hasanhujairi[dot]com

Just when I began to think that the last case of Insomnia I suffered from (that nearly made me lose my mind between the months of September and November of 2006) was out on a permanent vacation - I find myself corrected as it seems to have returned. With a vengeance. Over the past four nights, I have only managed to doze off for a total of six hours. I guess that’s not enough sleep in one night to get into a stage of REM. I have no idea what type of repercussions that would leave on an unsuspecting 20-something year old Bahraini living abroad in the long run, but I guess I’ll take my chances.

A short while ago, I came back into my apartment at after going out on a bicycle ride. When I mean bicycle ride, I mean, the patented “Hasan-Anti-Insomnia-Speed-Demon-4.00-in-the-a.m.-Bicycle-Ride”. You see, while I was growing up in Bahrain, it was difficult for me to ride my bicycle as fast as I would have liked to in the cramped up streets of Sanabis (I used to imagine I was riding my bicycle on a tightrope while passing through those alleyways) and the overcrowded sidewalks of Saar (Filled with old people walking their dogs at the pace of snails); this forced me to make due with riding my bicycle in CIRCLES in the front yard instead of straight lines (a very difficult habit to break once developed). I did this for many years.

My fascination with bicycles died once I turned 13 (My last bicycle was a nice bumblebee yellow-black BMX, though) . I don’t know whether it is safe to say that - among Bahrainis - adolescence inhibits one’s interest - to a dead halt - in bicycles in Bahrain (or whether it’s just me). If I hadn’t come to Tokyo in 2005 (where bicycles are quite common in getting around) - I probably would not have cared to get back on a bicycle again for the remainder of my life. Last year, I got myself a dorky BLACK bicycle with a big basket in front to carry my books/groceries. Then again, most of the people prefer these types of bicycles. Monkey See, Monkey Do.

My paternal aunt got me my first real bicycle on my fifth birthday. It was bright red, with plastic ribbons flying out of the handlebars(that I pulled at whenever I was nervous or wanted to “show off” in front of the neighbor kids whose motorskills did not have the same finesse as mine) , with some pretty good lumbar-support and two tiny trainer-wheels on the side to prevent me from falling off my bicycle. These two-trainer wheels made me know what freedom felt at five years old as late 80s Bahraini breezes whizzed by me (although, at the time, I used to believe that I was the one creating these breezes). I was shocked - when my cousin N., who was three months my senior - asked her father (my uncle) to remove the trainer-wheels from my bicycle so that I can learn to do it the “grown-up” way; he happily obliged by getting out his toolbox and doing the evil deed. They spent that whole day in the front of their home in Isa Town trying to teach me how to ride my newly-crippled bicycle (the psychological impact on the 6 year-old version of me losing my trainer-wheels made me even more unreceptive to their attempts at teaching me). I soon got over this shock once I managed to move forward roughly 1 meter (which felt like a bajillion kilometers) without the assistance of anyone grabbing/pushing the lumber support of my red bicycle.

That red bicycle died when a distant relative of mine - who was 10 years older and 1,000,000,000 kilograms heavier than I was at six-and-a half - thought it would be funny to ride that bicycle. I still haven’t completely forgiven him for that incident, but, since he’s a distant relative and that I didn’t see him all that often, I decided not to dwell over my loss too much. As a type of poetic justice, and on my seventh birthday, my wonderful paternal aunt got me a “grown up” bicycle - that was BLACK and LOOKED cool even without the trainer-wheels - and so I moved on in life - and that distant cousin grew heavier and more distant. A few years later, my parents got me that  bumblebee yellow-black BMX that I still can’t forget.

When I turned 13, I saw my sister A. (26 months younger than  me) riding on my bicycle without my permission. As the older brother - I was devastated and never touched that soiled bicycle every again. Since A. was much shorter than I was at the time, the bicycle was far too big for her — reaching the peddle must have been difficult for her as it was. My rebellious sister, A. . The funny thing (to me), though, is that as soon as I saw her ride on my bicycle, she fell off that bicycle and into a thorny rose bush my father was very proud of - that smelled wonderful when the roses came out every Spring without any fail. That rose bush survived and so did my sister as if it never happened.

After my crazy bicycle ride now and this blog entry that is going nowhere but in a continuous circle, I think I’ll give this sleep thing a second chance.

Sleep is over-rated and I need to learn to spend less time on my computer. Argh… I can’t wait to be back home in a week’s time for the Spring; a time for roses.