Humidity and AC


	Dhahran Diary®
Title: Humidity and AC DD22		Dhahran Camp 1950, a partial view looking south. In the foreground the S. Admin parking and in the upper center, the tennis courts, ball field, patio, pool, school, and theater area. (rcc)

In my memory, the Arabian seasons were punctuated by bouts of moisture. It seems odd that I think of that desert region in terms of water but the rainy season and the August humidity were two annual milestones. The humidity was intense. Many westerners suffered. The windows ran rivulets of condensation; it was a comfortable AC-concocted 70F with low humidity inside our homes but the camp steamed like a bed of hot rice. Everything that touched our skin stuck; jeans chaffed, skirts stuck immodestly, and perspiration gushed!

We were out of school in August; it was the trimester plan and I still think, after all these years of teaching, it is a good way to dole out learning opportunities. Kids on long leave during the trimester attend half a day classes during the month off to catch up. Then, they could chase AC for the rest of the day. There are lots of beach parties, camp outs, and hobby farm activities scheduled early and late.

I still recall the drill: about 7:45 AM I call a taxi and while waiting I swallow a few salt pills (mom's guided practice). The driver drops me at the theater parking lot (SR1); I slip into the side door just as my pores begin to dilate; only out of AC for about seven minutes. I cut through the theater seats, back outside for just a few seconds and into the recreation office. From there, I cut through the Fiesta room into the bowling alley, always following the AC. The pin boys do not want to set this early so I usually stay in back with them waiting for my friends to arrive. I can watch through the slots in the Brunswick facade that masks the lanes from the pin setting equipment. My arabic is limited but I have learned most of my daily words from them (fook, nozzle, tahot, yamin, yasir, seda, yallah, yimkin, haumi-haumi, lish hatha maaphi shugal, ta'al, ahlan, minfudlik, and more). I experiment: semich=fish qawage=face semiquage=fish face. They laugh. Booger phi moo= cow has moo! They laugh harder.

I rent shoes (SR..25) when my friends arrive and we bowl until I get a thumb blister (SR3), about three lines. Now it is early lunchtime (10:30AM) and we move to the Fiesta room for a tuna fish and Pepsi (SR1.25). We swap stories and watch for girl friends to pass through. There are lots of Dhahran cliques and as more students arrive the groups begin to polarize into more comfortable friendships. Some are talking quietly about who will sit with whom during the film. Someone mentions the party the night before; those not invited the previous night turn a sharp ear to hear who went and what happened.

I contemplate the walk (no AC) to the Bachelor club across the theater parking lot. Maybe some of my friends are there. Only outside for a minute but the air is so thick; it's like breathing rope. Once there, if no men are playing, I can practice snooker. If men are playing, I can go to the wood shop in the back and make something. This is free. Recently, I have seen Paul Schmidtbauer and Gary Sanders quietly going about a project. They are making a locomotive. I have seen Paul using the lathe, tools, and eye protection. Even the wood shop has AC! From time to time I may slip into the side alcove and watch the men play cards for money. The drillers use $100 bills. They folded them 'v' shaped, longitudinally through the center, and when they bet, they launch them through the air with a finger tip, like tossing a glider. When the pots get big, it gets silent and you can hear the balls knocking from the other room. You never stand too close. If all else fails, I might play shuffleboard.

But, it's too hot; I don't want to walk in the heat to the Bachelor Club, I can elect to go upstairs from the Fiesta Room to the library instead. This is my favorite place in Dhahran after my desk at home (Steve Furman gave it to me). I read National Geographic and Boy's Life. I hunt around for A Stork Didn't Bring Me but someone has hidden it again. I look over a few atlases and finally settle in with an adventure story by someone like Thor Hyerdahl. I sit in the AC's flow and use my towel around my shoulders when it gets too cold. Sometimes the night workers stop in, glance at a few magazines; one tucks a copy under his shirt before leaving.

The Dhahran Theater in the mid-1950s. This building catered to theatrical productions, holiday extravaganzas, films, townhouse meetings, school graduations, and ARAMCO department awards, to name a few events. Note the acacia trees, a feature very much appreciated by shade dwelling westerners. An Indian employee can be seen at the left. These recreation workers made life very easy for oil workers and their families. (rcc)

As it gets toward 3:30PM, I head down to the theater (price varies with age). I could slip in the side door but it is usually locked by movie time; I could crawl through the AC tunnel and out the trapdoor behind the stage but decide otherwise. It does not matter what film is showing. I love films; I can always find sometime I like about a film, even musicals! I like Doris Day because we both have freckles. Sometimes it is just the AC I enjoy! I sit on the left near the back. The AC does not blow down on you there. I look up and see one of many white drinking straw covers hanging from the acoustic tiles, gently waving in the AC flow. Someone has shot them up there and they are glued to the tiles hanging like stalactites. Near, but on the side wall, is a Nestles chocolate bar. Someone opened the candy to find it melted; being too messy to eat, they tossed it up in disgust- it stuck. The soft mass glued itself to the mocha colored cinder block surface. It has been there for a long time, the tinfoil glinting.

My latest flame is sitting with several of her girl friends. I would like to sit with her but it's too embarrassing to just charge in and ask her to move. Maybe she'll step out and I can intercept her. One of my rivals is sitting behind her, leaning over the seat and whispering, She tosses her head back and giggles. When she finishes this display , our eyes link for an instant and I am too smitten to realize she is playing me like a shinnod on a long, invisible line. Maybe I can catch her at the pool. She lives right behind the Patio but I know her parents are strict and will not allow her to stray much from their enforcement.

Around five I head for the pool; most of the noise is over and the office workers take the plunge as kids began to tail home for dinner. I save the pool for last so I wouldn't have to carry a wet towel and bathing suit around all day. They never dry in the humidity. By now I am out of money and face the humidity in the chlorinated soup. I used to recline for a time in the wading pool but the little ones are always peeing in it so I stopped. I get out with red eyes and head for home before the news starts over the PA at six P.M.

I put the wet swimsuit on my head, the waistband as a hatband. I trudge home using the damp towel to cool my arms and face while thinking no money left; tomorrow I'll have to make my loop through the office area, or just stay home and work on my models, maybe read Zane Gray or the Hardy Boys. The heat is boiling up through my sandals and I walk a little spread-legged to minimize the rasp of the denim. Western underwear is not made for an Arabian August!

I notice the Arabs never perspire. They must think of us as a real weenie bunch. In retrospect, what amazes me most is how anyone can expect me to be a success in life? My only job is mowing the lawn and the company will soon offer a suggestion that it would be better to have gardeners! I don't even pick up after making a sandwich; Gabriel is elbowing me out of the way to retake control of his kitchen counter. Still, I consider my existence precious because I have seen refugees (Beirut camps) and I have a sense that with a little flick of the cosmic brush I could be one of those faces, or maybe Usef could be chasing the AC and I could be behind the Brunswick facade waiting for the westerners to start setting pins in my bare feet. Maybe life isn't to be measured in terms of success; maybe it's all about timing.

Dhahran Diary®