Open Toe, Oh No..

Posh hotel bars, fashionably overpriced restaurants, and the biggest and best of the world's malls and buildings are what make Dubai Dubai. And though we've been here almost three years now, we still once in a while get thrown by the pretentions that come with the riduculous Gulf-Arabic bravado.

It happened again last night when we were out and about with some new friends and came across the dress code enforcement at The Address Hotel, one of the posher hotels near the Dubai Mall and overlooking the famous dancing fountain.

As you go around town, especially in the malls, which are by the way, the social pulse of Dubai, the mix of locals in traditional Arab dress, white gowns for the men (dishtashas) and black ones for the women (abayas), intermingled with the westerners in smart and strappy and sometimes appallingly skimpy mall-wear is a peculiarity worthy of comment. What's impressive is the stubbornness of the local traditions, especially with regards to dress, amidst the influx of foreign American-Eagle clad residents like us. The fact that the local women can still go around so completely covered-up, and have coffee within arm's reach of me and my skinny fully-revealed arms and (not so skinny) calves and feet, is mysterious, impressive, and downright confusing. Yes, modernization has brought Landcruisers and Starbucks, American teachers and European (censored) movies, but the local norms for modesty have resisted. But I digress.

After a long and lovely meal at Abdelwahab, a fountain-side Arabic restaurant, where we dined on small birds, lamb kebobs and Lebanese wine, and another hateful drink called Arak, we took the short walk over to The Address Hotel, which yes, is pompously named, where we would have an after-dinner drink. The slow walk between the venues had us all damp from exertion, as the high temp earlier in the day was 116 degrees farenheit (47 Celcius). Even at 11pm, it was still balmy. And as we sidled through the sleek lobby to the lounge, and aimed to walk past the beefy black-dressed earpiece-wearing security, my husband Billy was gently grabbed by the elbow, pulled aside, and told that 'next time', he needs to leave his sandals at home. As he caught up to us inside and explained why he fell behind, and after a minute or two of balking at such ridiculousness, we decided that the lounge was too loud and headed to the quieter bar at the top of the hotel. But no, the open-toe shoe police (yet more beefy handsome men in black) barred our entry to the elevator, citing again, the sandals. Our Palestinian friend Walid tried an argument that went something like this: 'my tourist friend here (Billy) is from California'. But to no avail. The security folks at least entertained us with a dialogue on the nuances of their dress code. Open-toe shoes you see, are only permitted on women, and yes, on men in local Arabic dress, the white dishtasha. And even on the arms of two beautiful women, and in the company of an Arabic man, Billy would be turned away. After a few more friendly words with security, and some further dress-code education, we ceased and desisted, headed to the loud bar where we slinked past the security with Billy in his expensive but frowned-upon sandals, and had open-toe drinks with the mortals in the noise.

Call me Habibti

The UAE locals do not exactly invite friendship from expats like me. And though we live in the same neighborhoods, shop in the same stores and eat in the same restaurants, only a very few of us Westerners have ever crossed the threshold of an Emirati house. Those of us lucky enough to teach the nation's college women, do get invited to big events such as the lavish bling-ish weddings and engagement parties so cherished among them - but these are Ladies Only events hosted at the country's famous hotel ballrooms or ladies cultural centers, and even once you've been to a few, you continue to feel like an outsider.

And so we carry on here, socializing amongst the other foreigners, Arabs and Westerners alike, being seemingly ignored by the locals. The most typical interaction many people have with Emiratis happens when we go to pay our electric bills or renew our Residence Visas, as those government posts are the jobs held by the locals who work. And when we do go about these necessary errands, the best way to describe the attitude towards us is aloof, perhaps cold, and sometimes utterly word-less. It is part of the culture we say, and in my opinion, it's to be expected in a place where we, the tank-top wearing foul-mouthed foreigners have moved in, set up our pork-eating households, and demanded CNN and Disney from their Satellite providers. Wouldn't you give us the cold shoulder?

But this week I turned a corner and was softened once again to the locals as I passed through the gate of the neighborhood park in my car. With my bike in the back seat, I unrolled the window and offered an Arabic hello 'Salamaleikum' to the veiled lady clerk. As if the veil had been lifted, I noted a change right away in her return 'Alaikum Salam'. She had recognized my car (one of the oldest to pass through their gate I am sure) or perhaps my Oakley-clad blonde head, and decided to offer me the discount advice, explaining the advantages of park membership and offering to help me with the forms. And all of this was finished with a veiled smile and the Arabic word for 'my dear'. She called me Habibti.

(For more on local weddings, check my April 11 post from last year)

Can I Help You Madum?

If you live in the UAE, you get used to the sand, the dust and the poor air-quality, and you're not surprised at the occasional sandstorm. You might even have to walk through the sand to get to your car from your front door, or to your office from the parking lot. Our first house here in the UAE was on a sand road, on which the municipality would run a plough from time to time, in an effort to fill in the ruts and stamp down the drifts, especially after windy spells. This, we thought, was so civilized.

What all of this sand means on a daily basis however, is quickly broken down shoes (the sand eats into the space between the souls and the leather), dirty feet (I see now the symbolic importance of the bible's 'washing of the feet' story), filthy windows on your house (despite regular attempts to clean them), and regular smoggy days. It also means a newly washed car is dirty almost immediately, and a seldom washed car looks like it's just sailed off the dunes from a desert safari.

My own car, a 13 year old Volvo V70, otherwise known as the 'green machine', the 'dream machine', and the 'two-and-a-half Blackberry' (it cost roughly the same as 2 1/2 Blackberries at the fateful time of purchase) is especially susceptible to the dirt, as its forest green color nicely contrasts with the dust that gathers in its crevices. It should be noted that my husband drives a lovely new people-moving SUV, because his schedule allows for the shifting of children from home to school and to various other activities, or so he has argued.

So I am left to care for my ageing car, which means washing it from time to time, when the visibility through the sandy windows becomes a safety concern. And if you need to wash your car, it is easily accomplished, as every mall has a band of car-washers, some with ecofriendly mobile power-washers. Or, many families, ours included, employ a housekeeper whose job might include the washing of cars. As a last resort, if you don't trust the mall-guys and if your housekeeper's job is altogether too full with kid care and cooking, you might have a guy in your neighborhood from India or Pakistan who comes along every second day and washes your car for a monthly fee.

But I have not been satisfied with any of these options, either because they didn't do the stellar job I would expect, or because I simply like to wash my car myself. Why not? When the winter weather brings mild temps and sunny (but dusty) days, it is perfect for hanging out with the garden hose and a bucket taking care of your trusted automobile. Or so you would think.

Yesterday I was out in the sand shoulder in front of our villa working on my green, mean, two and a half blackberry dream machine, and I could not get any peace. It is apparently, such a spectacle, a baseball-hatted white woman actually doing a chore for herself in this culture, that passersby could not help but to offer me solutions. A neighbor I know kindly offered the services of her 'car boy', who 'has his evenings free', and at least three neighborhood workers, either from a nearby construction site, or local gardeners or houskeepers stopped by and gently asked 'Can I Help You Madum?'

The only tempting thing about these offers is that by saying yes, I'm offering work to people who've got very little of it. And if my saying 'no thanks' causes whispers in the neighborhood, I sometimes wonder if I should just give in, go local, and get my own car boy. But alas, I am a nearly middle-aged American woman who enjoys the satisfaction of a job well done. Why shouldn't I wash my own car?

Jordanian Jaunt

In our house here in the dusty suburb of Mirdif, we have a love-hate relationship with the Emirate of Dubai and the entire UAE. For instance, local road etiquette nearly sends my husband Billy packing, straight to the visa cancellation office and onto the next plane for America. It's a kind of harrassment, this driving, like a high-speed up-close lights-flashing tailgate, a 150KPH bumper-to-bumper lane change, and a two-unbuckled-babies in the front seat mentality, which gets so bad sometimes that we sit beside each other in the car and say why, just why are we putting oursleves and our children through this madness, this danger, this reckless disregard. At the same time, if we tire of the normal road home, it's completely acceptable to hop the curb, put the car into four wheel drive and cruise over the dunes when it suits us. Like I said: Love it. Hate it.

But then we take a trip to a lovely nearby country like Oman or a little further afield to Jordan, to the real and slowly modernizing middle-east and we remember the benefits of planting ourselves in what is the Las Vegas of the Arabian Gulf.

Last week we took the three hour flight to Jordan and spent seven days touring the Arab country, rich in biblical and archaeological heritage and friendly to Christians. Yes, our driver even has a Christmas tree. Only right after we left did the politics and protesters start to heat up, and in Jordan's case, a more or less peaceful government changeover is taking place.

The most striking thing for us about Jordan is that the experiences we had seemed uniquely Jordanian. After almost three years in Dubai, I can say with some certainty that a 'real' street corner where people are speaking Arabic is hard to come by. 80 % of the residents here are either Western teachers or other professionals, or minimally paid labourers from India and Sri Lanka, all of whom communicate in English (or Urdu or Pashto..).

In Jordan, when I attempted my very weak Arabic hello: 'Salaam Alaikum', an actual Arabic greeting and even a smile would be sent back my way, a small encouragement to break out my Arabic phrase book (or Blackberry). I was actually inspired to have my six-year-old coach me through the Arabic numbers, just in case.

But the real bonus in Jordan is the sites. The ancient Roman City of Jerash, built out of stone, and the even more ancient 300BC city of Petra, carved into stone, are treasures largely unknown to us before, and in Petra's case, so monumental and amazingly preserved that we were astounded at our failure to come here sooner. What were we waiting for?

In seven days we were able to see most of the highlights, including the Roman City of Jerash near the capital, with its meticulously carved column-tops and recently dug-out Roman shopping nooks. We moved along to the Dead Sea, where we pretended to lie on a sofa and watch TV in the thick but strangely clear water, and then dug up the therapeutic mud to bathe ourselves in the mineral-rich earth. We then carried on to the biblical Lot's Cave, which contains a bread oven and a small tomb, and then spent two nights and one amazing day in Petra.

Petra is at once awe-striking and humbling, both in it's architectural ingenuity and archaeological setting. Traipsing through the 10-foot-wide yet hundreds-of-meters-tall canyon pathway in order to get to the most impressive structures we were stricken by the most visible displays of tectonic shifts - you can see just where the massive formations were broken apart by quakes. Even the kids were more or less quieted by the uniquely massive Treasury building carved completely from gorgeous orange rock, deep into the side of the formation, where you can still peer in to see tombs and imagine the civil goings-on that took place there. If you have stamina, and amazingly even six-year-old Rosie stayed with us, you also can treck via donkey and on foot to the Monastery, set higher up a narrow rocky path, where the remaining structure is even more massive, and if you can hoist yourself into the entryway, they are still allowing you to enter the 1400-year-old building, carved completely into a rock face.

Our children withstood the challenges of this rigourous vacation I am sure because of the breakfasts and our fantastic driver and guide, Ibrahim. As a party of five we were able to book a private 4-star package tour. Surprisingly, what they call 4 stars in Jordan was even posher than expected, with gorgeous breakfast buffets, laid out with egg cooking stations, made-to-order pancakes, local cheeses, granolas, olives, hummous, dried, fresh and preserved fruits and of course, hot dogs and hot chocolate. Only on the very last day was there any moaning and groaning as we toured the Amman Citadel, mostly because climbing on stuff was forbidden.

The day after proudly finishing the 9 hour day at Petra, we were ready to relax and carried on to our final destination of Aqaba. Aqaba is on the Red Sea, just a few Kilometers across from Israel and Egypt. It was just warm enough to swim in the water, which was full of the most beautiful and various colored rocks. The tourist class here seemed to be the whitest and most Western looking people we had come across the whole week. Where were all these tourists in Petra? We didn't see them there. The seaside village of Aqaba was lovely and quiet and experiencing a building boom, with giant ads from AbuDhabi development companies lining the newly finished roads. My guess is it won't be the same when we go back again in a few years time. Lucky us.

Fat Dead Birds and Egyptian Guitar

Giant poisoned pigeons are dropping from the sky here. The dead birds are literally falling from the rooftops in the Mirdif suburb of Dubai and there is not even a phenomenal meteorogical event to blame. At one point we counted 22 oversized pigeons hanging out on the ledge over our front door, and our deadbeat landlord actually responded quickly to this pest complaint. He then passed the buck to the Dubai municipality, who hastily dispatched a team, who without our consent, laid poison where the birds were roosting, and indeed, all around the property. Almost as quickly as they packed up their ladders and were on their way, some of the pesky birds started skulking off to die, while others fell over dead, right off the rooftop onto our carport, into the pots of bougainvillaes and into the swimming pool. Unfortunately, though the city pest control will come along and kill the pests, clean up is not part of the deal, and so disposal of the birds falls to my dutiful germophobe husband Billy, and his trowel. That's right, tidy Japanese-born with American-swear-words Billy, grocery store plastic bags and trowel in hand, doing his best not to inhale while scooping up dead fat pigeons, along with unfortunate beautiful non-pest birds, taking himself right to an anti-bacterial bath post-haste.

And yes, it's so easy to say they'd never do it this way in America, but there are many other of our daily experiences that they don't have in America either. Right after a bird-disposal episode last weekend, with my patio door open, I heard music, acoustic guitar and Arabic voice, in such a professional quality that I thought for sure it must be a neighbor's radio. But six-year-old Rosie, unafraid of seeming nosey, checked it out and came back confirm. Yusef's dad from Egypt was sitting on his terrace in full performance mode. And even with my limited Arabic, an expression came to mind which translates literally as 'joy, praise, or thankfulness for an event or person that was just mentioned'. Masha'Allah.

British Gulf Santa

The Christmas holiday season in the United Arab Emirates is a unique experience that I've now managed three times, though not without some disorientation and a few small emotional setbacks. And since I'm known in some circles to be an 'epic crybaby', the emotional challenges are to be expected.

For my first Arabic Chrismas in 2008, The Sharjah Co-op Supermarket was the site of my distress when the stock assistant could not decode my request for graham crackers. So be damned my holiday cheesecake, bring on the store-bought Lebanese pastry, but only after a bleary wander around with sunglass-covered eyes to regain my composure. Surely the piles of unwrapped gifts and the long days spent working and siteseeing with holiday visitors could be pointed to as triggers for my breakdown.

During my second holiday attempt, Christmas 2009, the fact of my working on Christmas Day put me in such a foul mood that I was in a constant state of budding migraine, while I still managed the holiday 'to do' list and prepared my students for final exams. Why, I thought to myself, did I ever decide to come to the Muslim world to work? Fortunately the kids' holiday pageant, with all its partridges and pear trees got me connected back to my roots, and a rousing round of 'O Christmas Tree' set me right. More or less.

And this year, though I thought I knew what to expect, I still was caught unawares when, as rumour has it, the library staff were asked to remove their Christmas decorations. And OK, I get it, this is a college for locals only, and to have a local passport means you are a Muslim, and well, in a Muslim institution we need to behave culturally appropriately. All fine. Yes. But when you drive down the Palm Jumeira, the palm-shaped island where every last tourist has to plant his foot, and you see giant inflatable Santas dangling from the balconies, and when Abu Dhabi is bragging over their world's-most-expensive Christmas tree, our college restrictions seem simply arcane.

Work environment aside, I still managed to have a lovely Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and I powered on with appropriate cheer. At a festive Christmas Eve party, I witnessed the funniest of characters. I can't explain how unnerving yet totally amusing it was for my American children, when the surprise Santa opened his mouth - and 'talked British'. This was followed by an at-home Christmas day, on which we cooked local goat with my Mom and brother from America, assembled toys and played host to our Muslim neighbor kids, all the while giving thanks for the goodies under the tree, delivered by the funny-talking British Gulf Santa.

Roughing Up the Muffins

I thought we were in good shape when I woke up this morning, for it's the week before Christmas, there are 9 or 10 gifts wrapped and under the tree, and I am fairly certain that Santa knows what to bring on the 24th. After a look at 8-year-old Liam's breakfast-table head however, on which I rushedly performed a haircut last night, I realized I am just barely faking it. Not wanting him to look like a Dickensian waif in the school pageant this evening, I somehow made him look like a worse and modern version, the neglected private-school child of socialite parents. I wish.

When 6-year-old Rosie, who is perpetually confused about what day it is, comes into my get-ready-for-work zone insisting that she have the Santa hat, I say, the Santa hat has not been purchased yet. That event (starring my other 2 neglected-socialite-kids) is after school, this evening, in fact it's over 12 hours from now, and so Rosie honey, we will get the Santa hat while you are at school, no problem. But no, she says, the show is TO-DAY, tonight is TO-DAY and the Santa hat is for TO-DAY not TO-NIGHT. I say well, look, here is a pair of sunglasses, you were meant to have a santa hat and sunglasses, right? You have half the get-up. This is good, No? But no indeed. Those are boy-colored sunglasses. Dark green. Oh please, Please Rosie, are you serious?

So as I rush through my morning make-up and add 'proper haircut' and 'girl-colored sunglasses' to my mental to-do list, Dickensian (or do you prefer Socialite) Waif number three son Brady, informs me that the lovely home-made muffins and oat-choco cookies I so lovingly baked up long after they all went to sleep, are not healthy enough for the grade five holiday picnic. What?! I mean seriously? So how about a little fruit salad mom? With some roasted sprinkled flax seeds and a drizzle of lemon for freshness. At that point I remember a fairly decent mommy-memoir, though please forgive my not remembering the author's name, where the opening scene is a frantic working mom, unpacking the store bought holiday pie and purposely roughing it up, putting it on her own dish, sprinkling some extra powdered sugar on top, and serving up as her home-made potluck contribution. And so perhaps I'll follow her example, and rough up my perfect and already truly home-made muffins, and tell Brady to explain that these are totally organic, old-fashioned roughed up working-mother muffins. With a sprinkle of flax.