Riley Rocks!

Here he is, in his internet debut. For the record, all errors are Dad's fault. Never was one much for rehearsal. So pay attention to Riley: he really, really wants to go electric, and the deal is he has to get great at the guitar first. Might need to start saving sooner than we thought.





Dig the tongue thing. Reminds me of Steve.


There's more, but it keeps high-centering the platform, so we'll have to break it up. Just have to wait, I guess. So solly.


(And we should include a special shout-out to our very good friend Allie, who started this whole ball rolling many years ago with the generous gift of two children's guitars to our boys, before she had her own kids to spoil. You still rock, Al. Don't stop.)

Weekly Cute

Before we get to Riley's concert:

praying this evening over our weekly assortment of leftovers, Jonah said he was grateful for when we get blastized. Apparently I'll be blastizing him when he turns eight. Rhymes with chastizing, but I'm pretty sure that's not what he means.

Shout-outs:

Fadwa, no need to self-edit. You're right: it's a pretty sad place sometimes, this world we're in.

EC: panzy. You're welcome to come and enjoy the pool anytime, though I'd recommend Spring Break '09. Too hot already, and just going to get hotter: 38 degrees, headed to 54 by August. Ay caramba.

Fog + Excessive Speed=Apocalyptic Yikesery

File this one under "Gadzooks." Looks like the government's efforts to cut down on fatalities has been a smashing success. This 200 car pileup--yep: TWO HUNDRED--on the Abu Dhabi-Dubai road last week left an amazing 6 fatalities and only 30-odd serious injuries, believe it or not.






























Now before anyone worries: no, we weren't there. Far as we can tell, these were taken by people who should all be melty cheese and charbroil, but who, thanks be to God, are not. Wow. Thanks to Lance for the forward.

Next week: Riley's debut as a guitarist, with a little help from Bob Dylan, the Monkees, and John Lennon.

Momma's Boy

Jonah is full-on Oedipal. We've taken to calling him "Oed" (Ed) for short.



Alright, so he hasn't tried to off Jon, yet, and as long as Wendy's not in the room, they get along pretty well. But he is a momma's boy. But then, considering his momma, we can't really blame him.

And it helps that he's an equal-opportunity mb:

Cahoondom II

As Wendy tells below, two weeks ago we had our first (and probably only) guests. While the rest of you lily-livered panty-waists (International Women's Day is long past: back to sexisms) were "safe" in your xenophobic western pantheons to redneckism, Grandma and Grandpa Knievel were here, with us, risking life and limb in roundabouts and going googly-eyed over the shear enormity of money-spendage.

We'll spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say it was a Drewdle trip from start to finish. They were on their way back from Uganda, after organizing a platoon of volunteer dentists to do some training, etc., and made it out of the airport at 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, which put us home by 4:30 a.m. Some of us--namely those of us who went to the airport to get them, namely Jon--had to work the next day. Ay caramba.

84 hours later we deposited them at the Stewart Hotel, every one of us spent and stuffed. Here are the pics Wendy promised. Those of you with access can find a few more on her facebook page.

Most of the group shots resembled a U2 album cover, but I think this was accidental, not artistic: Hobbles McCoy, lagging behind, eyes full of the place, would suddenly demand we turn around, which we would do in turns as the message made its way to the front lines, and then he'd snap before we could assemble (or suck in, sometimes). But we like the results.



Ghosts in the Mosquine. Or Shades of SHeikh Zayed Mosque. Some of you will ask the inevitable question, even though the picture above answers it. No, women are not required by law to cover up, except when entering the prayer rooms of a mosque.



This mosque is massive. The pictures, because of mechanical perspective, don't do it justice. You come over the Maqta Bridge into Abu Dhabi and it dominates impressively. Better during the day right now, but soon, with all the lighting, it will be impressive at all hours. We'll try to get a better shot of the whole thing, though there's some early video . . .

Riley's first ride. Was going to make a joke about camel . . . feet, but decided against it. Too easy.



Against the Abu Dhabi skyline, taken squinting into the Arabian sun just above the dock where we boarded a water taxi to go to Lulu Island, an unimpressive resort island that bored us silly.



Monkeys: Gramma C still has game.



Proof! He does read!



Jo getting ready for his modeling debut.



I am to be seeing beeg future for hees.



Chrisp ibn Goohnathon, Sheikh of the burning sands.



Cool.



Add one last album cover, taken like the last four at the Al Ain Palace Museum, which we have blogged about before.



That last one is more Beatles than U2, you know, if the Beatles were only three, and two of them were women carrying purses and they were trespassing on museum grounds despite the signs saying "Please No Treading on Grass." I think, secretly, Wendy wants to get us deported.

Anyway, sorry about the delay. We had platform issues all last Friday, and then just, you know, had life happen to us. By the way, more Christmas music today.

And we're extending the competition, so it's not too late. The choices are lame, except for Greg's (Hey, Greg and Melissa!), which I'm inclined to disqualify not because it isn't technically valid, but because he doesn't live in any of the places he mentions, except the last one, which is lovely but boring, and because Johnny Cash already wrote that song. Or at least he sang it. It was Arthur Miller that wrote the play. So that's been done.

Isn't it Easter?

Okay, I (Wendy) am back and confused...
This morning as we were speeding down the road, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a big sign in a flower shop window that said "Happy Mothers Day". I thought to myself, "Wow. They're on the ball." (Seeing as Easter is not observed by most people here, Mothers day would be the next... holiday?)
Then I was in the grocery store and there was a huge display with bouquets of roses and a banner that said "Happy Mothers Day" right as you walk in.
As I worked my way through the store I noticed a special display of Arabic treats and a sign all in Arabic. I had never seen these treats for sale there before so, figured since they are celebrating Mohammed's birthday (yesterday) it must have been brought in special for that event. Which by the way is observed as a day off for some.
Then I noticed that Christmas tunes were playing over the speaker. What the?
As I was leaving I noticed in the store beside the grocery store a (few) Easter items.
So I ask... which holiday do I celebrate? What a party!
Speaking of party, my parents came for a visit.! A much anticipated visit. They swung through on their way out of Africa, where my father has a humanitarian project he oversees.
We showed them around our town and the kids school, introduced them to Maneesh (which they liked), even had Tabouleh, Hummus, Fatoosh, and Uhmwahlee. Took a couple of road trips. One to Abu Dhabi. Saw The Palace, rode in a water taxi on the Persian Gulf, laughed at camels, over-ate at Fuddruckers, and saw the amazing Sheikh Zayad Grand Mosque. Where my mom and I donned Abayas.
They were impressed by our beautiful pool, which we had to ourselves in the a.m. And witnessed the attention a blonde, blue eyed, small westerner got... Jonah gets a lot of attention AND treats from the Arabs. A box of cookies, 2 bags of chips, several hair ruffles, and the occasional kiss. Riley and Christopher are chopped liver I guess.
In Dubai, we drove as far as we could on the Palm (man made island in the shape of a palm tree), drove around the construction at the bottom of the Burj (tallest building in the world which will always be under construction in case any one dares to build a higher one then they will be able to go higher and higher and so on), walked around Mall of the Emirates (where the indoor ski hill is), had dinner with the Stewarts (wonderful friends from Red Deer), where we left them tearfully and they stayed until they caught their flight early the next morning. It was sooo very wonderful to have them to ourselves and we felt the void when they were gone. Jonah was the most disappointed to say goodbye (no one to listen to his incessant chattering an more). The next morning I asked him what he liked about having Grandma and Grandpa here and he replied.."they are happy and fun" That sums them up to the tee! What a blessing to have great relatives!
Over and Out to Lunch, Wendy
P.S. I will have Jon post some pictures later.

Donne Arabe

In honour of International Women's Day coming up next Sunday (and fellas, I think, given the feminist spirit of the day--and justly so, you would best honour the day by not objectifying a single woman, nor engaging in anything remotely smacking of patriarchy or mysogyny, including holding the door and using the expressions "better half," "fairer sex," or "hot chick"--unless you are referring to your own wife, and that with written, notarised permission), I decided I should comment on women.

Not much to say, really: they're semi-liberated, increasingly restless, smart as whips (if whips were, you know, capable of ratiocination and not merely manipulated by some human's hand and arm so they can snap or whoosh or save Indiana Jones from death once more), and, depending on who you talk to, frustrated with or without political "progress."

But I don't want to talk about any of that. No, my topic today is how they move.

Three classes: gliders, striders, and hiders.

Gliders are austere, or appear to be: each Emirati woman with wasta (connection/influence) seems rarely to touch the ground. The effect is managed because of the abaya, I think: the garment is meant to touch the ground in order to cover all skin, and so not only does it hide the feet, it also requires careful, measured, slow steps to avoid entanglements in the hem.

Gliders are often also completely veiled, which makes ambulation all the more precarious--it requires steadiness and singularity of gaze, an attitude that results in both haughty and oblivious appearances, neither of which is necessarily the case, but when you're stuck behind a glider in a narrow aisle, or cut off by one in the street, they all seem cut from the same I'll-thank-you-to-step-off cloth.

Striders lack either the general grace or the indolent indifference of the gliders. These tend to be ambitious in purpose and confident in personhood. Abaya or no, they move without aggression and without fear, beside a man rather than behind him, or by themselves and the world to the devil. Heads are un- as often as covered, abayas worn will stream behind like the black-crow gown of Oxbridge. Striders leave hope in their wake.

Hiders--often those of lower rank or ex-pat muslims from other eastern countries--try hard to lay low. They cling together, downcast either from modesty or timidity, or in some cases fear. They move with a hyperkinetic agitatus, skittish like deer, shy as bunnies.


On a serious note:
The life of this country, like that of every nation, is the burden of its women, even those that don't know it: it is the burden of the haughty, high-bosomed phantasms; it is the burden of those burning with passion for life and learning, dreams blazing; and it is even the burden of the mousey ones afraid of their own shadows. They are collectively the life and limbs of the nation: they row it afloat, they cure it like smoke. May God bless them--masha'allah--and keep them moving forward, wherever they want forward to take them.

Happy International Women's Day.

Merv's new look

Well, we succumbed to the sun, at long last, and had Merv's windows darkened. We think he looks pretty swanky, but we're worried about what the cops might say. Here's the shot:



And here's the context:

Given that for nearly 350 of the 365 days in the year the sun shines bright, and often hot, the trend here is to darken one's car windows, just in case one has to leave it in the hot sun for prolonged periods (like, you know, more than 2 minutes), and in order to help reduce glare while driving. Ex-pats are allowed 30% tinting on side and rear windows. So that's what we got on Merv: 30% tinting, custom Bangladeshi-tailored shades for Merv (with a little higher potency on the top of the windscreen--at the tailor's assurance it would be okay). Cost us, with generous tip, around $60 cdn. Un-believable (I'm hyphenating for effect).

(As with everything else: meticulously done.)

So we were pretty excited about this: sure, there's been talk in the papers about cracking down on tinting: Emiratis are allowed 50%, to protect their women's modesty, but they often opt for what looks like one-way tinfoil--totally impenetrable. There will be little circles on the driver's and passenger's side windows to allow a view of the mirrors, but otherwise they're as opaque as silver dollars on a dead man's eyes. Kinda freaky, actually.

And we've spent a 5 months exposed: to the sun, to the curious stares and malevolent glares of other drivers, and given the, erm, rules around here, Wendy has had to refrain from putting her naked feet up on the dash because someone might see her toes and ankles and consider himself engaged to her. You know how it is. (Though she did say that the locals had darn fine taste in cologne the other day, so hum: maybe I should consider house arrest and bed sheets around here, too.)

But then Justin S told me at church that I will not be able to park inside the women's campus now that my windows are tinted. I'll have to fight for a spot outside, and hike in. Which isn't terrible: the walk's not bad (despite the singeing topside, wot?), and now that we're tinted, my steering wheel won't actually melt all over the leather, and my seatbelt will no longer sear its brand into my palms. But if I park inside I a) do not have to cross a desert to get to my building, and b) can park under one of the many covers that have been erected to provide shade to stationary vehicles. So that was a surprise. Guess they're worried about stowaways, abductees, and elopements. Anyway, I'll find out on Sunday.

Regardless of the outcome, this is an occasion for an occasional poem (and no, it isn't serious: mockingly so, anyway):

30%

30%, and 40 on the windscreen,
Like a visor carved in obsidian,
Greasepaint under a QB's eyes,
Or a lowered cap’s brim to shield a squint.

The world is somehow smaller,
The desert held at bay,
The glare contained, the sun defeated,
And it’s bittersweet.

Attached to a shadow,
And now swallowed by an artificial shade,
A portable dusk that shrinks eyes to the bone
And calls up claustrophobic sweat.

There are variations on this theme:
From this side, the implacable glass
Humiliates the seer,
Turns each window to mirror,

Refutes his glance and piercing eye
Like chainmail the assassin’s blade.
What bearded goddess hides, imperious,
Beneath th’obscuring shade,

Her equine features double-veiled,
Her languid, frightened looks walled in?
What family secret is covered over
By Bangladeshi palms: what fear or sin?


(What toes? what feet? what porcine meat?
What looks? what books? what ex-pat crooks?)

Kidding.

Shout-outs: Fadwa, you are always welcome. Just don't report me to the authorities if I get a little carried away.

S, w-o-A: welcome back. And yes, one entry per user, but it would be a tie, which means only one poem should you win.

Ambrose: glad your enthusiasm is on the rise. We aim to inform and entertain. Keep the comments coming, and let us know, eh?

Next week: how we were expelled for windows that were too dark, arousing the suspicions of the silken dandies in plastic dirtbike gear from CHiPS (or rather, CRiSPS).

Week after: life inside an Emirati prison.