Mum or maid?

There’s an exercise I sometimes undertake when I am sitting around at my children’s school. The kids finish at staggered times, and often have after-school activities, so this amounts to several hours of sitting around each week. As we wait, my younger kids do their homework and eat afternoon tea in the cafeteria along with a teeming rabble of other students and their mothers. Or maids. And that’s where the exercise comes in.

It’s called ‘Mum or Maid?’. The question mark is important because the aim is to decide whether the woman accompanying the child is a mother or an employee of the nanny/maid variety. If there are some blokes about, I often get in a quick round of ‘Dad or Driver?’ which is always a bonus round. Double points.

Now, most of the time it’s a problem that is easy to solve, because this is a society built on castes ruthlessly dictated by race. If you have before you a European, Arabic or Indian child and a Filipino woman (extra clue – she’s the one carrying the school bag) odds are she’s the maid. The mothers, on the other hand, are the impeccably dressed and made up ones (well, okay, not all the mothers. Me, for instance), and generally of a matching racial persuasion to their children.

Almost no one in an abaya or burqa is a maid, though sometimes the Muslim maids do wear a headscarf.

The interest comes, though, when the child is Filipino (or from one of the less prolific maid-supplying nations, such as Indonesia, Sri Lanka or parts of Northern Africa) and so is the accompanying woman. Mum or maid?

Here are some tips. The maids are – to a woman – almost always physically smaller than their employers. This seems to hold sway even when they hail from the same place, as sometimes happens (or close enough so that I, in my ignorance, can’t separate them). This helps solve the puzzle when both the mum and the maid are in attendance. Also, the maids are always very plainly dressed – three-quarter pants and an old t-shirt seems to be the unofficial uniform of those who don’t actually wear an official uniform. (Many do. Yes, this is a strange, strange place). They don’t wear any make up. Their hair has not been blow-dried, their nails are un-pedicured/manicured and they don’t wear high heels.

In my opinion, this is more a comment on the mothers than the maids. Since the above (maid) description could pretty much belong to me (and to most of my Australian friends on a school run), there is obviously something else going on here. It could be that women (and men) from non-European backgrounds make a huge effort to not be mistaken for the help. Europeans get a free ride, as usual – there are no white maids in Dubai. Which leaves the high standard of European mum-dressing an inexplicable mystery to me. (It may be as simple as – me Aussie, them French.)

All this is fascinating when you are sitting around, bored, in the school cafeteria, but it is deeply disturbing too.

I have been to restaurants and parties where the maids (who are along to wrangle the kids) eat at separate tables, and there would not be one person there who would find that uncomfortable. 

In the malls they trail along behind their 'families', holding the bags.

I totally understand the dependence on help in the ex-pat community, especially if both parents work. Here I sit with my three school-aged children and my loving church community, and a husband who is in the same city as me more often than not. It is not my aim to suggest that women with babies and toddlers, whose husbands are away almost every single night and have no family or community back-up, should not hire help.

I imagine I would do the same.

But I am uncomfortable with the way we often slip into a given culture instead of challenging it.

I know some people who have developed some very sensible rules regarding their home help: their children are not allowed to ask their maid to do anything for them (she is Mummy’s helper, not your slave), meaning their kids aren’t going to grow up (like many here) strewing the house with their belongings only to find them neatly put away five minutes later. And someone else who limits her maid’s services to the children (no spoon-feeding the lazy three-year-old at dinner, for instance) to force the kids to look after themselves.

There are families with very happy, healthy, positive, even loving relationships with their live-in domestic employees. But they are not the majority.

And - as if the whole subject wasn't complicated enough - there's the kids to consider.

My eldest son’s friends were incredulous when he said we didn’t have a live-in maid. They think Australia, where most people don’t have help, must be a very poor country.

“So what do you do when you want some food? Do you just… go into the kitchen and get it yourself?” they asked.

I am proud of my kids’ independence, and I am sad that some of their friends aren’t getting to stretch their own wings.

And that’s just with regard to the kids. There’s probably a whole other blog post in treating that other woman in your home like a human being, but I shouldn’t be the one to write it, seeing as I don’t actually have one.

But you can be sure of one thing – the kids are watching. If someone asks their maid to do trivial, unnecessary or demeaning tasks, so will their children. I have observed (okay, spied) as some people down my street leave in the morning. First the maid comes out and gives the car a quick once over with the hose (the waste of water is a topic for another day), then she turns on the engine to get the air-conditioning going, and heads back inside. Then she emerges with the children’s school bags and puts them in the boot. Then she comes back with the kids and helps them into their seats. Then mum or dad appears and off they go.

Is it really too hard for those kids to carry their own schoolbags to the car? Or for the parents to start their own vehicle?

I’ve been hesitant to post a blog on this topic. To non-Dubaians, this must all seem like life on Mars. And to Dubaians, I have probably said all the wrong things. Tell me, what do you think about it all?

In the right

So, over here in Dubai they drive on the right. Before we left Australia, this was practically my biggest concern. Forget leaving everything I love and know and re-settling my family in a foreign land. No, I was worried about driving on the wrong side of the road.

But apart from a few sudden swerves away from oncoming cars in the beginning (it’s all right, Mum, we’re okay), it’s not actually being on the other side of the road that has proved the problem. It’s all the little unexpected things that come along with it.

Did you realize how much of what you do when you’re driving is completely unconscious? That glance of the eyes up to the rear view mirror, the hand on the gear stick, the flicking on of the indicator.

When you have to reverse all these actions, it makes your brain hurt. It’s like being Alice in Wonderland, post-fall, and everything about driving is made strange.

You have to re-think every single thing. To see behind me, I dart my eyes up to the left, looking for the mirror. Uh oh, that’s the window now. I have fallen into the habit of using my driver’s side mirror instead of my rear view mirror because it seems more natural to look in that direction. That’s actually worked out okay, because it matters more whose beside you here, really, as it’s all about changing lanes, or else dodging the crazies changing lanes around you.

Even walking to the car is complicated. I have actually unlocked the car and climbed into the passenger seat before I realized there was no steering wheel in front of me. That was only last week. And I’ve been here three and a half months. Sad. Mostly, though, I twig to it just as I’m about to pull the door open. Then I pretend I was just putting my handbag on the seat and slam the door, walk casually around to the other side, and climb in.

But that’s not where the problem ends. Even with uncompromising visual evidence that I am in a left-hand drive car, I reach my right hand up into empty space, looking to pull the seatbelt down. After negotiating that, I still smash my left hand into the side door, in search of the gear stick to put the car into reverse.

I know I’m not the smartest person in the world, and I do tend to rely more than others on habit (given that I am just slightly absent-minded) but I understand I’m not the only one going through this. Even my husband admits to some of it.

But the worst (in terms of the outcome, so far) is my conflicted spatial awareness. I am just not used to having so much car sticking out to the right. Let’s just say this has led me into a couple of scrapes.

But wait, there’s more. Even footpaths are a minefield, since the expectation here is that people will move to the right as they walk past each other. Even if you adapt to this fairly quickly, there will inevitably be tourists, or Dubaians (is that a word?) from other parts of the world, who insist on walking on the left. Disaster. Then there’s escalators. We regularly approach the ‘up’ side when we want to go down, and vice versa.

The only place I haven’t had to compromise is the pool. The lap lanes are usually empty, so I can still swim on the left. (I have no idea why this is so. Australians seem to be the only ones who swim for exercise. The others by the pool are drinking juice and looking at Facebook on their phones.)

In some ways, the whole left-right thing is a symbol of adapting to a new land. Everything is different. You have to think through each action, from where to go shopping to how to find a doctor. This makes your brain hurt. It’s also stressful and tiring. Which explains why I feel like I need to sleep all the time. Wake me when it’s time to pick up the kids – I’m having a nap.

Let's go shopping...

I’ve had a bit of a whinge about what I can’t find in Dubai. Now it’s time to be a little grateful and focus on what I can.

And I don’t mean the Louis Vuitton clothing or the child-size Mercedes Benz toy cars. You can take all that as a given.

What I mean is the little everyday items that I may not be able to buy at home, but that quickly became part of my weekly shopping list here. As is often the case, I’m talking about food.

 

1. Pomegranates

I hardly ever bought these in Australia, unless I needed them for a special salad. I can’t think why - now I buy them every week. We put them through the juicer with a pineapple (also super-cheap, super-sweet and always available. I’d have added them to the list, but that would have made six, and everyone knows that five is the correct number for a blog list) and a couple of apples – mmm, delicious. They go in cous cous salads, fruit salads, and on top of hommous. Which leads me to my next point.

2. Hommous

Yes, I know you can buy this in every supermarket in Australia. Or you can make your own, which I did, all the time. But it was not as awesome as this hommous, I’m telling you. Every single self-respecting supermarket in Dubai (even the little ones) sells cheap, fresh, home-made hommous at the salad counter and it’s killer good. I think they slap in a heap more tahini than I used to, which makes it taste extra-rich and scrumptious. I’m still clinging to the idea that it’s sort of healthy (allowing me to eat it by the spoonful – no, really), and I even use it on the kids’ sandwiches like butter (with ham and salad, not with Vegemite, because that would be gross).

3. Arabic bread

Put the idea of that dried out supermarket Arabic bread right out of your head. You know the kind that cracks when you fold it? Yuk. This stuff is fresh daily, comes in every shape and size and smells like heaven. Unless you live in Greenacre with your own Arabic bakery down the road, you are probably not eating Arabic bread this good in Australia. So, yay for Dubai!

4. Carrots

But these are not just carrots. They are peeled, baby carrots. In a bag. From the supermarket. Because who would want to peel their own carrots? I know it’s ridiculous, but the fact is our carrot consumption has gone through the roof. You can’t beat the convenience.

5. Pomegranate syrup

This is sort of cheating, because I’ve already done pomegranates, but I’m loving myself sick for finding this and I have to share it. And once again, I know you can buy this in Australia, but it’s not easy to track down and it’s not cheap. Or maybe that’s just because I lived in Nowra. Anyhoo, it’s my new favourite salad dressing ingredient and it’s wonderful. Drink it by the bottleful.

One other good thing is that when you put all these fresh, cheap and easy to find things together, what have you got? Lunch. Which I am going to make, right now.

What food have you loved when overseas?

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?

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?