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.