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Peddling culture
One of the great things about being in the military is the opportunity for world travel. In my case, the accommodations aren’t exactly luxurious: I’ve done most of my globetrotting on a big gray ship with 5,000 of my closest friends, which many discriminating travelers might find a bit cramped. Still, I’ve managed to make it to five continents in the last few years, so the Navy didn’t lie when they told me I’d “see the world” if I joined up (they lied about a lot of other stuff, but that’s a subject for another time). The reasons for all this travel are many: to show the flag, to demonstrate U.S. resolve as a global power, to drop a few bombs here and there when necessary. But for the average guy or gal in uniform, there’s really only one good reason for military-sanctioned travel: to buy crap.
After a typical military deployment, just about everyone returns home to their friends and loved ones with a treasure trove of stuff bought in foreign lands: electronics from Japan, Persian rugs from the Middle East, bootleg software from Singapore, wine from Australia, exotic jewelry from just about everywhere. This buying frenzy is based on the assumption that the world is a giant Wal-Mart, full of discount knick-knacks that can’t be gotten in the United States. Additionally, people in the military love to buy and display souvenirs of their travels as proud symbols of where they’ve been and the sacrifices they’ve made for God and country. Leaving Malaysia without a souvenir blowgun is tantamount to sacrilege.
Unfortunately, here in Saudi Arabia there are few opportunities to prowl the souks and bazaars in and around Riyadh for bargains and treasures. It’s the terrorist threat, and all that. Still, the top brass know that a general mutiny might result if we hard-working soldiers and sailors didn’t have the chance to go home with the usual spoils of war. Since we can’t head out to the bazaars, the bazaars come to us: twice a month, the sentries throw open the front gates of the base and allow all kinds of merchants to set up shop for an afternoon. Armed with a pocket full of tax-free cash (my entire salary is tax-free while I’m in Saudi Arabia, since this place is classified as a combat zone), I scoured the bazaar, trying to find that one item that might best commemorate my time in the Middle East.
Much of the stuff for sale was pure kitsch: stuffed camels, genie-laden magic lamps, cheap t-shirts that show Cartman from South Park whining, “You sent me to Saudi Arabia, you bastards!” Hardly appropriate souvenirs. But many merchants hawked some fine merchandise. A man from Pakistan had a booth full of hand-carved marble chess sets, goblets, and jewelry boxes. Two men from Egypt (who spent so much time arguing with each other in Arabic, it hardly seemed like they were in business together) had many customers interested in their cedar trunks with mother-of-pearl inlays. And a one-eyed merchant from Syria had a huge selection of brassware: telescopes, decorative nautical instruments, napkin rings, and (inexplicably) several menorahs.
Of course, little of the merchandise was actually Saudi Arabian in origin. The Saudis make one thing: oil. But since a 55-gallon drum isn’t exactly the kind of conversation piece that you want in your living room (unless you live in Alabama and you use it as an end table), the Saudis have to bring in merchants from neighboring countries to give the bazaar an authentic Middle Eastern feel. Although, there was one Saudi merchant at the bazaar, stuck way in a back corner, who seemed to do no business whatsoever. He had two racks full of abayahs, the black head-to-toe robe that Saudi women have to wear in public. As a concession to strict Saudi culture, when American female soldier and sailors go outside the confines of the base, they’re mandated to wear an abayah (all females in the military are issued an abayah when they arrive in Saudi Arabia). Female military personnel universally hate this policy. In fact, many see the abayah as a symbol of sanctioned slavery, so they weren’t about to give this man their money. Still, I had fun watching this lone Saudi merchant ogle some of my female friends, who were all “revealingly” dressed in shorts and t-shirts.
Nothing at the bazaar really struck my fancy, but I still wanted to buy something small for my apartment back home, something I could use to lure unsuspecting dinner guests into listening to tales of my wild adventures in foreign lands. As I strolled through the bazaar, a quiet Egyptian man called me over, eagerly holding up samples of his hand-carved woodwork. He spent ten minutes describing his wares in broken English before I decided on a small incense burner. It was hand carved from cedar and even had a secret compartment to store sticks of incense. He wanted seven dollars for it, but I talked him down to four. I probably would have paid close to twenty dollars at a funky new-age shop somewhere back in the U.S. Future dinner guests, beware.
As I strolled home from the bazaar, I got to thinking. Suppose a foreign government sent people from its country to live in a compound in the United States, shut off from the bulk of American culture. Presumably, these foreigners would want the chance to prowl America’s mega-malls in search of things they can’t be had in their country (America, after all, is the consumer-driven land of plenty, an image that we eagerly promote throughout the world). So we’d do the same thing the Saudis do: send merchants into the compound from time to time to give these poor foreigners a chance to “buy American,” to purchase products that they could take back home as an authentic symbol of their time spent in our country. But what would we try to sell them?
Let’s try something a little different: I’ll leave the answer to that question up to the loyal readers of LARGEREGO. Put on your thinking caps and come up with a list (as long a list as you’d like) of what foreigners could buy at our fantasy bazaar that is “uniquely” American. Levis, Marlboros, Coke, Big Macs, Rush Limbaugh, and Budweiser are too obvious, and are therefore disqualified as potential answers. And don’t limit yourselves to only tangible objects. Concepts like “stress” and “megalomania” are acceptable answers.
Send your answers to me via email here in the august and sandy Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. I’ll compile a list of answers, along with some witty commentary, in a future issue of LARGEREGO. Of course, the editors will pour over your submissions and choose a few of the best for a special prize. Winners will receive two tickets to sit with Rush Limbaugh in the LARGEREGO skybox at next year’s Super Bowl, along with all the Budweiser, Big Macs, and Marlboros you care to have.
By Jeremy Neuner
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