Read it and weep

We had some visitors from home yesterday.

Debra and Alan turned up with an odd collection of essential items from home that they had kindly tucked into their suitcases – the three shoes Evie had left at my parent’s house, some tea and some string (thanks Mum!), a set of kissing koala salt and pepper shakers unearthed by my shopping genius friend Jenny. (What? Doesn’t every home need one?)

But most importantly, they brought Saturday’s Sydney Morning Herald. Honestly, tears nearly came to my eyes when Alan produced it. He could have no idea what a passionate reader of the weekend Herald I am and how much I’ve missed it.

Yes, I know I can read it online. But I miss the font, the pictures, the inky smell. I miss seeing how everything is arranged on the page, which is as much a pleasure for me as the words. I miss the little articles they don’t bother to put up online. I have found a website where I can buy pdf versions of almost any newspaper in the world, so I have been using that to get a sense of the page, but it’s tedious work really. Stabbing at the keyboard every time you want to shift the view, being unable to flick your eyes to the photo of a profile subject when the journalist describes their face. It’s not how humans read. (It’s also not how dogs or elephants read, either, but you get my point.)

I have also made do with some late, abridged hardcopy versions of London weekend papers, but they don’t speak my language. I started reading the Herald when I was a word-hungry child and was reading everything in the house, and it still is what I think of when someone says the word ‘newspaper’. I travelled by train, bus or ferry from the age of nine next to be-suited office workers struggling to read the broadsheet on public transport (often standing up, supported by the crush of commuters). I read many an interesting article and attempted the cryptic crossword over their shoulders (or under the arms, depending on how crowded the train was).

When I lived on the other side of the country I prevailed upon my local newsagent to order the Saturday Herald in for me, and I picked it up faithfully every Monday morning, then eked it out to a week’s worth of reading. (Needless to say, currency is not the most important aspect of news, in my opinion – a week-old story doesn’t bother me.)

I’ve been published in it, worked for the company that owns it, and railed against its decline (too small now, too many typos, etc). But it still says home to me. Thanks Debra and Alan.

What says home to you?

It's a wrap

Anyone who ever saw the overburdened coat rack in my Cambewarra bedroom knows that I quite like scarves.

They are the perfect item of clothing as far as I am concerned – bright, pretty, cheap and they can’t make you bum look big. You don’t even have to try them on in the shop. They can transform an outfit from boring to beautiful, and if you wear a different one every day no one will notice that you have on the same old pair of jeans.

When I moved to Dubai, I had to leave half my scarf collection at home. So the sensible thing to do is to replace it, right? I may have bought a few scarves since I got here (this will be news to my husband – sorry, dearest) and I expect I’ll buy a few more, because Dubai is scarf PARADISE.

It’s not just the enormous variety (and the ridiculously low prices –it would be downright  wrong not to take advantage of them). It’s the fact that you can get so much use out of them. Setting aside those women who have no choice in the matter (that is a tale for another day), Western women wear scarves/shawls/wraps/pashminas all the time in the Middle East, partly in honour of the modest dress code and partly (I’m sure) because they are just so darn gorgeous. You can throw one around you if your shoulders are (shudder) on display or wrap one around your head if you are entering a Muslim area. I have even seen a woman tie one around her waist when her short skirt caused offense in a government building. Setting aside a stranger’s right to tell you what to wear, she actually looked quite chic afterwards. (Of course, she was French. If I did it, I’d look like a heffalump.)

In Australia, there is really only one way you can wear a scarf without being considered eccentric, and that is looped around your neck, like so.

Sadly, this is not me.

But here, anything goes.

You can do the Tess of the d’Urbervilles thing and wrap it around your shoulders.

Or Elizabeth Bennet style, hanging from your elbows. I personally quite like this and think I look exactly the same as Keira Knightley here. Please don’t spoil it for me.

Or you can go all sari on yourself.

That’s before we even think about what happens when you start involving your head.

 

Just one more way to have fun in Dubai...

Which one is your favourite? Do you think you can totally rock that look? Would you be brave enough to take it to the streets?

Five things I cannot buy in Dubai

For a town in which the premier city-wide celebration is a shopping festival, you would think you could easily buy anything you like here.

But no, there are a few things for which I have searched fruitlessly. For Dubai readers, any tips will be gratefully received.

1. String. The other day I trawled the Mall of the Emirates looking for a ball of string. This is a shopping centre that tourists visit with their cameras. You can buy a pair of Jimmy Choos, a Persian rug, or a phone charger shaped like an old-fashioned rotary dial phone, made of silicon. (What?) It has a ski field. It has a supermarket the size of a football stadium. It has nearly 500 stores. None of them sell string.

This was not the first time I had tried to find string. I had kept my eye out for it at several other supermarkets and stores in general. When I ask a shop assistant, this is the response I get...

“Excuse me, do you sell string?”

Puzzled frown.

“You mean for sewing, ma’am?”

“No, not thread. String. For tying things.”

“We have some gift wrapping ribbon?” (This last sentence is not actually a question, but I added a question mark to indicate the confused rising inflection on the end of the statement.)

“No, not ribbon. Just string. You know... string.”

“Ah, yes. Aisle 29.”

When I go to aisle 29, I find tape, I find rope, but no string.

Now, thread, ribbon, tape and rope all do some of the things that string do, but they can’t do all of the things that string does. String is a uniquely useful tool, and I would like to have some.

Now, there is probably a craft store or a hardware store somewhere in Dubai that sells string. I certainly see enough bits and pieces held together with it as I go about the place, so it does exist here. But I don’t think I should have to make a special trip to an obscure location just to buy a ball of string. I think I should be able to buy it at my local supermarket or newsagent. (But wait, there are no newsagencies here. Another nail in the coffin of newspapers.)

Maybe I haven’t asked the right people. But once again, I shouldn’t have to ask the right people. I’m not buying opium here, folks. I just want a ball of string.

2. Sultanas. Currants are not sultanas. Nor are raisins. Well, according to Wikipedia, they actually are, but I haven't seen anything that looks the same as the ones at home.      

3. Twinings Chai and Vanilla Tea. Miss it. Please send.

4. Sheets of cardboard. Three children at school means sheets of cardboard have been a staple product in our household for years, like bread or milk. Useful for assignments of all kinds, or just for rolling up and bopping your sister on the head, they are as much a part of primary school as paint and glitter glue. Not any more.

And finally...

5. Pearl cous cous. You know that extra-big kind of cous cous? Delicious. It’s also called Israeli or Jerusalem cous cous. Now, the UAE is a participant in the Arab League boycott of Israel, but I think this is taking things too far.

What have you found hard to buy when you have been away from home?

Come as you are

This is just a totally random picture with no reason to be here.

One of the things I love about living in Dubai is the fact that no one feels the need to adopt the prevailing culture. Because there is no prevailing culture. In Australia many recent immigrants buy unfamiliar clothing and walk around feeling uncomfortable, so as to not stand out. You couldn’t stand out in Dubai if you tried. In any wander on any day down any street, you may pass an enormous man dressed like a African king and a tiny Indian woman in a sari, a Pakistani in a loose tunic and pants (barefoot) and a Saudi woman in full abaya and niqab (often with sunglasses covering the eye-slit – love that look!). There are at least as many men in crisp white dish-dashes and sandals in the financial district as there are sharp-suited Western businessmen.

I usually throw a scarf or cardigan in the car in case I go somewhere that would frown on bare shoulders or arms, but mostly conventional Western dress is fine for women here. I can't tell you how many times I was asked (before I left) if I would have to wear a headscarf. I don't, but I think they are pretty so I might do it one day anyway, just for fun. The cool thing is, no one would bat an eyelid. I would just be one more drop in the wide ocean of Dubai variety. Now, there is a kind of freedom in that for me, because at home I'd earn some strange looks. I know not every woman here has that freedom, and I cherish it.

In Australia, people from other countries often adopt a Western name but here not so much, because almost everyone is from somewhere else. This may result in some confusion, and even some laughs – Evie goes to school with Muhammad Ali, and our Pakistani gardener (yes, we have a gardener, it comes with the house, all right? You can’t expect us to get our hands dirty... sheesh) is widely known as Ali G, for some reason (his real name is Tarique Hussain Jaffar Khan. Actually, he does look a bit like Ali G).

Wes’s Arabic teacher is Mr Osama and we joke about him being Irish (Mr O’Sama) and always refer to him in an Irish accent, and Archie has an Uzbekistani friend called Hakisan whose name we learnt by thinking of hacky-sacks.

When we named our children I wanted to choose less popular names because I was concerned that they would end up in a classroom full of kids with the same name. Especially with a common surname like Thomas. My own name was the most popular in Australia the year I was born and I personally know of several Michelle Thomases floating around the place. Boring. Turns out I needn’t have worried. Now the kids are in school with Mugamed and Deepthi, individuality is a given.

I’ve saved the best til last. So far, the best name I’ve stumbled across belongs to one of the grocery baggers at the local supermarket (it’s called Spinney’s for those of you who like the everyday details – took me a while to stop calling it Coles).

His name? .... Ha.

Awesome.

What's your favourite foreign name? Or a story of fitting in with or standing out from another culture?

This way to the souks...

This guy was so keen on me taking his photo,
he posed twice, then went and filled his load and
came back and posed again.

Since blogging is a visual medium as much as a written one, I’m going to let pictures tell a thousand words today and just press upload a few times. Voila! Instant post. Who said maintaining a blog was hard work?

But first, just a few words of background. Since we arrived – nearly two months ago – I have been yearning to get back to the old souks down on the creek here in Dubai, preferably with a camera and a few hundred dirham. My only requirement was that I be alone – no whining children in tow, no husband fuming over how long I was spending looking at pashminas (sorry, honey, but you know you would), not even a friend with an agenda not precisely like my own. Man, I’m selfish! (I do, in fact, love my family and even my new friends, despite how this sounds.) Or maybe (noble tilt of chin) I just wanted to spare others what would be an experience not to their liking...

Anyhoo, I found myself with a bit of time on my hands after an unexpectedly brilliant experience with Dubai bureaucracy the other day, and raced off to wander the souks for a wee while. SO much fun. The windows full of glinting gold, the baskets filled with aromatic spices (a good way to find the spice souk is to follow your nose) and everywhere you look men (always men) from the whole sweep of the Middle East, Africa and the sub-continent pushing barrel-loads of goods in all directions. Down on the docks the stench of diesel, the abra driver steering lazily with his feet, the slap of salt water that stung like Sydney Harbour. Happy days. Bought a few things too...

PS Despite all of the wonders above, one of the things I miss about home is actually... wait for it... Kmart. I kid you not. I can buy a gloriously embroidered scarf from Turkmenistan, but I can't buy a plain white t-shirt, children's pjs, a hammer and a vegetable peeler, all in one handy location and at ridiculously low prices. Sigh. You don't know what you've got til it's gone.
What would you miss if you left home?

This is boring

Does anyone else find boredom excruciating? I remember seeing very poor people in Cambodia sitting beside their homes with absolutely nothing to do and I found myself thinking that boredom is perhaps one of the under-rated and unmentioned aspects of poverty. Of course, there’s worse – like not being able to feed your children. But for those who are just getting by, sitting around all day with nothing to do – no job, no money, no opportunities to get around or make something of yourself – must be in itself a terrible burden.

I’ve been thinking a bit about boredom in the last couple of days. I have spent that time waiting in Dubai municipal buildings for people to do mysterious things that cost extraordinary amounts of money – like typing up a form – in pursuit of residential visas for myself and the kids. And I have been literally bored to tears. Boredom is stressful and tiring. I don’t want to sound like a whinger (too late, you cry) but it has been seriously not fun.

So I thought I would put up a couple of videos to cheer up anyone who is having a boring day. Just remember to turn the sound down if you are at work so your boss doesn’t hear.

They are from a recent international night at the kids’ school (which bears the grand name of Raffles World Academy). I don’t know what the mums and dads do for a good night out down your way, but this is how we relax after a long week here in Dubai:

And this one is a corker. It’s long, but stick with it. All I’ll say is that the star of the show is not really the Sufi dancer:

Have an interesting day.

Five things to not-love about Dubai

Dubai is nothing if not a city of contrasts. No one who lives here seems to entirely love it, or to entirely hate it, because it is so diverse. One sweeping glance can take in the most breathtaking views – the tallest of buildings, the grand emptiness of the desert, the tumbled, crumbling cacophony of old Dubai on the creek – as well as great ugliness – cranes blighting the tops of buildings, a line of electrical towers marching across scrubby strips of sand.

Socially it’s like that, too. Warm, vibrant and endlessly interesting, the teeming multitudes of Dubai are also a source of disquiet. One only has to see the speed at which whole office towers spring out of the ground to know that the labour-force here is unnervingly cheap and plentiful. Enough said.

So in the interests of balance (see previous post), here are five things I have found that I’m not really loving:

Kids without seatbelts

Apparently car accidents are on top of the cause-of-death lists for children here in Dubai. Who knew? You mean all those toddlers roaming around their cars unfettered are in some kind of danger? All those babies held in their mothers’ arms in the front seat are not actually safe? Okay, end of sarcastic rant, time to get serious. Nothing makes my blood boil more than seeing children bouncing about without seatbelts while daddy (wearing his seatbelt, possibly to stop the car making that annoying pinging sound) drives 120kmh down Sheikh Zayed Road. As I like to shout furiously to my children at such times, “Their daddy doesn’t love them” (accompanied by dramatic pointed finger).

Exhibit A

Car parking at school

You think drop-off and pick-up at your nice school in Australia (or wherever) is tedious? You should be thanking God for that slow-moving queue to get into the drop-and-go zone. Here (I mean most schools in Dubai, not just my children’s), people park everywhere, including but not restricted to: the footpath (exhibit A), the middle of the road, the traffic islands, other people’s driveways. Then they grab little Tommy or Rashid and hustle him through the seething mass of Porsche Cayennes (at least they probably all have rear sensors). It’s only a matter of time before someone gets killed (or as I like to say to my children at such times, “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye”. Oh wait, that’s running with sticks.)

General lack of green, hippy, leftist, pinko stuff

By that I mean such things as: recycling (you can take your bottles etc to a recycling centre at the shops near us, which we do, but we feel like a drop in the ocean), fresh vegetables that don’t come with a million food miles attached (oh well, it is a desert... but if they can desalinate the water, can’t they find a way to grow a few lettuces?), meat that doesn’t make me think of the Four Corners report about live animal exports from Australia (if you’ve seen it, you’ll know what I mean. If you haven't, use your imagination), and so on. It makes me really, really miss organic farmers’ markets, my friends who sell well-loved, well-fed and freshly butchered little lambies, and even the ubiquitous green Coles bags at home.

A ‘stratified’ society

Without getting myself into trouble here, this is a multicultural society that has a few issues. Sometimes I feel like I’m inside a fantasy novel set in an imaginary world where different nationalities automatically take different jobs: the Dolons are the miners, the Mithraki the servants, the Hitanees the rulers etc. (I just made all that up so don’t go trying to figure out what book they’re from. It was basically because I couldn’t remember any actual examples from the fantasy genre, but I’m sure they’re there. Suggestions welcome.) Here, the Filipinas are the nannies, the Filipinos the waiters, Pakistanis the gardeners and labourers, and so on. This is frankly a little weird. A lot weird. And unfair, and awful. And comes with a whole lot of connected issues that I can’t really go into here.

And finally, the neighbour’s sprinklers

This is sort of about wasted water in general, and sort of about my own beauty sleep. For an hour at bed time, just as we are hoping to fall into an exhausted sleep (every day here is exhausting), and then at five in the morning (just at that point when you are rested enough to not be able to fall back to sleep, but still not rested enough), the neighbour’s sprinklers go off. They are the kind that I have only otherwise seen on sporting ovals, the ones that go ‘chk, chk, chk, chk’ around in a circle. Only in the dead of night, they sound like a slow jackhammer. For an hour. (Have a listen on the video here. If you're having trouble seeing anything, that's because it was 5am, when it is DARK and everyone should be ASLEEP.) 

The neighbour’s yard is very empty, and very green. And I have never seen anyone use it. Not once. Maybe they just like to look at it.

 

Wherever you live, there are things that get your goat (do only Australians use that expression?). What are some of yours? Pictures and videos welcome.