Elegy for a Revelator

Worn thin, yet not to weakness,
This prophet worked, Donne's godly gold,
Warmed in Affliction’s furnace
Like his peers of Old.

His body bore the burdens
Of an entropic, skeptic Age:
Proved instrument in the garden!
Fiber optic Sage!

How blessed upon the mountain
Is the narrow path he trod:
He has reached the living fountain
Of th’Eternal God.

India II

Frogger, anyone?



Thanks to Lance for the referral. By the bye, we actually saw a hen and two adolescent chickens crossing the road the other day. They made it. (Cats, on the other hand, are rarely so fortunate.) Reason for the crossing was never determined.

Al Ain Branch (It's about) Times(!)

Sorry. We've been remiss.

Jeffy has returned to the islands. Fe and Nelson brought their daughter, Aila, back with them, and their son will come and visit in March. Numbers have been thin lately, what with work and other looming crises, but we soldier on. Shewells get back this week from Korea, so that will help. We've missed the little ankle-biters. Well, higher than ankles, really. And they don't bite.

Branch Conference in 3 weeks. Pres. B is coming.

We also have our start-up fund, so we hope to get carpets and curtains and chairs (oh my!) before the conference. The rest we can do line upon line.

And that's it. But all in all the meetings are positive and uplifting, and that's really the point. Oh (and don't be jealous), we usually run just under two hours. Suckers.

Next time: don't know. We'll surprise us.

Jobs that Suck, Vol. I

Sorry, Mom. There's no other verb for it.

Here they are, in increasing order of suckiness, like a Letterman countdown, only with 6 instead of 10.

6. University Professor
I'm kidding. Sort of. Back at it in a week. Nothing done.

5.Escalator Guard
I'm referring to the fearless men (and woman) of Sparks Security who are daily posted at the top of the first floor escalator in the tertiary turret entrance to our mall. That's harder to explain than it's worth. But these guys are hating life. It's like paid people-watching when you don't like watching people. They sit there for the whole shift making sure no one does anything crazy like walk down the up escalator or, heaven forbid, up the down. Occasionally they'll crack jokes into their radios, probably about the gangly, pot-bellied westerners swaggering their way up the down escalator, just to stay awake. Just upstairs, in the vaulted turret, is the movie theatre and sheesha bar. So at about 2000h, the guards start to chill, bro. Maybe this job's not all that bad.

4. Gutter Cleaner
Okay, imagine you're at the beach with your little pail and shovel, building castles in the sand, the sun shining warmly on your tossled little head, and sea birds calling as they drift in the breeze overhead. Then take away the beach, replace the plastic shovel and pail with a trowel and a large, rusted bucket with ominously jagged perforations, crank up the temperature to the high 30s, stick yourself in a heavy pair of coveralls, and forget about the birds and the breeze. Well, there is a breeze--from the traffic whipping by at 110 kmh, from which you are separated by 2 feet of air and a rubber cone.

3. Traveling Parking Lot Car Washer
Welcome to the pit of despair. Don't even think about--hack, hack, cough. Muggy, fumy, cavernous: these are the dark places of the earth, and the orcs shuffle about with their washing trolleys ready to labour over your dirty carriage for a pittance. Okay, not really the earth. And like everything else around here, parking garages are generally very clean, if not hospitable. Indeed, it is this army of subcon and near-eastern expats that keeps the whale's teeth shining. I dare you: drop a piece of garbage on the floor and wait for a few seconds . . . .

2. Maid/Nanny
It's hard to describe how disheartening a scene it is to see a nanny, usually Filipina, lugging around an over-grown toddler behind the gliding form of the child's mother. I say disheartening because I don't think the job description is really all that well defined, which basically means that these women end up doing whatever their "mistresses" want them to. Smiles, at least when the adults are around, are rare indeed. Lodging is usually a very small room sequestered from the rest of the house, with a/c controlled by the homeowner. We have seen a few examples of obviously peaceable and mutually respectful working relationships, but I gotta tell you, as an observer, that I often think of the two Harriets--Tubman and Beecher Stowe--these days.

1. Bathroom Attendant
There is nothing redeeming about this one, except that in most cases the bathrooms are pristine and even palatial. But they're still bathrooms: no windows, the odour of stale urine (isn't urine already stale by definition?) and incense air fresheners has got to be toxic, never mind following after this, that, and the other fellow into a stall to inspect and, if necessary, spray down the whole shebang. But they are Johnnys-on-the-spot, these fellows. Always ready with a mop or a paper towel, or a friendly smile for Jonah. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to tip them if they help, but I honestly never have petty cash when I go in.


More as we see them. I could easily include construction worker: sandals as often as steel-toed boots, loose garments that are prone to getting caught in machines--some worksites are an OSHA Inspector's paradise, others stick with a high standard. But there is something pathetic about it all: the ropy arms and carved faces of these construction guys are a far cry from the burly, helmeted, fatly-paid dignity of the North American variety. Skill for skill, they'd win any construction olympics, though. Just a sad sight is all.

But I must say that there is a basic humanity in most of the labour-trafficking here in the UAE. I've heard horror stories from KSA and other, more conservative places. And Emiratis are increasingly accustomed to the presence of all these foreigners and increasingly a) accommodating and b) kind, actually. True story. No one's telling me to write this. I have seen several episodes that confirm that the Sheikh's handprint is indelible on hearts and souls alike.

Jonah-isms

Jonah's favourite restaurant is, chagrinably, Pizza Hut (No, Hobo, that's not a word, nor is it an error.). Yes, he's embraced the cultural strangeness of our new home, and all its gustatory richness, mystique and wonder, with passionate adventurousness.

Anyway, since 3 of the 5 of us are putting on a little weight of late, we've decided to cut down the trips to this and similarly fine culinary establishments. So every time he says he wants to eat at Pizza Hut, one of us responds, "Pizza what?" And he hollas back "Pizza Butt!" Wendy would prefer we say "Pizza Gut," which is both anatomically more accurate and socially acceptable, but let's face it: it just isn't as funny.

Of course, we also have Chicken Hut here, a place we tried once, with "diarrh'' results, which we could call "Chicken Butt," since we already use the colourful expression, "Guess what, Chicken Butt." But then the meaning is too diffuse. So we could call it "Chicken Gut," which would be apropos if we were in Shanghai or Singapore or Nam. But we're not, and it's gross, so we just don't call Chicken Hut period.

Also, Chicken Palace, which we need to snap one of these days: it's a little shack of a place bathing in neon self-importance in the middle of what looks like a Walmart parking lot. Too funny.

Back to Jonah-isms. He's taken to imitating the subcon accent, which makes for some risky, bone-tickling moments. His favourite word is our very own "row-n-da-bote," and he has ranked these according to their aesthetic charms. Or maybe he's ranked them based on how fun they are to say.

The favourite until this last week was the Sheikh Zayed Roundabout, which features a metallic sculpture, 2-dimensional and die-cast, of Sheikh Zayed's head. So Jonah dubbed it "Sheik's Head Roundabout" very early on. Unfortunately, he has also been discovering rhyme: "dead" and "head" rhyme, so we are constantly reminded of the lamentable fact that the founding ruler of the UAE--a man of vision, acumen, intelligence, and considerable offspring--is no longer with us. File that under "Things Jonah Says in Public that Might One Day Get Us Deported."

Oh, and Christopher announced on the way home from Church that "caca" means "cake" in Arabic. So you can imagine the crass hilarity that ensued, once I told them what "caca" means in Spanish. Birthday caca, anyone? In fact, Christopher's in the kitchen making caca right now. Oy veh.

(Sorry again, mom. We're hard up for entertainment here, with Wendy gone, and taken her grammar with her.)

In Memoriam: Myrtle Jensen

Requiescat:
Your life too often touched
By loss, you learned to smile and suffer much.

Each loss--of child,
Of sibling, full-grown child--
But smoothed the rough, and made you Jesus-mild.

The vacant rooms
Soon burst with newer kin:
Job's blessing, and no space to hold it in.

You loved each one as each:
Your late-come daughter's daughter
You fostered with quick smiles and easy laughter,

Warm homemade love,
Knit kisses unrestrained,
And healed her of a heritage of shame.

The grandsons born
With weak heart or weak limbs
Were cradled in your wellworn love for him

Whose broken form
You bore, nurtured, interred.
By this same love your daughters, too, endure.

All our daughters
And our sons you claimed,
You knew their faces, murmured each new name

As if your own:
And your own we will be
In God's good time, and sweet eternity.

So rest: your
Altar-loss has been restored,
What's left behind will yet be your reward.


Wendy's maternal grandmother, Myrtle Jensen, died this past weekend after a long decline. It is both blessing and, of course, cause for mourning. She was a tender soul, quicker to smile than frown, even as her limbs lost strength and the fog of age grew thick around her. She was tended faithfully by her husband, Evan, and by fine, devoted children and grandchildren. She left as she came in: warmed by loved ones, blessed with the happiness earned by trials and joys alike.

Wendy's parents called us up early Sunday morning to see if she could return home for the funeral, and we quickly made the arrangements. Those of you in Alberta who would like to see or speak to her in person or by phone can reach her at the Raymond manse. She'll be there from Monday night through Sunday. We know you'll respect the reason for her visit, but no one will complain if you call. The funeral is planned for Thursday.

Salaam. Namaste. Shantih. Shalom. Peace out.

More from us boys in a day or two. Sorry we're a few days late and several dirhams short. We know you'll forgive us, considering.

Middle of January Bonus

Traffic in India: it's not quite this . . . balletic . . . in the UAE, but they can dream. Watch the pedestrians on the right hand side of the screen. Ay caramba.

Apocalypse

Alright, so my use of that term is patently incorrect: apocalypse, as both of you who read the first few pages of my dissertation now know, means unveiling, not end-of-the-world scary-destruction-stuff: that's the popular or "demotic" sense, and that is the sense I mean to invoke here.

Two different kinds of course evaluation, one of which involved a committee of students leading a discussion of about 10 different points, and the other an online form that students were required to complete before they could get access to their final grades. Of course, half of them don't, and then they email the profs asking for the grades personally.

Then you have about twenty minutes (minor hyperbole) to mark the exams and submit the final grades. Following which you complete a course report for each course, including a description of your pedagogy, assessment procedures, and plans for revision, a statistical report, and an itemized gradesheet for each course. Oy veh.

Oh, and you can be called upon to proctor other people's exams, as well, people who may not necessarily be there themselves. So I had to supervise 7 exams in toto this term. Riddikerrus.

My experience with the first of these was interesting. I was part of a committee of proctors, each of us assigned to a quadrant of a major exam hall, where multiple sections of the same course were sitting for their standard exam. The course was in Arabic, the exam was in Arabic, the conversation was in Arabic: I was the only Englishman in the mix. One of the teachers was there, and he seemed to enjoy making unsolicited announcements ad alta voce. Established the precedent for Tyrrettical outbursts--from other faculty and students . . . in Arabic. He had several very loud conferences with other faculty, shared a few jokes, clowned around for students, and then bailed. Left me in a sinking ship full of chatty sailors.

I called another faculty member over to answer a question, and the committee chairman came along for the ride: he'd been clowning, too, but in what I can only describe as a Hyde-esque, bipolar reversal, he suddenly turned into a National Socialist schoolmarm, twisted sneer and everything. Started wrestling exams away from students and forcibly relocating them to other parts of the quadrant. So suddenly it wasn't okay to talk, I guess.

Interesting that none of my students exhibited these behaviors. They raised their hands very politely when they had questions, and whispered their queries appropriately. The brat to twit ratio is pretty high in this country: kids are kept out 'til all hours, and you can usually hear a tantrum in progress wherever you are. Too much sugar. Too much party. So sorry. No problem. Welcome.

So I figure that with their schizoid Arab profs, oscillating between totalitarian patriarch and Sideshow Bob, they must revert to spoiled brat syndrome. With me, the regression is milder and slower.

Off today to Global Village in Dubai: Riley has a combined youth activity to attend, and we're going to scope it out while he hangs with the Abu Dhabi crew. By the way, he was set apart as DQP yesterday.

Shout outs: Welcome back, Ahnos. We still don't know who you are!

ec: no guns.

Next time: Global Village and maybe Green Mubazzarah/Jebel Hafeet.

We came, we saw, we skied Dubai

Well, Wendy and Riley did, anyway.



Christopher and Jonah and Jon went into the Snowpark area instead--where they'd lions and tigers and camuels--. Or rather they have a mini-luge, ice caves, climbing tower, and tube and toboggan slopes.





We'd wanted to get Christopher skiing as well, but as a novice he was required to take a series of complicated and inconveniently scheduled lessons. They're like "Lesson 1: Snow Discovery." And we're like, "Yah, but he's, like, Canadian, eh." And they're like, "Too much so sorry, but no choice." And we're like, "Bummer, dude."

That's life on the roundabout. Anyway, a good time was had by all, except for our camera, which didn't much like the cold on top of the battery problems it's already having. And speaking of cold, -4 never felt so frigid. i mean, we handled it, and it was kinda fun seeing all the desert people bundled up so much, but by golly we've acclimated. Still holding our own: went up to the top of Jebel Hafeet yesterday, and saw several Indian men wearing fur-lined aviator hats. Too funny.

Back to the slopes:





It's like a Euro-hill: two sides have mall views, the architecture of which has a ski lodge/Swiss Miss vibe. There are two main ski/snowboarding runs (complete with rail), and chair/rope lifts. Wendy discovered the "challenging run," which she describes as "fun, not Black Diamond, but worthwhile." She skied like an old--erm--veteran pro, and looked cute doing it. Riley stayed on the main slope, and though it took him a run or two to get into the groove, it all came back to him from last year: like falling off a bike.

The slopes and snowpark are separate areas, and therefore separate costs. Snowsuits and equipment are included, but gloves and hats are not, so we got helmets for the kids, and Wendy and Jon went toque-less. The whole thing: 2 hours worth, set us back a coupla hundred cdn. I dunno. Probably not worth it, but it was fun while it lasted. Here's Chrispy on the luge:

Strange Tales

We've converted!











Okay, we didn't. We took these pictures at the Al Ain Palace Museum in one of the smaller majlises (women's sitting rooms) there: there were two racks of clothes, and sign that invited dressup and snapshots, so this was totally halal.

The museum itself is laid back: just the old palace displaying family items from the last 150 years or so. We believe this is the traditional family home of Sheikh Zayed, the founder of the UAE and father of the current president of the UAE. Someone still lives there--there are some areas marked "private residence." But we doubt they're upper royalty. We now know where the Sheikh's Al Ain residence is--one of them, anyway, since there's an official presidential palace in another part of the city.

But here's the story: Wendy came home from church needing some alone time. I secured a promise from her that she wouldn't leave our complex, but she's a Cahoon. So that lasted all of three minutes. She called me from what she described as a beautiful, lush, tranquil garden of indeterminate ownership. Couldn't possible be a private villa: the gate was wide open, and there was no one visible in the hut. Well, you can see where this is going. On her way out, she was stopped by two en who quizzed her for several minutes about how she got in, did she have a camera, had anyone seen her, what was she up to. They searched her purse and exclaimed in a combination of consternation and amazement that she had blundered onto the grounds of the Sheikh's personal residence, and that the penalty for trespassing there could be, well, bloody, under the law.

But of course the Emiratis are kind and understanding people, and they soon realized she was not a threat, but was innocent of evil intentions, and let her go with a keen and clear understanding that she should not repeat her blunder. She says it was so lovely in there that it was worth the risk. Ay caramba.

Here's the front gate of the palace:



And a side view of the west tower:



The grounds: Wendy took some fine stills that she will probably post as a facebook album, so watch for that:



Tent dwellers:



Many a country song was written about the Sheikh's old truck: only with ululations instead of yodels, and sitars instead of ghee-tars, and belly dancers instead of backup dancers:



Next week: end-of-term madness. Wa'allah!

Christmas Candids

Not much to show from Christmas. We went way overboard, overcompensating for missing all y'all, I guess. Anyway, here are a few candids--it's almost like you're right there with us now!

Makin' cookies:



Boy . . . in booties. Or stocking. Well, behind stocking.



So we got the big boys iPods--an elaborate and secretive procedure since Riley had overtly requested one, and reminded us ad nauseam of his peculiar desire. So I had to persuade him it wasn't happening. In fact, we had agreed on a stocking-only Christmas, so at 2:00 a.m. Christmas morning, Riley snuck a peak expecting to find his new toy, and was disappointed. Mwa-ha-ha!

He was a bit sullen Christmas morning, but put on a brave face. And gave up. Imagine his total chagrin when Christopher, who never asks for anything, fairly backflipped with joy over his gift (it's nice to have one effusive kid in the family):



And then the moment arrived. And there was much rejoicing. Obviously:



We were joined for dinner by L Ylanan, whose wife was on shift at her job in Abu Dhabi, and J Shewell, whose family was and is in Korea. He'll be joining them this week. The camera adds 20 pounds. Shut up.



Filed under "What the?": Ski Dubai. We're going tomorrow morning. It's actually pretty cheap, considering the overhead they must pay.