Good Shit (revised)

PART ONE

Two weeks off! I had two wonderful weeks to go anywhere I wanted within a certain amount of bucks. Part of the job agreement. Work two months, every single day, and the reward is 14 days and nights in all the exotic locales within reach of my work site; The Sultanate of Oman. (For those of you lacking in geography, think of the west coast of India and go straight West across the Indian Sea).

A little bit of background. I worked in what is called a geophysical crew where our job consisted of chasing down copper deposits using the properties of physics such as magnetism, gravity and so on. More on my time there later in another story.

My fellow crew members were all smokers of cannabis, and it had become somewhat of a contest to see who could find the most powerful smoke to keep us entertained. Tim had recently returned from Nepal where he obtained two products of wonderful quality called Mustang grass and Nepalese Temple Balls. I was determined to do him one better. I booked my trip for Afghanistan where legend has it that the most wonderful hash in the world is to be found. Arrangements were made and I found myself at the Sultan Qauboos Airport on a warm sunny day, which is somewhat redundant when talking of Arabian weather.

Bored while waiting, I wondered up to the open roof. The mountains that hold the city of Muscat are worth the effort. Volcanic and dark, they look as if you could shave with the highest peaks. The Gulf of Oman stretched to the East, with the local waters guarded by an old Turkish fort. Picture postcards are'nt in it. Not even close.

I became aware I was not alone and turned to see three small Indian men crouching against a wall in the foot flat on the ground way they have in this part of the world. All wore a poor man's turban, and I guessed them to be contract workers returning home to India. The new modern Arabia would not have gotten built without this lot.

I briefly nodded and returned to the view, but was unable to shake the sense of being closely observed in a joint formation. I have been watched before. Who has not? However, on some level down in my mud two sure beliefs sprung out. First, they did not mean me well. Second, they were using the 'joint-formation to intensify the power of their gaze. In fact, I felt as if a 6 eyed beast was present, and was hungry for some fucking thing.

I could run, or at least walk fast to get out of view, but I am often an idiot. Instead I crouched down in the same position, giving silent thanks to all the games of camel shit checkers I played with local beduoins, allowing me to be comfy in the posture. I engaged their eyes. All of them.

The sun was to my back and it reflected fully in all the wetness of their look. Dark eyes gleamed right at me. I stared back, reliving the old child challenges of a contest, with the loser looking away first.

Part way through I regretted my once-again idiot self. I knew if I looked away I would lose more than simple pride. They would take something I could not get back, but damned if I knew what it was.

The tension, at least my tension, drew out and out. The connection between my two and their six was tightening, and then they started that uniquely Indian habit of turning their head as if trying to touch an ear to a shoulder, and then bobbing the whole head up and down.

In previous interactions with other Indians I had enjoyed this motion, and had started to do it myself, just to see what it meant on a kinetic level. I had thought it provided a friendly rythym to talk, but I was wrong. This was the opposite of friendly, and they all started doing it at the same time, but if there was a signal I missed it.

How much time went by? I am truly fucked if I know, but the gleaming and the intensity mixed with the motion of up and down. Three heads up. Three heads down. In the middle of the motion a six lensed gleam. A shine from the surface of the eyes that hid the thoughts and identities of these foriegn workers. So very bloody different from the 'yes Sahib, whatever you say Sahib you wonderful white man'

And then it was over. I came to aware they were gone and the sun was setting. I was not robbed and felt intact. I did not see any of them on the flight to Bombay as it was called then. I looked very hard.

Landing at Santa Cruz airport is worth mentioning for a couple of reasons. The big reason was the part it would play in the rest of my tale. However, I also mention it because landing in Bombay was the only time in my life i experienced culture shock.

The first surprise came with the spraying of the interoiur of the plane before we got out. I never did find out what it was for. The second shock came with the drive right outside. i ahd a little time and was going to walk to one of those airport hotels to wait until my flight to New Delhi. I only had one bag but it got grabbed as soon as I stepped outside.

I was somewhat vigilant already, so it became a tug of war between a 6'4" Canadian and a small gang of brown men with none over 5'7". I quickly realized they were all smiling and I have always been one to appreciate manners. Even when i am being robbed.

After a bit of back and forth I caught what they were on about with the high pitched entreaties.

"Please mister, please, we carry bags to train or taxi. Keep you safe mister. Keep you
safe Sahib".

I took a quick look around and saw what seemed to be local allowing their bags to be carried so I let go, prepared to run, although in truth there was nothing in the bag $50 could not have replaced. I had all documents and money tucked away on me.

Through some effort I pointed out a nearby hotel all lit up and we walked on in the moist night, dodging scooters, mopeds, cars, trucks and other moving contraptions including what looked like old fashioned bicycles hooked up to small motors. The smell of gas, kerosene and organic mixed with a cacophony of babbles in high pitched tones. i loved it but and starting to experience some cultural dissonance.

After about ten minutes walking characterized by attempts to communicate and lots of laughing we got to the parking lot. This was a vast space taken up by about twenty acres of tarmac and dirt. The whole enclosure was walled with about 4 feet of concrete.

Every single space along the entire perimeter was taken up by families. A spread blanket would hold a pot or two, bags with various items, and children tended by a woman or girl. My guides indicated this was their port of origin as the travel people like to say.

They took turns calling out, and in the gloom a flash of white teeth would answer. I have never seen so many smiles in any country, and I have never seen so much joy in living for so little material reward.

I paid them off and slept on a grassy area by the hotel entrance until dawn when I caught my next flight.