If someone can make sense of the following, you win the grand prize:
1. We have three gas station brands in Dobby--one owned by Dobby, one by Aboo, and one by the entire federation. Recently, the following notice was posted in the paper:
"Starting Saturday, credit cards will no longer be accepted at gas stations due to excessive fees charged by credit card companies. From Saturday on, only cash will be accepted."
What the f*#@*^? Buying gas with cash only? In a country that can't wait to help you charge your mall/hotel/entertainment purchases?
2. Dobby has recently instituted a road usage toll at certain points on major roads. It is only a few dirhams. However, unlike other toll systems, the ONLY way you can pay for this tax is with a special e-card placed on your windshield and purchased at local stores, that you must go into a store to recharge every time you need more credit on it (therefore, there is nothing "e" about it). You cannot pay in cash at the toll point, nor is there a store right by the toll point. If you pass through the sensors without an e-card, your car is photographed and you get a fine in the mail.
Niiiiccccceeeeeeee.........
3. Visiting government offices is a far too frequent experience in the expat life. While things here are well organized to handle people from many different countries, most essential services are provided directly by the government, requiring extra visits to government offices for electricity and water, phone-internet-cable, and of course residency/driving/alcohol/work-related reasons. As everyone in the world knows, rarely is a visit to any government office not accompanied by some type of fee--from reasonable to exorbitant. And here is the catch--some offices accept credit cards and cash. Some accept e-cards (above) and cash. Some accept e-cards only (the real buggers). And some cash only.
How the h*#^ are you supposed to keep up with all that?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Booze Situation
Is not good at the moment. Booze is available in bars, etc. The problem with working full-time though is that at night you want to crash out early, not party it up in a pub or club. So no evening beers for Harry and no Baileys for me.
The good news is this will not be a permanent problem! And much to Harry's delight, the special, government-regulated booze-store is literally out our front door (hours are very restricted, and you would never know what they sell there from the street).
The bad news is we have to wait on government bureaucracy, and who knows how long that will take. Here is the supposed sequence:
1. Harry gets residence visa (check)
2. Harry gets special form government labor contract (not checked yet)
3. Harry files for booze card with government, which will list how much booze per month he is allowed to buy based on salary and family size (depends on #2!)
4. Harry gets booze card, and signs form that gives wife permission to buy booze with his card (ouch)**
5. Harry buys booze (Sadie can only buy booze with husband's permission)
We are still stuck on number one. Also--there is a zero tolerance policy for drunk driving here --you drink and drive and get caught, you go to jail and your ass is deported (even if driving on one drink!). Yikes.
**Husband must also sign a form giving wife permission to work. I hope to download a copy of my form on this site once I start laboring away!
The good news is this will not be a permanent problem! And much to Harry's delight, the special, government-regulated booze-store is literally out our front door (hours are very restricted, and you would never know what they sell there from the street).
The bad news is we have to wait on government bureaucracy, and who knows how long that will take. Here is the supposed sequence:
1. Harry gets residence visa (check)
2. Harry gets special form government labor contract (not checked yet)
3. Harry files for booze card with government, which will list how much booze per month he is allowed to buy based on salary and family size (depends on #2!)
4. Harry gets booze card, and signs form that gives wife permission to buy booze with his card (ouch)**
5. Harry buys booze (Sadie can only buy booze with husband's permission)
We are still stuck on number one. Also--there is a zero tolerance policy for drunk driving here --you drink and drive and get caught, you go to jail and your ass is deported (even if driving on one drink!). Yikes.
**Husband must also sign a form giving wife permission to work. I hope to download a copy of my form on this site once I start laboring away!
Monday, October 22, 2007
Food Update
Last night we accidentally discovered what just may become my favorite Arabic food dish (apart from fatoosh—see below):
Fatteh (fat-eh).
Fatteh is an appetizer made from garbanzo beans, yogurt, olive oil, garlic, toasted pita chips, and meat optional. It comes in a medium-sized bowl with the toasted, broken up pita on the bottom, topped with warm whole garbanzo beans, garlic and the grape skin spice (a very light sour/bitter taste), yogurt is spread over all of this and then the olive oil and tiny pieces of sautéed meat are put on top. Kind of like a bowl of Arabic nachos. So delicious! The combinations of warm and cold food, spicy and bland flavors, and different textures were great. Harry and I saw the bowl and said, well, I guess we will have some leftovers. But surprise of surprises when we realized it was all gone.
I am loving “Arabic” food (I did not come up with the label “Arabic”—that’s what the restaurants call it -this chef was Syrian). Despite my previous moaning about eating to much, the truth is this food is quite healthy—olive oil is good for you, the meats are all grilled so they are generally not too fatty, and everything seems balanced with carbs/protein/veggies etc. If you avoid the sweets (which I have not tried much of yet so don’t have much to say at this point) I guess you can see why the Mediterranean diet is so applauded!
While I am on this topic, Harry and I have been spending way too much time in malls as we have one week to furnish our house before Harry has to go on a business trip and I will be on my own for a few days. I have noticed, looking around the malls (where everyone goes thanks to the blessed AC!) that there are a lot of people—perhaps most people who appear to be on the robust side. And everyone is eating, eating, eating—all kinds of mall food stuff from delicious corn with butter and spice to Dunkin Doughnuts frosty coffee chillers (like a frappaccino on crack I think) to burgers, pizza, Indian/Thai/Chinese/etc. I commented to Harry that the people here are similar in girth to Americans, only shorter, yet it seems Americans generally are far more concerned with the overweight and obesity epidemic supposedly taking place in the US. He laughed and said, yeah, but Americans feel guilty about being overweight—here it is not such a judgment call. And perhaps that is the answer—Do we Americans have some kind of guilt/moral judgment about eating too much and not being svelte? Your comments are welcome (and maybe it is just in my family…..).
PS: Here is an addendum on several Arabic dishes I wanted to describe in more detail—next time will be Indian.
Fatoosh (Fa –too –sh): Basically a salad made of greens, whole herbs like mint/rosemary/tarragon/etc., and tomatoes. Can include cucumbers, radishes, and onions. Has a really light, non-oily dressing with lots of lemon and the grape skin spice. Toasted or fried pita pieces are sprinkled on top like croutons. Very fresh and juicy—nice when you are thirsty, which is basically all the time.
Motabal (Moo – ta – bal): Another cold appetizer made from grilled eggplant that is lightly mashed with a little tahini and lemon and olive oil. It is different than baba ganouj, which has the same ingredients but blended more finely and is heavier because it has more tahini and olive oil I think. Both are de-lish-ious!
Lime soda: Not really soda, but fresh lime juice with soda water added and simple sugar syrup to your preferred level of sweetness. In Indian restaurants it seems to come in sweet or salty.
Fatteh (fat-eh).
Fatteh is an appetizer made from garbanzo beans, yogurt, olive oil, garlic, toasted pita chips, and meat optional. It comes in a medium-sized bowl with the toasted, broken up pita on the bottom, topped with warm whole garbanzo beans, garlic and the grape skin spice (a very light sour/bitter taste), yogurt is spread over all of this and then the olive oil and tiny pieces of sautéed meat are put on top. Kind of like a bowl of Arabic nachos. So delicious! The combinations of warm and cold food, spicy and bland flavors, and different textures were great. Harry and I saw the bowl and said, well, I guess we will have some leftovers. But surprise of surprises when we realized it was all gone.
I am loving “Arabic” food (I did not come up with the label “Arabic”—that’s what the restaurants call it -this chef was Syrian). Despite my previous moaning about eating to much, the truth is this food is quite healthy—olive oil is good for you, the meats are all grilled so they are generally not too fatty, and everything seems balanced with carbs/protein/veggies etc. If you avoid the sweets (which I have not tried much of yet so don’t have much to say at this point) I guess you can see why the Mediterranean diet is so applauded!
While I am on this topic, Harry and I have been spending way too much time in malls as we have one week to furnish our house before Harry has to go on a business trip and I will be on my own for a few days. I have noticed, looking around the malls (where everyone goes thanks to the blessed AC!) that there are a lot of people—perhaps most people who appear to be on the robust side. And everyone is eating, eating, eating—all kinds of mall food stuff from delicious corn with butter and spice to Dunkin Doughnuts frosty coffee chillers (like a frappaccino on crack I think) to burgers, pizza, Indian/Thai/Chinese/etc. I commented to Harry that the people here are similar in girth to Americans, only shorter, yet it seems Americans generally are far more concerned with the overweight and obesity epidemic supposedly taking place in the US. He laughed and said, yeah, but Americans feel guilty about being overweight—here it is not such a judgment call. And perhaps that is the answer—Do we Americans have some kind of guilt/moral judgment about eating too much and not being svelte? Your comments are welcome (and maybe it is just in my family…..).
PS: Here is an addendum on several Arabic dishes I wanted to describe in more detail—next time will be Indian.
Fatoosh (Fa –too –sh): Basically a salad made of greens, whole herbs like mint/rosemary/tarragon/etc., and tomatoes. Can include cucumbers, radishes, and onions. Has a really light, non-oily dressing with lots of lemon and the grape skin spice. Toasted or fried pita pieces are sprinkled on top like croutons. Very fresh and juicy—nice when you are thirsty, which is basically all the time.
Motabal (Moo – ta – bal): Another cold appetizer made from grilled eggplant that is lightly mashed with a little tahini and lemon and olive oil. It is different than baba ganouj, which has the same ingredients but blended more finely and is heavier because it has more tahini and olive oil I think. Both are de-lish-ious!
Lime soda: Not really soda, but fresh lime juice with soda water added and simple sugar syrup to your preferred level of sweetness. In Indian restaurants it seems to come in sweet or salty.
The truth about Abayas
Simultaneous to our home-furnishings hunt, I have been on a hijab hunt for my friend who has limited access to Islamic clothing. The hijab (a shayla is another style) is the scarf many Muslim women wear, although historically (and contemporaneously) there is much variation in how, when, where, and to what extent this garment is used. Here in Dobby we see a huge range of head-coverings, from the just-barely-there (slipping off half the head) style, to the full head-scarf plus veil, plus gloves, plus mask over the brow-bone style. Many women keep their faces bare, and many also skip on the head-covering completely (sometimes you can see the local teenage girls giggling around the mall sans head-scarf and sans abaya).
The abaya (a-bye-ya) is the floor-length black robe that women wear over their clothes in public. Here too there is much variation, as some women leave their abayas open in the front, so you can see the underlying outfits, some women are so completely wrapped up you can’t see anything, not even a toe, some have it closed just to the waist with a long flowing skirt underneath. Some Muslims (Gujurati Shias – Ismailis for example) don’t wear black robes at all, but richly colorful, embroidered robes. All these variations of both hijab/shayla and abaya (and veiling) are a matter of cultural and religious history in addition to personal choice.
The abaya (a-bye-ya) is the floor-length black robe that women wear over their clothes in public. Here too there is much variation, as some women leave their abayas open in the front, so you can see the underlying outfits, some women are so completely wrapped up you can’t see anything, not even a toe, some have it closed just to the waist with a long flowing skirt underneath. Some Muslims (Gujurati Shias – Ismailis for example) don’t wear black robes at all, but richly colorful, embroidered robes. All these variations of both hijab/shayla and abaya (and veiling) are a matter of cultural and religious history in addition to personal choice.
Despite such variety in the wearing of these garments, there is one unifying factor—these clothes are beautiful. And I mean BEAUTIFUL. And they are quite feminine and alluring, even with the purpose being to preserve modesty. Although most scarves and almost all robes are black, the decorations and embellishments on them are multicolored—with patterns and detailing in embroidery, crystals, beading, gold and silver stitching, ribbons, you name it. The overall effect is not garish, most detailing is on the sleeves and edges of the scarves, but quite grand. Bling—but toned down bling, not frightening rapper-bling.
Which brings me back to the hijab hunt. I read in the paper that the trend right now in abayas and scarves is to have them decorated with crystals—especially for Eid (the time to wear your best duds) and the surrounding celebrations. I decided to get such a scarf as an Eid gift for my friend, thinking here there is probably much more choice than in her present residence. So Harry and I start going into the abaya stores (these are in all the malls, along with dishdasha and ghutra stores for men where guys have their robes tailor-made, and the sexy evening dress stores for the dresses women get to wear to weddings because the genders remain segregated).
As you may imagine, at first we got blank stares, even though the workers are all either Indian or Philippino, but then we settled into looking at scarves with crystals. And here is the point of this posting. These things are expensive! And I mean tres, tres cher. The material is very fine, either poly-blends or silk, the crystals often Swarovski, and most things made by hand. What was the price range? For scarves 500-1000 dirhams (about 120-300 USD). For abayas, who knows? I did not ask, but imagine at least four to five times that if not more. And now I have a whole new perspective: if you calculate the entire abaya/scarf/designer shoe ensemble, excluding underlying outfits, purses, and jewelry, many women are walking around in the equivalent of haut couture /Armani suits—just on the outside. In my opinion, it’s quite a lovely way to display wealth.
PS: We have since learned that prices in Dobby and Aboo are inflated when compared to the other Emirates, so for our gift we will do a little bargain shopping next door.
PPS: Mom, if you are reading this, I think you would love an abaya—it’s a bit like your preferred teaching uniforms and would be rather imposing in front of a room of fifth graders. Plus an opportunity for cross-cultural learning…….
Which brings me back to the hijab hunt. I read in the paper that the trend right now in abayas and scarves is to have them decorated with crystals—especially for Eid (the time to wear your best duds) and the surrounding celebrations. I decided to get such a scarf as an Eid gift for my friend, thinking here there is probably much more choice than in her present residence. So Harry and I start going into the abaya stores (these are in all the malls, along with dishdasha and ghutra stores for men where guys have their robes tailor-made, and the sexy evening dress stores for the dresses women get to wear to weddings because the genders remain segregated).
As you may imagine, at first we got blank stares, even though the workers are all either Indian or Philippino, but then we settled into looking at scarves with crystals. And here is the point of this posting. These things are expensive! And I mean tres, tres cher. The material is very fine, either poly-blends or silk, the crystals often Swarovski, and most things made by hand. What was the price range? For scarves 500-1000 dirhams (about 120-300 USD). For abayas, who knows? I did not ask, but imagine at least four to five times that if not more. And now I have a whole new perspective: if you calculate the entire abaya/scarf/designer shoe ensemble, excluding underlying outfits, purses, and jewelry, many women are walking around in the equivalent of haut couture /Armani suits—just on the outside. In my opinion, it’s quite a lovely way to display wealth.
PS: We have since learned that prices in Dobby and Aboo are inflated when compared to the other Emirates, so for our gift we will do a little bargain shopping next door.
PPS: Mom, if you are reading this, I think you would love an abaya—it’s a bit like your preferred teaching uniforms and would be rather imposing in front of a room of fifth graders. Plus an opportunity for cross-cultural learning…….
Meeting the landlord (s)
We finally have an apartment! What a relief. It is on the edge of the “Indian” part of town, if there is such a thing considering 80 % of Dobby is Indian. Also, it is only a 7 minute drive to the office in non-traffic times (45 minutes at rush hour from 6-9 am and 4-7 pm boo hoo). I wish I could post our building name here, we don't have a street address—navigation is by building name and landmarks, but suffice it to say it is the name of the owner. Nine mere syllables in three words.
Our apartment is owned by Arabs, maybe locals, and they have their offices in the lobby where they manage all their properties in the area. This is very unusual; most of the time when you rent all you deal with is a middle man (a guy from Kerela it seems), and you never see the owner at all.
Although the apartment was painted and “cleaned”, another cleaning was necessary. The building maintenance guy—a young man from Kerela—agreed to do the job for 50 dirhams. This is about 14 dollars, which I could not stomach, so I paid him three times that much (and his friend who came along separately) even though Harry was a little upset with me. While I had them scrubbing away—they had to re-clean about three times because the first round or two was not up to my standards—(just as Harry warned me would happen if I did not keep close watch) I went to get our signed lease from the manager Abu Bakar (another guy from Kerela). Bear with me on the following story:
I walked into the office and realized not only was Abu Baker not there, but the landlords were; they had been on vacation until yesterday. This was my first personal encounter on my own with local men, in full dishdasha and ghutra, and I paused, not sure what to do. As I was standing there, the younger man comes up and says hello, can I help you. I say I am looking for Abu Bakar because I need our signed lease, but I can come back, no problem (really fast). By this time all the other guys have come out of their offices, so I am surrounded by four local guys and speaking too fast for them to really understand me. But the vibe is really kind and friendly (fatherly) and the older guy (the father and main owner) says welcome, welcome, how can we help you, please sit down. So I sit. And looking up at all four of them, tell them I need the papers for apartment 418 because we are just moving in. Another older man says, 410? In this building? You are in this building? So I calm down a little and say slowly with a smile, no Sir, four-one-eight please, the lease is in my husband’s name. He goes and ruffles through a box (remember, three other guys there smiling), looks puzzled, and then says Harry plus plus ? (a little confusion on his face with the non-white name) 418? Ahh, very nice new apartment, yes?
I say Yes Sir, thank you so much, I appreciate your help and pop up ready to run out of there because I am embarrassed at being so jumpy. Then the younger guy, with laughter in his eyes says no no, sit sit, we must make copy, relax. And I sit, with the three of them there smiling, and wait for a couple minutes until the copy is made. The young guy gives me the lease, they all say good-bye, come if you need anything, etc., and I say thanks as I am already moving for the door (my back was actually to them by this point—but I imagine they were laughing).
By the time I got back upstairs, I realized I had not even given my name, and acted like a fool. So I sucked it up, went back downstairs, and went in the office. The young guy came out (remember, all these guys look like kings in their crisp white robes and white ghutra head-pieces) and asked me if I needed anything. I said no, but I did not introduce myself properly, I am Sadie and my husband is Harry. The guy asked again, but do you need anything? I said no, I just did not introduce myself properly before and wanted to correct that. He got this huge smile on his face, gave a little bow with his hand on his chest and said, “I am Abbas (names changed), my father is “first part of building name”, this is my uncle Abdullah (pointing at guy in his office) and this is Mohammad (another guy in the office). We are here everyday, please come if you need anything." I replied -it is really nice to meet you, my husband will come say hello when he can, and thank you for everything. And Abbas says, please give my regards to your husband—again, all of this is with a really warm smile (nothing weird/etc.). I say have a good day and good bye and leave. And that was that, a really warm and pleasant experience over all! Despite my initial nerves, I am really glad to finally interact with people from here and hope to have further opportunities.
(One of our friends who has been here for a couple years said I scored some serious brownie points with my personal introduction because such introductions are important to Arabs—my instincts confirmed that).
Our apartment is owned by Arabs, maybe locals, and they have their offices in the lobby where they manage all their properties in the area. This is very unusual; most of the time when you rent all you deal with is a middle man (a guy from Kerela it seems), and you never see the owner at all.
Although the apartment was painted and “cleaned”, another cleaning was necessary. The building maintenance guy—a young man from Kerela—agreed to do the job for 50 dirhams. This is about 14 dollars, which I could not stomach, so I paid him three times that much (and his friend who came along separately) even though Harry was a little upset with me. While I had them scrubbing away—they had to re-clean about three times because the first round or two was not up to my standards—(just as Harry warned me would happen if I did not keep close watch) I went to get our signed lease from the manager Abu Bakar (another guy from Kerela). Bear with me on the following story:
I walked into the office and realized not only was Abu Baker not there, but the landlords were; they had been on vacation until yesterday. This was my first personal encounter on my own with local men, in full dishdasha and ghutra, and I paused, not sure what to do. As I was standing there, the younger man comes up and says hello, can I help you. I say I am looking for Abu Bakar because I need our signed lease, but I can come back, no problem (really fast). By this time all the other guys have come out of their offices, so I am surrounded by four local guys and speaking too fast for them to really understand me. But the vibe is really kind and friendly (fatherly) and the older guy (the father and main owner) says welcome, welcome, how can we help you, please sit down. So I sit. And looking up at all four of them, tell them I need the papers for apartment 418 because we are just moving in. Another older man says, 410? In this building? You are in this building? So I calm down a little and say slowly with a smile, no Sir, four-one-eight please, the lease is in my husband’s name. He goes and ruffles through a box (remember, three other guys there smiling), looks puzzled, and then says Harry plus plus ? (a little confusion on his face with the non-white name) 418? Ahh, very nice new apartment, yes?
I say Yes Sir, thank you so much, I appreciate your help and pop up ready to run out of there because I am embarrassed at being so jumpy. Then the younger guy, with laughter in his eyes says no no, sit sit, we must make copy, relax. And I sit, with the three of them there smiling, and wait for a couple minutes until the copy is made. The young guy gives me the lease, they all say good-bye, come if you need anything, etc., and I say thanks as I am already moving for the door (my back was actually to them by this point—but I imagine they were laughing).
By the time I got back upstairs, I realized I had not even given my name, and acted like a fool. So I sucked it up, went back downstairs, and went in the office. The young guy came out (remember, all these guys look like kings in their crisp white robes and white ghutra head-pieces) and asked me if I needed anything. I said no, but I did not introduce myself properly, I am Sadie and my husband is Harry. The guy asked again, but do you need anything? I said no, I just did not introduce myself properly before and wanted to correct that. He got this huge smile on his face, gave a little bow with his hand on his chest and said, “I am Abbas (names changed), my father is “first part of building name”, this is my uncle Abdullah (pointing at guy in his office) and this is Mohammad (another guy in the office). We are here everyday, please come if you need anything." I replied -it is really nice to meet you, my husband will come say hello when he can, and thank you for everything. And Abbas says, please give my regards to your husband—again, all of this is with a really warm smile (nothing weird/etc.). I say have a good day and good bye and leave. And that was that, a really warm and pleasant experience over all! Despite my initial nerves, I am really glad to finally interact with people from here and hope to have further opportunities.
(One of our friends who has been here for a couple years said I scored some serious brownie points with my personal introduction because such introductions are important to Arabs—my instincts confirmed that).
Washers and Toilets
Alas, my clothes-washer fears have proven true. No offense intended to any of our European readers, and in spite of being generally green-conscious, I must admit, I am partial to large, fast American washing machines. And American clothes dryers.
Too bad for me! When we got here, laundry was the last thing on my mind. I glanced in the laundry room, saw the washer and clothes rack, and did not think about laundry again until it came time to do some. Then I realized how this party was going to go down. Here, as in our new place, we have a typical tiny European washing machine. And a drying rack, as opposed to a drying machine. Having spent a lot of time in Europe, I thought, no problem, this is familiar, no worries. But in Europe I never had to get ready for work, never worried about ironing anything, and generally was not so busy that the washer taking three hours was a big deal. Now, with Harry working a lot and me soon to be we hope, these minor annoyances will become major problems. One tiny load takes three hours, then must to be hung to dry, which takes two days even though this is a desert (the air has a lot of humidity and you can’t leave clothes outside due to the dust). Then you must press everything because it is stiff and crunchy (not a pleasing feeling for undies and socks), fold, and put away. This is some time-consuming sh*%^!! Not to mention really hard on the clothes.
Thankfully, I have a solution. In the Indian neighborhood, having laundry done is cheap, so in addition to all our dry-cleaning, I have decided to send almost everything else for laundering and ironing (jeans, pants, casual clothes, etc.). Quite frankly, once I have to iron underwear and socks, other things will put me over the top. Call me a spoiled American. I miss my German mommies.
(In addition to this of course we have no dish washer—the one luxury above all others Harry and I have been fantasizing about. I guess we will have to continue to do so for the next long while.)
Moving on to toilets. Here I had no fears as I like Turkish toilets so would have been fine with either Turkish or “western”. It turns out "western" is the norm. Bathrooms in Dobby are spacious and plentiful, although the mall restrooms are a mess of women and children, many of whom don’t know how to keep a que or care that you were there first—it is truly survival of the fittest. Further, in our apartment search we observed that every apartment had guest bathrooms, even the one-bedrooms had 1.5 to 2, and larger apartments had even more. Our one-bedroom has two full bathrooms, yeaaahh! (we don’t have a guest room, but when you come visit, you get your own private bathroom :-).
But what I did not expect (silly me—I should have) were all the bidets. Yes, every bathroom has one. And I mean EVERY toilet, including public restrooms in the malls, restaurants, grocery store, gym, offices, etc., all the apartments we visited, and of course our own. Sometimes, as in our hotel apartment, the bidets are the style I am familiar with – the kind you sit on. Most of the time however, the bidets are basically a hose coming out of the wall with a spray nozzle on the end (i.e. kitchen sink hose/nozzle for doing dishes) which you then use strategically to accomplish whatever it is you are trying to accomplish. This style is rather intimidating as it appears deft maneuvering is required – a skill I do not have and probably will not fret over for now. All I can say about these bidets, and forgive me for being graphic, is that it is rather unpleasant to enter a public loo after someone who has used one, water is just about everywhere.
PS: I have included this post for those of you that find this stuff interesting (yes you M&M), plus, when you have been traveling for five months like we have, and visiting more than a fair share of public toilets, you start to notice and care about toilet details far more than anyone should in normal life.
PPS: See this funny article about public loos
Too bad for me! When we got here, laundry was the last thing on my mind. I glanced in the laundry room, saw the washer and clothes rack, and did not think about laundry again until it came time to do some. Then I realized how this party was going to go down. Here, as in our new place, we have a typical tiny European washing machine. And a drying rack, as opposed to a drying machine. Having spent a lot of time in Europe, I thought, no problem, this is familiar, no worries. But in Europe I never had to get ready for work, never worried about ironing anything, and generally was not so busy that the washer taking three hours was a big deal. Now, with Harry working a lot and me soon to be we hope, these minor annoyances will become major problems. One tiny load takes three hours, then must to be hung to dry, which takes two days even though this is a desert (the air has a lot of humidity and you can’t leave clothes outside due to the dust). Then you must press everything because it is stiff and crunchy (not a pleasing feeling for undies and socks), fold, and put away. This is some time-consuming sh*%^!! Not to mention really hard on the clothes.
Thankfully, I have a solution. In the Indian neighborhood, having laundry done is cheap, so in addition to all our dry-cleaning, I have decided to send almost everything else for laundering and ironing (jeans, pants, casual clothes, etc.). Quite frankly, once I have to iron underwear and socks, other things will put me over the top. Call me a spoiled American. I miss my German mommies.
(In addition to this of course we have no dish washer—the one luxury above all others Harry and I have been fantasizing about. I guess we will have to continue to do so for the next long while.)
Moving on to toilets. Here I had no fears as I like Turkish toilets so would have been fine with either Turkish or “western”. It turns out "western" is the norm. Bathrooms in Dobby are spacious and plentiful, although the mall restrooms are a mess of women and children, many of whom don’t know how to keep a que or care that you were there first—it is truly survival of the fittest. Further, in our apartment search we observed that every apartment had guest bathrooms, even the one-bedrooms had 1.5 to 2, and larger apartments had even more. Our one-bedroom has two full bathrooms, yeaaahh! (we don’t have a guest room, but when you come visit, you get your own private bathroom :-).
But what I did not expect (silly me—I should have) were all the bidets. Yes, every bathroom has one. And I mean EVERY toilet, including public restrooms in the malls, restaurants, grocery store, gym, offices, etc., all the apartments we visited, and of course our own. Sometimes, as in our hotel apartment, the bidets are the style I am familiar with – the kind you sit on. Most of the time however, the bidets are basically a hose coming out of the wall with a spray nozzle on the end (i.e. kitchen sink hose/nozzle for doing dishes) which you then use strategically to accomplish whatever it is you are trying to accomplish. This style is rather intimidating as it appears deft maneuvering is required – a skill I do not have and probably will not fret over for now. All I can say about these bidets, and forgive me for being graphic, is that it is rather unpleasant to enter a public loo after someone who has used one, water is just about everywhere.
PS: I have included this post for those of you that find this stuff interesting (yes you M&M), plus, when you have been traveling for five months like we have, and visiting more than a fair share of public toilets, you start to notice and care about toilet details far more than anyone should in normal life.
PPS: See this funny article about public loos
Dobby “Appointments”
Something striking for those of us that grew up in the land of the politically-correct are the appointment (employment) ads in the local paper. Let me quote a few:
“Recruitment officer: Arab Only”
“Male-Arabic Speaking, Western-Educated Trainee wanted”
“Female Buyers wanted”
“Travel manager – Jordanian only”
“Property Consultant – female, any nationality”
“Female Accountant”
And my favorite. . . .
“15 positions – Non-Indians wanted, Indians allowed for 5 positions”
May as well be clear about what you want!!
“Recruitment officer: Arab Only”
“Male-Arabic Speaking, Western-Educated Trainee wanted”
“Female Buyers wanted”
“Travel manager – Jordanian only”
“Property Consultant – female, any nationality”
“Female Accountant”
And my favorite. . . .
“15 positions – Non-Indians wanted, Indians allowed for 5 positions”
May as well be clear about what you want!!
Monday, October 15, 2007
Congratulations to the Budding Shoe Designer!
We want to send our congrats to our favorite Bird-lady/budding designer, who has just landed an internship with a prestigious big-brand-name designer in New York. We are following your career with enthusiasm girl!
Death by Taxi
We live by cab. Due to bloody f*&*&%^ complications with Harry’s drivers’ license and my papers still in process, we are stuck taking taxis everywhere (since there is no other public transport as the train will not be completed until 2010). Thankfully cabs are really cheap, but sadly, there are only 5000 for a city of 1.3 million. This leads to long lines at the malls on the weekends and potential disaster if you take a cab to a location that is not near a major intersection or landmark. This also means interacting with quite a variety of individuals driving cabs, mostly from Kerela, Pakistan, other parts of India, or Afghanistan. All but one have been men (the Lady’s taxis are driven by women). Funnily enough, the non-Indians (read: non-Gulf Muslims) often appear a little afraid of me.
Let me describe some of our more memorable cabbies:
1. The guy from Waziristan (north-eastern Pakistan—current Taliban region). This one was probably our favorite. Harry got in this young guy’s cab after work and came to pick me up at our cousins on the way to do some car shopping. When Harry came in the house to get me he said, just to warn you, I have a preachy-touchy Taliban-type in the car. He has been lecturing me in Urdu about the evils of alcohol and loose white women since I got in there. I better not hold your hand.
I got in the car and the poor chap’s eyes practically popped out of his head. He looked really scared, gave a half-hearted grin, and then proceeded to get completely lost twice on the way out of the neighborhood we were in, finally just driving across an empty field and a pedestrian sidewalk to get to the main road. Then we went to Toyota, and he kept trying to chat in broken English on the way, which was really sweet actually since he still looked really nervous. We asked him to wait at Toyota, went in and looked etc., and when we came back we found him napping on the backseat.
He jumped up, we all got in, and then we asked him to take us to Honda. He looked a little panicked, then drove off, took a right, and got lost in an industrial area. We drove around in circles for a while, before finally landing back where we started at Toyota, where he backtracked along the freeway as he should have the first time. After a couple minutes he came to a screeching halt in front of a store, said something about “asking” and went into the store. Harry and I are totally cracking up by this point, and even more so when he comes back and asks Harry in Urdu to go in and ask for directions in English since he did not understand what the person told him.
By this time the poor guy is looking really stressed, so Harry and I decide to go to Nissan, which is right there, and when we come back we ask him to take us home. This proves to be a problem --- and here is the death part: in the process of getting onto the freeway—which can be really confusing, the guy is driving over 60 miles an hour when he realizes he has just been merged away from the freeway. Rather than take the exit and backtrack, he comes to a screeching halt right in the space between the freeway and the lanes separating off to the right (you know, where you see those orange barrels of water to help prevent fatalities on freeways). Cars are zooming by on both sides, and we have come to a screeching halt, almost not in time to avoid the road barrier—I screech myself, thinking it is really over for us. The guy looks back at us with a sheepish grin, he and Harry exchange a “silly women” look, and he proceeds to merge onto the freeway from a dead stop. By the time we got home I had started breathing again, and Harry tipped the guy extra because overall, this was quite a night to remember.
2. Pakistanis in general seem to be the best cabbies to have. The guys we have had from Karachi, Lahore, Islamabad, and rural areas are much more informative and talkative than other nationalities. Some of it may be a better command of English—also, a lot of these guys are trained professionals like engineers, they just can’t work as engineers here. Overall, they are really fun, like to talk about politics, don’t seem afraid or disdainful of me, and like to joke about how “we are all Indians” with Harry. If you have a choice, go for a Pakistani cabbie here!!
3. Young Guys from Kerela and northern-India. I am sad to say these guys are the worst of the lot. Especially with me by myself. I actually had one guy yelling at me because I told him a wrong turn on the way to a well known landmark that he did not seem to know for some reason. Asshole (I paid him in single dirham coins—each is larger than a quarter, so fifteen or so is pretty heavy to carry around). Language could be the problem, but actually it seems like more of a power struggle. If I get in there and act like a bossy, imperious bitch, everything is fine. I don’t like not being nice to people who are doing crap jobs, but I’m learning how to handle these guys.
4. The guy from North-Eastern Afghanistan. This guy had great English. And if his story is to be believed, he is a self-taught (by movie) rural guy from the part of Afghanistan where there is such a struggle between the Americans, Afghanis, and local drug lords/Taliban. In other words (and as he put it) if you work for the Americans, the Taliban kill you. If you work for the Taliban, the Americans kill you. No matter what, somebody will kill you. The little guy always gets screwed. I told him alot of people in the US are aware of the problem, but don’t know what to do about it. His story, true or not, was good enough for an extra tip (you don’t actually have to tip at all—cabbies are salaried here). And he asked us all to pray for his family.
6. The Syrian. Another favorite. But first, some background. Dobby traffic is terrible. TERRIBLE! Not only does everyone have a car, the roads are a weird combination of beautiful, large freeways, tiny back streets, and the abominable, multi-light round-about. It’s like the German autobahn met the Arc de Triumph round-about in Paris and had a love-child destined to carry 800,000 cars per day. The net result of all of this is that everything is actually quite close, but it can take an hour to go a kilometer if you must pass through a round-about (which are totally superfluous—these round-abouts are used where two large roads meet at a cross intersection – one light would be fine, instead, you must go around the round-about through several lights to continue on the road you were on in the first place—all so a circle of green grass with some statue or fountain can “beautify” Dobby).
Further, Dobby has over 250 traffic accidents per day, exacerbating gridlock like mad. Our present apartment looks over the main freeway right in a major business section of town, where rush-hour begins at 4 and lasts until 7. Everyday we have an accident outside our building. A loud screech, loud crash and then horns. It is so inevitable that we now notice when there is not an accident. How crazy is that?
Anyway, add poorly designed roads, traffic accidents, and pervasive construction (including the elevated train) and you have a recipe for disaster in my book. Which brings me to the Syrian. We got in this guy’s cab on the Eid holiday, after waiting in line for an hour at the Italian mall. He was a peaceful, older guy, and I thought he was Iraqi from his accent, but it turned out he was Syrian. After driving into the inevitable traffic jam outside the mall I asked him if this was Eid traffic or normal traffic. He looked at me strangely and said, but Madam, this is normal. I commented that so much traffic was so irritating, etc., etc. He got this humorous glint in his eye and said:
“Ahh, but this is Dobby. And Dobby with no traffic wouldn’t be beautiful.”
The Zen master has spoken. I ruminated on this for a while and have now adopted it as my driving mantra. Dobby without traffic is Dobby without beauty. Traffic is beautiful. To live happily here, which I want for some time, I will chant this to myself while taking deep breaths on my hour turns through the superfluous round-abouts. I think it will do wonders for my health.
Let me describe some of our more memorable cabbies:
1. The guy from Waziristan (north-eastern Pakistan—current Taliban region). This one was probably our favorite. Harry got in this young guy’s cab after work and came to pick me up at our cousins on the way to do some car shopping. When Harry came in the house to get me he said, just to warn you, I have a preachy-touchy Taliban-type in the car. He has been lecturing me in Urdu about the evils of alcohol and loose white women since I got in there. I better not hold your hand.
I got in the car and the poor chap’s eyes practically popped out of his head. He looked really scared, gave a half-hearted grin, and then proceeded to get completely lost twice on the way out of the neighborhood we were in, finally just driving across an empty field and a pedestrian sidewalk to get to the main road. Then we went to Toyota, and he kept trying to chat in broken English on the way, which was really sweet actually since he still looked really nervous. We asked him to wait at Toyota, went in and looked etc., and when we came back we found him napping on the backseat.
He jumped up, we all got in, and then we asked him to take us to Honda. He looked a little panicked, then drove off, took a right, and got lost in an industrial area. We drove around in circles for a while, before finally landing back where we started at Toyota, where he backtracked along the freeway as he should have the first time. After a couple minutes he came to a screeching halt in front of a store, said something about “asking” and went into the store. Harry and I are totally cracking up by this point, and even more so when he comes back and asks Harry in Urdu to go in and ask for directions in English since he did not understand what the person told him.
By this time the poor guy is looking really stressed, so Harry and I decide to go to Nissan, which is right there, and when we come back we ask him to take us home. This proves to be a problem --- and here is the death part: in the process of getting onto the freeway—which can be really confusing, the guy is driving over 60 miles an hour when he realizes he has just been merged away from the freeway. Rather than take the exit and backtrack, he comes to a screeching halt right in the space between the freeway and the lanes separating off to the right (you know, where you see those orange barrels of water to help prevent fatalities on freeways). Cars are zooming by on both sides, and we have come to a screeching halt, almost not in time to avoid the road barrier—I screech myself, thinking it is really over for us. The guy looks back at us with a sheepish grin, he and Harry exchange a “silly women” look, and he proceeds to merge onto the freeway from a dead stop. By the time we got home I had started breathing again, and Harry tipped the guy extra because overall, this was quite a night to remember.
2. Pakistanis in general seem to be the best cabbies to have. The guys we have had from Karachi, Lahore, Islamabad, and rural areas are much more informative and talkative than other nationalities. Some of it may be a better command of English—also, a lot of these guys are trained professionals like engineers, they just can’t work as engineers here. Overall, they are really fun, like to talk about politics, don’t seem afraid or disdainful of me, and like to joke about how “we are all Indians” with Harry. If you have a choice, go for a Pakistani cabbie here!!
3. Young Guys from Kerela and northern-India. I am sad to say these guys are the worst of the lot. Especially with me by myself. I actually had one guy yelling at me because I told him a wrong turn on the way to a well known landmark that he did not seem to know for some reason. Asshole (I paid him in single dirham coins—each is larger than a quarter, so fifteen or so is pretty heavy to carry around). Language could be the problem, but actually it seems like more of a power struggle. If I get in there and act like a bossy, imperious bitch, everything is fine. I don’t like not being nice to people who are doing crap jobs, but I’m learning how to handle these guys.
4. The guy from North-Eastern Afghanistan. This guy had great English. And if his story is to be believed, he is a self-taught (by movie) rural guy from the part of Afghanistan where there is such a struggle between the Americans, Afghanis, and local drug lords/Taliban. In other words (and as he put it) if you work for the Americans, the Taliban kill you. If you work for the Taliban, the Americans kill you. No matter what, somebody will kill you. The little guy always gets screwed. I told him alot of people in the US are aware of the problem, but don’t know what to do about it. His story, true or not, was good enough for an extra tip (you don’t actually have to tip at all—cabbies are salaried here). And he asked us all to pray for his family.
6. The Syrian. Another favorite. But first, some background. Dobby traffic is terrible. TERRIBLE! Not only does everyone have a car, the roads are a weird combination of beautiful, large freeways, tiny back streets, and the abominable, multi-light round-about. It’s like the German autobahn met the Arc de Triumph round-about in Paris and had a love-child destined to carry 800,000 cars per day. The net result of all of this is that everything is actually quite close, but it can take an hour to go a kilometer if you must pass through a round-about (which are totally superfluous—these round-abouts are used where two large roads meet at a cross intersection – one light would be fine, instead, you must go around the round-about through several lights to continue on the road you were on in the first place—all so a circle of green grass with some statue or fountain can “beautify” Dobby).
Further, Dobby has over 250 traffic accidents per day, exacerbating gridlock like mad. Our present apartment looks over the main freeway right in a major business section of town, where rush-hour begins at 4 and lasts until 7. Everyday we have an accident outside our building. A loud screech, loud crash and then horns. It is so inevitable that we now notice when there is not an accident. How crazy is that?
Anyway, add poorly designed roads, traffic accidents, and pervasive construction (including the elevated train) and you have a recipe for disaster in my book. Which brings me to the Syrian. We got in this guy’s cab on the Eid holiday, after waiting in line for an hour at the Italian mall. He was a peaceful, older guy, and I thought he was Iraqi from his accent, but it turned out he was Syrian. After driving into the inevitable traffic jam outside the mall I asked him if this was Eid traffic or normal traffic. He looked at me strangely and said, but Madam, this is normal. I commented that so much traffic was so irritating, etc., etc. He got this humorous glint in his eye and said:
“Ahh, but this is Dobby. And Dobby with no traffic wouldn’t be beautiful.”
The Zen master has spoken. I ruminated on this for a while and have now adopted it as my driving mantra. Dobby without traffic is Dobby without beauty. Traffic is beautiful. To live happily here, which I want for some time, I will chant this to myself while taking deep breaths on my hour turns through the superfluous round-abouts. I think it will do wonders for my health.
As requested by Preggie-Nelly . . .
Tell me about the Food!
Most people know Dobby is positioning itself to be a major tourist destination in the short-term future. Already, loads of tourists come here for shopping and general luxurious times. In addition to beach and sand dune-related activities, fancy hotels, and the ubiquitous copses of high-rise towers, these visitors (and us lucky locals) enjoy a large variety of restaurants with cuisine from all over.
Beginning with the low end of the food-enthusiast evaluation scale: looking out our hotel-apartment window I am greeted by a 12 lane freeway and then a long row of high-rise office buildings. And what could be a more friendly sight than the red and white stripes of Colonel Sanders and his Kentucky-fried chicken (known as dejaj kentuky in Arabic). It is nice to know the most greasy, least-healthy of all the US brand chain restaurants has a place here in the desert! Of course, next door is T.G.I. Fridays, with Applebee's down the road a bit, so the competition for the bottom spot is a little stiff. Add Micky-D's, Hardee's, Dairy Queen, Dunkin-donuts and Pizza Hut and you might just overwhelm yourself with choices for ingesting grease.
But this is only the low-end -- moving on to the mid-price/super good stuff I am presently experienced with ! (Since Harry is the only one of us to be wined and dined in the five-star hotel environment....)
So far we have eaten Indian food, Arabic food (hummus, labneh-a thin yogurt drink, baba ganouj-eggplant and tahini, grilled meats-lamb-mutton-beef-chicken), mall food (Hardee's and weird spinach pita), a traditional Iftar buffet (which means Lebanese food--lots of salads with eggplant and tomatoes and parsley, meats in sauce and grilled, slightly weird desserts with gelatin for thickener), Irish pub food, English pub food (only places to get booze during Ramadan), Hamour fillets (a popular local white fish), Iranian food (rice with "stuff" and grilled meats), "American diner" "food" (yikes), and really delicious stuff from the local super-market like kebabs, kofta (minced meat with spices added), TABULEH, fatoosh (green salad with olives and tomatoes and fried pita with lemon juice), chicken sausages (pork is available, in a small separate part of the grocery store), zataar bread( thick flat bread with olive oil and spices), "grilled" veggies like eggplant, pumpkin, mushrooms, zucchini (marinated in olive oil--which is on everything actually), OLIVES, and of course fresh pita. Yummmm!
I must say, my favorite has been the Indian food restaurant, which was practically a re-birthing experience, I almost want to cry writing about it -- marinated grilled meats and fish, biryiani cooked with fish in its own clay pot (rice and spices--the traditional way), aloo saag (potatoes and spinach), parathas (stuffed flat bread), mango lassis (sweet yogurt drink). This particular restaurant is supposed to be the best around and happily delivers to the neighborhood where we will be living! (which I have named Little India due to the gazillion Indians living there). I have also had the pleasure of eating "proper-Andra food" with our relatives here (Harry's part of his home country), in addition to making a Mexican food meal with some fab-u-licious guacamole. Pretty good coverage for only two weeks eh?
Which is why, my sweet Nelly (who is having a baby in three months and needs to eat alot), not only is Jazzercise essential at the moment (as I write I am observing my tummy spilling over my belt buckle in a manner not possible pre-Dobby arrival), but further measures are required--including less eggplant "grilled" in oil (completely soaked in oil is more appropriate), more elliptical trainer, and finally getting my butt back in ballet class!
PS: we have not yet tried sushi and any traditional Emirati dishes other than dates. But up coming will be Philippino food, Vietnamese buffet, food from Goa, and more Andra food. Also, for those Starbucks fans out there, Starbucks here (which is twice as expensive) has a DATE frappicino!
PPS: A few tidbits--delivery is big here--groceries, stuff from the convienance store, even Burger King are all available by delivery in most areas! And the grocery stores seem to have prepared Indian, Arabic, and Chinese food--all for cheap. Meat and coffee are also cheap, but spices are handled differently--case in point: I have been trying to buy black pepper for a week, but only saw the pepper corns, not the ground pepper (I don't have a grinder handy yet). I finally looked closely and discovered that most of the spices are in whole form, not pre-ground, but there is a grinder built into the bottle. This goes for pepper as well--so silly me, I spent a week irritated about pepper when all I had to do was look more closely at the bottle and buy the stupid thing.
Most people know Dobby is positioning itself to be a major tourist destination in the short-term future. Already, loads of tourists come here for shopping and general luxurious times. In addition to beach and sand dune-related activities, fancy hotels, and the ubiquitous copses of high-rise towers, these visitors (and us lucky locals) enjoy a large variety of restaurants with cuisine from all over.
Beginning with the low end of the food-enthusiast evaluation scale: looking out our hotel-apartment window I am greeted by a 12 lane freeway and then a long row of high-rise office buildings. And what could be a more friendly sight than the red and white stripes of Colonel Sanders and his Kentucky-fried chicken (known as dejaj kentuky in Arabic). It is nice to know the most greasy, least-healthy of all the US brand chain restaurants has a place here in the desert! Of course, next door is T.G.I. Fridays, with Applebee's down the road a bit, so the competition for the bottom spot is a little stiff. Add Micky-D's, Hardee's, Dairy Queen, Dunkin-donuts and Pizza Hut and you might just overwhelm yourself with choices for ingesting grease.
But this is only the low-end -- moving on to the mid-price/super good stuff I am presently experienced with ! (Since Harry is the only one of us to be wined and dined in the five-star hotel environment....)
So far we have eaten Indian food, Arabic food (hummus, labneh-a thin yogurt drink, baba ganouj-eggplant and tahini, grilled meats-lamb-mutton-beef-chicken), mall food (Hardee's and weird spinach pita), a traditional Iftar buffet (which means Lebanese food--lots of salads with eggplant and tomatoes and parsley, meats in sauce and grilled, slightly weird desserts with gelatin for thickener), Irish pub food, English pub food (only places to get booze during Ramadan), Hamour fillets (a popular local white fish), Iranian food (rice with "stuff" and grilled meats), "American diner" "food" (yikes), and really delicious stuff from the local super-market like kebabs, kofta (minced meat with spices added), TABULEH, fatoosh (green salad with olives and tomatoes and fried pita with lemon juice), chicken sausages (pork is available, in a small separate part of the grocery store), zataar bread( thick flat bread with olive oil and spices), "grilled" veggies like eggplant, pumpkin, mushrooms, zucchini (marinated in olive oil--which is on everything actually), OLIVES, and of course fresh pita. Yummmm!
I must say, my favorite has been the Indian food restaurant, which was practically a re-birthing experience, I almost want to cry writing about it -- marinated grilled meats and fish, biryiani cooked with fish in its own clay pot (rice and spices--the traditional way), aloo saag (potatoes and spinach), parathas (stuffed flat bread), mango lassis (sweet yogurt drink). This particular restaurant is supposed to be the best around and happily delivers to the neighborhood where we will be living! (which I have named Little India due to the gazillion Indians living there). I have also had the pleasure of eating "proper-Andra food" with our relatives here (Harry's part of his home country), in addition to making a Mexican food meal with some fab-u-licious guacamole. Pretty good coverage for only two weeks eh?
Which is why, my sweet Nelly (who is having a baby in three months and needs to eat alot), not only is Jazzercise essential at the moment (as I write I am observing my tummy spilling over my belt buckle in a manner not possible pre-Dobby arrival), but further measures are required--including less eggplant "grilled" in oil (completely soaked in oil is more appropriate), more elliptical trainer, and finally getting my butt back in ballet class!
PS: we have not yet tried sushi and any traditional Emirati dishes other than dates. But up coming will be Philippino food, Vietnamese buffet, food from Goa, and more Andra food. Also, for those Starbucks fans out there, Starbucks here (which is twice as expensive) has a DATE frappicino!
PPS: A few tidbits--delivery is big here--groceries, stuff from the convienance store, even Burger King are all available by delivery in most areas! And the grocery stores seem to have prepared Indian, Arabic, and Chinese food--all for cheap. Meat and coffee are also cheap, but spices are handled differently--case in point: I have been trying to buy black pepper for a week, but only saw the pepper corns, not the ground pepper (I don't have a grinder handy yet). I finally looked closely and discovered that most of the spices are in whole form, not pre-ground, but there is a grinder built into the bottle. This goes for pepper as well--so silly me, I spent a week irritated about pepper when all I had to do was look more closely at the bottle and buy the stupid thing.
Correction! Ramadan Fasting.....
....is actually thirty days and not forty, as specified below. My apologies for such a glaring error!
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Establishing Eid (eeee-d)
As discussed below, Ramadan is the Muslim holy month of fasting and Eid is the celebration marking the end of the fasting period. Sounds straight-forward, right?
BUT, what happens when you follow a lunar calendar, and must read that calendar from a specific point in the desert, and thus cannot pin down exactly when Eid is supposed to take place?
Let me explain.
A few days ago, a cryptic message appeared in the paper: "Government employees will have five days off for Eid, and private-sector will have two days. If Eid is on Friday, government employees will go back to work on Tuesday, but if it is on Saturday, then they will go back on Wednesday. " Whhhhaaaat?
Harry and I puzzled over this. He thinks that the end of fasting, or Eid, is marked by the first glimpse of the moon on or after the 40th day of fasting. That sounds reasonable, so why the uncertainty? WELL. If it is the middle of a lunar cycle, than no problem--you are guaranteed a glimpse of some kind, at some point on Friday night. Thus Eid will be on Friday. But, what if it is new moon? so there is no moon to be glimpsed on Friday? Then you have to wait until Saturday for your glimpse, and thus Eid will be on Saturday. When it comes to determining exactly when a new moon is, I guess it is difficult to be precise about whether it will be before or after midnight (since new moon is essentially no moon) so you can't say in advance if Eid is on Friday or Saturday, you must let nature unfold as she will. (in my completely untrained version of astronomy and the lunar cycle).
Now for the practical application:
I have been going to Jazzercise at the fitness center across the freeway for fun, company, and counter-delicious-food purposes. Classes are Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday (uh-oh). So this morning, the inevitable question is raised--do we have class on Saturday? The teacher says, uhhh, here is the deal. If Eid is on Saturday, then the fitness center will be closed and we can't get in so we won't have class. But if Eid is on Friday, then the fitness center will be open on Saturday, so we can get in and we can have class. So, basically, check your paper to see when Eid is and then you will know when class is. Clear as mud right?
PS: At the time of this posting (3PM Thursday) Harry still does not know when the "workplace" place will be closed, so maybe he will have Sunday off (Sunday is Monday here) or maybe not. So much for planning a weekend holiday getaway!!!
BUT, what happens when you follow a lunar calendar, and must read that calendar from a specific point in the desert, and thus cannot pin down exactly when Eid is supposed to take place?
Let me explain.
A few days ago, a cryptic message appeared in the paper: "Government employees will have five days off for Eid, and private-sector will have two days. If Eid is on Friday, government employees will go back to work on Tuesday, but if it is on Saturday, then they will go back on Wednesday. " Whhhhaaaat?
Harry and I puzzled over this. He thinks that the end of fasting, or Eid, is marked by the first glimpse of the moon on or after the 40th day of fasting. That sounds reasonable, so why the uncertainty? WELL. If it is the middle of a lunar cycle, than no problem--you are guaranteed a glimpse of some kind, at some point on Friday night. Thus Eid will be on Friday. But, what if it is new moon? so there is no moon to be glimpsed on Friday? Then you have to wait until Saturday for your glimpse, and thus Eid will be on Saturday. When it comes to determining exactly when a new moon is, I guess it is difficult to be precise about whether it will be before or after midnight (since new moon is essentially no moon) so you can't say in advance if Eid is on Friday or Saturday, you must let nature unfold as she will. (in my completely untrained version of astronomy and the lunar cycle).
Now for the practical application:
I have been going to Jazzercise at the fitness center across the freeway for fun, company, and counter-delicious-food purposes. Classes are Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday (uh-oh). So this morning, the inevitable question is raised--do we have class on Saturday? The teacher says, uhhh, here is the deal. If Eid is on Saturday, then the fitness center will be closed and we can't get in so we won't have class. But if Eid is on Friday, then the fitness center will be open on Saturday, so we can get in and we can have class. So, basically, check your paper to see when Eid is and then you will know when class is. Clear as mud right?
PS: At the time of this posting (3PM Thursday) Harry still does not know when the "workplace" place will be closed, so maybe he will have Sunday off (Sunday is Monday here) or maybe not. So much for planning a weekend holiday getaway!!!
Monday, October 8, 2007
Shout out to A. G.
And her fabulous blog about law school, and now the budding careers and lives of three new lawyers in Dizzytown. For anyone interested go to http://www.selfloathingsuckers.blogspot.com/.
We love you A.G.!
We love you A.G.!
The "Whitie" Tax
Before leaving, our pending move to the Middle East inspired images of desert, camels, white dishdashas (the white robes worn by men) and wide open spaces. As could be expected, arriving in Dubai was quite the reality check. Yes, we have desert, camels, dishdashas, and lots of wide open spaces. But we also have designer labels, global brands, tricked-out pimped-out vehicles, and general BLING everywhere (including a tremendous amount of construction on towers--Harry calls them the f***-you buildings). For those of you that know the movie Shrek, recall his arrival in the city of Far Far Away -- change the word plays on the brand names to Arabic script, and you will have a good visual of my first impression of this grand city.
However, something else we have here, of fundamental importance to this growing economy, are about 1 million Indians/Pakistanis/Bangladeshis (hereinafter Indians). Which brings me to the title of this posting. In the US and Europe, Harry and I could go about our business with general expectation that our color difference would mean little. Usually that was true. Not so here! Let me explain:
Case 1: We have been searching for apartments. Since Harry is at work, it was my job to call about places we picked out in the paper. I would call, some Indian guy would answer, and quote me a price for the annual rent (obscene prices by the way--rents have tripled in the last two years, and we are looking at about $30K rent per year for a one bedroom apartment), etc. I started to notice that these published prices were usually higher than the advertised price. Or the place is not available. Strange. Then on the weekend, Harry calls and gets quoted a much lower price for the same thing, or suddenly, places are available. What is happening?
Case 2: Harry, his old friend Al, and I are walking around the "Indian" part of town after dinner (in Old Dobby). We go into a shop because I need some Ibuprofen. By now we are suspicious of the "whitie" effect, so Al asks for the price: 5 dirhams. OK great, I say give me two packs please. Wait, oops, the shopkeeper realizes I am with the Indian guys. Suddenly, he made a mistake on the price--it is actually 8 dirhams, not 5. SO I have to pay 16 total (about 5 USD). Cheeky bastard! He did not even hide his price inflation! (we found out later from another pharmacy that 5 was the appropriate price).
Case 3: On this same evening we are walking around said part of town looking at apartment buildings and checking with the night watchmen for prices and availability. Our strategy is for Al to go in and ask for the price, while Harry waits with me on the street. Seems to work well, the prices quoted are reasonable for the area.
SO, if you have not figured it out yet, this is the whitie tax: the premium placed by Indians on goods and services for white people. SO far the range seems to be from 10 to 30 percent increase, and is imposed when I am present, regardless of Harry being with me or being the one ordering. Before writing I spent a good three days pissed off on principle about this phenomenon--now I am calmer and more philosophical. In fact, this morning, when I put about $2K worth if dirhams in my purse without a worry that I might be mugged (stealing is severely punished, as is rape --penalty beheading--) I decided that I will view this whitie tax as my cost of feeling physically secure in a city full of "brownies". Somehow, connecting a worthwhile (if fabricated) expenditure to such an unfair tax alleviates my outrage at such blatant discrimination.
However, something else we have here, of fundamental importance to this growing economy, are about 1 million Indians/Pakistanis/Bangladeshis (hereinafter Indians). Which brings me to the title of this posting. In the US and Europe, Harry and I could go about our business with general expectation that our color difference would mean little. Usually that was true. Not so here! Let me explain:
Case 1: We have been searching for apartments. Since Harry is at work, it was my job to call about places we picked out in the paper. I would call, some Indian guy would answer, and quote me a price for the annual rent (obscene prices by the way--rents have tripled in the last two years, and we are looking at about $30K rent per year for a one bedroom apartment), etc. I started to notice that these published prices were usually higher than the advertised price. Or the place is not available. Strange. Then on the weekend, Harry calls and gets quoted a much lower price for the same thing, or suddenly, places are available. What is happening?
Case 2: Harry, his old friend Al, and I are walking around the "Indian" part of town after dinner (in Old Dobby). We go into a shop because I need some Ibuprofen. By now we are suspicious of the "whitie" effect, so Al asks for the price: 5 dirhams. OK great, I say give me two packs please. Wait, oops, the shopkeeper realizes I am with the Indian guys. Suddenly, he made a mistake on the price--it is actually 8 dirhams, not 5. SO I have to pay 16 total (about 5 USD). Cheeky bastard! He did not even hide his price inflation! (we found out later from another pharmacy that 5 was the appropriate price).
Case 3: On this same evening we are walking around said part of town looking at apartment buildings and checking with the night watchmen for prices and availability. Our strategy is for Al to go in and ask for the price, while Harry waits with me on the street. Seems to work well, the prices quoted are reasonable for the area.
SO, if you have not figured it out yet, this is the whitie tax: the premium placed by Indians on goods and services for white people. SO far the range seems to be from 10 to 30 percent increase, and is imposed when I am present, regardless of Harry being with me or being the one ordering. Before writing I spent a good three days pissed off on principle about this phenomenon--now I am calmer and more philosophical. In fact, this morning, when I put about $2K worth if dirhams in my purse without a worry that I might be mugged (stealing is severely punished, as is rape --penalty beheading--) I decided that I will view this whitie tax as my cost of feeling physically secure in a city full of "brownies". Somehow, connecting a worthwhile (if fabricated) expenditure to such an unfair tax alleviates my outrage at such blatant discrimination.
Ramadan and Eid
Now that we have arrived--in the middle of Ramadan--, it seems the most appropriate place to start is with something educational. Ramadan is the holy month of fasting for Muslims--it is based on the lunar calender, so every year it takes place at a slightly different time, eventually taking place in all the different months of the year. Ramadan is supposed to be a time of reflection and introspection -- fasting (no food, water, nicotine, or sex) is from sun rise to sunset, at which point the fast is broken with the Iftar meal--a time to celebrate God's goodness and generosity with family and friends (food and drink taste extra good after deprivation, reminding you of God's blessings). Ramadan is also a period when Muslims pay their zakat--or percentage donation to charity. This lasts about 40 days and end ends in a celebration called Eid (eeeed)--which lasts from one to three days apparently, and is one of the two holidays officially approved by Muhammad. (supposedly, Muslims are not to celebrate birthdays and other things, although I think this is not exactly adhered to...). All in all, the spirit of Ramadan seems to be very special, even to an "outsider".
Now, that said, lets talk about what the period of Ramadan means to newly arrived non-Muslims in the second hottest place on earth......
In Dobby, Ramadan means no public eating, drinking ,or smoking. You can be fined if someone catches you (along with kissing in public or other "indecent behavior", but this is at all times). SO, all the restaurants, coffee shops, and other places to hang out are closed, except in the nice hotels and malls, where the food area is hidden behind thick black curtains drawn around entire restaurants--and Muslims are not allowed in. Considering yours truly has no Internet access, and Harry likes his ciggies, these limitations have posed some significant problems. I am all for respecting other religious practices, and cultural differences, but after a week of no Internet --and no water in the desert if I go outside, I can't wait for this holy period to be OVER. Lesson learned: Ramadan is NOT the time to visit us in Dobby !!! :-) Sadie
Now, that said, lets talk about what the period of Ramadan means to newly arrived non-Muslims in the second hottest place on earth......
In Dobby, Ramadan means no public eating, drinking ,or smoking. You can be fined if someone catches you (along with kissing in public or other "indecent behavior", but this is at all times). SO, all the restaurants, coffee shops, and other places to hang out are closed, except in the nice hotels and malls, where the food area is hidden behind thick black curtains drawn around entire restaurants--and Muslims are not allowed in. Considering yours truly has no Internet access, and Harry likes his ciggies, these limitations have posed some significant problems. I am all for respecting other religious practices, and cultural differences, but after a week of no Internet --and no water in the desert if I go outside, I can't wait for this holy period to be OVER. Lesson learned: Ramadan is NOT the time to visit us in Dobby !!! :-) Sadie
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