Mid-East Police, Part II
I knew there was a reason we hardly set foot on Sharjah's beaches, even though they're only ten minutes from home. We've settled in to a routine of heading to beaches in Dubai instead, as those beaches are a lot cleaner and I've managed not to have any run-ins with the Dubai police because of my style of swimwear.
But I had a lapse in judgement this morning, when I agreed to meet up with Svetlana, Brady's friend's mom at the long stretch of public beach in Sharjah next to the exclusive Sharjah Ladies Club. If we didn't have our boy children with us, we could have checked into the ladies club, where the beach is immaculate, secluded, and yes, all-female. However, I not only had the boys along, but Billy as well and I thought hey, if Brady's pal's family hangs out there, it can't be that bad. So we located our friends at the beach, a gorgeous Russian women in a bikini with her brood (It should be noted that because of her American husband who looks a lot like mine, brown and mysteriously ethnic, her kids might pass for locals, as mine do if they simply don't speak).
It didn't take me long though to notice that all the other beach-goers were Muslim families or modest East Asian families. I know you're thinking, not for the first time, 'Shame on you Yuppie Expat flouting local traditions', but seriously, it was over 100 degrees, the water was at least 85 and beckoning, and hey, this Emirate is more than 50% immigrant anyway. But as I said, I was having a big episode of poor judgement, and maybe even experiencing a little bit of peer pressure. So as the kids ran towards the water, I dropped our gear and peeled off my sundress to reveal what I feel is a fairly modest Speedo bathing suit, and then, as if on cue, the Sharjah Police Landcruiser rolled up, its windows rolled down, with Emirati Police Guys inside shouting 'NOT ALLOWED, LADIES COVER UP'. They rolled to a stop, and patiently waited, and watched, as we peeled our sundresses back on.
Svetlana, who's been here longer than I have, grumbled 'stupid Sharjah, stupid stupid sharjah' (in her Ukranian accent), while I, coming back to my senses said, look, it is their country after all, this is Sharjah, we know the deal, we know the rules, shame on us really.
Of course this set the tone for the rest of our beach visit. But as I said, it was over 100 degrees and the kids had no reason to be annoyed with our plight, and so we settled in, and swam as the locals do, in our clothes.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Desert Drumming
We thought we'd left mountain sports behind us, but last weekend rode some beat-up snowboards down the sand dunes in the desert.
We actually went out to play drums at a desert camp to the light of a full moon. But when we got there, the bowl of dunes surrounding the camp was swarming with kids and snowboards - called 'sandboards' if you're in the desert. Brady and Liam tuned into this immediately and roped Billy and me into helping them haul these heavy rickety boards to the top, so they could slip down the dune, followed by us on foot (or bottoms), only to head right back up to the top. Rosie was in on the action too, following us up, then rolling or sliding down on her own, no board required.
So although we could beat the drums along with the African & Arab drummers, ride on camels, get henna tattoos, smoke shisha, and best of all, cruise the desert dinner buffet, we spent the greater part of the evening riding on (and dragging up) these barely waxed snow-sand-boards up and down the slippery dunes.
We did manage to enjoy some grilled mutton and chicken, taboule and beet salads, a variety of hummous and garbanzo beans, an Arabic-style bread pudding with cardemon seeds and of course Arabic coffee, as well as a bit of drumming and camel rides, but ultimately we gave in to the allure of playing in the sand.
For pictures, check out:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=81587&id=536358651&l=e82c714852
We actually went out to play drums at a desert camp to the light of a full moon. But when we got there, the bowl of dunes surrounding the camp was swarming with kids and snowboards - called 'sandboards' if you're in the desert. Brady and Liam tuned into this immediately and roped Billy and me into helping them haul these heavy rickety boards to the top, so they could slip down the dune, followed by us on foot (or bottoms), only to head right back up to the top. Rosie was in on the action too, following us up, then rolling or sliding down on her own, no board required.
So although we could beat the drums along with the African & Arab drummers, ride on camels, get henna tattoos, smoke shisha, and best of all, cruise the desert dinner buffet, we spent the greater part of the evening riding on (and dragging up) these barely waxed snow-sand-boards up and down the slippery dunes.
We did manage to enjoy some grilled mutton and chicken, taboule and beet salads, a variety of hummous and garbanzo beans, an Arabic-style bread pudding with cardemon seeds and of course Arabic coffee, as well as a bit of drumming and camel rides, but ultimately we gave in to the allure of playing in the sand.
For pictures, check out:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=81587&id=536358651&l=e82c714852
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Mid-East Police
We've had numerous occasions for visits with the police already, and if we keep it up at this rate, we'll have six or seven more before the end of my contract in 2011. Let's cross our fingers I am wrong on this, since the general theme of these encounters is less than uplifting.
Since August, both Billy and I have dented up our insured rental cars, and had to file reports with police. Funnily enough, both of us, in our separate cars, rammed our tires into medians, damaging only our cars (and nobody else) in the process. The main problem in my case was that the multiple officers I got on the phone could not figure out where I was, even though I was at the intersection of two major roads (Emirates Road and Univercity City). An hour and a half after my initial call, the officer finally arrived, saw the exact spot where I rammed the curb, filled in a report, fined me 200 dirhams and actually apologized for making me pay.
Billy's incident was similar, but the police were far less nice, and actually accused him of drinking at the time of the accident, and not calling the police till the next day, to avoid jail. He also was fined 200 dirhams for damaging city property. We wonder if it might help to be a blue-eyed female in this country.
The details of our third police-worthy incident we'll share later. Just bear in mind that none of our family were physically hurt, only Brady witnessed something violent. While we waited to give our statement at the police station, we sat in a narrow corridor directly next to a steel padlocked door labeled 'DETENTION'. After sitting a short while, we could hear a faint knock on it from the other side, like a pencil tapping on a car. It came and went and eventually it was accompanied by some moaning and mumbling in Arabic, followed by the door being noisily shaken from the inside. Every time the noise started up again, Brady gave me a look with an uneasy grin and a shake of his head. Maybe he needs the bathroom, we thought. Finally a police officer came along with a Barney Fife-style ring of keyes, unlocked the door, escorted the dusty, tattered AND SHACKLED prisoner off to one of the ante-rooms adjacent to our seating area. We never heard from this man again.
A while later, another guy with a huge sturdy plastic sack was led in by an officer, who unlocked the little peep-door near the top of the steel door, where he peered in and sent food through the hole, prisoner by prisoner. At first we assumed this was the routine catering provided by the police. But as we had nothing better to do than to carefully watch this transaction, we realized that for each 'schwarma pack' being sent through, a fee in dirhams was being collected by 'the caterer'.
Finally, on another evening when I was at the police alone, finalizing our report, I was sitting at an officer's desk and right across from me was another tattered-dusty but FEMALE detainee, handcuffed to her chair. She wore a muslim headscarf, was barefoot, and appeared to be from Asia. She sat quitely in front of an empty desk, only to weep and shake her head when an officer occasionally came in to interrogate her, getting right in her face and screaming what were apparently accuastions. The only word in Arabic I understood was 'La' or 'No' which she cried over and over again as the police got back into her face. I do hope this was my last visit to the station.
Since August, both Billy and I have dented up our insured rental cars, and had to file reports with police. Funnily enough, both of us, in our separate cars, rammed our tires into medians, damaging only our cars (and nobody else) in the process. The main problem in my case was that the multiple officers I got on the phone could not figure out where I was, even though I was at the intersection of two major roads (Emirates Road and Univercity City). An hour and a half after my initial call, the officer finally arrived, saw the exact spot where I rammed the curb, filled in a report, fined me 200 dirhams and actually apologized for making me pay.
Billy's incident was similar, but the police were far less nice, and actually accused him of drinking at the time of the accident, and not calling the police till the next day, to avoid jail. He also was fined 200 dirhams for damaging city property. We wonder if it might help to be a blue-eyed female in this country.
The details of our third police-worthy incident we'll share later. Just bear in mind that none of our family were physically hurt, only Brady witnessed something violent. While we waited to give our statement at the police station, we sat in a narrow corridor directly next to a steel padlocked door labeled 'DETENTION'. After sitting a short while, we could hear a faint knock on it from the other side, like a pencil tapping on a car. It came and went and eventually it was accompanied by some moaning and mumbling in Arabic, followed by the door being noisily shaken from the inside. Every time the noise started up again, Brady gave me a look with an uneasy grin and a shake of his head. Maybe he needs the bathroom, we thought. Finally a police officer came along with a Barney Fife-style ring of keyes, unlocked the door, escorted the dusty, tattered AND SHACKLED prisoner off to one of the ante-rooms adjacent to our seating area. We never heard from this man again.
A while later, another guy with a huge sturdy plastic sack was led in by an officer, who unlocked the little peep-door near the top of the steel door, where he peered in and sent food through the hole, prisoner by prisoner. At first we assumed this was the routine catering provided by the police. But as we had nothing better to do than to carefully watch this transaction, we realized that for each 'schwarma pack' being sent through, a fee in dirhams was being collected by 'the caterer'.
Finally, on another evening when I was at the police alone, finalizing our report, I was sitting at an officer's desk and right across from me was another tattered-dusty but FEMALE detainee, handcuffed to her chair. She wore a muslim headscarf, was barefoot, and appeared to be from Asia. She sat quitely in front of an empty desk, only to weep and shake her head when an officer occasionally came in to interrogate her, getting right in her face and screaming what were apparently accuastions. The only word in Arabic I understood was 'La' or 'No' which she cried over and over again as the police got back into her face. I do hope this was my last visit to the station.
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