Kleenex nests

With boxes of tissues on every available surface in this country – there were five in my hotel room alone, there are two in my fishbowl office and at least one (sometimes two even) on every restaurant table – evidently, Kleenex moments are just waiting to blossom.

Last night I met the first female erotic painter of the Philippines. I introduced her to South Africa’s very own clit poet.
After her artistic debut, her family and country expelled her and she came here. Now she’s my designer.

She took me to the Souk – traditional Bahraini market. Not what I expected, or what you would expect from that description. More like a set of pedestrian roads within a specified area that run between buildings housing shop after shop after shop.

At best you can tailor-make your own Arabian perfume, buy a hubbly bubbly or Arabian fractal underpants (guess what everyone’s getting for Xmas). At worst you have high class Guchy, Armani, Givenchy etc outlets. Oh, and there’s loads and loads of jewellers with, I’m not over exaggerating here, golf ball-sized rings. Basically, an outdoor mall, only the price is negotiable.

Then we went to an Indian restaurant. Air conditioned with Chinese waiters. We kept thinking the passersby were staring at us, especially after our confessions. Until we realized there was a TV screen with soccer above our heads. The de-evolution was not televised.

Tut. She also brought me up to speed on the hornet’s nest called work. I guess any place one goes is. But whereas usually I just put my head down and work, here I can’t. These are the only people I know in the country, I have to make friends.

At least I’m on the road to that though.