Breakfast with Harry

We’d been warned about the baboons. In Pringle Bay, South Africa, the charming village where we shared a vacation villa with our good friends David and Della, there are signs on the road declaring, “Do Not Feed the Baboons!” At the Harold Porter Botanical Gardens in nearby Betty’s Bay, where we had a lovely hike, there were more specific instructions, “If approached by a baboon do not stare or smile at them!” Ok. No smiling, no staring. No problem.

I didn’t imagine I’d need to put these directives into practice. Stan and I had finished a walk on the rugged coastline when he dropped me at Simply Coffee for a cappuccino. I was sitting in their quaint courtyard enjoying my coffee over a copy of Cape Wine. Surprisingly, I looked up to see a very large baboon sauntering towards me. Panic. No, don’t panic, simply no staring, no smiling and the baboon will bugger off. I looked down pretending not to notice the hairy primate getting closer. It wasn’t working. I could see him out of the corner of my eye galloping at me on all fours. He had his eye on my coffee!

I jumped up, ran into the coffee shop and squealed. The owner (a tall South African male nearly as hairy as the baboon) ran out into the courtyard, yelling at the creature. I followed and could see the baboon sitting on top of the table where I had been relaxing, pawing the foam in my cappuccino! Then, gasp; I noticed I had left my camera sitting right next to the coffee he was pawing! “My camera!” I peeped.

The coffee shop owner continued to bellow and stomp and ran rather bravely right at the scary baboon. I’ll call him Harry, since we’ve now shared a coffee. Apparently the South African didn’t buy into the “no staring” rule. Looking only slightly annoyed, Harry, using his opposable thumbs, grabbed the container holding all of the little sugar packets, jumped onto the courtyard wall, then onto the corrugated tin roof. The angry owner (guess he buys a lot of sugar), still screaming and staring, but definitely not smiling was pounding the roof, Harry was jumping and quite a racket ensued. I was just happy my camera and my life had been spared!

This ruckus carried on for what seemed like forever. The coffee guy chased the baboon around like something out of a Three Stooges film. Finally (whew) Harry scampered onto the roof of an adjacent building and ran off to OD on sugar. The irritated coffee guy grabbed his ladder and climbed up onto the roof to retrieve his empty sugar container. My God. That was definitely a bit more excitement than I required first thing in the morning.

Apparently I had met the “Mayor of Pringle Bay,” a male baboon who travels alone. He knows women are afraid of him; therefore he is not afraid of women. People women that is. I was told he would have jumped right up on my table, stared me in the face, and swiped the sugar even if I had bravely sat there and smiled at him. Theoretically, he wouldn’t have attacked me but who’s gonna wait around to test that theory?

I politely thanked the brave coffee guy for saving me, asked for fresh cappuccino and resumed reading my wine magazine, feeling a bit more like Meryl Streep’s character in Out of Africa, then a little ole gal from Iowa.

Lynne's Dubai Indoctrination

My friend Lynne (we call her bad Lynne) came for a whirlwind visit to Dubai. She was on her way to Cairo, then bravely trudging into rural Egypt to volunteer on an international Habitat for Humanity project. Well, her do-gooder self needed to be tempered with at least a brief taste of decadence, so I did my best to show her the “true” Dubai.

It all started with a night in our majlis, which is our inner courtyard. Traditionally "majlis" is a term for a room in a private home used to entertain family and guests. Probably, there would have been a separate majlis for the men, and another for the women. Perhaps the men would gather and smoke shisa and the women would gather and talk about the men? If you come to visit Stan and I here in the desert, we will greet you in our majlis. You’ll likely be buzzing from the lights of the Dubai International Airport, so we’ll bring you down gently, allowing you to sleep off your jet lag. I always pick up some mezze (hummus, vine leaves, olives) from the local deli; we have some wine and enjoy a night under the stars.

Thankfully Lynne slept well, not sure what to credit that to (??) so we were off the next morning to check out the Dubai Mall – it is the world's biggest you know! But who knew Lynne has such a designer fetish? By a stroke of good luck (??) we found ourselves parked next to “Fashion Alley,” so when we emerged from the car park we were blinded by serious bling. Giorgio Armani, Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, Manolo Blahnik (who we much preferred to Jimmy Cho) you name it and the fashion house is represented in the Dubai Mall. And we browsed nearly every one of them. Chanel won the Friendliest Staff Award (they must be SO BORED) with Tom Ford following a close second. We came out of T. Ford narrowly escaping the purchase of a salmon-colored silk blazer for Stan and smelling like musty leather. The French-Canadian waiting on us was tres généreux with spritzes of Tom’s fragrance line.

Day three lead us to the only mosque in Dubai officially open to non-Muslims. Four days a week at 10:00AM, the Jumeriah Mosque opens it's doors for the Open Minds Open Mosque program. This is where we listened to a British volunteer (pictured above modeling one local style of dress) from the Sheikh Mohammed Center for Cultural Understanding, which sponsors the Open Minds program give her take on Islam in the UAE. She intimated that she is married to an Emirati, and since she had an Arabic name (but an accent reminiscent of Eliza Doolittle pre Henry Higgins) and was white, we assumed she had converted to Islam when she married. That's a lot of assuming on our part, I know. Here's a taste of what she shared with us:

• Adam and Eve turned up in Saudi Arabia 40 years after being ousted from the Garden of Eden. The Kaaba, at the center of Mecca, marks this spot today.
• The women here actually like to wear the black covering (called an abaya in the UAE) over a full set of clothing, often jeans and a long sleeve shirt for modesty, even in the summer heat, because it actually makes them feel cooler. Yep. It’s true. They like the little shadow they make for themselves.
• Women in the UAE cover their faces because it is a throw back to the Bedouin days when they did so to protect themselves from the sun and the sand. You see, it’s really about beauty.
• We all have an angel sitting on our left shoulder recording our bad deeds. And another on our right shoulder keeping track of our good deeds.
• If you die on a Friday, or during the holy month of Ramadan, you get the express train to heaven.
• Islam recognizes all the other “religions of The Book,” however Islam is the most recent edition because Mohammed declared himself the last prophet of God.
• Non-Muslims aren’t allowed to enter other mosques in Dubai simply as a matter of practicality. We might not know the rules. For example, I might walk in with my shoes on followed by someone who would then have to say their prayers, nose to carpet, where I had walked.
• Women aren’t required to go to the mosque to pray because they have more duties than men. It is a convenience for us gals. We are the lucky ones, we can pray in the prayer rooms in the malls, which are rumored to be larger than the entire women’s section of the UAE’s largest mosques!
• Women are expected to pray in a separate room at the rear of the mosque, or behind the men if they DO venture to the mosque at prayer time. This is simply because if I were to stand next to a man saying his prayers, my stunning beauty might shine out from under my abaya and the poor devotee would never be able to concentrate on God.

Lynne commented, with Left-Shoulder Angel taking note, “That woman sure drank the Kool-Aid.”

Peachy Keen

The Donut Peach
Is there a more beautiful expression of nature?


One of the truths of life in Dubai is the lack of seasonality. We do have incredible diversity here when it comes to nationalities, languages, and cuisines, but not when it comes to the seasons. The seasons alternate between hellishly hot and humid and just plain hot. I suppose it could be worse, but how do you define seasonal in a place with no growing season and essentially no seasons?

Unfortunately, this limitation carries over to the fruit and vegetable selection. Because nothing much is grown here for obvious reasons -- the biggest two being sand and the lack of rain (the average monthly rainfall is measured in millimeters!) -- our grocery stores are stocked with imported produce. Sure, we have an abundant supply of tropical fruits like pineapples, mangos, mangosteens, lychees and the funky rambutans year round, but there is no such thing as fresh local asparagus in the spring or (SOB) peaches and cream corn mid-summer. Spring as we know it in the US doesn’t exist, and dates are the only local crops not grown in a sandy hot house. The dates here do have a growing season and they are very delicious, but if you know me, you know I’m into my seasonal, local and whenever possible, organic produce, and only the Bedouin’s seem able to subsist on a diet exclusively made up of dates.

Although there are a few things (besides dates) grown here, you wouldn’t call them seasonal. They’re force-grown in artificial conditions. The local tomatoes are mostly pink and hard year round. The ever-present cucumbers aren’t bad, but what do you suppose they feed them to get them to grow in the sand? To fill in the gaps, we get shipments from the US throughout the year, and winter produce from the southern hemisphere in the summer. See what I mean? It all becomes very confusing. So I try to restrict my seasonal produce to what is somewhat regional, and avoid the countries known to export poison-laced food, like China.

On a recent shopping trip to Carrefour, the French version of Wal-Mart, the gorgeous little donut peaches from Tunisia tempted me. They didn’t claim to be organic, strike one. But Tunisia is in Africa and that’s relatively close to Dubai. And they sure as hell are seasonal; I’ve NEVER seen a beautiful petit donut peach in the dead of winter. “Mon Dieu! I can buy them! This will be such a treat!” I’m imagining the juicy white flesh, the perfume-y aroma, and the delicate floral taste of the little gems I used to buy at the farmer’s market in KC.

I bought several and took them home. After a few days on the kitchen counter they were ripe. Another day in the fridge and they were ready to eat. The anticipation was killing me. Would they be everything I remembered? Would I be able to forgive myself for buying something no bigger than your fist with a carbon footprint the size of Texas? Did slave laborers earning a few pennies a day pick them?

Oh for God’s sake, quit worrying about it all and just eat the thing. I gave one good sniff. Ummmm, the bouquet’s there. I peeled away the beautifully blushed skin with all the pesticides and sunk my teeth into the flesh. Mon Dieu indeed. All the softness, the ripeness, and nectar played on my palate, just like I imagined it would. I even tasted a bit of oak around the pit and thought of a good brut Champagne. I ate two. Organic? Who cares? Local? Not exactly. Seasonal? You bet. Mother Nature knows how to keep a good thing sacred. How can anything, ANYTHING taste so good?

Jet Lag is a Scary Thing

And not for the faint-hearted. Yes, this is me the morning after a nearly thirteen hour nonstop flight from New York to Dubai. I've since recovered.

The Uprising was Quelled Without Incident

A slice of Dubai life - A day at the races.

Known as the World’s Richest Horse Race (and Dubai’s biggest party), The Dubai World Cup gives the ruling royals a chance to display their very expensive horses and fabulous wealth. This day at the races is also an excuse for ex-pats to get dressed up, drink too much champagne, and see and be seen at the horse track. In keeping with the spirit I stuck a pink fluffy thing in my hair, donned a little black dress, drank a bit of champagne and traipsed around the race grounds with my friends. It’s always fun to see everyone dressed to the nines.

Following the obligatory pre-race champagne brunch, we attended the big show with our British friends David and Della. Our American friend Kathy - well connected in the Dubai horse racing community - came through with tickets to the grandstand. Woo-Hoo! We were treated to a full international buffet complete with sushi, stir-fries made-to-order and wine and drink delivery service. This privileged perch meant we were actually able to watch the races, as opposed to what we’ve done in years past (and what most ex-pats still do) which is to wander around the various food and bar venues set up on the grounds outside the track without ever laying eyes on a horse. What a pageant we’ve been missing! It was truly a thrill to see these world-class horses run and we had fun with our own wagering on the side. No official betting at the track: gambling is un-Islamic. But then again so is drinking, but apparently it’s a more tolerable sin.

In typical Dubai fashion the event included a huge pyrotechnic display midway through the races that rivaled the Olympic opening ceremony. Another entertaining spectacle unfolded shortly thereafter. From our roost in the stands we could look down into a fenced-off area just next to the grandstand and adjacent to the track where those without tickets (mostly Indian and Pakistani laborers and young Arabs) were allowed in for free. From this enclosed area they could peer over a hedgerow next to the track for a glimpse of the racing action. But at one point during the festivities this group grew restless and made a break for the grandstand.

Here’s the scene: We were finishing up our dessert and coffee, somewhere after Race No. 7, when the jailbreak occurred. Some poor security guard (probably since deported) who was manning the stairs leading from the free area to the grandstand must have fallen asleep or left his post. All of a sudden a huge wave of smiling and very excited construction workers flooded up the stairs and into any of the vacant grandstand seats they could find. Now there are 50 or so guys sheepishly trying to blend in with the grandstand crowd, probably hoping for a bit of cake and coffee too. We were rooting for them. But alas the revolution was short-lived. A group of local “officials” in white dishdashas soon materialized and sent the unofficial crew packing. There were, however, two teen-aged boys who nearly got away with it. They survived the initial purge and I think they thought they were home free. Actually I thought so too. They were about to order beers, when DRAT! They too were plucked from the stands. So close. Such a short brush with the good life.

Give us Your Tired, Your Poor and Your Corrupt

Isn’t it refreshing to know that there is a safe, comfortable haven for political leaders or rebels in exile from their own country, to take refuge? You know, a place where they can enjoy a cigar, some fresh mango juice, or a round of golf?

The most recent celebrity politician alleged to be hiding behind their Ray bans in Dubai is Thaksin Shinawatra, the Thai telecom mogul who was Prime Minister of Thailand from 2001 to 2006. Since being deposed in a military coup, he’s said to be living in Dubai’s swanky Emirates Hills neighborhood, near our friends David and Della. He’s been seen playing golf at the Montgomerie Golf Club, and probably enjoys a nice life while the yellow shirts protest against him and close down airports in Bangkok.

I went with a friend recently, to the Thai consulate so she could apply for a tourist visa, and we asked if he could come out and play, to no avail.

Benazir Butto should have remained in Dubai. After being removed from the office of Prime Minister of Pakistan twice, under corruption charges, she lived in exile here. She and her children took yoga classes from a friend of mine at one of the local beach clubs. We all know what happened to her, two short months after returning to Pakistan in 2007. She had been in Dubai since 1998.

Idi Amin’s mother was said to have graced the coffee bars here. She probably lived in Jumeriah and belonged to the Expat-Women’s gardening club, although that rumor can neither be confirmed nor denied. I think Stan might have made that up.

But that’s all old news. The most recent high profile case involved another political figure living here, and another assassination. A prominent Chechen, Sulim Yamadayev, who opposed Chechnya’s Moscow-backed president Ramzan Kadyrov, was recently slain James Bond-like by a man with a golden gun wearing black gloves. Or so it was reported. The Russian-made pistol used to gun down the rebel leader was found discarded nearby. All of this took place in a parking garage in the Jumeriah Beach Residence towers, where I teach the way of the peaceful warrior. When I expressed concern for my safety, my pragmatist of a husband replied, “This was a professional hit, honey. I’m thinking they weren’t looking for Starbuck’s-yielding yoga teachers. You’ve been watching Soprano’s reruns again, haven’t you?” And that’s supposed to make me feel better?
Give us your tired, your not-so-poor, and your corrupt. We’ll give them a nice place to live. Wonder if George W. has considered Dubai?

Women’s Rights?

More like a woman wronged

It’s sometimes easy to lose sight of how good we have it. As Americans, we tend to take the many freedoms and privileges we enjoy for granted and consider them rights. Things like clean air, a safe water supply and relative equality for women.

Here in Dubai, with all of it’s glitz and glamour, one would assume that if they can build the world’s tallest building and brag of the world’s only seven-star hotel, that clean air and water would be a given. Well, that’s another topic. With regard to women’s rights, many of you are likely conjuring up images of subjugated women clad head-to-toe in black. Unfortunately, that is sometimes not so far off the mark.

As a Western woman living here as an expat, I enjoy most of the freedoms and rights I would at home. Unlike what I’d experience in more restrictive countries in the region such as Saudi Arabia, I can work, drive and wear a bikini on the beach. I can even buy a bottle of wine, with my husband’s permission, of course. But do women living in the U.A.E have equal rights?

Take the case of Marnie Pearce, a British mother of two, married to an Egyptian. I don’t know if her husband is a Muslim or not, and in this case it doesn’t matter. Depending on her domestic arrangement, she’s likely able to work, drive and even wear a bikini on the beach. But I’m sure those trivial matters are the least of her worries now because she may never again see her two sons, aged seven and four. She’s currently in prison serving a three-month sentence for adultery, which is a criminal offense in this country. Upon her release from jail she will promptly be deported to the UK and likely never allowed back into the U.A.E. The young boys will stay here, with their father.

Pearce had been separated from her husband for four months when police raided her Dubai home in March and found a British man in her bedroom. Her estranged husband had the Public Prosecutor file charges against her for “having consensual sex out of wedlock with another man.” (Imagine if she had been with “another woman!” Double whammy - homosexuality is illegal here as well.) Pearce testified at her trial that she was in the kitchen downstairs making a cup of tea when the officers arrived, and a male acquaintance was upstairs in the bedroom fixing her computer. She denies having any kind of inappropriate relationship with the man.

As it turns out the police didn’t raid her home on a random spot check. According to Pearce, her husband framed her. She claims HE was the one having an affair. His motivation for maliciously having her arrested is alleged to have been an attempt to assure himself custody of their two boys after their divorce. A mother convicted of an "honor crime" usually forfeits her right to apply for custody.

And there's more drama to the story. After losing her case on appeal, Pearce went on the run with her two children for a few weeks before finally turning herself in and handing the boys over to their father. Can you blame her? She knew she’d be deported following her sentence. What mother wouldn't risk further punishment for a few stolen weeks with her children? Shame she didn't make a run for the Omani border with them; she might have been able to flee to the UK from there. But in the meantime, while on the lam in the U.A.E. she’d have been stuck without any way to support herself and her family once her visa expired or was cancelled by her husband. Most women here (including myself) are in this country by the grace of their husband's sponsorship.

I learned from a local lawyer, Counselor P, that under U.A.E. law it is just as illegal for a man to commit adultery as it is for a woman. However, according to Counselor P, if a man is caught with say his Filipina maid (apparently this is not uncommon among local men), he merely claims that the woman is his third or fourth wife. "But wouldn't he have to prove that with documentation?" I naively ask. "Of course," says Counselor P, "but a marriage certificate is easily fabricated and back-dated. I've done it many times myself for clients." Nice.

So.....you be the judge. I am in no way suggesting that adultery is permissible or justified. Without a doubt it is morally wrong. But illegal? Come on. I wish I had access to the statistics of men vs. woman convicted of this crime. But what’s really frightening here is the peril of women and mothers. Ms. Pearce is the mother of that man's children, whether she boinked the Brit or not! There has been no suggestion that she's an unfit mother, or a drug addict, or that she is abusive. It appears that he’s being vindictive. And all of this in a country where men can have up to four wives AT THE SAME TIME and then even take a fifth, as long as he gives one of the first four the boot. Women's rights? This is dead wrong.

Can a Gal Just Get a Coffee?

And what’s with the gas cans?

Here’s the scene: Stan and I had date night last night, so we were out a bit later than usual which led to sleeping in a bit later than normal which led to a bit of a time crunch for my morning. I had just enough time to sneak in my own yoga practice, jump in the shower, make a quick iced soy latte for the road and make it to my class in time to teach.

I finished my practice, turned on the shower, and I went to light the stove to put on my stovetop espresso maker. I lit the match and turned on the gas. Wait a minute, no whoosh of flame. Where’s the smell of gas? Hey! What’s going on here? If I can’t light the stove….I CAN’T MAKE MY COFFEE! Damn. No time to stress about it so I jumped in the shower, rushed to class, and grabbed a Starbuck’s after, no problem. All is well.

Here in Dubai, gas stoves run on cans of LP gas. There is a line that runs from the stove through a hole in the cement wall of our villa to the gas can that sits unsheltered out in the driveway. It’s kind of disturbing to think of a pressurized can of LP sitting out in the blazing temperatures of 120° Fahrenheit and upwards. It’s a wonder the things don’t spontaneously combust. But that’s just how it works.

We have an electric oven and there’s only the two of us, so even though I cook a lot we don’t go through that much gas. I recall only changing the canister twice in the 3 + years we lived here the last time. The gas does, however, tend to run out at inopportune times. I think Karen’s ran out one year when she was cooking Thanksgiving dinner. To me, this morning was just as inopportune a time for a gas outage. (MUST HAVE COFFEE FIX!)

By now I’m home from class, happily caffeinated and realize I must deal with the lack of gas, since it’s the weekend. If I don’t get gas today (Thursday) I’m out of luck until Saturday since no one works on Friday. This is where the fun starts and I ask myself: WHY IS EVERYTHING SO BLOODY COMPLICATED HERE????

It takes four phone calls to find the right gas can guy and then two phone calls to get him here because there are no street addresses in Dubai. Instead we have a much more accurate system: al Wasl to al Manara Street, right turn at the signal, left turn onto Street 36, 2nd villa right hand side past the mosque. Yep. Once I get the guy here, actually two guys (there are always at least two guys, one has to drive the truck!) he informs me that my old, empty gas can has expired. Expired? How does that work? I’m totally thinking he’s trying to pull one over on “Madam,” when he begins to wobble his head even faster. Seems the gas can itself HAD expired on 12/05. “VERY DANGEROUS MADAM!” Oh God! Who knew?

By this time I’ve made great friends with the gas guy, who is pretty passionate about his job. I start to get interested and he’s happy to educate me. The gas can is so old that he can’t take it, because it can’t be refilled. Translation: I have to buy an entire new can at 450 dirhams ($123) instead of just paying the refill price of 86 dirhams ($23).

“What? 450 dirhams? I haven’t got that much cash in the house!” (Only cash is accepted.)

“Yes, Madam. Can very old. Very dangerous. So old. I cannot return.” (More head wobble wobble.)

“But I don’t have that much money on me and I have to cook Sir dinner?”

“Madam, buy a little can.”

“A little can?”

“Yes, only 350 dirhams ($95).”

“Well that doesn’t sound like a good deal. Half the gas for nearly 2/3 the price?”

“No Madam. Big can 22 kilos. Half can 15 kilos. Small house, small family, small can very good.”

Oh my God. Fine.

“Will you at least take the expired can away?” I ask.

“Madam, you no need it?” Shoot me now. What would I do with it? Cut the top off and have Abdul the Gardner plant petunias in it?

Gas can man hollers to gas can truck driver / gas can unloader man to return the big can to the truck in exchange for a small can. Then he goes on to tell me that the big local houses go through one big can of LP a day! That’s a lot of cooking. Then, to make sure this white woman, who was stupid enough not to notice that her gas can had expired understands, he adds that a big local house will go through not just one can per day, but 31 cans per month! Wow, you suppose?

All this for an iced soy latte. And I still had to cook dinner for Sir!

Lucky #7

The license plates in Dubai are numbered. For example, the number on our plate is 10870. There is a rumor that the royal family has all of the lowest number plates, so Sheikh Mohamed, the ruler of Dubai, would have #1 on his ride, then supposedly, the numbers go up in descending level of importance, meaning Stan and I would fall ten thousand, eight hundred and seventieth on the influential scale. Not bad, really. But the truth of the matter is the low numbered plates are auctioned off to the highest bidder. In 2007, number seven went for the equivalent of nearly $3 million, which supposedly goes to charity. You don’t have to be important, just rich (and do not confuse the two, especially out here) to have a low number plate. Nevertheless, it’s hard not to turn your head if you see a car with a license number of say 10 or less. The owner is gonna be local, very rich, and probably think he is very important.

One morning last week I dropped Stan at his office in Festival City. I was driving back through town, across the Garhoud Bridge to get onto Sheikh Zayed Road to return to my pink villa in Umm Suqeim and have some coffee. It was the morning rush hour and there was considerable traffic. Cars were moving rather slowly and jockeying lanes to get into position to take the bridge across the creek. Imagine six lanes, all merging in and out of each other, maybe going 40 miles per hour or so.

I needed to get over one lane to my left, to get onto the bridge. There was an opening, so I indicated, checked my mirror and saw a black Range Rover, which is a typical Emirati gas-guzzler of choice, in that lane. I looked over my shoulder, and judged that if he were traveling about my speed, I’d have plenty of time to get over. After all, we were all slowing to a stop anyway. He must have seen my flasher, because he honked. I was like, “Whatever dude, I want that spot and I’m coming over.”

I accelerated slightly and pulled into the lane a safe distance in front of him. He must have accelerated as well, because he came RIGHT UP on me. It’s not like he had to brake or anything, I merely took the spot in front of him. Apparently he didn’t appreciate that because he laid on his horn. By now, we’ve all slowed to a near stop anyway! Remember, I hadn’t had my coffee yet so I was a bit irritated. I jerked my head around to see what stupid idiot was riding up my tail blaring his horn. I saw a white dishdasha (local male dress - pun intended) and a white gutra (local do’ rag). Whatever, not scared of you single-digit boy. I contemplated sticking my tongue out at him in my rear view mirror when I saw his license plate - #7.

Oops. Do you suppose the guy behind the black Range Rover’s wheel was the same #7 guy that paid nearly $3 million for the right to sport that lucky number? But wait a minute, I didn’t do anything wrong. I merely changed lanes. I gripped the wheel at 10 and two and snickered to myself. Tee hee. I’m going to get across that bridge before someone who paid millions of dollars for his license plate, even if it was for charity. I say it was for vanity. Na na. Good thing I didn’t flip him the bird though, I’d likely have had my coffee from the ladies’ prison in Satwa, and I’m guessing they don’t carry soymilk.

http://www.gulfnews.com/Nation/Society/10190212.html

The Dryness Begins from Tomorrow

I’m not sure what the ancient Muslim dudes had against fun, but they sure prefer to celebrate in ways different from us modern “infidels.” The Prophet’s (PBUH) birthday was the other day (the actual date is uncertain uncertain because it is keyed to the sighting of the moon) and we were headed to one of our happy hour spots to watch the sunset with Loriann and Justin, some American friends.

Now, knowing the way things work around here, I thought I’d better phone the bar to see if they would be open and serving alcohol. Selling the devil’s brew is not allowed on Muslim holidays--not in the government- owned liquor stores nor in the bars and restaurants in the hotels. I’m not sure why it really matters, since Muslim’s are not supposed to buy the stuff anyway, but I guess they want to celebrate by punishing us. Fine. It’s their country.

So, I called up the Royal Mirage (one of the most beautiful hotels I have ever seen) and asked to speak to someone in Food & Beverage. I was transferred to a very nice Filipina. I asked if the Rooftop Bar would be serving alcoholic drinks, due to the holiday(?). Lucky for me and quite unusual for here, she understood my question precisely and replied, “Yes Madam, the dryness begins from tomorrow.” Well, Whew.

The Dreaded Shamal

The Middle East Version of a Blizzard


Yes, it’s warm. Yes, on most days the sun is shining. Most often (although not nearly as often as it used to be due to some unknown form of pollution) the sky is blue. But on unfortunate days, we are hit with a shamal. Seems we’ve had lots of these dreaded days this winter.

As I’m sure most of you can, imagine a blinding snow blizzard. They try, in your mind’s eye, to replace the snow with sand. Not just any sand, but a very special evil sand that gets in each and every crevice of your house and your person. That’s a shamal.

By definition, a shamal is actually a northwest wind that originates in the lower river valleys of the Tigris-Euphrates river system. The result is a nasty sand storm that blows fine silt from the Euphrates river valley down through Iraq and onto the Gulf States.

It really sucks. It would be one thing if houses were built up to our flawless Western standards. But I swear there is a ½ inch gap between the bottom edge of our front door and the floor. There is no such thing as weather stripping or caulking, and the windows are just crap. The dust seeps in every which way and everything gets covered with a fine layer. The white glove test would fail within 30 seconds of even the most meticulous dusting.

That’s inside. Outside, the sand whips around and gets in your eyes. If you open your lips to bare your teeth, you get a free tooth polishing. There are no clouds but the sky is gray. The most recent episode produced wicked winds. One of the bougainvillea vines that had been growing on our garden wall for at least 6 years was uprooted and blown right off the wall to which it had been secured.

The poor guys who work for the maintenance company at the complex where I teach yoga sweep buckets of sand off the concourse. The parking lot cleaners sweep sand out of the parking garage. There are poor little Indian guys who sweep sand out of the streets (for a pittance I'm sure), it drifts up against the speed bumps like snow would around a snow fence. I can’t help but conjure up images of the Joad family.

I’ve heard statistics on how much sand is in the lungs of those of us fortunate enough to live in this desert climate. However high the numbers are, I believe them. Think about it. How can you NOT inhale the stuff? It gives you a headache, a sore throat, makes you very grouchy, and you get sand buggers in your nose.

But then the sky clears, if we're lucky the winds have blown in a rain, my maid comes and cleans away the dust in my house for what you’d pay for a latte, and the blue sky reappears. It still sucks when the sand is blowing, but once it lifts, you can’t help but appreciate the blue sky all the more, say a quiet word of thanks that you aren’t one of the little sand sweeper people, and head out to gratefully breathe in some fresh air!

Hope Springs Eternal

Even in the Desert


Winter is the planting season here. Yes, there is a planting season. Of course the only plants indigenous to the area are date palms and some tumble weedy things that blow around in the desert, but it is possible through the miracles of modern farming (water and fertilizer) to plant right in the sand! Crazy, huh? But it’s true, as long as it’s “sweet” sand and you keep the water coming. Sweet sand? That’s one of the many oddities we’ve encountered here. I have no idea what it’s sweetened with, doubt it’s Equal. All I know is it’s just not the sand from the beach. There’s sweet water, too. That’s desalinated water, as opposed to water from the ocean. The fertilizer isn’t too sweet, however. We have to keep an eye on our gardener, Abdul. Every so often he thinks he’s doing us a favor by bringing in bags of what appears to be raw sewage, and dosing our garden with it. Check out the petunias. They glow at night.

I guess you can take a girl out of Iowa, but you can’t take away her desire to dig in the dirt – not this Iowa girl’s anyway. I cleared a little plot next to the wall surrounding our back yard and planted some peas, couregettes (that’s what my proper British friend Della calls zucchini), watercress and spinach. The couregette seeds are supposed to produce the little round variety of fruit. Della shared them with me. Her sister passed them along to her from some she had grown herself. I guess gals from the Isle of Wight like to dig in the dirt too. I enriched the sweet sand with a little bit of potting soil. In the front garden, in the bed with the radioactive petunias I planted a row of basil. I figured that soil was already rich enough.

Last night, we had a nice little rain, so I went out to check on my seeds. I nearly leapt with joy! Everything but the spinach had shot right through that sweet sand! I’ll keep cheering for the spinach. I’m sure it’ll come up. The sun is out today, and the air is warm. I predict a nice fresh salad of spinach, watercress and pea shoots in my future. I’ll serve it alongside some stuffed roly-poly zucchini covered in tomato basil sauce. A volunteer tomato plant has come up from the fertilizer, but don’t think I’ll eat any fruit off of that. Probably not so sweet.

I will never cease to be amazed by the power and beauty of Mother Nature. Even in the desert.

King Coconut

Sri Lanka is rich with palm trees, more specifically coconut palm trees. Much like my relationship with champagne, I’ve never met a palm tree I didn’t like. But I must admit I am partial to the tall, skinny coconut palms. Dubai has date palms. They are short and squatty. They do provide the decadent date; however, I still like the tall graceful coconut palms best. Call me a palm tree snob or maybe I just can’t get over being cursed with short legs. (I’ve also had good luck with tall and skinny.)

So of course, since the country is known for it’s king coconut trees (a variety of the coconut palm), everything on the bloody island seems to be named after them. King Coconut Convenience Store; King Coconut Ladies Salon; King Coconut Motorcycle Rental. King Coconut Come-On-In. Whatever. Silliness aside, one worthy namesake of the palm was The King Coconut Restaurant.

A short walk from our hotel, the King Coconut wasn’t beautiful, but it was just what adventure hungry, yet amenity-loving tourists like Stan and I want – a comfortable mix of local ambiance with cleanliness standards that don’t make you cringe – too much. The restaurant was comfortably full, half locals, have tourists. There was a funny bar with an odd assortment of whiskey bottles, other hard liquor and some very suspicious bottles of wine. Harsh yellow lighting and hard tile floors, some extension cords sticking out, an odd folding chair; you know, typical Indian Ocean. It was unfortunate the weather wasn’t cooperating for a more atmospheric alfresco experience.

Our waiter was very friendly, and spoke great English. Most of the Sri Lankans in this tourist town of Negombo did. As ridiculous as that is, it always helps. He joked with us about the heat of the curries – surely that gets old. Sri Lanka is just as notorious for their fiery food as they are recognized for their picturesque palms. Stan ordered fish curry, which was served on a cute compartmentalized tin plate. Remember the old TV dinners? A rectangle divided up into little boxes, but where the turkey and dressing would have been, was the fish curry. And where the peas and carrots would have turned to mush was the most delicious coconut raita. The mashed potatoes were replaced by rice. A small box of eggplant filled the cooked apples slot. Potatoes and dal were involved as well. This meal was definitely not on the Atkins diet, yet this Sri Lankan version was a huge improvement.

I ordered the King Coconut calamari. The waiter eyed my white ass suspiciously and said, “Madam, that is a very spicy dish for locals.” I said bring it on. The battle line had been drawn. It was damn hot. And I loved every bite.

Sri Lanka

On my "way" from Dubai back to KC for Mom's 60th birthday party, Stan and I spent the Eid holiday in Sri Lanka. This particular Eid is the time of the year (so many days after Ramadan or something or other) when Muslims are supposed to make their pilgrimage to Mecca. But this is not a post on Islam, so back to my holiday.

Sri Lanka (formerly known as Ceylon) is a teardrop shaped island, about the size of Ireland, in the Indian Ocean just off the southeast tip of India. You may remember the horrible tsunami of December 26, 2004. More than 30,000 Sri Lankans were killed on that day. Somewhat reassuringly there was no loss of life on the west coast near Negombo, where we visited.

Sri Lanka is also notorious for its brutal civil war. Since 1983 the Tamil Tigers have been fighting the Sri Lankan government for an independent state. Over 70,000 lives have been lost in the fighting. The Tigers are notorious for their brutality. They have a “take no prisoners” mentality and also are accused of using child soldiers. Again, we were safe on the west coast. The current battles are being fought in the north.

Like so many of these islands, Sri Lanka was a British Colony. Independence was gained in 1948. One of my heroes, Julia Child was stationed here in the OSS (the predecessor to the CIA) during World War II. Arthur C. Clarke, author of 2001: A Space Odyssey, called Sri Lanka home. And of course Sri Lanka is the island where Hanuman, airborne in the splits, came to rescue Princess Sita. So you can see, Sri Lanka is rich in culture and history!

We found it to be a very hospitable island, with very friendly, English-speaking people. The beaches were beautiful, although a bit rough, the food delicious and spicy, and the weather appropriately tropical. We stayed in a small beach hotel called The Jetwing Beach Hotel in a small town called Negombo. It was less than 30 miles from the capital city of Colombo. We hired a car one day and drove into the capital for some sight seeing, but the most enjoyable time of our trip was spent in Negombo, reading on the beach, swimming in the beautiful pool, eating curry at the King Coconut restaurant, and watching the sunset.