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Log book to the end of civilization. XIX

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One thing that I still cannot get used to after all my travels to the Middle East is Arab music. It simply sounds too monotonous and the vocals are always too shriek-like for my taste. It has nothing to do with the fact that I do not understand the language (I actually like the way Arab sounds), it has to do with the chords and high pitch of the voices.
Here in Kurdistan the thing becomes even more complicated because the Kurds did not invent any musical instruments worth listening to. So a lot of the singing is just some basic drums and clapping with the hands, a habit that drives me completely mad (I hate it when some idiot anywhere starts clapping his hands and the rest of the people, like a herd of sheep, start to follow him).
So how does Kurdish music sound to me?
Imagine you are in a torture chamber. The first cords are obtained by placing you on a bed of very sharp and thin nails. Your immediate screams make for the first musical notes of the sonorous martyrdom.
Next step is to bring some red hot coals or embers of some robust log (you are, of course, butt naked). They would flame the soles of your feet with this, producing an extra dimension to the pain and an extra octave to the screams.
Them, to compliment the sonic palette, they would place a midget on your chest, to walk on you and make those needles and pins dig deep and furious on your skin. Screams like a chorus of mad crows would ensue. And finally, to achieve four chords and ensure that your shrieks would make even the most stoic of camels raise its ears in vivid terror, they would give that same dwarf a vise grip to place it around your jewels and squeeze them with a slow but firm grip.
So there you go. That would make you scream like a broken accordion mixed with some Scottish pipes, which is what my ear feels like when I hear Arab music.
And for my sins, I have to go through this.
One morning we go out with one of the land crews and we walk one line with them. It is a beautiful day, with blue skies and low temperatures. There is a fresh breeze in the air and the entire thing makes it for a wonderful stroll. After we finish work, we climb on a truck that will take us back to where our car is parked. The boys are happy, and all of the sudden, they break into a Kurdish song for the length of the trip. I am therefore in a truck, surrounded by 25 cats that have had their tails stepped on by a golf shoe, and clapping that makes it sound like somebody is having his face slapped off.
I turn on the Smartphone and record some minutes of this. I plan to keep it in my phone so whenever I have a bad day, I will turn it on. And I will remember that it can always be worse.

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