanding that answer - as I cannot get used to even the simplest restriction: not eating chocolate. How can you get used to not eating AT ALL for 12 hours? 

This aspect of Ramadan looks to me as one of Islam's utmost expression of a conviction - and is a convincing display of it - that one can fully control and resign themselves for the sake of their belief. It takes some serious willpower to go through 29 of those days and to keep going while being your normal, smiling, happy self - which they are.
On that very day, fasting made me upset, and angry, and not very efficient in my work. Not to mention the obvious, it also made me freakingly hungry and food-obsessed to the point of getting hallucinations. I did not eat my pen, but it got close enough.

On day 2, I locked myself in the bathroom and ate my lunch in 10 minutes sharp while sitting on the loo. I was feeling guilty as hell, but also laughing hysterically on my own, thinking about the situation, if someone was to see me at that precise moment. It was so not fun that it was almost fun. 

On day 3, one of my colleagues showed me an unoccupied office, that we could lock and once we had pulled down the blinds, where we could hide to eat. So I did, which was hardly fun but at least I could stay in my locked room long enough so I would not choke on my chicken and have to justify to the ambulance why I was eating during fasting hours. 

Even though I am no Muslim, I have learnt the few available excuses to justify myself if I ever was found drinking or eating in public - and I always have one ready when I am about to infringe the law. That's how scared I am.

By day 6, more expats were back in the office and we had set our private  quarters in one of the staff kitchens. 

Said kitchen has no doors, and every now and then, a Muslim walks in the room and sees us all around the table eating. This sight 1) is most probably making him craving food even more than he already was, 2) has a negative impact on the purity of his fast (something to do with him wanting food), 3) is making me highly uncomfortable. I always find myself blushing, trying to hide the food away and mumbling apologies. 

Ramadan makes me feel guilty, and am not even a Muslim. Eating food, speaking about food, thinking about food - how to deal with it? We talk a lot in the office, and I ask a million questions a day. However, I have been super careful with my questions on the fasting - I know how bad my cravings get when the word "chocolate" is whispered to me ear, while there are no supplies to be found anywhere. It is way worse for them, as they can't even find consolation in cake, like I do when chocolate is not available!

On a positive side, there has been no snacking in between meals. Even if, on a couple of occasions, I would have happily sprinkled my notebook with sugar and eaten each sheet like a pancake.

Oh, and they keep saying "Ramadan Kareem" as a greeting - which litterally means "happy fasting". Seriously? Happy? Me - not. Bring the food back !

I have tried for you: living in Muscat. Chapter 2, part 2, The air con diaries, the car issue.

Tanned feet before morning drive.

On the car, morning drive to the office.

Nail polish on my hands is drying off nicely, thanks to the built in naildrier - i.e. the AC fans located right behind the steering wheel, which provide just the right amount of air, at the right temperature. 

For a bit.

Then it gets cold, as in I-could-do-with-a-jumper cold (NB: it is 30++ degrees outside, they don't  do jumpers around here).

You see, as in every standard car, my AC has 4 gears and 4 positions. Gears range from 0 (= death by suffocation) to 4 (full blast, hairdrier effect as described in previous post).  Positions offered are face, feet, face and feet (sounds like the brochure for massages at a spa, but is far from, in reality), plus the useless windshield position. Then you can play with the red and blue settings (hot and cold, duh) - although I am still unsure why they bother with car heating in a country when it hardly ever gets below 20 degrees. Climate change anticipation, I guess.

I keep believing my favorite combo is gear 4, face and feet, blue all the way. 

It is essentially true when in the middle of a dramatic body overheating. I am then convinced I will never, ever manage to cool back down to a normal temperature and I make radical decisions: favorite AC combo on.

The favorite combo is available from switching the AC on + 3 min (at this stage, body temperature is getting close to maximum tolerance threshold), and is bearable for an average of 4 min. 

I then have to move down to gear 3 rapidly, as the fans in my face become rather annoying, plus my hair is flying everywhere - especially in my eyes, I can't see the road and start fearing for my safety. I really cannot afford  being involved in a car incident with a sweaty t-shirt on.

Down to gear 2 now. And feet only. Is it getting cold, or is it me? My hands are freezing.

Gear 1. Gosh, it's hot in here. 

Gear 2, face and feet. Too cold, again.

Since I have to wear trousers and a long sleeve top, I am indulging daily in the flip-flops/sandals footwear (my only allowed Muslim-friendly contribution to tan improvement on a week day).

Hey, I can't feel my feet anymore.

Quick glance under the wheel.

My toes are blue. Oh dear.

I am now a (dried) sweaty smelly person with blue fingers and toes. Note that I haven't made it to the office yet.

Every day I swear to myself: "(Scr*w the fashion police,) tomorrow, I am wearing socks with my flip-flops". 

It turns out I haven't packed any socks.