I joke about how there is no concept of time here in the Middle East, but I don’t know if you all truly understand the extent to which time is meaningless (unless you are stopped at a traffic light — then all of a sudden time becomes so important that, by all means, please cut in front of everyone and run the light).
We ran out of propane last month. That is our cooking gas that runs the stove. Josh called to have it delivered: “Inshalla, tomorrow.” Josh called two more times over the next two days (because of course it wasn’t delivered “tomorrow” and the response was always the same, “Inshalla, tomorrow.” Finally he got someone higher up on the chain who said, “Yes, we can bring it today.” Josh gave them instructions to come anytime except between 12 and 2. When did they come? Sometime between 12 and 2 according to the “you were not here” sticker that was left on my gate when I arrived home. We eventually got cooking gas after about a week.
We moved into this house in August of 2012. One of the things that needed to be fixed was the hood over the stove. Part of it was broken so the screen was hanging down. Someone came by and took some measurements and we never heard from them again. Another day a random repairman came by and used a twisted up paperclip to keep the screen in place. Huh, I guess that works. I haven’t thought about it again until today, 15 months after moving into this house, the doorbell rings and a guy holding a big metal thing is standing at my front gate. I wasn’t even sure what he wanted — it’s not like anyone called to see if I would be home before coming over. So I let him in and he goes into the kitchen . . . ah, the stove hood repair!
The man inspected the current hood, looked at the size of the hood he brought and made some uncertain clucking noises. I guess maybe he didn’t think it would be the right size for the existing space? He asked, “It works? You want?” At this point I wasn’t replacing my half broke working hood for one for an untested one and I didn’t want him tearing up my kitchen to check it so I replied, “It’s fine.” He shrugged, “Ok.” And left. Inshalla indeed.