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