Midnight in the Garden of Giant Orange Spools

I just got home from Chili's final walkabout for the day, which is a soothing time for both of us. He gets to stake his claim on little bits of the world, one last time before bed, and I get to appreciate Dubai at one of its calmest moments.

We walk behind our building, down "pee-row" - a stretch of gravel frequented by resident pooches, and a choice scratch n' sniff area for the Chili-dog - and then around the grounds of a power generation station directly adjacent. This sounds highly sketch, I realize, but it's well-lit and quiet. The facility serves as staging grounds for the countless construction crews working in this are, so there is new stuff to see every night. Bricks, paving stones, piles of unmixed concrete, gravel, two-by-fours, metal struts - I only wish I were building a retaining wall or a wishing well or something.

It's all left lying around wherever the workers dropped their materials at day's end, together with coolers, discarded gloves, the odd hardhat and of course, the ever-present giant orange spools. These big wooden beasts are used for coils of large, um, constructiony wires, and they give the area a sort of surreal, Alice-in-Wonderland type flavour.

The 3/4 finished Burj Dubai, to be (briefly) the tallest building in the world, towers nearby. (Check out a chart showing other ridiculously tall structures in the works). We're within walking distance of the Burj - through crazyland construction, mind you - but I like the night-time view from our "backyard" the best. They've installed searchlights and vertical rows of green and white vanity lights (I don't know how else to describe decorative skyscraper lights - if anyone knows, please tell me!) so the whole building flashes like a manic lighthouse. During the day, I can see the Burj from another angle - upside down, as I float in the pool. I tilt my head back, and it's just blue-blue-blue til the tower glides into view. A pretty sight (see photo) that I hope everyone will experience when they visit us here.

At night, though, the constant construction hum dies down considerably, as does the traffic on Sheikh Zayed Road. There's a light breeze stirring the palms, and just one sleepy security guard chilling out on a chair next to a round-about that's chaos during the day, but empty at night. I raise a hand, he raises a hand, Chili lifts a leg, and we all take a deep breath of the balmy night air. Then it's time for bed. 

Lorries, Labaneh & Lushing It Up On Holy Friday

Today I'm creating a blogwich of delicious, totally unrelated topics. Blog appetit! 

(Hopefully Noolee reads this post: that pun was a special gift for her!)

Let's begin with a delightful layer of lorry. A "lorry," I'm sure most of you know, is a weird UK word for "truck." Wikipedia, the preferred primary source of all serious researchers, reports that:

Lorry is a term from the UK and the Republic of Ireland, but is only used for the medium and heavy type [of truck]. A van, a pickup or a jeep would never be regarded as a lorry.

C and I were discussing lorries recently, and I discovered a great new way to tease the poor man, who, given his occupation, likes to be accurate about vehicular thingers. 

I simply suggest that vehicles which clearly aren't lorries, are. For instance, when I need to know where he parked our Pathfinder, I ask him where he put the lorry. Or if we're driving and an SUV cuts us off, I say, "Stupid lorry!" Then he earnestly explains my fundamental lorry-identification error, and I giggle. (I guess the jig is up since he'll read this, but I'll come up with something else soon enough. Such are the endearing little ways that I nurture marital bliss.)

In truth, I knew all about lorries long before I came here, since I'm pretty sure that's what the 101 Dalmatians used to evade the clutches of Cruella de Vil in her psychomobile. (As a sprog I paid a lot of attention to Cruella and modes of transport proven effective in escaping her because she scared the bejeezus out of me. Just ask my dad, who had to help me move my bed into my bedroom doorway so that I could keep watch for Cruella coming down the hallway to "get" me.)

For some reason, hearing people from the UK or NZ/Oz talk about lorries makes me laugh. It's much too goofy/friendly of a term to use when, as frequently occurs here in Dubai, you're describing a vehicle driven by a maniac that nearly T-boned you even though you were both theoretically travelling in the same direction. I can only imagine the line of questioning at a Dubai lorry driver interview...

HR: "Do you have a driver's license?"

Prospective Maniac: "My cousin has a...liquor...license."

HR: "Brilliant. Do you shoulder check?"

PM: "Of course. You never get a second chance to make a first impression."

HR: And how does one make an effective lane change?"

PM: "What's a lane?"

HR: "When can you start?"

Lorries have no mirrors, or if they do have mirrors, their drivers studiously avert their eyes. (In fact, the drivers manage to ignore their surroundings so completely one wonders if some of them are retired NHL referees. Was that you, Kerry Fraser?)

As for brakes, ha! To stop a lorry, simply aim for some squishy bit of desert, my friend, or the cushiony side panel of a passing Nissan Tiida!

The lorries of Dubai careen down Sheikh Zayed Road, trying out all the lanes while alternating speeds of 140km/hour (while tailing you) and 10km/hour (once they've cut you off.) They often have rickety bits of paneling hanging off them, and always carry something like a ladder or big boxes of sharp construction utensils in the back, ready to bounce out and puncture your windshield should traffic suddenly pile up.

But calling these vehicles "lorries" makes me think of Paddington Bear and Devonshire Cream and sheep and other soft, English things, which distracts from the fact that they are rickety Soviety-era buggies driven at Mad Max speeds by utter lunatics. So it's "truck" for me, all the way. Except when I see a Jeep Cherokee or a Hummer and C is with me. Then it's lorry!

The next bit of blog is truly delish. Labaneh is technically yogurt cheese, but that's a poor way to describe the velvety perfection of the cream-dreamiest spread that ever applied itself directly to my birthin' hips. It comes in a variety of flavours but the garlic is so G-D good that's all we ever get. I put it on toast, pitas, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes and meat. And everything else. I also eat it right out of the tub with a spoon. And on nights that C is away, I have been known to follow a few spoonfuls of labaneh with a few spoonfuls of Nutella and a mug of wine and call'er a night. Which leads me, Inksters, to the tempting bookend of the blogwich...

My lushalicious Friday plans! After a week of industrious effort on the job search front, I'm rewarding myself tomorrow with an indulgent afternoon at a new acquaintance's house. She's leaving Dubai soon, and several of us are to come over and help "pack" her leftover bottles. 

Fridays are the day when expats traditionally get tanked at all-day brunch and booze-fests in Dubai while the dutiful head off for double shots o' mosque, so I'm well within my stereotype for this outing...and if I'm not mistaken, there's some garlic labaneh waiting in the fridge for me when I get home!

On The New Pooch & Dubaisms

Greetings AmeezInk Faithful!

Sorry for the hiatus in communications...to be honest, I had a blip of homesickness for a few weeks there, and whenever I sat down at the computer, I'd find myself on cbc.com or something, reading Canadian pre-election coverage. (And let's face it - you have to be pretty hard up to seek out the latest dish on Harper and Dion.)

Happily, I seem to be emerging from my slump, thanks in no small part to one small dog. Our adopted pound puppy is the sweetest canine ever to lift a leg and has been with us for nearly a week now. He was called "Red" at the shelter but we wanted to give him a personalized handle. I suggested "Chili," as in red chili-pepper, and C appended his shelter name with a hyphen, so our pooch is now known by the slightly hillbilly name of Chili-Red. (And yes, we're aware of the chili-dog pun, and we embrace it!).

He's a Saluki (desert dog) mix with eyes as big as plates and a mellow, eager-to-please personality. He tested his boundaries on Day Two with a brief foray onto the couch, and Mommy literally scared the pee out of him with a forceful "OFF!", but other than that and a couple of mild shoe-gumming incidents, he's been sweet as pie. He's also proven to be a champion napper, and as AmeezInk fans may be aware, naps are an occasional occurrence in our household...

I was very proud the other day when he made a friend outside during morning business. She's a saucy MinPin called Lucy and they seem to have hit it off after a thorough head-to-tail sniff-over. Chili may even have a date for Dubai Dog Club on Saturday night down at the old camel tracks (yes, really, I couldn't make that up)...I'll keep everyone posted on how their relationship progresses.

In other news, I've been collecting a few words and expressions from Dubaidom to give you another taste of our daily life here...

1. "Do you have two dirhams?"

You'll hear this request almost every time you pay for something. They don't like handing out change in Dubai, not least because they rarely have any coins to give you. Also, one dirham is basically 27 cents Canadian, so 25 fils (dirham-cents) is, well, not a whole lotta beans. Regardless, I'm used to getting change, I guess, even if it is an inconvenient four pennies or a handful of loons and toons. 

Here, change is a no-go. You're always being asked to hand over one or two dirham coins so that the salesperson can give you a paper bill back. This begs the question as to how you're supposed to get those coins in the first place, but this is clearly not the concern of the hapless person on the other side of the counter who will stare at you in dismay if you admit that you don't have any coinage with you.

Sometimes they will solve the problem by asking a nearby security guard or fellow cashier for change. Sometimes they will call someone on the phone. Sometimes there will be a stalemate, wherein you and the cashier will stare at each other, woefully unable to complete the transaction, the offending package of pitas sitting guiltily between you.

Whatever happens, I suppose the bright side is that you don't end up carrying around a change purse with enough heft to chock an Airbus. (Whoo, check out the aviation references on Amy!)

2. "Timings"

Timing are, in theory, when stores open and close. You don't call and ask when stores open or close; you call and ask for timings. Then you ignore them. They are merely rough estimates generated to please phone callers.

3. "Yes, it will work"/"Try next week"/"Try in two hours"/"Come in three days"/"Go to Jebel Ali"

When these terms apply to getting a PIN for telephone banking, they all translate as "You are profoundly screwed and will never have a working PIN. Thanks for banking with HSBC."

Hubby has been trying for seven weeks - I sh*t you not - to get a PIN. They don't, by the way, just let you choose your own PIN via phone or at a branch. You must use one of three methods to get a piece of paper with an arbitrarily-generated PIN on it, then wait 24 hours, then call the telephone banking centre. (You cannot verify your identify with anything other than your PIN, naturally. Not even were you to courier a vial of your "Biological" would they believe you were who you claimed to be, I suspect.)

Method 1: Wait at home for several days straight for a courier that never arrives.

Method 2: Visit a branch during its obscure "timings" to get a PIN, which won't work when you get home.

Method 3: Wait in vain for a PIN to be mailed to you.

After applying the above numerous times for several weeks, happily, a new strategy has emerged that seems to be working:

Method 4: Anytime you think about banking, PINS or anything remotely financial in nature, open a bottle of wine. Repeat as necessary.

4. "Mamsir"

Mamsir is what we are called when we shop in Dubai. Most often the term is used by the faultlessly-polite Filipina salespeople. They practically turn it into a song: "Helloooooomaaammmmsirrrrr!"

If there's more than one salesperson around, we are treated to a harmonious, choir-like effect, a lilting chorus of "Hellooooooomaaaammmsiiirrrrrr's" that accompany us as we walk through the store. 

Initially, it was a bit nerve-wracking as you were never sure when a salesperson would leap out from behind a chaise lounge with a Tigger-like bounce and sing "HELLOOOOOOMAAAMMSIRRRR!" at you. But we've gotten used to it, and really, how bad can it be to have a soundtrack for your furniture-buying expedition? Not bad at all.

27 8x10 Colour Glossy Pictures...

Now, if you're not familiar with the song, "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie, please, go to YouTube and listen to it. It's a wicked tune. And I know - it's also wickedly long. The original recording is 18 minutes and 34 seconds to be exact, which, Wikipedia tells me, was the length of one of the infamous gaps in the Watergate tapes. That naughty Nixon!

I digress, but I think you'd agree that's appropriate once you've heard some of Arlo's songs. The best ones, while we're digressing, are "Alice's" and "The Motorcycle Song," but really his whole "Best Of" album is a groovy way to start your day. In fact, my dad often played that record on weekend mornings when I was growing up, and my bro and I can still tell you why Arlo didn't want a pickle, and what he wanted to do instead. (Ride on his motor-sickle).

Anyhow. In "Alice's Restaurant," Arlo tells the rambling tale of being rejected as a U.S. Army draftee on account of his criminal conviction for being a litterbug. Before they finally reject him, however, he has to submit to hours of "injection, inspection, detection, infection and neglection." And that is also what happens if you want to be an officially-recognized human in Dubai.

Example: I need to have my residency visa renewed. The one they issued me initially is only good for 2 months. So, off we went the other day to the Company's* HR department to take a little number and wait in a big line.

*Due to recent 1984-esque events which cannot be divulged online, I have decided to exercise some discretion in naming names because The Eye in the Sky is definitely watching.

In order to get this visa, I needed my passport, a copy of hubby's passport, 4 passport-sized pictures, and the appropriate forms filled out. Fine, did this. 

I also needed to submit a vial of blood. For no reason that could be explained to me. 

I just needed to get another little ticket and wait for my turn in a separate room, inexplicably staffed by two people (one to work the number-making machine and tell me where to sit, and one to stick me). When I feebly asked why they needed my blood, the needle-man said one word, "Biological," followed by 20 words which I was unable to identify.**

**Just in case anyone thinks I'm complaining about other people's accents, I'm not. I'm grateful that people in customer service positions here speak English, or attempt to. And no one can understand me, either, given the fact that I mumble and use invented words like "sketch-fest" and "ginormous." It's a 2-way street. But, I will say, if I'm ever pulling a vial of blood out of someone's arm, I will definitely be sure to articulate my words clearly and say something like, "I'm putting this ginormous needle in your arm because we need to know absolutely everything about you in order to accomplish simple things in this sketch-fest of a city." Or something to that effect.

And all this hoopla isn't just for residency visas. To get a cell phone plan, for example, you have to submit passport photocopies for you and your sponsor, letters of permission if you happen to be a housewife (cringe), several other passport-sized photos and torso x-rays. Okay, not the x-rays. But I wouldn't be surprised.

So to sum up this post, at the moment, despite countless injections, inspections, detections, infections and neglections, I am not an official human in Dubai. I cannot get a phone or drive or work. All these things are pending my visa, which is pending approval of my bloodwork. Let's just hope it's "Biological" enough for Dubai.

Transcription of First Pizza-Ordering Experience in Dubai

alternate title:

Encounter Between Two People Who Can Speak English But Not To Each Other

RING RING

"Hello, Pizza Hut. Carshayoorrockayeeshammam."

"......Hi, I'd like to order a pizza for delivery."

"Yes ma'am. What is your location?"

"Millennium Tower."

"What is your location, m'am?"

"Millennium Tower on Sheikh Zayad Road."

"Where are you located, ma'am?"

".........Dubai."

"Yes ma'am, what is your exact location?"

"Millennium Tower on Sheikh Zayad Road."

"What is your apartment number?"

"xxx4."

"Mobile number please, ma'am."

"I don't have one. I'm calling from a landline."

"You don't have a mobile number, ma'am." [not a question]

"........Right."

"You're calling from a landline."

"....Yes, it's 32-"

"What do you wish to order ma'am?"

"I don't have a menu. Do you have something with everything, you know, the works?"

"What type of pizza do you wish to order, ma'am?"

"Something with everything, please."

"Beef, chicken, vegetables or seafood, ma'am?"

"Oh, um, beef and vegetables."

"Beef, chick-en, ve-ge-tables or seafood, ma'am?" [spaces out the words to be clearer]

"Fine. Beef."

"Do you want Deluxe, Super Deluxe, Hawaiian....? [several other options, delivered top speed]

"Oh. Hawaiian, please."

"That's Hawaiian, ma'am?"

"Yes."

"Hawaiian. Beef and pineapple, ma'am?"

"Ummmm, yes."

"What kind of crust, ma'am?"

"......Thin?" [very hopefully]

"That will be 48 DHS ma'am. 30 minutes. Hawaiian thin crust to Apt. 4104, Millennium Tower."

"Yes, thank-you."

PAUSE

Hubby enters the room.

"What did you get?"

"Hawaiian."

"You know the Hawaiian is really weird here because they don't use pork."

On the call to prayer and whorehouse-chic

We were pretty sure there had been a terrible accident. As we drove along the one-way loops and switchbacks that we hoped would lead us into central Sharjah, we saw a large crowd of people on the road. They looked like they were gathered around someone or something on the ground in the right-hand lane, but we couldn't tell. A couple of cars were parked at odd angles nearby, hazards flashing. It looked ominous.

Then everyone in the crowd knelt down at the same time. And we noticed the prayer mats.

Now, far be it from a heathen like me to suggest that people pray on the sidewalk (or approximately where a sidewalk would be, if there was one, which there wasn't). But these guys were right beside a mosque. You'd think it would be more peaceful, if not safer, to pray in a spot where one didn't run the hazard of being mowed down by a couple of low-blood-sugared Canadian furniture-shoppers. However, this was Sharjah - Dubai's neighbouring emirate, about a 40 min. drive down the highway - reportedly a much more devout place than Dubai.

In fact, though I'm generalizing wildly on the basis of just one visit there, Sharjah did seem a bit more into their religion. The mosques played spiritual soundtracks all the time, not just during the call to prayer, and the larger furniture stores had prayer rooms. We'd be wandering along, admiring the latest raspberry-velvet and gold-lacquered example of whorehouse-chic, and suddenly we'd hear a group of people behind a wall saying something in unison, in response to what we'd thought was just pleasant furniture-buying muzak.

Well, power to them. And actually, praying did seem rather appropriate as we dragged ourselves through another 25 furniture shops last night without a single purchase.

Which brings me to whorehouse-chic, the prevalent style. (One of C's buddies coined the phrase, so props to M.) It got to be a little overwhelming after awhile. Imagine armchairs like thrones, with armrests you could lie on and gigantic curving backrests swathed in sherbet-coloured velvet. Imagine the liberal and often haphazard application of leather panels, copper studs, toonie-sized crystals, wood carvings, tassels as big as your head and other lavish embellishments. This is furniture doing everything in its upholstered power to convince your bum that it is the most glorious thing in the world. 

Now, we didn't see anyone buying this stuff. All of the other people shopping - lots of families, of varied backgrounds - seemed to be looking at the everyday leather couches and such. I think a lot of these places stock the WC look to cater to the filthy-rich cohort of people here who shudder to think of a single moment when their wealth isn't on display. Well, WC fits the bill.

About half a dozen times, we'd encounter a simple, overstuffed couch shining like a beacon of mediocrity in a gold-lacquered wilderness. We like our couches to be very cozy and we are prepared to sacrifice 99% of style considerations if a couch will facilitate napping, preferably by two people at once, and ideally for two people and their future tiny-dog. 

And a couple of those beacons of mediocrity are about to become ours. Actually, they're very nice couches, in chocolate-brown (read: will blur most stains), with lovely overstuffedness. We're going back to Sharjah tonight to order them. So ready yourselves, potential visitors: the guest-beds are about to arrive!

I wish I knew what day it was...

...I keep asking C, and he just shakes his head. "Still Tuesday, hon." A real paper calendar is at the top of my shopping list for tomorrow. Of course the computer will tell me the date, but there's no substitute for those orderly little squares and moon-symbols.

So, yah...methinks I'm suffering from a wee bit of jet-lag. Yesterday, at about 4 p.m., I decided to take a quick nap. FIVE HOURS LATER I woke up. C said he'd tried to wake me but I would only open half of one eye at once, and kept mumbling away about how I wished he'd hurry up and wash my slippers (?).

Things are improving, though - this afternoon's nap was only 1.5 hours!

Our plans today involved some paperwork at the staff building, looking at a second-hand vehicle that C had located on-line, and some more furniture shopping (we have yet to break the seal and actually purchase something - still surviving with one chair, one desk and the long-suffering, multi-purpose ironing board that I keep accidentally smearing with my snacks, much to C's distress). 

Keeping in mind those three items on our to-do list, here's what actually occurred:

1. We make the 40 min. drive out to the staff building. C had received notice that the computer kiosks, which are the first stop for any and all paperwork-processing, were to be out of service for 2 days. This was supposed to be the day they were working again, but when we arrive, signage indicates that everything will be down for another 5 days. So no paperwork.

2. We then have coffee and a snack. During Ramadan, most restaurants are closed during daylight hours, but some are allowed to remain open - as long as the eating area is blocked off so that no fasting folks have to watch people like yours truly stuffing their faces. So we have our nosh in a little cordoned-off tent area. My sandwich includes halloumi cheese, which is like the mozza of the Middle East, and is seriously yummo.

3. We then contact the owner of the vehicle (an '04 Nissan Pathfinder) and agree to meet at the Emirates Engineering building where he works. Although we can SEE the Engineering building, it takes another 30 minutes to actually get there. That's because you can't turn left off most of the major roads in Dubai. 

No really. You can't. 

What you can do is make a U-turn at a designated intersection every 5 km or so. Or wait for an exit that will take you on a long, winding intestine of service roads/detour-loops and finally toot you out on the road facing the opposite way.

The first day that we went out driving, I just thought everyone was making a lot of illegal U-turns. Needless to say, this moratorium on left-hand turns, combined with being completely lost, coupled with endless detours due to endless construction, makes for some occasional delays.

4. We finally make it to the Engineering building and speak to Mr. Car-for-Sale-Man on the cell. We agree to meet on a certain floor of the parkade.

5. We park and wait. And wait. And wait. It is 40 degrees so we take turns standing in the AC'd stairwell like big, sweaty babies.

6. Several more phone calls to Mr. Man. Intense confusion about our location.

7. Mr. Man finally finds us and turns out to be a simply lovely guy whose immaculately-maintained vehicle we will most likely buy. Originally from Bangalore, he's been living in Dubai for 15 years and even offers to take us furniture-shopping over the weekend to help us locate all the best spots!

8. After agreeing to meet again after C's upcoming work trip, we hit the road for furniture shopping, on our own for now. At a critical moment, we miss a turn and get stuck on a bridge leading to the oldest, busiest section of town, which incidentally was designed for skinny camels, I suspect, and not SUV's.

9. We make it back to our side of the Creek and finally find the wonderful street full of wonderful furniture shops that we were looking for. They are all closed. We'd forgotten about the expanded split shifts due to Ramadan: places are open from 10-2 and 8-midnight. 

10. We take the hint and go home for one more night with our chair, desk and ironing board.

But just so I don't give the impression that all these growing-pains are getting us down, here are a few more lovely things about Dubai that we experienced today:

1. seeing the haze lift late afternoon, allowing the sun to light up all the glittering glass buildings - particularly the stunning Burj al Arab mega-skyscraper that is so very tall, and getting taller right before our eyes

2. paying 30 cents/hour street parking

3. eating the biggest, plushest dried apricots I've ever tasted

4. hearing dozens of different accents and languages in the streets and shops

5. getting our very first letter - a thoughtful hand-written note from Ms. Rae-Lynne & Chad!

Oh, and I forgot to address my teasers from the other day - the No Hair Fall Out and the Stellar Food Court Meal. I will try to do so next post. Wish me luck tomorrow - C is off on a 2-day road-trip to Hong Kong, and I'm about to fly solo! (No driving yet - haven't done the extensive paperwork due to, you guessed it, those kiosks!)

First Posting from Dubai!

It's 6:30 a.m. on the first day of Ramadan. I'm awake against my wishes because my back is very grumpy about the recent spate of Rubbermaid-hefting and box-weighing back in Toronto, followed by a vertebrae-pretzelling 13-hour flight. But the city is already wide awake and bustling. Cars and buses stream down the 12 vaguely-respected lanes of Sheikh Zayad Road and dozens of construction labourers, wearing white hardhats and blue coveralls, are awaiting the day's instructions. Many of the Muslim workers will have switched to the night shift so that they don't have to do 10+ hours of physical labour without food or water. That means most of the men I can see from my perch on the 41st floor of our tower are non-Ramadan celebrants, like me. And I bet a lot of their backs hurt, too.

Across from our building, several 50- or 60-floor high-rises are being raised. Strangely peaceful, sky-scraping cranes swing their loads through the 40-degree air and brisk orange service elevators glide up and down the half-finished towers. This particular area of development is called Business Bay, the "Bay" part referring to plans for linking the winding westward canal extensions of Dubai Creek with the Persian Gulf. According to The Book, (Dubai Explorer, the essential reference for newbies), this development will be a self-contained mini-city and the commercial hub of Dubai. Eventually, our own Millennium Tower will be joined by 70 other cloud-catching buildings.

For the time being, however, good ol' Mill-T is one of the only inhabited buildings as far as I can tell. And as such, we're basically living in the middle of a giant construction zone. When Business Bay is finished, paved roads, feature fountains and shops will fill this area, but at the moment, we're surrounded by big, bristling piles of construction debris bisected by bumpy sand tracks. If C hadn't warned me, I would have been sure that my taxi driver was taking me somewhere very unpleasant when I first arrived from the airport.

The Persian Gulf itself is visible as a hazy grey-blue band to the right of our northwest-facing windows. On clear days, C says you can see "The World,"  a huge cluster of artificial islands roughly representing a map of the globe. This development is supposed to be finished in 2009 and no word yet on whether Baffin Island is still up for grabs.

We experienced the height of pre-Ramadan prep yesterday evening at the aptly-named HyperPanda big box store. Picture a sprawling hybrid of Walmart and Loblaws at 7 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and you'll have a sense of the atmosphere - minus the Christmas gear, of course. We stood in line to have a fresh pineapple peeled and cored, and along with many others, added a container of almonds wrapped in dates to our cart. Around us, women in flowing black robes called abayas selected the ingredients for the Iftar (night-time fast-breaking) feasts. Most had designer handbags - or very reasonable facsimiles - tucked beneath their arms. The abayas often had beautiful embroidery in jewel colours or flashed with sequins and beading. They make for a very elegant look, plus gives one the option of eating too much and walking around with unbuttoned pants in public. At least, that's what I'd be doing.

The abaya-wrapped ladies also wear a black head-scarf, called a sheyla. In some cases, the sheyla is wrapped around the face as well, but often women's faces were visible. Big hairdo's, heavy foundation and Tammy Faye-inspired mascara application seemed to be favoured, but that's just first impressions.

Many men also wear the region's traditional clothing: for them, it's a flawless white shirt-dress and a white or red checked head-dress called a gutra. The gutra is topped with a double-looped black cord, an agal. (All of this terminology is straight from my reference book, by the way, so no guarantees I've gotten it right).

Of course, there were lots of other people wearing a wide variety of clothing - from Indian saris to Westerners in their jeans and tees. It's a real fashion free-for-all, excepting that I didn't see anyone wearing anything too revealing or sexy-time. No bared tramp-stamps, mini-skirts or short-shorts, for example.

Once my moving-bruises fade (particularly a lovely purple sunset on one leg, received after falling off a stepladder onto a rather unforgiving corner of the bed-frame), I'll be in skirts a lot, I think. It's just too hot for pants. As for C, he's broken out his blue and green mini-palm-tree shirt that wouldn't be amiss on a Jimmy Buffett background dancer, if Jimmy had those. Ever secure in his fashion selections, my husband simply smiles when I suggest that he looks a little Clark-Griswold-Does-Dubai. I guess I'm not really one to talk when it comes to fashion faux pas, however....

Back to the heat, though - the sauna-like, fork-not-a-spoon soupy heat that covers you like a hot wet quilt as soon as you step outside. I can see why people spend a lot of time in the blissfully-AC'd malls during the summer, and I cannot imagine walking around for more than a few minutes outside. It's a little embarrassing to be the wilting Westerner when lots of other folks from warm climates seem a lot more comfortable, but that's my heritage I suppose. Maybe seeing me nearly pass out during the 30-second walk from our rental car to the mall entrance helps everyone else feel better - "Well, at least I'm not as hot and bothered as THAT chick. And why doesn't she have any melanin in her skin?"

Well, time for breakfast. We discussed observing daylight fasting for Ramadan this year, but because of my serious jet-lag (4 coffees yesterday and several attempts to nap on mall benches), our plan to spend long days navigating the crazy roads in search of furniture, and of course, C's need to stay focused for his intensive training flights, we've decided that we might try it next year. We do plan to participate in some of the humanitarian activities associated with the holy month: for example, we heard yesterday on the radio that one of the hotels will be collecting shoe-boxes that people fill with basic toiletries and other small personal items for the hard-working construction labourers. Considering these guys are also our neighbours, I think that's the least we can do!

Next entry: the best food-court meal ever, "No Hair Fall Out" products, and whatever results from today's visits to the non-AC'd furniture warehouses along Sheikh Zayad Road. Wish us luck, and Ramadan Saeed!

 

Inaugural Post!

Welcome to AmeezInk! 

In establishing my blog today, Blogger informed me that I'd actually created one in the past. I'd forgotten, but it all came rushing back when I saw the name I'd given it: Aputi-Amy. "Aputi" means "snow" in Inuktitut; as it turns out, I'd first tried blogging about seven years ago, when I lived in Iqaluit, Nunavut. At the time, I had a miserably slow connection at home, so I never really got into posting. But funny to remember myself back then, pecking away on my very first laptop (a now dinosaurific Sony Viao) in my very first solo-apartment with the Arctic winds lashing away outside. 

Some things have changed since then...I now have my very first Macbook and share an apartment with my very first husband. But freezing winds are still lashing away outside my window even though I now reside in the balmy Golden Triangle. Sigh. If nothing else, Canada's various winters are giving my life with some continuity!

So, we've rented some movies to curl up with tonight. "Before Sunrise," with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, is one. I've heard great things about this flick for ages so maybe I'll write a review and share my opinion afterwards. We also have "The Kingdom," which I'm dubious about, and "Little Children," which stars the lovely, curvaceous Kate Winslet. As a compressed hourglass figure, I do enjoy watching talented actresses who've managed to prevail in Hollywood despite hips exceeding 20 inches.

On to the movies and some chips n' salsa. Made, may I emphasize, in my beautiful, efficient Magical Bullet. Expect to hear much about this adorable appliance in future posts. (That'll keep the blog hits to a minimum.)

Bye for now!