Flying to Kuwait

I have spent the last five days in Kuwait, or coming and going from Kuwait.
I had the honour of being one of three judges to judge a very stunning section of the quilt show, and then spoke at the opening.

I flew over on Thursday. It was intended to be Friday with a planned arrival at three and judging at five. Then the airline notified us of a change to the flight – so the midday flight now took off at six thirty. Since I was obviously not going to be able to do the judging we decided to change the flight to a day earlier.

There was a bride checking in in full formal bridal gear. Lace top to the dress, full pure white satin skirt, looking a bit sad around the hem after walking around the airport, and even a waist length veil. She had professional bridal makeup. Since this was heavy on the bright blue eyeshadow, black eyeliner, and hot scarlet lips, and with dutch doll rosy cheeks, it was a bit like having someone in pantomime costume in the check-in queue. She had two women with her, possibly a mother and sister, but no sign of a groom, so perhaps she was traveling to meet him. Maybe even for the first time.

As the flight was called and people stood up and headed for the tube to the plane I was about forty back from the front. Egyptians and other Arabs do not really queue, but it was an orderly four-wide group with some moving up to make the front section wider. Then I was thrust hard to one side, and really pushed out of the way of a tall man with white dishdash (long ‘dress’) and kafieh (headdress) who proceeded to elbow his way to the front. Some people objected and were ignored. He was obviously important, or thought he was.

As I filed down the tube towards the people massed in the area near the door to the plane I saw a boarding pass on the ground. I actually didn’t take much notice, as you often see them here, as people drop them anywhere s they get off a plane and no longer need them. When I got down to the plane I could se what the holdup was. The tall gentleman in white had obviously lost his boarding pass as he had been asked to stand aside while others boarded, and was at the stage of tipping out the contents of his briefcase.

I was actually quietly gleeful.

I was seated on the plane next to a Kuwaiti couple returning from Cairo. She was in full nekeb cover – even her eyes were behind a fine black film of fabric. The part over her lower face was just a flap so she could lift it to insert food or drinks under it.

Talking to someone in this sort of veiling is really complicated as you don’t get the usual signals that we are used to in our society which tell you how the woman you are talking to is reacting to your conversation.

I taught a few people in classes who wore it, and found that it was like talking to a mask, and very hard to tell if they were understanding what you were saying or not, and happy with what they were doing, or miserable. It was a bit like the difference between talking to someone on a phone, and talking to an answering machine – but not as bad of course! They were nice girls, and answered – and answering machines, despite their name, do not.

This girl was obviously a white-knuckle flyer – or would have been except that her knuckles were covered with fluffy black gloves. As the plane started to move away from the docking she put her hand and my thigh and started clutching it rhythmically – and it reminded me of a recent encounter with a taxi driver. Perhaps he was just nervous? It was odd, especially since her husband was on the other side of her. As we started taxiing towards the runway she had both hands on my upper arm and her head on my shoulder, and she was making rather puppyish whimpering. I was still a bit nonplussed, but sorry for her obvious fear. I don’t like flying much either and so I was sympathetic, but still a bit uncomfortable and not sure what to do.

When we got out towards the main runaway she just came apart. She hurled herself across my lap, whimpering and burrowing into me – snuffling and crying and flaying her arms around a bit. I took my glasses off. I was patting her back awkwardly and trying to hug the bits I could reach – it is surprisingly hard when tightly seat belted with a wriggling person on your lap. I looked at her husband for help and guidance, but he was laughing uproariously I suspect it was not humour, but real embarrassment, and he did not know what to do either. He told me, by allowing his hands to shake in mid air, that she was nervous. I didn’t need to be told – I had already worked that one out.

I know exactly what I looked like. Have you ever seen someone who really does not like dogs, but has a large one walk up and lean on them when they are in company? They tend to do a nervous sort of pat – straight up and down, and say things like “Nice doggie”. People who really like dogs give them a firm rubbing around the head, often with both hands, and ruffle their fur and ears – it is quite a different response.

As we took off and were actually up she calmed down a lot. She sat up, rearranged herself and was a bit apologetic, though she was still keeping a firm grip on my arm.

The seat belt light went off and the man in front put his seat back. Usually this is fine, you suddenly have less space, but it is not bad, and you can compensate by putting your own seat back too. However, this wasn’t fine – his seat was actually almost touching my face. A steward came past, recognized the problem immediately, and asked him to put his seat forward a bit, as they would be serving lunch. The gentleman pointed out that he did not want launch, and was tired. The steward pointed out that the seat was a bit broken and leant back too far so the lady behind had no room. The gentleman (wrong term here, but I am not sure what to call him) suggested that they move me and pointed to an empty seat.

I moved to the empty seat. Then the lady beside me started talking to me, fast and in a very heavy accent. She had the heavily hennaed hair of an older woman, with white roots, and had henna patterns on her hands. I couldn’t understand a word and asked a friendly steward if he could tell me what she was saying. He said she had never flown before but that he couldn’t understand her either.

The steward pulled her table out of the arm of the seat and she was absolutely amazed and trying to work out where it had come from. We were given food and she ate the salad voraciously. Then she jammed her tissue against her mouth and started giving little hiccups and burps. This, I can assure you, is not conducive to enjoyment of the meal I was halfway through as I was petrified that she would be sick. She ate her meal but had to go to the toilet before the trays were taken away – and that meant both her tray and mine went onto the floor in the aisle so I could get out of my seat, and then she could get out too. She talked to me then for every bit of the rest of the next two hours. It was a very interesting flight.

The tassel suq

We had a lovely day several days ago, when two friends went with me on a search for notions and odds and ends, and found the tassel suq. This is a long row of shops selling all sorts of handmade upholstery bits and pieces - if you can make it with silk cords or fluff (which I have doubts about as they look like rayon to me) then it is here!

I have always loved chairs because ever since seeing Vincent Van Gogh's yellow bedroom I have realised they imply the presence of people. Also - they are great shapes, especially repeated.

I have been exploring back streets of the suq area by happily accompanying strange men who tell me to come with them.

No children, don't follow my example. I did have friends with me, but this is Achmed, who brought me to a really interesting place where people were dyeing silks (though I suspect rayons) in old baths and in industrial quantities.

Keep on going through the photos to see the tassels and cords that are made with this stuff!

Look carefully and you will see the three of us with the street behind us in the reflections.

The card suq is a revelation. If it can be made in paper it is here. It can be remearkably over the top, adn efffusive, but also so elegant. It is cheap, with lovely embossed card blanks with envelopes selling at about one hundred for twenty Australian dollars.

Wedding invitations from an order for fifteen hundred, with the bride and groom's first names in Arabic and gold.

Wedding dolls, labels, tulle and lace, all ready for wedding favours with the glue gun waiting.

Errata

I just re-read my own blog. The oil was actually three pounds for both bottles – otherwise having the lovely sewing machine mechanic giving me back my money does not make sense! It was seventy five cents for two bottles. I was tired when I wrote it, and my maths is not good even when I am not tired!

The Good Oil

I needed sewing machine oil the other day. My new machine started flashing an oil light. I had a quilt deadline to meet. According to the book, my machine needed to be cleaned and oiled. I cleaned it. Oil had come with the machine in a sealed bottle. I had used it once, and because I didn’t trust the new seal I had carefully propped it up into a box beside the machine. Then I had a sewing group upstairs and my lovely housekeeper, Veronica, had joined me for the last of the ‘cleaning up flurry’.

I couldn’t find it. I searched every possible place, and some that were not so possible.

I gave in and tried to find alternative sources. Two friends had machines, but neither had oil.

The guide books didn’t mention sewing machines.

I decided that the only possibility was Medan Abata which has a huge number of tiny hardware shops. Think of Bunnings fragmented into six hundred tiny shops, except that most of them have almost the same stock.

I booked a taxi, and was waiting the hour or so that he said he would be when a friend from the embassy rang. Our husbands were both out and working (and yes, it was a weekend, even here ) so she decided to come with me.

We were dropped at the entrance to a very large and very active market. We had to walk through the shoe section, then the cheap t-shirts, then the underwear. Spruikers were everywhere, it was just starting to get dark, but lit from all the shop windows.

We hesitated over some very roundly padded bras in hot pink with green lace, and I was caught surreptitiously admiring some very large white knitted y-fronts. It is odd being in a very different culture which is known for its modesty, then suddenly finding all their undergarments laid out, hung up and spread before you in very large quantities. It is actually hard to look at the men around without wondering which are wearing y-fronts and which have the white boxers that look like baggy Aussie stubbies.

There was a ‘sexy’ underwear suq in Damascus that had matching sets of bras and pants covered in sequins or feathers, and each set was all of three Australian dollars. I had often bought them when we lived there, not for myself but because they were a very light gift to post for friends in Australia, and I would send them as a bit of a joke. At one stage I asked one of the men who sold them who usually bought them. He said “Our women”. I must have looked a bit surprised, as I had noticed a lot of women in the suq but thought them middle aged and well covered in clothing.

I realise now that in fact they were probably younger than I am now. He gave me a very straight look, and said “You westerners just look at our women and you see the mountain. Underneath they are volcanoes.” It has been a lesson I often remember not to judge from what is on the surface.

We moved on through the suq, and went into the first of the hardware shops. I told him I needed oil, and mimed sewing on a machine. He reached into a glass case and offered me a circular saw, explaining that he only had little ones. Thank goodness for that, this seemed quite big enough.

At this point I realised that my miming wasn’t too good. I drew a little sewing machine, pointed to it, and said “zeit” – which is Arabic for oil. He nodded furiously, and took my little book, and carefully drew a tiny oil bottle beside the machine, with a long thin nozzle and half filled with horizontal dashes.

I asked him where I could get oil and he took me to the door, pointed and indicated straight ahead, then left, then right. I asked him to write in Arabic ‘sewing machine oil’ and he did.

Off we went. I have learnt by experience that you check and recheck directions. It is an interesting thing in the Middle East, that no-one admits not knowing where things are. They will direct you with great certainty, but you can be going in absolutely the wrong direction. We checked, and others sent us in the same direction, and said the same name. I couldn’t work out if it was a company or a street, but it didn’t seem to be a street. One man took my drawing, with the words for sewing machine oil in Arabic, and wrote again. Then he indicated that he had written the address for us to show people.

We spoke to so many people and there was such a wonderful feeling of warmth and humour from those who helped us. It was a wonderful market area, huge and winding, a labyrinth, but it felt very safe and very friendly.

We were obviously getting close, as the last man had just pointed to an area a bit further down the road.

Believe it or not, it was a sewing machine shop. I doubt if anything there was produced any later than forty years ago. Most of the machines were really old. Beautiful old Singers, with black enamel and gold decals – where they hadn’t worn off – and even one with a fiddle base. Some were obviously treadles, and some hand cranks, some were other brands, and there were a few Elnas. Best of all, every single machine moved like satin, with that beautiful effortless slide of a perfectly tuned and serviced machine.

We both bought oil. I am a little concerned as it was not in a Singer bottle. I am only reassured by the memory of those old machines and their beautiful movement.

I asked the price. He said three pounds. I reached for my purse. My friend didn’t have small money so I pulled out six pounds to pay for both, a five, and a one. He was horrified and gave me the one back, and change. They were three pounds each, so we bought two bottles of oil for about a dollar and fifty cents.

Best of all, we left there and found a second hand book market which was brilliant. I have been desperate for reading material, and this was wonderful. I bought a huge bag of books in English. Some I would not have bothered with in Australia, but I am so desperate for reading that I have been reading anything.

As we left my friend’s scarf slipped off and fell. Neither of us noticed and we were at the edge of the curb and waiting for a cab when someone called out, ran to us and pushed the scarf into her hands.

It was a great day, and sometimes small things can leave you so warm and happy.

The Ramses Wissa Wassef School, Threads of Life

I saw Wissa Wassef today!

It was actually accidental. I have been going out on Friday mornings when the traffic was not heavy, to try to learn my way around Cairo. Last week I drove loops all over Zamalek, but was too afraid to leave the island as I was afraid I wouldn't find my way back.

This time Bob was able to come too and was willing to navigate.

I decided to try to find the Pyramids at Giza. It is something I am going to need to do with visitors coming through, and I felt that as they were big and would be easy to see I might be able to find them easily!

We managed that with only a few wrong turns, and then I decided that as we had seen the road to Sakkara we would go there next. I had been there before and liked it better than Giza, as there were less annoying sellers of postcards and camel drivers trying to ask you to pay exhorbitant charges for a ride on their camels. We were driving down the side of the canal when Bob noticed a signpost for Wissa Wassef. I looped back, and around again to cross a very full canal, and still only intended to find out where it was so we could make an appointment to visit next week. However, it was much closer than I realised, and I had to pull up beside it to turn. A man waved us in, telling us it was open for visitors, but of course no weavers were there on a Friday.

I wrote a little about this place a day or so ago, and so I don’t need to go over it again.

The basics - Ramses Wissa Wassef started a school for weaving in 1952. He trained children to weave, out of a belief that every child can make art, but that usually we train it out of them. He decided that he would not select children, but would take any children who wanted to come (within their restrictions on numbers of course). He would not permit them to copy others ideas, or to repeat ideas, nor was anyone to direct what they made in any way. They provide a lot of visual stimulation with trips to the desert, the Nile, the Red Sea, and more local trips to zoos and market places.

I have a huge selection of photographs of the work on the walls and of the absolutely beautiful buildings designed by Ramses Wissa Wassef in mud brick to sit easily with the landscape. Some I will put on this site, and I will have even more on my Flickr site (see the link to the right hand side).

Ramses Wissa Wassef wove his own first tapestry to make sure that he knew how to do it. He dyed his own wools also. They grow all the plants they use for dyeing themselves, with the exception of indigo which they bring in. I was shown madder growing, and the root of this is harvested after it has been in the ground for three years. They use no dyes except natural dyes. They weave in wool and cotton, but most of the bigger work is in wool.

This piece was made by a child weaver. The tradition is from the time of the Pharoahs, that mourners are brought in for a funeral who would paint their faces with indigo and dance and sing traditional songs. Behind them, the family of the deceased are also painted with indigo, and they have prostrated themselves with grief. Other members of the village have come to the funeral to sit and chat.

One weaver came to Joanna's mother and said "My husband has left me for another woman, and I am so upset and angry and sad that I cannot make beautiful things".
"Make a war,” was the answer, "and show your anger".
This piece is the result. At the bottom of the image, where it was started, are rats and sly slinking animals to represent the husband. Then we have the violence of a battle on horseback, swords clashing, and horses falling.
These pieces take a long time to make. At about this level, her husband returned.
She added the water, to calm the image. Then life came back to normal, and she allowed horses to drink at the water, and to dance with their riders on them. The sun rose in glory, and the sky was blue again.