India v. Pakistan

Last Wednesday I attended a cricket match for the first time. Previously I had rejected this game as an idle pastime. On television, I had seen nothing but celebration punctuated by tea breaks. Further, the games can last up to seven days, a taxing period for someone with Generational Attention Deficit Disorder (GADD). I had never swooned over the indomitable Brett Lee nor had I an appreciation of England’s all-rounder Freddie Flintoff and his coach Duncan Fletcher. What sort of name is “Duncan Fletcher” anyway? It sounds like either a Cabbage Patch Kid or the archetypal British moniker. Oh wait…

With my South African compatriot, I packed my GADD and drove to the Sheikh Zayed cricket ground to see India and Pakistan, two of the most popular teams in the world. In Abu Dhabi, nationalities occupy certain vocations. Philipinos, for example, find employment in the service industry, uneducated Indians do manual labor (roadwork, construction, infrastructure development), and Bangladeshis perform janitorial work. Arabs own stuff and count money. Westerners laugh all the way to the bank. And Pakistanis drive cabs.

As we entered the facility, we observed nearly every cab in the UAE (next day I read that the seven cabbies that did not attend the match charged double and triple fares). Having no ticket, we proceeded directly to the gate where the guard observed grimly, “No tickets sorry.” Then he noticed my blonde, female companion and evidenced the most remarkable bouleversement. “Tfaddal!” he offered jovially (”If you please” in Arabic). We slipped past the gate, proceeded through security, and climbed a hill flanking the cricket ground. The scene was euphoric. Men jumped and danced like children. Loud shouts accompanied each movement on the field. One side bemoaned the fortunes of the other and then, whack!, the roles reversed. Recall that India and Pakistan have spent 40 years fighting over Kashmir, arming themselves with nuclear weapons, and generally disliking each other and you can see how special this night was. Further, most of these men work 12-14 hours a day / 7 days a week with one vacation every two years. They will work their whole lives for unfamiliar wives and children. This was a pellucid evening in an otherwise hazy struggle.

The match lasted until about 11:30 and India won, thus managing a draw in this two day “test.” When I have a few more moments this weekend, I will summarize the rules of this game (as dictated by my learned friend), both for my education and yours.

—

These are my tentative travel plans over the next few months:

May: Cairo
June: Oxford, UK
July: Home
August: Kilimanjaro / Tanzania

Weekly Post

Andy sent along some additional pictures from Oman. These differ from the rest in that I appear in them. So far I have been loathe to pose before this rock or that animal; such contrivances make me feel stupid and maybe a little Japanese. I haven’t traveled much over the past month, electing instead to prepare for the Africa trip this summer, dive, and practice Arabic. The latter has improved and I can now speak without thinking. Yesterday, for example, Anita (my teacher) asked if I could drive well and I responded, “Yes, much better than all of the Emiratis.” The half-inch mortar board walls at the school failed to confine that opinion and we subsequently heard laughter in the adjacent room. Later, I saw several Emiratis walk out.

A coworker also taught me some naughty words last week. Now if you are learning a language, you must know the patois early on. Otherwise, you could commit unintended indiscretions. For example, in Arabic, “hamam” means bathroom and “hamaar” means [large mule-thing]. Suppose I’m at the restaurant:
“That ravioli looks delightful. Does it come with a salad?”
“Of course. Which dressing?”
“The vinaigrette. By the way, do you have a [large mule-thing]?”
“Sir!”

Arabs are usually congenial and would understand the miscommunication. But in a place like France, this behavior would likely inspire a riot.

In other news, an Arab friend called me last weekend and said, “Let’s go play
football. Do you have shoes, etc?” Sure, I said. That is, I had gear
by the next afternoon. I haven’t played since age 6, but I figured that
I could at least kick the ball and play defense. We went to a small
turf field (quarter-size, I think) and we played pick-up with some guys
from the best football club in the country. I managed the situation for
about ten minutes and then the ball came right toward me. I didn’t
think; I grabbed it. Never have I seen such laughter in my life. A fat
man in the corner had a bout of tachycardia. For the rest of the evening
they wouldn’t let me near the ball. Each time I approached it, one of
them ran up screaming, “Hello, Captain” and took it from me. The next evening, my friend had to apologize for not bringing “the professional.”

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