Qasimi the Cabbie, and my "Medical"

As the days are so packed full, I'll share just the highlights from the last two days.

Qasimi the Cabbie
A teacher named Pamela Johnson and I decided yesterday (day 2) that since we had to accomplish some of the same sorts of shopping and errands, we would join forces, share taxis and get things done together. The first taxi was painless, since we asked to be taken directly from our hotel to a large well-known mall in Dubai. There, at the Reef Mall, we visited the cell phone guy, and the Home Center store, procured large bags of merchandise and went back out into the 110 degree heat to hail another taxi. We ought to have known to expect an adventure, when as we pronounced that we needed three stops, one in Dubai (Pamela's apartment) one in Sharjah (My villa), and a final destination of our hotel, our driver grunted and looked at us as if we were stinking up his taxi.

Our first stop, Pamela's apartment in a newly completed shiny Dubai high rise, was not far. But since landmarks are understood well better than street addresses which really do not exist, and since our taxi driver was new (we only learned this later), and he couldn't read roman letters on our map very well , and due to various (as yet unknown to us) cultural misunderstandings, we ended up needing to call Anwar, our dear Pakistani university housing officer, on his cellular and handing the phone over to the taxi driver (two times) in order for them to discuss the apartment location in Arabic. We arrived and requested that the sweaty grunting taxi driver stay and wait for ten minutes while we dropped Pamela's stuff off on the 11th floor. He grunted and agreed and then probably went behind a building somewhere to have a smoke. We can only guess this, since when we got back to his cab, which was full of my bedding, it was locked and he was gone, and then he came back smelling of smoke.

We then showed him my villa on an English language map. I watched him slowly read over the words on the roads near my villa, and discovered that like many speakers of Arabic, he was not proficient in reading the English letters. So I figured at that point that dear Anwar the housing guy was likely to receive a few more calls from Pamela and me and the taxi driver before the night was over. Complicating matters is the fact that there are at least a dozen streets and landmarks near my villa with the name Qasimi, Al Qasimi Street, Qasimi Square, Abdul Al Qasimi, Saud Al Qasimi, and many many more. Indeed, after combing the map for clues and matching them to the street names we passed by, and after many u-turns and discussions of where we actually were on the map and which Qasimi street we were driving on, we had to call Anwar, again twice, to accomplish our destination, my villa. Pamela and I were also sweating at this point, as the frustration over a taxi driver trying his best but failing was wearing us out.

Finally, we emerged from my villa, restated our final destination, Carlton Hotel Sharjah, and made our way back to home. Over our third hotel dinner we decided that the cabbie, whose name we never really knew, would for storytelling purposes be renamed Qasimi, out of respect for whichever Emirati leader had the good fortune to have so many landmarks named after him.

My "Medical":
As part of my contract, I had to undergo a physical exam before my employment status became permanent. This is called my "medical". Ten other new-hires and I gathered in the hotel lobby with a van driver named Samir to make the trek to the Department of Health together at 7:30 this morning. Though the interior of the clinic was clean and modern, the road and surroundings nearby were dusty, old, in disrepair, and entirely removed from bustling Sharjah. This was not ideal for inspiring confidence for those of us about to encounter yet another unfamiliar cultural experience.

The exam consisted of an x-ray to rule out TB, a blood test to rule out HIV, a vision exam and a urine test (drugs). These procedures themselves were harmless, professional and non-invasive. But some of the circumstances are worthy of mention. First of all, we faculty were escorted to the front of the line, in every part of the process, in front of however many people were waiting before us at that particular stage. It should be noted that most of us faculty are white and most of the others whom we jumped in front of were not.

Aside from the peculiarities related to our race and class in this culture, there seem to be gender issues as well. There were male and female waiting rooms for each procedure, but most of them weren't labeled well, so at least twice, Pamela and I were urged out of a room that we had just entered by mistake.

Finally, for the urine sample, we were handed a sample cup wrapped in toilet paper, which we thought at first was for its usual purpose. We went into the ladies room and encountered squatter toilets. This is not the first time I've run across these 'hole in the ground' style toilets - I've seen them in Europe and Asia before. However, this is the first time I've been asked to use them to provide a sample. After an uncomfortable squat and lots of unsanitary splashes onto my shoes and pants, I emerged with a sample and brought it to the veiled woman at the desk, where I noticed that the other sample cups brought to her already were neatly wrapped in the TP we were given at the start. I can only guess that the sight of others' urine is some kind of taboo, and that carrying around the deep yellow sample for all to see is considered rude, but I've yet to find someone who'll know the answer and not be offended by my question. All in all, it wasn't a terrible experience. I only kept asking myself, why are things done this way here? Why the hole in the wall toilets? Why do we get such preference? Why is pee pee something to hide? Why when only waiting for a blood draw must the women be separated from the men? If any of these answers are revealed to me, y'all will be the next to know.