Hearkening Back 48 hours: Somewhere in the Night Sky over Prague
There are some things I forget state-side, which I always remember when I am traveling abroad. The first, and most obvious, re-recollection is personal space. I guess we still have a glut of space in Minnesota and we’re not afraid to use it. But in walking through Amsterdam, I found myself being intermittently un-nerved by how close people got to me.
When I was setting up my BGAN by the Amstel river, I had about $6000 worth of equipment plopped on top of what looked to be an electrical junction box in the middle of a very wide sidewalk (hence, I was a little paranoid and protective). It was the only open platform around where I had an unobstructed shot of the southern sky (my satellite location). I got a lot of looks. That isn’t terribly remarkable in itself. I would have gotten plenty of looks were I wiring a satellite uplink in Rice Park - or at Dennis Hill's house. But the difference here was how close they were. I was jostled from time to time by folks just walking by. I actually had people slow and peer over my shoulder. No, the sidewalk was not congested. These folks just do not appreciate the beauty of personal space as do those of us raised on the open prairie. They should take a few pointers from Bruce Dickinson. Now I want you to explore the space this time. Really. Explore the space!
I, of course, wanted to get full use out of my €10 so I stayed online until my time allotment expired. This had me leaving Dam Square at about 6:15, which was probably pushing it for a 6:45 boarding time. I hadn’t really consider waiting for the next train, finding my concourse, passport control, security checkpoint, and all the associated lines. But, as luck would have it, and luck almost always does, I floated onto the concourse at about 7:00.
The flight didn’t leave until 7:30, so I figured I was good. That is, until I got to the gate designated on my boarding pass and there were only a few people waiting for a flight…to Heathrow. Hmmmm. “This is a problem,” I thought. In most cases there would be plenty of options (e.g. listening for gate change information on the PA system, asking for help), but I was a stranger in a foreign land. While English signs were still present, they were by no means prevalent. I felt a little helpless. What to do? There were no gate agents or friendly faces to steer me in the right direction for a flight to Damascus. So I did the next best thing – I looked for head scarves. And wouldn’t you know, there was a line of them about 10 gates down the concourse. I slipped to the end of the line just as the last person was filing past the gate agent. He shoots. He scores.
The time now sits at 11:20 p.m. (Baghdad), but to me it feels like 2:20 p.m. on an afternoon with no sleep the night before. It will be 1 a.m. when I get into Damascus. I’ll need to find a place to crash for a few hours in order to set my travel plans the next day…unless I can get a direct flight into Iraq. I read some rumor about a new Int’l airstrip in one of the northern cities. I guess I’ll find out if the info is up to date.
The elderly lady next to me is one of those passengers who demands a lot of the flight crew. She’s Muslim, but had signed up for a kosher meal because she doesn’t eat meat. When the kosher meal had meat in it (and the flight crew was unable to identify the meat), she threw a fit. She doesn’t speak English, but I was able to glean that she does, in fact, eat chicken. I had them bring her a meal with chicken. She was happy as a lark after that. However, she still wouldn’t let me take a picture of her. “Haalim, Halaal,” she said, as she shook her head. I’ll look that up later.
Written at 9:41 p.m. (Monday), local network time (2:41 p.m. CST)
Posted from Baghdad at 8:37 p.m. (Wednesday) local time (11:37 a.m. CST)
When I was setting up my BGAN by the Amstel river, I had about $6000 worth of equipment plopped on top of what looked to be an electrical junction box in the middle of a very wide sidewalk (hence, I was a little paranoid and protective). It was the only open platform around where I had an unobstructed shot of the southern sky (my satellite location). I got a lot of looks. That isn’t terribly remarkable in itself. I would have gotten plenty of looks were I wiring a satellite uplink in Rice Park - or at Dennis Hill's house. But the difference here was how close they were. I was jostled from time to time by folks just walking by. I actually had people slow and peer over my shoulder. No, the sidewalk was not congested. These folks just do not appreciate the beauty of personal space as do those of us raised on the open prairie. They should take a few pointers from Bruce Dickinson. Now I want you to explore the space this time. Really. Explore the space!
I, of course, wanted to get full use out of my €10 so I stayed online until my time allotment expired. This had me leaving Dam Square at about 6:15, which was probably pushing it for a 6:45 boarding time. I hadn’t really consider waiting for the next train, finding my concourse, passport control, security checkpoint, and all the associated lines. But, as luck would have it, and luck almost always does, I floated onto the concourse at about 7:00.
The flight didn’t leave until 7:30, so I figured I was good. That is, until I got to the gate designated on my boarding pass and there were only a few people waiting for a flight…to Heathrow. Hmmmm. “This is a problem,” I thought. In most cases there would be plenty of options (e.g. listening for gate change information on the PA system, asking for help), but I was a stranger in a foreign land. While English signs were still present, they were by no means prevalent. I felt a little helpless. What to do? There were no gate agents or friendly faces to steer me in the right direction for a flight to Damascus. So I did the next best thing – I looked for head scarves. And wouldn’t you know, there was a line of them about 10 gates down the concourse. I slipped to the end of the line just as the last person was filing past the gate agent. He shoots. He scores.
The time now sits at 11:20 p.m. (Baghdad), but to me it feels like 2:20 p.m. on an afternoon with no sleep the night before. It will be 1 a.m. when I get into Damascus. I’ll need to find a place to crash for a few hours in order to set my travel plans the next day…unless I can get a direct flight into Iraq. I read some rumor about a new Int’l airstrip in one of the northern cities. I guess I’ll find out if the info is up to date.
The elderly lady next to me is one of those passengers who demands a lot of the flight crew. She’s Muslim, but had signed up for a kosher meal because she doesn’t eat meat. When the kosher meal had meat in it (and the flight crew was unable to identify the meat), she threw a fit. She doesn’t speak English, but I was able to glean that she does, in fact, eat chicken. I had them bring her a meal with chicken. She was happy as a lark after that. However, she still wouldn’t let me take a picture of her. “Haalim, Halaal,” she said, as she shook her head. I’ll look that up later.
Written at 9:41 p.m. (Monday), local network time (2:41 p.m. CST)
Posted from Baghdad at 8:37 p.m. (Wednesday) local time (11:37 a.m. CST)
posted by John Lesch at 9:35 AM
5 Comments:
I, um, studied Islam for awhile, and its the belief that if you take a picture of someone or even draw a picture of someone, upon the day of reckoning you will be called upon to give life to the person. Only Allah, the merciful, can do that. Don't take pictures of Muslims without their permission.
Tell me you brought a cowbell with you. If not, well, you gotta have more cowbell.
“Haalim, Halaal,”
An entree made with chicken. Haalim, Halaal takes 24 hours to make. It is made and served in the context of a celebration. Cooking Haalim, Halaal is a communal experience. Cooking is done in a big pot, similar to booya in USA.
Be safe and take care John
-mcz
halaal is the word given to food prepared under islamic law--similar to kosher. you see it in markets in the twin cities--"halaal meat available here."
Just a wee bit of levity -- revisitng Haalim, Halaal ...
A couple of my friends who are from the Middle East have illuminated other possiblitites for this phrase.
Where in the Middle East the phrase is used is important to the interpretation. In Persia, it most often would mean the previously mentioned chicken entree. Nearby Iran it most likely would mean -- a mild-tempered, gentle, patient person. You know, kinda like John.
So it depends on context, context, context.
be safe john.
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