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.

A Wholesome Lubricant for Social Intercourse

Sri Lanka – Three Coins Beer

Stan and I keep a photo album of funny signs we’ve encountered along our journeys. If you’ve never seen it, ask and I’ll show it to you. It’s sort of like our wedding video. This wasn’t exactly a sign, but it was just too damn funny to pass up.

We were having lunch at The Lagoon, in the Cinnamon Grand Hotel in the capital of Sri Lanka, Colombo. Stan ordered one of the local beers, Three Coins. The back label read:

“Generations of beer lovers have valued Three Coins Beer as a refreshing thirst quencher, a tasty relaxant, and a wholesome lubricant for social intercourse.”

How funny is that?