Beyond the Doors: part? (not sure, but the story continues)

Fatimah had asked me to bring a snap shot of my daughter. Fatimah loves little girls, and anything girlie – pink especially. It is rare that I see her and she doesn’t have a gift for my little one. Ruby loves this, but with only one daughter, the boys often feel left out. Fatimah had asked me to bring a photo because at the shopping area you could have a photo made into some kind of token to wear. She wanted to have a necklace make for Ruby that had her own picture in it, of course, upon receiving the gift, Ruby fell in love with this mysterious Arabian woman she had never met. They have much in common, they love pink, shopping, getting dressed up, and wearing make-up. Upon meeting, several weeks later, they immediately adored each other.

Off in the not too far distance the call to prayer began to cry through the night. The sun was just setting and sunset prayer was beginning. This meant all the shopping stalls were to be closed for thirty minutes. The evening was cool, for this part of the world, almost cold. We quickly got some snacks for the kids and huddled into a sitting circle while we waited for prayer time to end. The wind was blowing hard and while we were cold, the men wouldn’t let us wait in the big shopping tent. Everything must close, no one is allowed inside. This is true all over this country, as it is the law. And anyone who does not obey this is subject to severe penalty and fines. So we tried to keep warm while waiting for the men who had disappeared inside their tents, mosques, vehicles for home, etc., that had left to pray, to return. After some friendly talk, as Fatimah translated, it was fully dark and prayer was over.

I found the fake ground covering great for keeping your abaya clean, as we made our way across the sea of green, towards the big striped, mid-century looking circus tent. At the front was a box office, of sorts. A barred cage with a dark skinned Middle Eastern man inside. He was certainly not an Arab, I later learned he was Pakistani, like the many others that worked at and ran the circus. Fatimah would not let me pay, but she put up a pretty good argument with this rugged looking man about the prices she was to pay. I think it had something to do with the fact that my oldest son looks much older than ten, as he is tall, and this man wanted to charge him the higher rate. He was grouchy, very dirty, wore a turban like scarf with pieces hanging down on his head, and what looks like ratty pajamas and a vest to keep warm on the rest of his body. Tickets were purchased, and with that, we were allowed into the circus tent.

Upon entry we found another man, he was there making sure that men and women weren’t to sit together. This was a one ring circus, with old metal bleachers lining a third of each side, and the ‘backstage’ area being the other third. The place was about as big as a junior high school gym. There weren’t many people there to begin with, just a few men in the men section. One had a few of his young kids with him. And on the ladies side, there were about 10 women, all fully covered in their abaya’s and veils, each with a couple of children in tow. The man at the entrance motioned for my ten year old to sit in the men’s section. I looked the other way. He motioned again, and this time I took Samuel’s hand and pulled him up the stairs to the ladies section and pretended I never heard the man. Fatimah didn’t seem worried, so neither did I. I spent the next few minutes taking in the scenery of this crazy little tent I had just walked into. It was old, run down, rickety, and the bright orange stadium seating made me nervous.

The background music wasn’t that of the typical Western circus music, upbeat, fanciful. It was the lull guttural crying of Arabic music, almost sad and a little scary. This music would be the music throughout the entire show. Before I knew it, out came a little person, a midget, or a dwarf perhaps, dressed in shiny pink and blue satin pants, a top and a vest, with mismatched striped socks on his feet; no shoes. He came out screeching into the microphone, words I could not understand, but between the yelling he made a loud high pitched cackling laugh that scared me more than made me laugh. It made me wonder what they might think of our ring masters, in their grand clothes and high profiles. All I know is that I wasn’t laughing with him, but I sure was laughing at him.

The circus shows ranged from dogs through a hoop, to tight rope walkers, fire eaters and knife throwing, to standing while doing sticks on horses. I had two favorites, one being the lion tamer; who I can now only just talk about, as I feared for the lives of my children and myself while this was happening. The lion tamer, who seemed to also be the tent-setter-upper, fire eater and dog trainer, didn’t seem to really get along very well with this skinny, mangy looking lion. The lion had no interest at all in jumping through his fire lit rings; it cowered in the corner when his master cracked the whip. What I didn’t mention was how the ring was put together. Imagine if you had some pieces of chain link fence that you packed around in a truck across the Gulf State desert, then when you decided to set up camp, you tied some rope between each of these pieces of fence, shook it a couple of time and said, “Yeah. That should hold.” That’s about what we’re talking about. I was so surprised to see the lion cower, then roar at his master, then throw himself into the side of the fencing, that I hardly had time to remember that the rings of fire could be knocked over at any moment and raging fire could ensue. There is no such thing as ‘fire code’ here, or hazardous warnings. One fire in that place and it would be sheer pandemonium, I tell you. (you may find it startling that I brought my whole family and two other families back, just days later, to see the show – I couldn’t be the only one to witness the Pakistani circus!)

The other act that we all enjoyed was when a man dressed in skin tight pink lamey balanced a ladder on his fore head. Then the ring master, or little person, was lifted from the ground onto the ladder, and he climbed to the top all the while the man in pink danced around the ring while keeping the balance of the ladder. Honestly, I’ve never seen such a thing in my life. It was certainly something to see.
After each trick, trapeze flight, or ‘comedy routine’ the men would put their arms up, as if to say, “Ta da!” and “Thank you very much!” In return? *chirp*chirp*chirp*. Well, except for me and my kids. We clapped, and hollered, and whooped. And got stared at a lot. But that’s what you do at a circus, isn’t it? Apparently not here. Here you stare and make no emotion. We really were the only people that clapped through the entire show. I had to remember that these people have no form of public entertainment. They don’t have movies, sporting events, theatres, ballets, operas, or anything like it. This was the first thing of it’s kind that Fatimah and Rajaa had ever been too. Later I asked how they liked it; they loved it! You could have fooled me.

On a last note about the circus two things stuck in my mind, first; there was not one woman in the entire thing. Well, at least Ruby can’t run away and join the circus in this neck of the woods. And second; when two men leaned off the back of a horse, one holding this country’s flag and the other holding Pakistan’s, while riding around the arena, I felt a little nervous. I was the only white, Western, American, Christian person in the place; and I felt it.