My journey as an expatriate (from the French for "foreigner") began in 1976.
That's the year I graduated from college and, looking for adventure and a unique "experience"
volunteered for a two year stint as an English Language instructor in Bahrain through the
volunteer mission program of the Reformed Church in America. The Reformed Church began
their work in that part of the world in 1892. It continues today, albeit, in a much less directed
fashion, in the form of medical, educational and religious work. Our (my wife and I - we were
married at age 20) involvement was with what was then called "The American Mission School".
It was my job to teach English to seventh and eighth grade Arab children, many of whom came
from the wealthier families on the island. My wife taught second and fourth graders.
It was, to say the least, a challenge which proved to be almost too much for us. I had spent my whole life in a small village in Iowa, my wife had been there from age eight. I had never lived anywhere else, as I also attended college in the same town. The first time I set foot on a plane was to fly to Bahrain.
. Culture shock supreme. I'll never forget my first night in Bahrain. I
couldn't sleep partly because of jet lag, partly because my whole life was flashing before my eyes
on the ceiling above my bed. And that wasn't all that was up there. After I finally did fall asleep,
and awoke the next morning, the first thing I saw was a lizard just above my head. Not a
common sight in Iowa. This, plus a rowdy class of Arab children who all looked the same to me,
and whose names I found nearly impossible to pronounce, nearly drove us back to the States after
our first year. Fortunately a 20 year vet at the school persuaded us to hang in there. We did, and
the next year was a charm. We were hooked.
I went to seminary with the thought of returning to Bahrain as a pastor of one of the English language congregations our church supports in the Gulf (Bahrain, Oman, Kuwait). I took a year of internship studying Islamics and Christian-Muslim relations in Cairo, Egypt in preparation for this return. It didn't happen. Not, that is, until 1986, when I got the call to serve as pastor of a small English language congregation in Salalah, Oman - the end of the earth.
Great memories from Salalah: weekends at one of the many breathtaking
beaches where "crowded" is defined as a beach with more than 10 people on it; shell collecting;
journeys through the mountains north of the city, traveling through villages which time forgot; the
Omanis we met - curious, hospitable, great friends; weekly Arabic lessons with Tawir, my
Sudanese tutor; breaking the Ramadhan fast with Tawir and his family; folk nights at one of the
various British "messes"; playing music with Tony, the last of the British casualties of the Dhofar
War, paralyzed from the waist down, but a great folk guitarist, singer; worship with a small
congregation representing five different countries; great vegetarian Indian meals at the "glass top
table" restuarant - $1.30 all you can eat; the Salalah drama troop, me playing the role of a French
womanizing prisoner - type cast; those beaches - those fabulous beaches; our children growing
up in an international atmosphere in a surprisingly good little British school.
Three years later we moved 600 miles to the north to take up a much busier
ministry in the capital city of Oman, Muscat. Muscat was more cosmopolitan, but still removed
from what you might call a "normal" existence. The most beautiful city I have ever seen, and I
have seen a few - white sand beaches on one side, dramatic treeless mountains on the other;
buildings all conforming to a set architectural style, one that was peculiarly Omani. Here I was in
partnership with an Anglican priest. We shared the ministry, which was set in two church
facilities housing 19 different congregations. Our congregation represented the world - literally -
north, south, east and west, the greatest number from India and the Philippines. A highlight of
ministry in the Gulf - its international character.
Good memories from Muscat; the beaches, the fabulous beaches; "wadi bashing" on weekends;
great friends from all over the world; Willie and the Poor Boys - a nine piece rock n roll band
which allowed me to live out my adolescent fantasy of being a singer in a rock n roll band; Omani
friends - they don't come any more hospitable than this; meeting an Omani in front of our home
whose Arabic was worse than mine - a Zanzibari Omani who had been a professor at Rutgers
University since 1972. Good friends, good conversation, great beaches, fantastic scenery - hard
place to leave.
But leave we did. In 1991 - December 30, 1991 - we came full circle -
back to Bahrain, this time as pastor of the church where we had worshiped in 1976.
Memories from Bahrain - still fresh: playing trumpet with my friend Joe's jazz band at a five star
hotel restuarant; singing in his rock n roll band - "Johnny be good tonight, go, go, go; good
friends and a good school for our kids; Manama singers; Bahrain Chorale - playing one of the
leads in "On the Town"; good Bahraini friends - they're such good friends.
Oh, and vacations - did I mention the vacations? from Oman - to Kenya and India and Sri Lanka and Thailand; from Bahrain to Malaysia and Britain; conferences in Cyprus; the emirates (the worst vacation of our lives - a week in Sharjah!)
Too many memories to recount - good and bad. But that was our life - it WAS our life . . .
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Last Updated May 28, 1997 by J Hubers