Kuwait's Beit al-Othman Museum Oddities

In one of my whinier moments, I actually said to my husband last week, “But I don’t wanna go to the mall today!” And like any good parent, he immediately suggested something educational, “Why don’t you go to the Othman Museum.”

“Fine.”

The Beit al-Othman Museum has been on my Kuwait bucket list, but with time running out, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. Plus, in all honesty, I was hoping for some company. Not that my daughter isn’t great company, but a 15-month-old can only find so much amusement in wacky dioramas or hysterical misspellings. But we can have fun on our own too, so off we went. The museum is the newest of Kuwait’s collection of museums, opening in February of this year. I found an online description of it, that stated:

This large historic house, built in the late 1940s, was turned into a museum of the heritage and history of Kuwait. Currently, it includes the Kuwaiti House Museum, the Maritime Museum, the Heritage Hall, the Drama Museum, the Journey of Life Museum, and Museum of Historical Machinery.

Hmm, sounds intriguing. So, Bean and I parked the car and I gathered up the umbrella stroller. As we entered through the side door an Arab woman followed us in. I paused at the small desk where a guard sat, but he immediately began addressing the woman behind me, so Bean and I just continued walking in. Then another guard, speaking English, called me back and said I had to pay 1kd to enter. As I was getting out the money, I overheard the other woman say in Arabic something about “looking” or “seeing” and she was waving her arms about which lead me to assume she was telling them she “Just wanted to look around.” (I’m telling you, if everyone in the world suddenly lost their arms and lost the ability to make facial expressions, I couldn’t understand a thing in any language!)

As I paid the 1kd, the woman slipped by me and went in, so I said with a bit of a snide tone, “What about her? Only I have to pay?” I know, obnoxious. But after five years in the Middle East, and always being charged more for being a Westerner, I just had to say something. It didn’t matter, they ignored me and I paid.

Since it was early on a Thursday morning, there were very few people in the museum, so as Bean and I explored we inevitably kept bumping into the Arab woman. By the third time, we both laughed and smiled, and found ourselves chatting about Bean. 

The main room of the museum, which used to be a house, is a huge open courtyard that at one time might have been open to the elements. But they’ve thankfully put a roof over it and air conditioned it nicely. Then off of this room are other little rooms. Some as small as a closet, others with multiple rooms attached. And these are the other “museums.”

The first one we entered was about 4’x 8’ and was the POW Museum; dedicated to all the prisoners of war and included a fairly morose skeleton display. Then there was the Emir Museum, with paintings lining the walls of all Kuwait’s Emirs, and the Currency Museum, which showed Kuwait’s currency history. This was where it finally sunk in for me just how young a country Kuwait is. Up until 1961, they were using Indian rupees for currency. But when they gained their independence from the British, they finally minted their own bills and coins (Kuwaiti dinars and fills), and the displays showed the various printings over the last 50+ years.

Each side room was small, but had nice displays and even some descriptions in English (though most were in Arabic). We wandered through the drama displays, showing famous television and movie stars and displaying their costumes or props from (apparently) famous scenes. In the US, it would be like seeing Lucille Ball’s chocolate factory outfit on display, or Mr. Rogers' sweater.

At the back of the main room there was a hallway that led to a mock-up of an old Kuwaiti house – long before the days of the ludicrously large villas. There was also a street scene of sorts, with little shops lining the edges, selling books or food or Coca-Cola. We saw the history of the Kuwait Oil Company as well as some rather horrifying photos of the oil rigs burning when Saddam retreated.

There was an amusing display of Kuwait Airlines, showing the history of the flight attendants’ outfits throughout the years. Short skirts in the 50s and 60s, but come the 80s and long filmy jackets (almost robe-like) covered the ornately gilded uniforms. Frankly I think they’d be a pain to wear on a plane and serve fruit juice in, but what do I know.

In the room for the Kuwait Department of the Interior (and you feared there wouldn’t be one!), there was even a display of the history of the car registration forms over the years – riveting stuff, I tell ya – as well as a display right out of CSI Kuwait’s crime scene kit. Despite any unintended campy-ness, it was a well put together museum. Everything was displayed nicely and most things were labeled.

The one thing, and you knew there would be, was the mannequins. They were everywhere! The ones displaying uniforms or fight attendant outfits or sitting in a tank were fine. It was the random ones placed throughout the museum that I found a bit disturbing. Several times, I had to look twice to see if one was a real security guard, or a mannequin posing authentically.

As we entered the area with the little shops, I glanced up and saw a man and woman on the second floor peering down on us. It was only seconds later that I realized they were mannequins. Why would there be mannequins up there?

But the weirdest of all were the man, dressed like the ground crew at an airport, and a woman seemingly perched on a flying carpet above us. She was holding one end of a rope with the other dangling down just out of our reach. I have no idea of the significance, but it was strange; just very strange.

But marginally-creepy mannequins aside, I could recommend swinging by and spending an hour winding in and out of the little rooms. It’s very stroller-friendly, which was nice, and was air conditioned, which is important in the Kuwait summers. So, for those interested, the museum is located in Hawally on Abdullah Al-Othman Street and they are open 9:30a-12:30p and 4:30p-9:00p, every day except Fridays. Pictures are allowed and there’s allegedly a café inside (though I think I was too distracted by the mannequins to find it), and if you come dressed in authentic Kuwait garb, you may be able to get in for free.

Mirrors, Mirrors, on the Wall, and the Floor and the Sink and the Door

Tripadvisor.com has thirteen suggestions under “Things to do in Kuwait City.” The top four are not surprising, the aquarium, the Grand Mosque (though it’s currently closed for repairs, so we will not be seeing it), the Kuwait Towers (also closed for repairs, so not to be seen by us), and Tareq Rajab Museum of Islamic Arts (which we loved and you can read about it here: Gems & Germs: Exploring Kuwait’s Tourism Side). The fifth most recommended thing to do in Kuwait City is to visit the Mirror House; essentially go have tea with Ms. Lidia.

When someone says “The Mirror House,” maybe your head is filled with images of a Mad-Hatter, carnivalesque, Mrs.-Haversham-type residence. And you wouldn’t be far off. Ms. Lidia al-Qattan is the owner of and creative genius behind the Mirror House. She is the widow of Khalifa al-Qattan, a famous Kuwaiti artist. She has lived in Kuwait since the 1960s and throughout these last fifty years has turned her house into a showpiece like no other. The Mirror House is literally covered from top to toes, inside and outside, with intricate mirror mosaics that she has personally designed and created all on her own.

When friends and I went to visit her she welcomed us in like long-lost friends. But, like rude long-lost friends, I barely even noticed her as I was too busy gaping at everything around me. Even the outside wall surrounding her home is decorated in mosaics. There were mirror-mosaic butterflies and deer prancing around the inner courtyard. And if that wasn’t distracting enough, then we actually entered her home. Barely an ounce of floor or wall-space was left un-mirrored.

Everything glittered and shimmered with mirror bits. She had laid out cake and biscuits and juice for us, so we sat on the mirrored bench in front of the mirrored tables aligning the mirrored wall and tried to remember to blink as we soaked in the sights and listened to the history of the house. When she and her husband moved in to the house in the 1960s, they were the only one in the area. The Qadisiya neighborhood is now just as crowded as the rest of Kuwait City, with villas bumping up to villas. She studied nursing in London, but always had a penchant for art. And when her husband was away on a business trip once, she created a small mirrored-mosaic statue for him on a whim. And it sparked an interest that would last for the next fifty years.

She explained all about how she tried different bonding agents, finding some too rough, others too weak, and some that were too hard to keep clean, and finally settled on her current mixture. She told us the heart-breaking story of discovering termites in the walls and floors and having to rip out all her work to fix the problem. Not to be undeterred, however, she re-did all the mosaics, and added even more.

As the tour of the house started, she took us room by room, explaining the different themes present, the beginning of the world, the solar system, astrological signs, and everywhere there were animals present, from swans and eagles, to sting rays and dolphins, to camels and even a unicorn. I had brought my 14-month-old daughter along with us and she was quite mesmerized by all the sparkly bits. Lidia kept telling me to, “Let her go, let her explore,” which I did with great trepidation. Inevitably, Bean would gravitate with great eagerness to one of the many glowing spheres perched on stands and Lidia would laugh and say, “Oh, it won’t hurt her.” “Oh, I’m not concerned that it’ll hurt her,” I’d say, as I prevented her, yet again, from knocking some one-of-a-kind artwork to shatters on the ground. In hindsight, bringing a toddler to a “mirror house” might have been a dumb move.

Lidia loved telling us the stories that inspired her for each room, and we would dutifully sit on the cushions, perched on the mirrored banquets and listen. And in many rooms there were added light features, so she’d turn off the lights and the solar system would light up, or the paintings would flicker on. Going from room to room was like visiting a string of mini planetariums, without all the fussy facts.

I think I was most fascinated by the bathroom, in which every inch was covered by mirrors; from the sink, to the shower stall, to the trash can, light switch, radiator cover, and even toilet brush holder. Nothing was left un-mirrored. And if you stood in the middle of the room, the walls and floor almost became two dimensional, losing all sense of depth. Might be a little too much to deal with early in the morning.

Upstairs there were a few rooms displaying Mr. al-Qattan’s paintings as well as Lidia’s other artistic endeavors. One room was covered in industrial carpet that she’d painted and for thirty minutes she kept us there throwing velcro’d papier-mâché tiles at the wall and kept saying, “No, they're not in a line,” or “Nope, not facing up,” and then she’d hand them back to us and we’d throw them again. Despite our appalling lack of papier-mâché-tile throwing ability, she finally let us out, but not without a slight sign of disappointment, I’m sure. For over an hour, Lidia opened her home to us and shared her stories and her amazing creations and endless visions. We felt so welcome. It was like visiting a favorite aunt; you wanted to stay for days (but maybe not with a toddler).

As we left, we bid her farewell, and thanked her repeatedly for her gracious hospitality. It was absolutely one of the most delightful outings we’ve had in Kuwait. So, now I think it’s time I jot off a quick note to tripadvisor.com and inform them that they need to seriously revise their ranking of “Things to do in Kuwait.” Without question, having tea with Ms. Lidia should be number one.

So, for anyone who finds themselves in Kuwait and is looking to visit Ms. Lidia, it’s requested that you call ahead (+965-22518522) to make an appointment; this is her home, after all. At the end of the tour, which can easily last over an hour, she asks for a small donation (2kd on weekdays, 3kd on weekends). And bring a token of your appreciation, dates or cookies or something you’ve made. Believe me, at the end you will wish you’ve given her more.

Hope Springs Eternal… Even in Underwhelming Kuwait

Lately, I find myself wondering whether Alexander Pope ever visited Kuwait. Cursory research suggests no, but then again practical experience suggests maybe there was just nothing to write home about, hence “Hope springs eternal in the human breast [and Kuwait]”.

As I’m slowly narrowing down my Kuwait bucket list, with each check mark I routinely am faced with the same thought, “Welcome to Kuwait, Prepare to Be Underwhelmed.” But, I am trying desperately to not become one of those short-timer expats who only sees the negative in the life they’re leaving; but admittedly Kuwait sometimes doesn’t help matters. Regardless, with each week, I diligently plod through my bucket list, plan my route using Google maps, grab my camera, the baby and my gigantic satchel of hope, and head out.

Our latest adventure started solely as a find-the-fountain excursion. I’d read that there was a dancing musical fountain with “… traditional dancing and light shows; open daily 6:00am to 11:00pm”. How have we missed this? Seventeen hours a day of a dancing musical fountain? It must be found!

Then, when searching it out on Google maps, I saw it was between the ice rink, which we’ve never visited and a huge swath of green called Green Belt Garden. Sounds lovely! I was quite excited about the day’s outing; I could barely squeeze my satchel of hope in the car.

Without too much effort (meaning annoying u-turns that take you miles out of your way because of living in no-left-turn-land), we came upon the ice rink. I will admit that there are very few ice rinks around the world that look impressive from the outside. So the fact that Kuwait has an active ice rink at all is rather impressive in and of itself. We didn’t bother to go in, but dutifully admired it as we drove past on our way to the dancing fountain.

For a land that hates to label things, like roads and turn-offs, I was actually a little surprised to see this little park well-labeled. I was equally surprised to see that it was gated, fully locked and appeared to be packed up for the season with tables and chairs stacked and not an ounce of water or musical note to be found. As I sat there in the car, debating whether to even see if there were hours posted, I could feel my satchel of hope shrinking. But, hope springs eternal, not just when convenient, so we re-inflated our satchel, and headed off to see the glorious Green Belt Garden.

In all honesty, I’m not sure we ever found it, but considering the map and the proximity to the dormant fountains and the large enclosed area surrounded by a wall stating “Al Shaheed Park”, I’m thinking that we were successful; in finding it, not in actually seeing it. I did follow another car into what I thought was the entrance to the park, but instantly found myself in a construction zone with a guy standing in front of me with a look like, “Hey, lady, whatcha think you’z doin’?” (I’m, of course, assuming that all construction men speak like a stereotype from Queens, even in Kuwait.) I waved my hand as if to answer back, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m turning around” (it was a wordy wave), and scuttled out.

So, with my completely deflated satchel of hope, I returned home and had to share my underwhelm-ment with my husband that night. With every attempted bucket-sighting, and my inevitable moans of disappointment, my husband always looks at me and says (with a little sigh, like he’s speaking to a child who keeps smacking themselves in the face), “Why don’t you just stay home and read a book?” Maybe he’s right. I have a feeling that Mr. Pope might concur. But then again, I heard that there’s something called The Mirror House that just might be worth a check. Come on Mr. Pope, load up that satchel and let’s get moving!

I Hate Moving

Yes, I realize that me complaining about having to move (again) is like the Queen complaining about yet another hand-waving gig – it’s the lifestyle we’ve chosen (or been born/married into). Although, I have to say when my husband told me on our third date that he’d like to live overseas, I thought he was just trying to impress me. It was only later that I realized that he wasn’t the “try to impress” type – he’s a literal guy. Lesson learned. Which of course leaves me singing, “Here we go again,” and trying not to have a full-fledged panic attack. Since our wedding, almost six years ago, this will be the seventh time movers have come into our home and packed up our stuff. And you’d think that having someone else move you would relieve all the moving-stress. And it does, in many many ways. On moving day, I tend to just try to stay out of the way and keep everyone hydrated and fed. It’s the lead up to moving day that is just as stressful whether you have movers or not.

So, six weeks out, as a born and bred list-maker, this is when I start gearing up. I have lists everywhere, and then periodically I merge them into one big list, but then they morph into little lists throughout the house again who eventually have to be re-corralled. But, as a type-A organizer, my little brain doesn’t stop spinning until the last box is packed up. There are a thousand things to think about in order to even reach the point where movers are knocking on the door.

First, we have to get the cats prepped for travel, which include rabies shots that are more than 30 days before travel, and then health certificates that are done within 7 days of travel, plus whatever hoops, hurdles and jumps the exporting country and importing country requires. This means at least two vet appointments for three cats (and with three yowling felines and one wiggly toddler, this becomes a family bonding moment as I can’t do it by myself during the week). And don’t forget the airline reservations. You can’t just show up with Mr. Kitty on fly day; he gets his own reservation and then we get the privilege of paying handsomely to use up our own legroom. Gotta love the airlines!

Next, we have the purging of the thousands. Nothing is safe; books, clothes, DVDs, shopping bags, kitchen goods, shoes, toys, it’s all subject to intense “do we really need this/is it time to move-along” scrutiny. So donation piles begin to form in room corners and our possessions start walking out the door with friends and neighbors.

Then, we have the social-squeezing. Restaurants to visit one more time; friends to see, possibly for the last time, though we never actually say that, “No, we’ll see you again before we leave, I’m sure…”. And the few remaining items on the bucket list (including a possible jaunt to the Iraq border for a picnic, just because we can).

Then there’s the using-up phase. This primarily falls to strange food items and toiletries. I diligently start using up all half-empty bottles or tubes of shower gel, face cream, shampoo, toothpaste, body lotion, etc. One by one, they get drained dry and we move on to the next one. Of course, this then raises the question as to why I have so many half-used items, but frankly there’s no time for self-evaluation. Save that for the 13-hour flight.

Then there’s the food. You find yourself trying to concoct dinner using up the one-and-a-half bags of dried coconut and half-kilo of paprika. Or staring at the three half-used bottles of vanilla, tub of Crisco and four cans of black beans and thinking about black bean cookies. When I discovered that we had about 15 cans of pumpkin in the cupboard (we had been buying it by the case for Louie the kitten – who needs more fiber – but then found over-cooked rice worked better, hence the pumpkin stash), I had visions of pumpkin pies lined up around the kitchen. But instead, I opted for a slightly healthier recipe, and for weeks on end was making pumpkin smoothies for breakfast. Luckily I love pumpkin, and we’re down to one last can, which I’m saving for any last-minute pumpkin-related emergencies. Hey, it could happen!

At the four-week point, we had our pack-out survey done. Typically this is where the moving company rep comes in to assess just how much crap you have. And if you’re not honest, they won’t bring enough supplies, so it’s really “bare your soul, and all your chachka, and don’t hide the alabaster chandelier” time. This time was a little different, as four different moving companies came to review our piles of stuff so they could bid on the job. So I got to confess four times and frankly felt very cleansed after the whole thing.

Now, with three weeks to go, I’m finally thinking about actual travel plans. When friends asked what we’re going to do on vacation back in the states, I just stared at them blankly. Frankly, I really have no idea. And currently, “make vacation plans” isn’t even on the master list, though “shave couches” is thanks to kitty claws. I did manage to finally make hotel reservations for us for the first two weeks, so with the plane reservations all set (including feline reservations), we at least all have a place to sleep once the plane lands.

I know this is all just a means to an end. And considering the amazing adventures we get to have along the way, I really have nothing to complain about. But, like any adventure, it only comes with a little effort, a dash of forethought, about a thousand lists, and a good pumpkin smoothie to keep things moving. I wonder if the Queen would agree?

The Mother's Day Magnanimous Gesture

This past Mother’s Day was my second. However, it was my first where I got to spend it with my husband, as we were separated due to complications getting our daughter’s passport last year. While I wasn’t expecting fanfare and fireworks, I also wasn’t expecting what I got. But to quote my husband, I got a “magnanimous gesture.” Now, when you think of a devoted husband’s magnanimous gesture to the love of his life, the mother of his child, the yin to his yang, you may be thinking something sparkly, or at least highly fragrant, or possibly comes with a masseuse for the day. I was. Instead I got a proclamation from the father of my child, in celebration of this annual praising-of-mothers day, stating that he had “hosed off the dirty cloth diapers.”

He was, in fact, so pleased with himself that he sauntered around the house for the better part of 30 minutes singing operatically to a Mozart tune, “Hosing out the diapers, poo poo, pee pee pee pee pee, Quarterly we hose out the pee, poo poo, pee pee pee pee pee,” and such, laughing with great mirth. I did not join in. When I hose out the diapers, the remaining forty-plus times during the week, it honestly never occurs to me to praise myself with song. Maybe it should, he was having a blast.

To give him credit, marginal as it is, he did bring me flowers later in the day. But hearing of friends getting to have a spa-day, or breakfast in bed, or a day-all-about-them, left me feeling a little empty on the celebratory scale. Granted, they didn’t get serenaded by their betrothed, but then again, they also didn’t get a pee-pee song sung at them. I guess it’s all in how you look at it.

Two days later, however, his magnanimous gesture took root and he found himself on 100% Daddy-duty (and doody). I was out cold with the flu, fever, chills, aches, pains, moans, groans, you name it, I felt it. But, without me even having to ask (not that I was conscious enough to ask), he took the day off and played stay-at-home-dad. For the first time in fourteen months, I didn’t lift a finger for my daughter all day. Frankly I couldn’t; it was just too heavy.

As I flitted in and out of consciousness, I heard my daughter’s laughter as Daddy pretended to eat her broccoli, or heard her clapping with glee when he pretended to chase her down the hall, and I heard spontaneous songs about toast and Chuckles the kitty. When I rejoined the living later that night, I realized that for all the hilarity I had heard, I didn’t once hear the Mozart diaper ditty. “I guess I just didn’t have time,” he said. Ahh, reality, you take all the mirth out of life.

I resumed the stay-at-home role the next day, and had time to reflect on this Mother’s Day week. Granted, my actual day was not that grand or envy-inducing, but despite his lack of planning, when the need was dire my husband was there and my daughter and I were well-cared for. So, would I rather have a spa day, or a husband I can rely on and trust? I choose the latter, with the caveat that a spa-day would just be the cherry on top; oh, and no Mozart, please, I’m finding he gives me a bit of a rash.