Should be in the new digs by next week.
Missed a few this week, but still had almost all our p-hood with us, including a new fellow, just transferred from Dubai to a financial exchange in the mall near our house. He lives just around a couple of corners from us, actually. Sharp guy named "Boise." I think he might spell it "Boycee," but it's cool nonetheless. Phillipino, of course. 31. HP. A great addition, and good for him. Our branch has three eligible, cute, and with-it bachelorettes. That's more babes-per-boys rationics than he'd get anywhere else over here.
The hand of God stretched out: Allahu ackbar.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Kids' Turn: Q&A
(Proof that Riley does his homework . . . in my office. No good rickum snarum . . . .)
Ashley asked, "Which do you prefer, football or rugby?"
"I have to say football. One thing that's better about rugby, though, is that it's a faster game. But football's rougher, and I liked that more." (Kid's got aggression issues.)
Grandma Penny asked, "Ruggers is such a British word. Will you be speaking with British accents the next time I see you?"
"Noe, nawt at awl. Soe vehry sawry." Actually, they've friends from all over the globe, but they hang with the South Africans. Riley has started saying "Yaw" for "Yes."
And we've run out of questions. So Jonah wants to say, "Hi, Matthew (Smith, I think)! I love the Rugby Club! I love you, grammas and grampas!"
More questions, please. As things become normal for us, it's hard to imagine what you'd want to hear about. But next week the kids will report on Halloween in the UAEen.
That's a Wrap! (and other cultural delights)
Our first topic this week: plastique--as in "plastic" (we're no terrorism watchdog site, and we're a heckuva lot safer here than you poor schmucks over there!).
This country--and quite possibly the GCC countries at large--loves it some plastic. Everything is wrapped like a Clint Eastwood film when he gets bored or has to go see his gerontologist. F'rinstances:
You can't buy a box of cookies. Oh, no. You buy a box of cookies that is shrink-wrapped, and inside the box the cookies are divided into at least two separately wrapped sections, and within the sections are "snack sized" divisions (either diabetes-inducing or pointless single servings) of cookies also wrapped.
When you leave the grocery store, almost every item, no matter how small, is placed in its own grocery bag. Paper? Don't bet on it. Nuh-uh. Plastic. And because you are rarely allowed to do anything for yourself around here without contravening some fundamental cultural more' or stealing the wages of a desperate expat from poorer quarters, you daren't argue. So we never buy garbage bags. Don't need 'em.
Even cars are wrapped, which makes sense in the showroom, but by golly if people don't leave the plastic on their seats and headrests and dashboards (and sometimes even external components like running boards--the guys at the dealership were shocked when I started ripping it all off before I left the showroom) for years after they drive off the lot! We'd include a pic, but as usual we forgot to take the camera with us everywhere this week. But it's priceless! I average five a day, and that's only when I'm paying attention. Saw a '97 Corolla with the plastic still on the headrests a few weeks ago. Why? As the Italians say, "Boh!" Your guesses are as good as ours. Wendy thinks head grease, but because most heads are covered, I'm leaning toward sand damage. Elementary, my dear Watson.
What's most striking is the quality of the plastic. This is dangerous stuff! That fit our mothers used to throw when we put the flimsy little excuses for bags you have in NA on our heads was severely over-dramatic. Here it would be totally justifiable. This stuff is at least several millimetres thick, and weighs almost as much as the contents. You need the jaws of life to open most packages. You could pack razor wire in it and play catch. It's an environmentalist's nightmare!
Happy Birthday
The "brothers" (Jonah's catchall for the older two) have, as we have hitherto reported, made friends with two South African kids (Praetoria) whom we shall not name without parental permission. But they are almost exactly the ages of the brothers, and get along famously. We went over for the the South Africa/England World Cup Rugby match and (sorry Mum and Dad) cheered for SA alongside our new friends. Sally, the mother (obviously) is a real gem. We carpool and everything. Plan to have them over for a Wii party next week.
Anyway, the brothers went over there last night for a sleepover (I picked them up first thing for Sabbath prep, and it sounds like they went to bed earlier there than they would have here), so Jonah was left out of the loop (Sally, bless her Anglo-Africaans heart, offered to have him over for a couple of hours as well). But Wendy and I decided we'd take him out instead, just les trois de nous.
Went to Chili's for some dindins (supper, not turkeys: foreign-language words will be italicized henceforth). (Oh, associative joke: in the grocery of our local "MegaMart," produce from Chile is labelled "Chilly." Priceless.) Wendy was in sentimental heaven with the western food, and our eyes were burning out of their sockets because of the ubiquitous incense. The Nativity story is losing some of its charm.
Anyway, there were some young women there enjoying a meal--dressed in western clothes, some of them with headscarves (that matters in a minute). Turns out it was a birthday celebration. The staff came out with a cake, singing birthday wishes to the tune of "We Will Rock You." The blushing birthday girl blew out her solitary candle, and then proceeded to cut it into pieces, giving one to each of her friends.
Then, to our delight, she hand-delivered a piece of cake to some of the other people in our area of the restaurant (the "family section") who, we assumed, were relatives just keeping their distance to allow the girls their fun. That is until, to our much more substantial delight, she delivered a piece to each of us as well. Jonah was in seventh heaven, and I was glad not to have to fork out for dessert!
We're assuming these were both cultural moves (and were secretly glad that there weren't more people in our seating area), and were impressed. What was even more impressive was that after she had distributed the cake, several of her friends approached with pieces of the cake in their hands or on plates, which they proceeded to smash into her face (all in good fun, of course). It was pretty funny, if a tragic waste of cake.
On her way out, the birthday girl stopped by our table one last time and gave Jonah a chocolate bar. He was in eighth heaven, and we knew we wouldn't be getting him to sleep any time soon . . . .
Specialty Shops
. . . so we went to "Refah Gift Markets." Gift markets are all over the place: these are basically high-class dollar stores that stock clothes, hardware, toys, shoes, and garden fountains. Eclectic and popular. We bought a min-skateboard for J, some garden hose taps, a pipe wrench, juice, CDRs, gum, and a stapler.
Across the road is "Italian Palace": a furniture store, we think. We're going to check it out someday.
As near as we can tell, shopping districts are loosely subdivided by subject: electrical, music, photo development, food, car rentals, and "bookshops," which are not bookstores, but stationary marts like Staples (sans computers) where you can also buy official documents, landlord-tenant agreements, and who knows what other gems. Stores that claim, like our Raymond Burger Baron, to be "best in universe kept secret," are called "Golden _______." The Fletchers, who left as we were arriving, say their favourite restaurant was "The Golden Sheep." We've seen the "Golden Motor," the "Golden Pipe," the "Golden Arches" (Riley's joke), but so far not the "Golden Bowl" (my joke--see who gets it).
Stores are generally closed when Westerners expect them to be open and open when they should reasonably be closed. This wreaks havoc on working hours for most people. They might work 10-2 and 6-10 or even later. The run-up to weekends is often worse: Thursday night shifts can go as late as 3:00 a.m. for some of our acquaintances.
Finding things is hit-and-miss. What's in a store in abundance one week won't be available for a long time after that. Might be seasonal, might be whimsical. Clothes are comparatively cheap (I'm going to get a tailored suit or two before we leave here): I found short-sleeved shirts here for next to nothing, and after 3 wearings, the collars are still stiff. I'm in love.
Favourite Comments
Top comment from the last week comes from Amber, who said " I always laugh out loud, or just chuckle at your clever remarks!" Lovely. Reminds me of the student eval I got once: "Dr. Penny is sometimes sexy." But not all the time, or even most of the time. Thanks, Amb. May you at least "just chuckle" over some of the above.
Mystery Commenter of the Week
Ahnos. Who are you?
Engrish
This is for Darren. And I'm cheating a little: some of this comes from "Daiso," a Japanese--you guessed it--plastics store with a branch here.
My favourite from this week comes from a student's assignment (a resume/cover letter): "I having fluency on two languages." I'm in Hell.
From Daiso:
"Sweet Strawberry: give the precious time for me!" (But keep the cheaper quality time we do not value for yourself, Strawberry Guy.)
"I've always been impressed by natural low!" (And I've always been impressed by artificial highs--not that I . . . Never mind. But actually I think embracing one's depression is a fairly healthy approach.)
"Life was beautiful then, I remember the time. I knew what happiness was. I of the memory live again." (Yep. Them were good times.)
"I'll sticky shout!" (Said the choleric to the knife-wielding ruffian.)
Random Engrish:
"Handel with care." (But Beethoven recklessly, and Mozart like there's no Tchaikozsky. Actually, I get assignments "handelled" in to me regularly, so he must be a significant cultural influence.)
Pic of the Week (Thanks, Wendy!): Our blossoms
Up next week: a video tour of our house, so that Amber will no longer be confused about where we live, but will still want to visit (any time, Ambey).
This country--and quite possibly the GCC countries at large--loves it some plastic. Everything is wrapped like a Clint Eastwood film when he gets bored or has to go see his gerontologist. F'rinstances:
You can't buy a box of cookies. Oh, no. You buy a box of cookies that is shrink-wrapped, and inside the box the cookies are divided into at least two separately wrapped sections, and within the sections are "snack sized" divisions (either diabetes-inducing or pointless single servings) of cookies also wrapped.
When you leave the grocery store, almost every item, no matter how small, is placed in its own grocery bag. Paper? Don't bet on it. Nuh-uh. Plastic. And because you are rarely allowed to do anything for yourself around here without contravening some fundamental cultural more' or stealing the wages of a desperate expat from poorer quarters, you daren't argue. So we never buy garbage bags. Don't need 'em.
Even cars are wrapped, which makes sense in the showroom, but by golly if people don't leave the plastic on their seats and headrests and dashboards (and sometimes even external components like running boards--the guys at the dealership were shocked when I started ripping it all off before I left the showroom) for years after they drive off the lot! We'd include a pic, but as usual we forgot to take the camera with us everywhere this week. But it's priceless! I average five a day, and that's only when I'm paying attention. Saw a '97 Corolla with the plastic still on the headrests a few weeks ago. Why? As the Italians say, "Boh!" Your guesses are as good as ours. Wendy thinks head grease, but because most heads are covered, I'm leaning toward sand damage. Elementary, my dear Watson.
What's most striking is the quality of the plastic. This is dangerous stuff! That fit our mothers used to throw when we put the flimsy little excuses for bags you have in NA on our heads was severely over-dramatic. Here it would be totally justifiable. This stuff is at least several millimetres thick, and weighs almost as much as the contents. You need the jaws of life to open most packages. You could pack razor wire in it and play catch. It's an environmentalist's nightmare!
Happy Birthday
The "brothers" (Jonah's catchall for the older two) have, as we have hitherto reported, made friends with two South African kids (Praetoria) whom we shall not name without parental permission. But they are almost exactly the ages of the brothers, and get along famously. We went over for the the South Africa/England World Cup Rugby match and (sorry Mum and Dad) cheered for SA alongside our new friends. Sally, the mother (obviously) is a real gem. We carpool and everything. Plan to have them over for a Wii party next week.
Anyway, the brothers went over there last night for a sleepover (I picked them up first thing for Sabbath prep, and it sounds like they went to bed earlier there than they would have here), so Jonah was left out of the loop (Sally, bless her Anglo-Africaans heart, offered to have him over for a couple of hours as well). But Wendy and I decided we'd take him out instead, just les trois de nous.
Went to Chili's for some dindins (supper, not turkeys: foreign-language words will be italicized henceforth). (Oh, associative joke: in the grocery of our local "MegaMart," produce from Chile is labelled "Chilly." Priceless.) Wendy was in sentimental heaven with the western food, and our eyes were burning out of their sockets because of the ubiquitous incense. The Nativity story is losing some of its charm.
Anyway, there were some young women there enjoying a meal--dressed in western clothes, some of them with headscarves (that matters in a minute). Turns out it was a birthday celebration. The staff came out with a cake, singing birthday wishes to the tune of "We Will Rock You." The blushing birthday girl blew out her solitary candle, and then proceeded to cut it into pieces, giving one to each of her friends.
Then, to our delight, she hand-delivered a piece of cake to some of the other people in our area of the restaurant (the "family section") who, we assumed, were relatives just keeping their distance to allow the girls their fun. That is until, to our much more substantial delight, she delivered a piece to each of us as well. Jonah was in seventh heaven, and I was glad not to have to fork out for dessert!
We're assuming these were both cultural moves (and were secretly glad that there weren't more people in our seating area), and were impressed. What was even more impressive was that after she had distributed the cake, several of her friends approached with pieces of the cake in their hands or on plates, which they proceeded to smash into her face (all in good fun, of course). It was pretty funny, if a tragic waste of cake.
On her way out, the birthday girl stopped by our table one last time and gave Jonah a chocolate bar. He was in eighth heaven, and we knew we wouldn't be getting him to sleep any time soon . . . .
Specialty Shops
. . . so we went to "Refah Gift Markets." Gift markets are all over the place: these are basically high-class dollar stores that stock clothes, hardware, toys, shoes, and garden fountains. Eclectic and popular. We bought a min-skateboard for J, some garden hose taps, a pipe wrench, juice, CDRs, gum, and a stapler.
Across the road is "Italian Palace": a furniture store, we think. We're going to check it out someday.
As near as we can tell, shopping districts are loosely subdivided by subject: electrical, music, photo development, food, car rentals, and "bookshops," which are not bookstores, but stationary marts like Staples (sans computers) where you can also buy official documents, landlord-tenant agreements, and who knows what other gems. Stores that claim, like our Raymond Burger Baron, to be "best in universe kept secret," are called "Golden _______." The Fletchers, who left as we were arriving, say their favourite restaurant was "The Golden Sheep." We've seen the "Golden Motor," the "Golden Pipe," the "Golden Arches" (Riley's joke), but so far not the "Golden Bowl" (my joke--see who gets it).
Stores are generally closed when Westerners expect them to be open and open when they should reasonably be closed. This wreaks havoc on working hours for most people. They might work 10-2 and 6-10 or even later. The run-up to weekends is often worse: Thursday night shifts can go as late as 3:00 a.m. for some of our acquaintances.
Finding things is hit-and-miss. What's in a store in abundance one week won't be available for a long time after that. Might be seasonal, might be whimsical. Clothes are comparatively cheap (I'm going to get a tailored suit or two before we leave here): I found short-sleeved shirts here for next to nothing, and after 3 wearings, the collars are still stiff. I'm in love.
Favourite Comments
Top comment from the last week comes from Amber, who said " I always laugh out loud, or just chuckle at your clever remarks!" Lovely. Reminds me of the student eval I got once: "Dr. Penny is sometimes sexy." But not all the time, or even most of the time. Thanks, Amb. May you at least "just chuckle" over some of the above.
Mystery Commenter of the Week
Ahnos. Who are you?
Engrish
This is for Darren. And I'm cheating a little: some of this comes from "Daiso," a Japanese--you guessed it--plastics store with a branch here.
My favourite from this week comes from a student's assignment (a resume/cover letter): "I having fluency on two languages." I'm in Hell.
From Daiso:
"Sweet Strawberry: give the precious time for me!" (But keep the cheaper quality time we do not value for yourself, Strawberry Guy.)
"I've always been impressed by natural low!" (And I've always been impressed by artificial highs--not that I . . . Never mind. But actually I think embracing one's depression is a fairly healthy approach.)
"Life was beautiful then, I remember the time. I knew what happiness was. I of the memory live again." (Yep. Them were good times.)
"I'll sticky shout!" (Said the choleric to the knife-wielding ruffian.)
Random Engrish:
"Handel with care." (But Beethoven recklessly, and Mozart like there's no Tchaikozsky. Actually, I get assignments "handelled" in to me regularly, so he must be a significant cultural influence.)
Pic of the Week (Thanks, Wendy!): Our blossoms
Up next week: a video tour of our house, so that Amber will no longer be confused about where we live, but will still want to visit (any time, Ambey).
Friday, October 19, 2007
Al Ain Branch Times: New Digs
We should be meeting there by month's end. Meantime, we continue to host. But today was a very good day. All the kids were sweet as all get-out, and the whole was punctuated by a very peaceful aura.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Here are the pics:
And my favourite shot: the main floor bathroom, with its lovely tiles decorated by a cheesy seventies mountain scene. Turtlenecks, hot chocolate, and pepto bismol, anyone?
We've been promised a grant for some minor renos: has to be negotiated with the owner, of course. We hope to spruce it up a little, anyway. But it suits us all just fine.
A bientot, alakum salaam.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Here are the pics:
And my favourite shot: the main floor bathroom, with its lovely tiles decorated by a cheesy seventies mountain scene. Turtlenecks, hot chocolate, and pepto bismol, anyone?
We've been promised a grant for some minor renos: has to be negotiated with the owner, of course. We hope to spruce it up a little, anyway. But it suits us all just fine.
A bientot, alakum salaam.
Late Friday, Eyes are Itchy and Sore, . . .
(kinda like the red sands of the Arabian desert, only not so gritty. Trivia: the sand changes hue several times between here and Abu Dhabi: this shot is just outside of Al Ain, but the closer you get to the coast, the more tan the shade. 20 points to the person who can figure out why.)
. . . and I don't remember what I promised to blog about and am too lazy to check. Updates: curtains are in, nearly all hemmed. Wendy plans to take some interior shots this week during the daylight hours. Back garden is in better shape: we did some trimming there and in the front, and raked away the detritus. I transplanted our banana plants and one palm, and so far they seem to be managing. Cross your fingers.
Eid wasn't as insane as we thought it would be: only three major accidents, including a late-Ramadan one that Lance, Justin, and I came upon during our quick trip to Abu Dhabi: guy had plunged off of an overpass and ended up sideways behind a guardrail perpendicular to the overpass alongside the highway. Impressive bit of driving, that. Could have been very, very bad if he'd landed on the highway itself. A marvel and a wonder.
Also forayed into Dubai this week: not very far, mind you, and only to Ace Hardware and Ikea (exotic, aren't we?),
but it was apparently a good traffic day, and we made it home in one piece. Here's the proof:
Merv's a handsome fella, i'nt he?
Here's the soon-to-be new Tower of Babel I mean world's tallest structure in perspective.
Pic of the week: our first camels! Wendy's on the stick, as usual.
Moo? Mmmmm. Camel milk. . . .
Weather's turned cold: 35-37 degrees during the day, and a downright chilly 20 at night. Brrr. Might have to turn off the a/c if this keeps up. Wendy says while she misses autumn, she'll settle for spring in reverse: everything is in bloom here. Very strange. We're hoping our little garden blossoms before long.
Kids' turn will have to wait a week: sorry. Thanks for the questions. We'll queue them up. And while we're on that subject, all you silent skulkers out there need to make some noise. Let us know you're reading and what you think. Let us know what you'd like to know about as well. Sorry it's not hi-larious tonight: taxing week. I'll make sure to commit a faux-pas or two this week so I have something humorous to recount.
Salaam.
. . . and I don't remember what I promised to blog about and am too lazy to check. Updates: curtains are in, nearly all hemmed. Wendy plans to take some interior shots this week during the daylight hours. Back garden is in better shape: we did some trimming there and in the front, and raked away the detritus. I transplanted our banana plants and one palm, and so far they seem to be managing. Cross your fingers.
Eid wasn't as insane as we thought it would be: only three major accidents, including a late-Ramadan one that Lance, Justin, and I came upon during our quick trip to Abu Dhabi: guy had plunged off of an overpass and ended up sideways behind a guardrail perpendicular to the overpass alongside the highway. Impressive bit of driving, that. Could have been very, very bad if he'd landed on the highway itself. A marvel and a wonder.
Also forayed into Dubai this week: not very far, mind you, and only to Ace Hardware and Ikea (exotic, aren't we?),
but it was apparently a good traffic day, and we made it home in one piece. Here's the proof:
Merv's a handsome fella, i'nt he?
Here's the soon-to-be new Tower of Babel I mean world's tallest structure in perspective.
Pic of the week: our first camels! Wendy's on the stick, as usual.
Moo? Mmmmm. Camel milk. . . .
Weather's turned cold: 35-37 degrees during the day, and a downright chilly 20 at night. Brrr. Might have to turn off the a/c if this keeps up. Wendy says while she misses autumn, she'll settle for spring in reverse: everything is in bloom here. Very strange. We're hoping our little garden blossoms before long.
Kids' turn will have to wait a week: sorry. Thanks for the questions. We'll queue them up. And while we're on that subject, all you silent skulkers out there need to make some noise. Let us know you're reading and what you think. Let us know what you'd like to know about as well. Sorry it's not hi-larious tonight: taxing week. I'll make sure to commit a faux-pas or two this week so I have something humorous to recount.
Salaam.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Al Ain Branch Times
Newsflash: we have a new building!
Maya Shewell happened to be in the right place at the right time, and found out about a stand-alone house for rent. We looked at it and several other places, and President L had his BY moment and proclaimed it as the place. Ylanan's will live there. It has 4 spaces for classrooms and other meeting needs, is enclosed behind its own wall with a large yard encircling the house and lots of parking: even a "swimming pool" that looks eerily like a, well, something else.
Everything came together beautifully. Once the SP approved, we secured funds from Abu Dhabi thanks to their gymnastic flexibility and incomparable humanity, and Lance signed the contract the other night. Some minor cleanup needs to happen, and we've been promised organizational funds to do some renovations to make it commodious. Humble by NA standards, but perfect for us. Here's hoping the branch increases in size and strength in the coming months to make it all worth it. Meantime, we'll host as long as necessary, but it will be nice to have a dedicated space.
Pictures to follow . . .
Maya Shewell happened to be in the right place at the right time, and found out about a stand-alone house for rent. We looked at it and several other places, and President L had his BY moment and proclaimed it as the place. Ylanan's will live there. It has 4 spaces for classrooms and other meeting needs, is enclosed behind its own wall with a large yard encircling the house and lots of parking: even a "swimming pool" that looks eerily like a, well, something else.
Everything came together beautifully. Once the SP approved, we secured funds from Abu Dhabi thanks to their gymnastic flexibility and incomparable humanity, and Lance signed the contract the other night. Some minor cleanup needs to happen, and we've been promised organizational funds to do some renovations to make it commodious. Humble by NA standards, but perfect for us. Here's hoping the branch increases in size and strength in the coming months to make it all worth it. Meantime, we'll host as long as necessary, but it will be nice to have a dedicated space.
Pictures to follow . . .
Home Sweet Home.
Some of you have been asking to see pictures of our house, and have intimated that the dearth of original shots on the blog make you wonder if, in fact, we ever did leave Canada. So I offer the irrefutable proof below: an original shot of our little hovel.
I know. What with the budget cutbacks in the last few years, the quality of housing has really taken a hit.
Jokes. No, seriously. Here's an exterior shot, which includes Merv's rear end.
And here are shots of our back yard:
And some interior shots:
Beautiful, no? Jokes. Once the curtains are all up we'll do some studio-quality shots of the domicile.
Speaking of curtains . . . I'm now wishing we'd got Nidal to install his lavender mirrors for us. Spent all of yesterday evening trying to get the hardware installed in the dining room. It went relatively well upstairs, but not so down here, where there seems to be titanium at random spots in the concrete.
Understand: hanging anything requires a master's in masonry. It's all concrete which, even with a masonry bit, fuses into a diamond-like crust when the bit stalls. And putting a hole precisely where you want it is next-to-impossible. The bit shrieks, there's dust everywhere, and to top if off you're working at dizzying heights. Ton of fun.
So anyway, the dining room was a gong show and I'll be thoroughly embarrassed when we move out and the painters discover how inept I was. Ah well. Can't be good at everything. That just wouldn't be fair.
Peace out.
I know. What with the budget cutbacks in the last few years, the quality of housing has really taken a hit.
Jokes. No, seriously. Here's an exterior shot, which includes Merv's rear end.
And here are shots of our back yard:
And some interior shots:
Beautiful, no? Jokes. Once the curtains are all up we'll do some studio-quality shots of the domicile.
Speaking of curtains . . . I'm now wishing we'd got Nidal to install his lavender mirrors for us. Spent all of yesterday evening trying to get the hardware installed in the dining room. It went relatively well upstairs, but not so down here, where there seems to be titanium at random spots in the concrete.
Understand: hanging anything requires a master's in masonry. It's all concrete which, even with a masonry bit, fuses into a diamond-like crust when the bit stalls. And putting a hole precisely where you want it is next-to-impossible. The bit shrieks, there's dust everywhere, and to top if off you're working at dizzying heights. Ton of fun.
So anyway, the dining room was a gong show and I'll be thoroughly embarrassed when we move out and the painters discover how inept I was. Ah well. Can't be good at everything. That just wouldn't be fair.
Peace out.
Kids' Turn: Ruggers
The boys started rugby this last week. Their introduction involved a special invitation to watch the South Africa/Fiji game at the Al Ain Rugby Club last Sunday, and then attending their first practice on Tuesday. They've both picked it up very quickly. Here are their comments on what's cool about rugby.
Riley: Tackling's cool: sometimes you fight the tackle to gain ground, and sometimes you have to take a dive by pushing sideways backwards into the tackle so you can "present the ball" to your teammates behind. One teammate will push off the tackler while trying heroically not to step on your head, and another guy picks up the presented ball, rounds the pileup, and presses forward.
Christopher: I like the shape of the ball, and I like to tackle. Some of the hits are harder than in "American football," and you have no pads. A goal is called a "try," and it's worth 5 points. That's cool, too.
Jonah: is again in bed. He's too young for formal practice, but he wishes he could play with "the brothers," so they teach him what they learn, like Riley did with football. Actually, they played a bit during our trip to the rugby club, and Jonah got quite a bit of attention when he was spotted hunching on the line of scrimmage ready to explode into action. Kid needs an outlet.
Special request: for next week's post, we'd like to hear from you. What are some of the questions you have? Can we answer them? We'll try. But please ask good, succinct, specific questions: not "What's life like in the UAE?" but "Are bidets or toilet paper the hygienic accoutrement of choice?" We look forward to hearing from you, and will answer as many questions as we can. If we don;t answer yours, it's either because it was dumb or we just don't love you as much as we love the others.
Eid Mubarak!
That is, Happy Eid!
For those of you playing at home, Eid al Fitr (or Eidul fittr, depending on who's transliterating)--pronounced alternately "eed" and "eyed"--is the roughly week-long celebration of the end of Ramadan. I get three days off work, and the kids get the whole week off school, but from the sounds of it most westerners either flee the country or hunker down in their homes waiting for the smoke to clear, because after 3+ weeks of fasting during the daylight hours, dem Arabs settle in to par-tay! It's like Italy at new years, from the sounds of it. Or the red mile after a Flames win during playoffs. Or Auschwitz after the Russians showed up. Well, maybe not like Auschwitz. Maybe more like Red Square after Stalin had finished a speech and the security forces prompted applause, only they're not commies and they don't need prompting.
Or maybe not like any of these things: we'll fill you in next week. But we can imagine that it will involve stupid human tricks in high-powered, fast-moving suvs, consumption of gobs of dates and date by-products, shopping, nose-touching, the occasional high-five, and gridlocked traffic from dawn to dusk.
Anyway, Eid Mubarak!
Here at Roundabout, we keep our promises. We promised to talk about misrules of the road and Arabian soaps.
Road's easy:
1) Roundabouts aplenty, driven at 2x20.
2) Don't ever leave the roundabout in the same lane in which you entered it: drivers who enter in the left lane, which is intended for those meaning to turn "left" (180 degrees), should exit in the middle lane, preferrably one turn early, and without signalling; drivers who enter in the middle lane, which is meant for those going "through" the roundabout, should exit in the right-hand lane (see additional rules for left-hand turners, and apply accordingly); drivers who enter in the right-hand lane, intended for those planning to turn right as soon as possible, should go like stink or die a horrible death crushed under the belly of a leviathan Nissan Patrol or Armada, or they should cut across to the middle or left-hand lane and gesture wildly when greeted by the klaxoning hordes careening wildly behind them.
3) Park wherever you can, even if this involves enabling the four-wheel drive.
4) Never wait in line to make a u-turn when you can cut in front of 40 other vehicles.
5) Always yield to Emiratis, especially when they come barrelling up behind you at 3 times the legal limit and flash their headlights several times in succession.
6) Speed limits are minimums, not maximums.
7) Taxis should stop without warning at least once on every block.
8) Headlights are optional.
Arabian soaps are just too darn precious to really capture. Let's just say they explode all stereotypes. The makeup is awful, the acting melodramatic, the plotlines convoluted to the point of indecipherability--Fatima gives a picture of herself to her brother Salid, who, weak and addled from fasting, gives it to a friend, which now makes here a vassal to the friend and a blight on her family's honour, but the friend is recruited by a radical imam for martyrdom, which enrages the conservative but loving patriarch, who shouts passionately and at length and ends up holding his daughter tenderly while she weeps in gratitude for her father's forgiveness, etc.--but they have that same earnest, dewy-eyed vacuity of the American brand. That's entertainment.
Actually, we have no idea what the soaps are about. They're in Arabic.
Next time: Eid update, and a few observations about intercultural relations in the workplace.
For those of you playing at home, Eid al Fitr (or Eidul fittr, depending on who's transliterating)--pronounced alternately "eed" and "eyed"--is the roughly week-long celebration of the end of Ramadan. I get three days off work, and the kids get the whole week off school, but from the sounds of it most westerners either flee the country or hunker down in their homes waiting for the smoke to clear, because after 3+ weeks of fasting during the daylight hours, dem Arabs settle in to par-tay! It's like Italy at new years, from the sounds of it. Or the red mile after a Flames win during playoffs. Or Auschwitz after the Russians showed up. Well, maybe not like Auschwitz. Maybe more like Red Square after Stalin had finished a speech and the security forces prompted applause, only they're not commies and they don't need prompting.
Or maybe not like any of these things: we'll fill you in next week. But we can imagine that it will involve stupid human tricks in high-powered, fast-moving suvs, consumption of gobs of dates and date by-products, shopping, nose-touching, the occasional high-five, and gridlocked traffic from dawn to dusk.
Anyway, Eid Mubarak!
Here at Roundabout, we keep our promises. We promised to talk about misrules of the road and Arabian soaps.
Road's easy:
1) Roundabouts aplenty, driven at 2x20.
2) Don't ever leave the roundabout in the same lane in which you entered it: drivers who enter in the left lane, which is intended for those meaning to turn "left" (180 degrees), should exit in the middle lane, preferrably one turn early, and without signalling; drivers who enter in the middle lane, which is meant for those going "through" the roundabout, should exit in the right-hand lane (see additional rules for left-hand turners, and apply accordingly); drivers who enter in the right-hand lane, intended for those planning to turn right as soon as possible, should go like stink or die a horrible death crushed under the belly of a leviathan Nissan Patrol or Armada, or they should cut across to the middle or left-hand lane and gesture wildly when greeted by the klaxoning hordes careening wildly behind them.
3) Park wherever you can, even if this involves enabling the four-wheel drive.
4) Never wait in line to make a u-turn when you can cut in front of 40 other vehicles.
5) Always yield to Emiratis, especially when they come barrelling up behind you at 3 times the legal limit and flash their headlights several times in succession.
6) Speed limits are minimums, not maximums.
7) Taxis should stop without warning at least once on every block.
8) Headlights are optional.
Arabian soaps are just too darn precious to really capture. Let's just say they explode all stereotypes. The makeup is awful, the acting melodramatic, the plotlines convoluted to the point of indecipherability--Fatima gives a picture of herself to her brother Salid, who, weak and addled from fasting, gives it to a friend, which now makes here a vassal to the friend and a blight on her family's honour, but the friend is recruited by a radical imam for martyrdom, which enrages the conservative but loving patriarch, who shouts passionately and at length and ends up holding his daughter tenderly while she weeps in gratitude for her father's forgiveness, etc.--but they have that same earnest, dewy-eyed vacuity of the American brand. That's entertainment.
Actually, we have no idea what the soaps are about. They're in Arabic.
Next time: Eid update, and a few observations about intercultural relations in the workplace.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Al Ain Branch Times
(Sally, Fe, and the back of Maya's head)
This just in: Fe Bacchus is RSP, with Maya Shewell as counsellor. Josephine Orbiso is over Primary, with Wendy Penny and Sally Ylanan as first and second and also faculty and bottle washers. Sonia Orbiso delivered a beautiful little girl last week, and Jacob Orbiso named and blessed her this afternoon. She is called Johara Hailey Simsum Orbiso. That's wrong, especially the soup-sounding third name, but I'll correct it later. Anyway, beautiful little family, and a sweet moment for all of us. Dude has a fumanchu. Very Pirates-of-the-Caribbean.
White shirts: priesthood ratio was 5:6. Ties: batting 0.500.
Major incidents involving breakage or hyperkinetic tantrums: none.
Spirit of fellowship: priceless.
Again with the Mastercard commercials . . . .
Kids' Turn:"Strange days are these (Mama)/Strange days indeed"
This week's question: "What's the strangest thing about living here?"
Jonah (who is sleeping soundly, a'hamd'Allah, but answered the question earlier, sort of): the way people dress.
But he hasn't said anything about this before now, so that is a surprise to us.
Chrispy: The swears . . . and the call to prayer.
I don't think he means that he swears at the call to prayer. And no, I haven't taken to swearing . . . at least not any more than I used to. He means that it's strange to hear kids swear at school, and he's trying very hard not to pick up the habit. In fact, swearing is a kind of call to prayer for him, he tells me: he says a little prayer in his heart whenever he almost swears. Dang good kid. Has a good mom.
Rilo: How you're not supposed to display affection publicly, but all the men touch noses and hold hands. What's up with that?
Ah, yes: homosociality. There are limits to PDoAs between the genders (though we have seen several younger couples, in full Arab dress, holding hands--a next gen thing, I think)--as in no overt interaction before marriage or if not related, but the men are very affectionate with each other. In Italy, men would walk arm-in-arm, and I remember all the homophobes in my mission wigging out over this. Well, this makes that fairly pallid. But I am assured it is simply an expression of friendship, not the manifestation of some latent same-sex attraction, or an outlet for repressed heterosexual desire. After all, there are no gays (for very long) in Iran, so . . . .
No, it is musketeery at its heart. Touching noses, too, which must be terribly greasy, but makes as much sense as the whole cheek thing (obligatory 3 passes--anymore than that and you've broken their version of men's room etiquette. But touching noses happens slowly and carefully.
Mom's minute: segregated waiting rooms. Seriously. We went to the hospital the other day (a glorified clinic) and Jon had to wait in one room and I had to wait in the other. Sucky thing is his had newspapers and a tv; mine had nothing, and it smelled like pee. Most of the people are very understanding that westerners don't dig this arrangement, and the security guard kept offering me papers to read.
Oh, and there're security guards--most of them useless--everywhere! Security guards have security guards!
My ha'pence: It's amazing how after only 6 weeks 40 C doesn't feel hot. We're in trouble if we ever have to go somewhere wintry again. Also, further to Wendy's observation: I got permission from said guard to sit with her in the women's waiting room, and just before we were called back (for the third time), a muslim woman walked in and seemed quite distressed that I was there--like gasping and fretting and behaving like she was in anaphylactic shock. So I offered to leave the room and she said "La, la," which means "No, no," not "I'm humming contentedly to myself because you are such a hot, western god of a man." She gestured for me to remain seated, I think, so I did. And she immediately launched into a new round of cataclysmic sighs and paroxysms.
In other words, in addition to being ware of road surprises, one must always understand that overtly disappointing or confronting people is taboo, so body language and onomatopoeia are more reliable than actual language in deciphering the message. In other other words, if a muslim woman says it is okay for you to remain where you are, but is doing the funky chicken while imitating a stroke patient experiencing myocardial infarction and an aneurism while suffering a severe asthma attack and insulin shock, well, she probably doesn't really mean it. Words to the wise. But don't worry about it. You can stay where you are. No, really. (Infidel.)
The Great Curtain Caper and other (mis)adventures in communication
Alright, so that belongs better on a driving entry, but it pretty much sums up the essential zen of expat life in the UAE. Anything can happen at any time. Beware! Surpri-ise!!
The Great Curtain Caper
Well, "great" is a relative term. Whatever hooks the reading public . . . . Exposition: when you move into one of these places it is, of course, unfurnished in the extreme. When people move or leave, they sell absolutely everything, right down to potted plants and venetian blinds. So the places echo like crazy and they are fishbowlish (ish dish swish--sorry: Dr. Seuss moment) with gigantic windows and sliding doors all over the place. So one has to be careful. A lot of newbies apparently assume that the windows are polarized and/or one way, so there have been a few interesting introductions around here in the past.
Anyway, we aren't that naive, so two days after we moved in (we took possession Thursday night and went off to Abu Dhabi the next morning for church, so it wasn't until Saturday that we managed to hit the shops) Wendy picked up some lovely paper table covers--the kind on a roll--and we taped them up in the vital windows (bedrooms) to guarantee some privacy. Had to be retaped several times, of course, what with the heat unsticking (and eventually soldering) the tape from/to the window frames.
Then we started looking for curtains. We received two recommendations: one was for a place called "Sedar," which speacializes in high-end stuff, some of it quite lovely, all of it sumptuous. We're talking $20/meter as a base cost. But they tailor and install whatever you order. So they came and measured the windows, we picked out some materials, and then asked for a quote on that basis. Whole place in curtains (simple, lined panels) for 5,900 dhs, which is roughly $2,000 cdn. Not bad, really, but a whack of dough for us. So we hemmed, and they dropped a few hundred off.
Then Don Lacey, of whom I have spoken admiringly in the past (see Post the First) suggested another company, with the salvo that his guy had moved on. This place is called "Violet House Decorations" and specializes in the gaudy, 4-layer, tassle-fringed curtains of 70s concert-rock sensibility: the kind of curtain that threatened to suffocate me when I was a child. This is a tame example:
How about this (no, this is not our bedroom: read on):
Arabian Ni-i-i-ights, like Arabian da--ahem. Sorry. Where was I?
Ah yes. So Violet House. We walk in and I do my usual ex-pat-with-a-penchant-for-foreign-greetings-so-give-me-the-Emirati-price-thank-you-very-much spiel.
Me: Asalaamu alakum.
Him: Alakum salaam. How ahr yu?
Me: (Good. Speaks English.) Well, thank you. We just moved into Al Andalus Housing Complex and I have heard from a few residents there that your company has done a lot of work in those units. We need curtains throughout the house and I was wondering whether or not you--
Him: Sahry. No Arabiy?
Me: (Oh crap.) No, no Arabiy. Sorry. Only English?
Him: Spanish?
Me: No Spanish. Italian.
Him: Ah, no Spanish.
Me: (What the heck?) Si. Ma proviamoci. Noi viviamo in Al Andalus, e vogliamo--erm, quieremos--le cortine dappertutto in casa.
Him: Las cortinas en todo la casa?
Me: Si, en todo la casa. Potete venire misurare?
And cosi via. I mean, and so on. We had several such conversations over the course of a week with me speaking increasingly in Spanish as I remembered things or as he said them, and by and large we understood. Tossed in some English now and then, plus the odd Arab expression (Halass! Done!) and kept forgetting to translate for Wendy.
All he had, of course, was shiny stuff. Seriously. If it didn;t have at least a third of the spectrum of colours it reflected light. And I'm pretty sure that if all the mirrors in our house broke at once, Wendy could have applied her makeup flawlessly just by standing in front of the curtains.
He came in at 1,000 dirhams under Sedar. Went back to Sedar, and their prices had magically increased. So we finally said screw it and went to Ikea and bought rods and panels and all manner of curiosities for less than 2,000 dirhams and have been installing them ourselves. Of course, I had to buy an electric drill and masonry bits and a ladder, but hey, you only have your ears and lungs once . . . . Bedrooms are done: living room, dining room, kitchen, and grand staircase coming up. Going up.
This is sounding increasingly like one of those Mastercard commercials. Priceless.
Anyway, the point was to boast about my prowess as a pidgin speaker of several languages. Riley, who is studying Spanish (Te gusta estudiar el Spanol? Si, me gust estudiar el Espanol.), thought it was cool anyway.
One thing I was going to mention last week, but didn't: even the shopping "trolleys" are suvs! These are four-wheel independent suspension contraptions that if they are more than 2 weeks old make shopping--everywhere--anaerobic. Good golly! All four wheels turn, but not usually in the same direction at the same time. You've got to distribute weight just so on the old ones to even have a hope of getting to your destination. Collisions are inevitable and legion. I believe I now have several hernias. Wendy can't stand the sight of them (the trolleys, not the . . . yeah). Part of the problem is that because all floors are tile--and regularly buffed--unless you're Spiderman you haven't a hope in the hot place of finding traction. So let's just say there are no hairpin turns. I usually have someone push from the back and I steer from the front, and drift my way Tokyo-style around the corners.
And speaking of collisions: Jonah knocked a pregnant woman on her keister the other day. Actually, she fell over him and onto her knee and hands, so she was fine. He bonked his head. Anyway, here's the interesting part: she was in full veil (which is partly why she didn't see him), and while I think this alarmed him a bit (seeing it from a distance is one thing, but up close it could be a bit sinister--like when mom used to watch me cross the street through a small crack in the door, only the crack is horizontal and mom is all in black), he didn't freak out. He actually apologized to her on his own, and meant it.
I wasn't there, but Wendy was, and she had a good chat with the woman, who was really very kind and understanding. Interculture clash, anyone? So far they haven't kicked us out, anyway. I did learn this week that chewing gum during Ramadan is offensive. The hard way.
And now the kids . . . .
Next time: misrules of the road (I'm groovin' on the traffic, ma!), Arabian soaps, and the boys' first Rugby practices.
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