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!