Fire and Brimstone Golf

Golfing on the weekend can be eventful. The 18 hole sand course, next to a monolithic refinery, hums as we hit tee shots. A smell, reminiscent of sticking your nose into a tailpipe and then dousing oil on your upper lip, chokes you. A wicked Arabian Gulf breeze comes roaring off of the sea, does little to remove the scent; instead, it sends your golf balls into tufts of live tumbleweed. To add to the frustration, your golf carts occasionally get stuck along the cart paths; you bathe in your own sweat, which at least, helps to wash away the dust off your skin.

To add to this sensory festival, Fridays (the equivalent of Sundays) are when mosques light up with fervor. The PA systems project across the cities with voices of priests (Imams) angrily yelling indiscernible words -People compare this to Baptists revivals. We were joking on the driving range that the head priests were probably saying "kill all the infidels" -At dinner later that evening, a friend of ours said her Muslim friend ashamedly confided that the priests are more or less saying that. The upshot: At least the congregation doesn't talk in tongues -I've always been more scared of that aspect in churches -Always reminded me of epileptics dancing with snakes.