Battuta's Ramadan
The faces of the elite of three continents swam around him in the last days of Ramadan. Chewing mouths, food everywhere: what of the spirit of the season? Ibn Battuta moaned in pain. Eight hours since eating, five more to go, the infidels all around, food, food, food. What was this place? In an Arab country?
Was this an Arab country? Their jabbering speech – “…security holes in Windows…” “a Byzantine filing system!” “Darling! I’m going to be home in a week!” “…flights to Fiji, Cook Islands, New Zealand…” – filled his ears, the jargon of the local traders and merchants. He was a man of the world, he could adapt. Sometimes he wondered.
Their boxes. Every one of them stared at their boxes, Satanic machines speaking “wi-fi,” their sins only barely tamed by the “proxy.” The traders beside him snorted in contempt: the “proxy!” Despite the risk of sin, he allowed the electric djinns of own machine to push distant messages to him. But what of those other chattering little boxes, the “mobiles”? To speak to that? To listen to that? Believers and unbelievers alike caressed theirs like lovers. This is a dream, yes? A nightmare?
So far from his beautiful friend! She waited for his return, or so he hoped, all smooth skin and long limbs… But in the present, now, the masticating faces of these shameless foreigners. So pale; so blond, accents echoing cold northern isles or the hot southern continent. To eat, to consume, this is what life is here, he thought. More, mOre, and yet more... Yes. More. The “café” had seduced him.
On the roads huge white SUVs flashed behind him: aside! High beams high-low-high, faster faster faster. Ignoring them, Battuta’s tiny light-metallic-green camel pushed gamely onward.
Was this an Arab country? Their jabbering speech – “…security holes in Windows…” “a Byzantine filing system!” “Darling! I’m going to be home in a week!” “…flights to Fiji, Cook Islands, New Zealand…” – filled his ears, the jargon of the local traders and merchants. He was a man of the world, he could adapt. Sometimes he wondered.
Their boxes. Every one of them stared at their boxes, Satanic machines speaking “wi-fi,” their sins only barely tamed by the “proxy.” The traders beside him snorted in contempt: the “proxy!” Despite the risk of sin, he allowed the electric djinns of own machine to push distant messages to him. But what of those other chattering little boxes, the “mobiles”? To speak to that? To listen to that? Believers and unbelievers alike caressed theirs like lovers. This is a dream, yes? A nightmare?
So far from his beautiful friend! She waited for his return, or so he hoped, all smooth skin and long limbs… But in the present, now, the masticating faces of these shameless foreigners. So pale; so blond, accents echoing cold northern isles or the hot southern continent. To eat, to consume, this is what life is here, he thought. More, mOre, and yet more... Yes. More. The “café” had seduced him.
On the roads huge white SUVs flashed behind him: aside! High beams high-low-high, faster faster faster. Ignoring them, Battuta’s tiny light-metallic-green camel pushed gamely onward.
posted by BarfUser | 2:37 PM
1 Comments:
"Believers and unbelievers alike caressed theirs like lovers." So true, so true-and we all have a love/hate relationship with this ubiquitous technology.
Soooo....that's to say that a portion of your post DOES, in fact, make sense. Did you write this late at night? In the throes of hunger? Under the influence of the forbidden wine and arak?
Take care of yourself- Push on green camel, push on.
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