Shade of the Month: "Blood Red."
Showing posts with label Sub-Cultural Commentary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sub-Cultural Commentary. Show all posts
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Piddly Riddle: Answer (and shout-outs)
We asked where you thought mosquitoes might breed here, and no one took the hint. So here's the answer:
Alright, so this one's from Indonesia, and the squatters we have here in the UAE are generally in better condition, but this is pretty representative of what we encountered in Oman last Fall.
Most bathrooms in public use buildings have sitting toilets, though many, as in the older buildings of the university, still offer at least one squatter. And that is, indeed, where the mosquitoes are hatched. Nice.
Also, I have to take my own TP to the university. Also nice. Maybe the bidets/hoses make up for the oversights.
Oh, to be arthritic, paraplegic, or an amputee in the UAE!
Shout-outs:
Thanks to Anonymous for the Islam comment. We won't be keeping our promise and posting about prayer this week because Wendy has been very ill, Jonah not much better, and in addition to caring for them I've to write my paper for a conference I'm attending stateside next week. Look for something from Wendy and the kids while I'm gone.
But we would like to know who Anonymous is, if that's okay. We appreciate the inclusion of the idea that women are not obligated to provide in any way for their families, and that they are entitled to keep their salary for themselves. Were going to mention that, but the post got longish as was. This idea that local culture "corrupts" or "inflects" religious practice is also an interesting and important idea. We might ask simply where you are writing from and whether or not what you represent as pure Islam is, indeed, practiced anywhere, or if this is something individual muslims come to by closer study and auto-critical evaluation.
We ask the question in earnest: this is a phenomenon that affects all religions, especially those without a central, living authority, but also those with. How Islam sorts these things out is of interest.
And now, back to lighter matters. Here's the Engrish for this week, as included on a lovely poster purchased by friends of a graduating student and displayed in the IT building on campus, just outside the room where we gathered for a faculty workshop on dealing with English language problems:
Salaam Alakum, and Congratulation (just one, because you're really not that special!)
Alright, so this one's from Indonesia, and the squatters we have here in the UAE are generally in better condition, but this is pretty representative of what we encountered in Oman last Fall.
Most bathrooms in public use buildings have sitting toilets, though many, as in the older buildings of the university, still offer at least one squatter. And that is, indeed, where the mosquitoes are hatched. Nice.
Also, I have to take my own TP to the university. Also nice. Maybe the bidets/hoses make up for the oversights.
Oh, to be arthritic, paraplegic, or an amputee in the UAE!
Shout-outs:
Thanks to Anonymous for the Islam comment. We won't be keeping our promise and posting about prayer this week because Wendy has been very ill, Jonah not much better, and in addition to caring for them I've to write my paper for a conference I'm attending stateside next week. Look for something from Wendy and the kids while I'm gone.
But we would like to know who Anonymous is, if that's okay. We appreciate the inclusion of the idea that women are not obligated to provide in any way for their families, and that they are entitled to keep their salary for themselves. Were going to mention that, but the post got longish as was. This idea that local culture "corrupts" or "inflects" religious practice is also an interesting and important idea. We might ask simply where you are writing from and whether or not what you represent as pure Islam is, indeed, practiced anywhere, or if this is something individual muslims come to by closer study and auto-critical evaluation.
We ask the question in earnest: this is a phenomenon that affects all religions, especially those without a central, living authority, but also those with. How Islam sorts these things out is of interest.
And now, back to lighter matters. Here's the Engrish for this week, as included on a lovely poster purchased by friends of a graduating student and displayed in the IT building on campus, just outside the room where we gathered for a faculty workshop on dealing with English language problems:
Salaam Alakum, and Congratulation (just one, because you're really not that special!)
Monday, May 5, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
This Week in Islam
Wuvv and Mawwiage.
We've commented before on the family-orientation of Emirati culture. This seems to be extensible to Arab culture in general, though it may be misleading in two ways. The first, the public dynamic of the family--father at the head, wife demure, is not necessarily a reflection of the realities "on the ground" of home, nor is it by any means overwhelmingly normative anymore.
We see increasing numbers of couples who seem to have arrived at a partnership: holding hands, co-managing kids and groceries, and (that telltale sign of marital bliss) squabbling in public. That's the happy side.
The second way in which it is misleading isn't quite so happy, of course, nor is it attributable entirely to tradition or faith because it is an ugly reality around the world: that is that apparent unity and order in public may belie abuse in private. We won't detail those things here because, as we say, they are ubiquitous in human society and owe more to the faults of individual men who use tradition as an excuse than they do anything peculiar to Arab culture.
Let us be clear, since you have no doubt heard of some terrible monstrosities committed in this region: forced marriages, honour killings, rape, etc. Islam, as contained in the teachings of the Qur'an and under the auspices of Shari'ah Law, guarantees the safety, agency, and welfare of brides. How those principles have been interpreted and or corrupted in specific regions, cultures, and families is another matter. There are families even here that have corrupted the doctrines, or have received them in corrupted form, and thus consider abuse in all forms a patriarchal right, and even a rite. We've heard some very terrible things, especially from more radically Islamist places like KSA, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and even supposedly secular Turkey. But it seems--seems--that the UAE is more libertarian in this regard as well, and that the dominant culture, as handed down by the ruling family, is one of greater transparency and rectitude: there are hypocrisies at work, of course, but inhumanity is not the norm by any stretch in our experience.
(A third irony, only recently brought to our attention, is that new mothers studying at the university are allowed one week after delivery to recuperate, then they are to return to their university studies, even if this means living in the hostels during the week and leaving their babies to be cared for by mothers and mothers-in-law. We must say, unequivocally, that this is shameful.)
It would seem, however, that marital relations are generally managed with a presumptive level of commitment, and that flexibility and responsibility are both built in to the institution. Here's what we learned this week about courtship, marriage, divorce, and reconciliation.
Courtship:
In general, husbands and wives do not have meaningful interactions before marriage, unless they are known to each other as cousins already. It seems that marriage between first cousins occurs, though the women prefer more distant connections if an in-family marriage is to take place. So incest taboos are in general force.
An interested young man (on his own terms or at the behest of his parents--mothers of sons have often seen these young girls in their ballroom finery at segregated portions of other wedding feats and celebrations, and from the sound of it they dress to the nines) will approach the father or male guardian (uncle, brother, etc.) of an eligible woman and offer a dowry. The dowry is, ostensibly, for her, and may be in the form of a gift of land, a house, or money. There are, of course, certain cultures in the Muslim world where fathers keep the dowry or husbands reclaim it after marriage, but here in the UAE the principle is apparently honoured very closely: the gift is hers and hers alone.
The woman may request that her male representative look into the character and history of the interested man, at which point her rep is supposed to make extensive inquiries. If she then agrees to the engagement, the dowry is transferred. She and her husband-to-be may exchange pictures so that each knows what the other looks like. He is allowed to join her family for meals and socialization, but she will, if it is her family practice, remain veiled and always silent on these occasions. This is a period for her to observe him in social spaces. The engagement may be terminated at any point by either party.
Interesting that the manner of giving assent to the marriage is by silence. Maybe they save all their talking for later.
Marriage:
The marriage ceremony is, like everything else (including conversion to Islam) a very simple matter of speaking certain words. The parties, on the other hand, are as lavish and costly as a New York barmitzvah, if not more so. The couple may live in a compound with his family or, if the wife insists, on their own. The husband is responsible for the maintenance of the family, including any children. If the wife works, she is legally permitted to keep all proceeds of her employment for herself. Couples may sign "nuptial" contracts guaranteeing her guardianship of children or a settlement in case of divorce.
Men seem in the main to love children, and are thus very active, at least publicly, in caring for and playing with their children. Some families drag cow-eyed nannies around: some of these seem little better than slavish, ill-defined "jobs," and others seem to have adopted the nanny into family life as a kind of live-in aunt.
Divorce and Reconciliation:
Only men can pronounce divorce, and again, it's simply a matter of saying "I divorce you." If he changes his mind, the husband may approach the wife in humility and ask her to come back. If she agrees, they pick up where they left off. If not, she is often expected to return the dowry, even in cases where she has been mistreated. This is to keep peace between families, and seems to be a holdover from tribal relations, which still influence some marriages, it seems.
If a man divorces his wife a second time, he can ask her to come back, but he must offer her a second dowry, over and above what he already paid. This is, we are told, a deterrent from divorce.
If he divorces her a third time, they must sever all contact. He can only remarry her if she has been married to another man in the interim, and is released by divorce or widowed. She cannot, however, marry another man simply for the purpose of remarrying her original husband. This is because divorce is frowned upon, and the penalty for strike three typically deters divorce since no man wants to think his wife has been with someone else.
Polygamy:
Bonus. Polygamy is allowed only if a) the man is capable of caring for additional wives and families, b) he has reason for doing so (similar to early secular justifications of polygamy in the US context: care of widows and orphans or the security of spinsters), c) has the approval of his first wife, though this last one is, again, abused in some areas.
Special thanks to Shaimaa and Aisha for their patience in explaining all of this. Wendy has also contributed through some of her reading of late. A search on the web will yield both naively idealistic portrayals and rabidly critical portrayals. For instance, this rather alarming piece from the Daily Mail (also our photocred). The general truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle.
Next week in Islam: prayer, from what the Prophet said to the supplicatory do'a.
Peace alakum.
We've commented before on the family-orientation of Emirati culture. This seems to be extensible to Arab culture in general, though it may be misleading in two ways. The first, the public dynamic of the family--father at the head, wife demure, is not necessarily a reflection of the realities "on the ground" of home, nor is it by any means overwhelmingly normative anymore.
We see increasing numbers of couples who seem to have arrived at a partnership: holding hands, co-managing kids and groceries, and (that telltale sign of marital bliss) squabbling in public. That's the happy side.
The second way in which it is misleading isn't quite so happy, of course, nor is it attributable entirely to tradition or faith because it is an ugly reality around the world: that is that apparent unity and order in public may belie abuse in private. We won't detail those things here because, as we say, they are ubiquitous in human society and owe more to the faults of individual men who use tradition as an excuse than they do anything peculiar to Arab culture.
Let us be clear, since you have no doubt heard of some terrible monstrosities committed in this region: forced marriages, honour killings, rape, etc. Islam, as contained in the teachings of the Qur'an and under the auspices of Shari'ah Law, guarantees the safety, agency, and welfare of brides. How those principles have been interpreted and or corrupted in specific regions, cultures, and families is another matter. There are families even here that have corrupted the doctrines, or have received them in corrupted form, and thus consider abuse in all forms a patriarchal right, and even a rite. We've heard some very terrible things, especially from more radically Islamist places like KSA, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and even supposedly secular Turkey. But it seems--seems--that the UAE is more libertarian in this regard as well, and that the dominant culture, as handed down by the ruling family, is one of greater transparency and rectitude: there are hypocrisies at work, of course, but inhumanity is not the norm by any stretch in our experience.
(A third irony, only recently brought to our attention, is that new mothers studying at the university are allowed one week after delivery to recuperate, then they are to return to their university studies, even if this means living in the hostels during the week and leaving their babies to be cared for by mothers and mothers-in-law. We must say, unequivocally, that this is shameful.)
It would seem, however, that marital relations are generally managed with a presumptive level of commitment, and that flexibility and responsibility are both built in to the institution. Here's what we learned this week about courtship, marriage, divorce, and reconciliation.
Courtship:
In general, husbands and wives do not have meaningful interactions before marriage, unless they are known to each other as cousins already. It seems that marriage between first cousins occurs, though the women prefer more distant connections if an in-family marriage is to take place. So incest taboos are in general force.
An interested young man (on his own terms or at the behest of his parents--mothers of sons have often seen these young girls in their ballroom finery at segregated portions of other wedding feats and celebrations, and from the sound of it they dress to the nines) will approach the father or male guardian (uncle, brother, etc.) of an eligible woman and offer a dowry. The dowry is, ostensibly, for her, and may be in the form of a gift of land, a house, or money. There are, of course, certain cultures in the Muslim world where fathers keep the dowry or husbands reclaim it after marriage, but here in the UAE the principle is apparently honoured very closely: the gift is hers and hers alone.
The woman may request that her male representative look into the character and history of the interested man, at which point her rep is supposed to make extensive inquiries. If she then agrees to the engagement, the dowry is transferred. She and her husband-to-be may exchange pictures so that each knows what the other looks like. He is allowed to join her family for meals and socialization, but she will, if it is her family practice, remain veiled and always silent on these occasions. This is a period for her to observe him in social spaces. The engagement may be terminated at any point by either party.
Interesting that the manner of giving assent to the marriage is by silence. Maybe they save all their talking for later.
Marriage:
The marriage ceremony is, like everything else (including conversion to Islam) a very simple matter of speaking certain words. The parties, on the other hand, are as lavish and costly as a New York barmitzvah, if not more so. The couple may live in a compound with his family or, if the wife insists, on their own. The husband is responsible for the maintenance of the family, including any children. If the wife works, she is legally permitted to keep all proceeds of her employment for herself. Couples may sign "nuptial" contracts guaranteeing her guardianship of children or a settlement in case of divorce.
Men seem in the main to love children, and are thus very active, at least publicly, in caring for and playing with their children. Some families drag cow-eyed nannies around: some of these seem little better than slavish, ill-defined "jobs," and others seem to have adopted the nanny into family life as a kind of live-in aunt.
Divorce and Reconciliation:
Only men can pronounce divorce, and again, it's simply a matter of saying "I divorce you." If he changes his mind, the husband may approach the wife in humility and ask her to come back. If she agrees, they pick up where they left off. If not, she is often expected to return the dowry, even in cases where she has been mistreated. This is to keep peace between families, and seems to be a holdover from tribal relations, which still influence some marriages, it seems.
If a man divorces his wife a second time, he can ask her to come back, but he must offer her a second dowry, over and above what he already paid. This is, we are told, a deterrent from divorce.
If he divorces her a third time, they must sever all contact. He can only remarry her if she has been married to another man in the interim, and is released by divorce or widowed. She cannot, however, marry another man simply for the purpose of remarrying her original husband. This is because divorce is frowned upon, and the penalty for strike three typically deters divorce since no man wants to think his wife has been with someone else.
Polygamy:
Bonus. Polygamy is allowed only if a) the man is capable of caring for additional wives and families, b) he has reason for doing so (similar to early secular justifications of polygamy in the US context: care of widows and orphans or the security of spinsters), c) has the approval of his first wife, though this last one is, again, abused in some areas.
Special thanks to Shaimaa and Aisha for their patience in explaining all of this. Wendy has also contributed through some of her reading of late. A search on the web will yield both naively idealistic portrayals and rabidly critical portrayals. For instance, this rather alarming piece from the Daily Mail (also our photocred). The general truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle.
Next week in Islam: prayer, from what the Prophet said to the supplicatory do'a.
Peace alakum.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Mmmmmmmmeeewwwww!
Waiting to ask for our comparatively palatable poitrine de poulet, I was witness to the selection and preparation of a pair of delectable cow's feet.
These were, of course, denuded (hairless), and therefore resembled the gnarly forearms of an ancient albino hermit who'd been living underwater and developed the rare condition "oiloinfantilis secreterensis."
Anyway, the "knuckle" or "ankle" bone was cut off with a bandsaw, and then the butcher split the hooves 5/6 of the way up the foot bone. He turned the feet perpendicular to the blade again and cut each hoof in sections. the whole blamed them went into a bag and over the counter.
I dunno what you'd use them for: maybe to fish for flies and rangy cats? scare off company if the dinner party isn't going well? hide them in your neighbor's laundry room as a prank? feed 'em to fussy kids? Hey, wait a minute. That's a good idee.
Riiiileeeey! We're goin' out for dinner! Today's Special: Cow Foot Soup! Mmmooooo.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Megavator Music and other Tuesday Ticklers
Hey there, kids. Sorry to miss you this weekend. Too much happening, too little time.
So we told you a coupla weeks ago about the Christmas music at Easter, which is in its own special way a rather poignant and hopeful gaffe.
Turns out it's not a gaffe, but a soundtrack.
In succession, in that gosh-awful-synthesized-couldn't-land-a-real-gig-cuz-Yanni-beat-me-to-it-so-I-churn-out-this-depressingly-catchy-crap high elevator style, the following:
Sunday: Jingle Bells
Monday: Gangsta's Paradise (I kids you not)
Tuesday: Ave Maria
What a rich and varied range of styles. Those elevator boys are nothing if not versatile.
Oh, and here's the Jonah connection: he's been reciting lines from Weird Al's "Ahmish Paradise" lately. These are, of course, things he's picked up from "the brothers" (meaning his, and not, like, Ryan), which he likes to share with everyone else under 5 feet tall. So yesterday, when he was visiting the school we've just registered him in, he lets drop the tasteful "A local boy kicked me in the butt today/But I don't mind, well, that's okay/Cuz I'll be laughin' real hard when he's burnin' in heck." Nice. Can we put Al on the no-fly list?
Also, we need to go to Megamart way less.
Funny, too:
"Ranjeet, I am wishing for to be knowing how I can quitting you."
(or, for die-hard SNL fans: "Lowered Expectay-ay-shuns.")
Alright, so I've used that joke before, but quite frankly, it never gets old, especially when you throw in "Ranjeet." Good stuff. Here's a better one, but we have to lose the "Ranjeet" and throw in an "Ahmad."
It really is very sweet when it's these old guys: two old friends who bumped into each other. The little girl on the right is the granddaughter of the man on the left, and the other man leaned over and kissed her on the head when he saw them. Felt bad taking advantage. But not bad enough.
Funny, three:
Ay caramba.
I should say that there are many highly accomplished and intelligent faculty here, and most of our administrators are the pick of the litter. The problem (isn't it always?) is at the level of middle-management: the printing office, for instance, does what and when it will: seet down, pleez, dreenk yore tee, ahnd bee-eeng payshince.
I don't actually drink any "tee." In case you were, you know, wondering.
The Three Filippigos
Lance, Roland, and Adrian (in all his chicky pock glory)
And we finally decided on our summer plans:
Yup. Picked up the tickets today: Darfur Summer Tour, here we come! Thought we'd introduce the kids to the workings of oppressive regimes, provide a frame of reference for the word "genocide": you know, your basic cultural experience with a hint of racial cleansing and a dash of anti-westernism. Though I think our Canada t-shirts will help a little. Ay caramba.
More to come soon. Watch this space. Riley goes electric (and Jon goes Tom Jones). Pictures from the pyramids, gothic reflections, Broadway comes to Al Ain, and much, much more!
Shout-outs: Hobo: you had one weeks ago. Dja miss it? Well, anyway: "Hey!"
Point of interest: photos taken on the iPhone, so take it easy, ec, on the photo-criticism. You try to catch Liv in mid-flight on one of these babies. Dare ya.
So we told you a coupla weeks ago about the Christmas music at Easter, which is in its own special way a rather poignant and hopeful gaffe.
Turns out it's not a gaffe, but a soundtrack.
In succession, in that gosh-awful-synthesized-couldn't-land-a-real-gig-cuz-Yanni-beat-me-to-it-so-I-churn-out-this-depressingly-catchy-crap high elevator style, the following:
Sunday: Jingle Bells
Monday: Gangsta's Paradise (I kids you not)
Tuesday: Ave Maria
What a rich and varied range of styles. Those elevator boys are nothing if not versatile.
Oh, and here's the Jonah connection: he's been reciting lines from Weird Al's "Ahmish Paradise" lately. These are, of course, things he's picked up from "the brothers" (meaning his, and not, like, Ryan), which he likes to share with everyone else under 5 feet tall. So yesterday, when he was visiting the school we've just registered him in, he lets drop the tasteful "A local boy kicked me in the butt today/But I don't mind, well, that's okay/Cuz I'll be laughin' real hard when he's burnin' in heck." Nice. Can we put Al on the no-fly list?
Also, we need to go to Megamart way less.
Funny, too:
"Ranjeet, I am wishing for to be knowing how I can quitting you."
(or, for die-hard SNL fans: "Lowered Expectay-ay-shuns.")
Alright, so I've used that joke before, but quite frankly, it never gets old, especially when you throw in "Ranjeet." Good stuff. Here's a better one, but we have to lose the "Ranjeet" and throw in an "Ahmad."
It really is very sweet when it's these old guys: two old friends who bumped into each other. The little girl on the right is the granddaughter of the man on the left, and the other man leaned over and kissed her on the head when he saw them. Felt bad taking advantage. But not bad enough.
Funny, three:
Ay caramba.
I should say that there are many highly accomplished and intelligent faculty here, and most of our administrators are the pick of the litter. The problem (isn't it always?) is at the level of middle-management: the printing office, for instance, does what and when it will: seet down, pleez, dreenk yore tee, ahnd bee-eeng payshince.
I don't actually drink any "tee." In case you were, you know, wondering.
The Three Filippigos
Lance, Roland, and Adrian (in all his chicky pock glory)
And we finally decided on our summer plans:
Yup. Picked up the tickets today: Darfur Summer Tour, here we come! Thought we'd introduce the kids to the workings of oppressive regimes, provide a frame of reference for the word "genocide": you know, your basic cultural experience with a hint of racial cleansing and a dash of anti-westernism. Though I think our Canada t-shirts will help a little. Ay caramba.
More to come soon. Watch this space. Riley goes electric (and Jon goes Tom Jones). Pictures from the pyramids, gothic reflections, Broadway comes to Al Ain, and much, much more!
Shout-outs: Hobo: you had one weeks ago. Dja miss it? Well, anyway: "Hey!"
Point of interest: photos taken on the iPhone, so take it easy, ec, on the photo-criticism. You try to catch Liv in mid-flight on one of these babies. Dare ya.
Friday, March 7, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Funnies, and not so
Subtle, but I get a kick out of it all the same.
I can't wait for the levitation part. And if they boil it I'm calling them out for cheaters, because nobody says anything here about transformation from liquid to gas. Nope, they've got to levitate it in its liquid form or I'm demanding a refund.
The poster is pretty typical of things around here: everybody gets a poster for everything, especially if they're already important. Like, "Sheikh Somebody-or-other cordially requests the honour of your presence as he enjoys his daily breakfast of jam-on-toast, crumpets, a fruit cup, scrumptious dates, and Arabian coffee what could levitate a horseshoe."
We are also fond of rubber stamps, whether they are legitimate or not, principally, we suspect, because a) We find it amusing to make the Western ex-pats beg, borrow, and steal to get the stamps in the first place, or b) the damned British done wrote them into the post-colonial rule book, like the continuing presence of ruggers and cricket, the usage of roundabouts, boots, bonnets, and spanners, and the occasional twirling of umbrellas as fashion accessories for the slightly effeminate.
Don't get me started on decrees. Wa'allah. (Loosely: ay caramba.)
Alright. Not sure this is going to work, and it's probably illegal, but it's a nice rendition of the "Adhan," or call to prayer. It's by the Cat Formerly Known As Stevens, or, if you prefer, the Artist Formerly Known As Cat Stevens, and whose tenure on Billboard is matched only by his tenure on the no-fly list after some injudicious comments made post-7/7. Without further ado, except for the production credits by the hired infidel, I give you Yusuf Islam:
Might wanna listen to it twice, just to let the stream catch up. His Arabic is a little different from what we hear around here--might be because he's a Brit: he does the kinds of things I can imagine Dad doing if he ever got his Lancashire jaws on a semitic tongue (which sounds rather violent, now that I think about it).
Anyway, we hear "Allahu okhbahr," not "Allahu aikhbaihr." Potayto, potahto.
I can't wait for the levitation part. And if they boil it I'm calling them out for cheaters, because nobody says anything here about transformation from liquid to gas. Nope, they've got to levitate it in its liquid form or I'm demanding a refund.
The poster is pretty typical of things around here: everybody gets a poster for everything, especially if they're already important. Like, "Sheikh Somebody-or-other cordially requests the honour of your presence as he enjoys his daily breakfast of jam-on-toast, crumpets, a fruit cup, scrumptious dates, and Arabian coffee what could levitate a horseshoe."
We are also fond of rubber stamps, whether they are legitimate or not, principally, we suspect, because a) We find it amusing to make the Western ex-pats beg, borrow, and steal to get the stamps in the first place, or b) the damned British done wrote them into the post-colonial rule book, like the continuing presence of ruggers and cricket, the usage of roundabouts, boots, bonnets, and spanners, and the occasional twirling of umbrellas as fashion accessories for the slightly effeminate.
Don't get me started on decrees. Wa'allah. (Loosely: ay caramba.)
Alright. Not sure this is going to work, and it's probably illegal, but it's a nice rendition of the "Adhan," or call to prayer. It's by the Cat Formerly Known As Stevens, or, if you prefer, the Artist Formerly Known As Cat Stevens, and whose tenure on Billboard is matched only by his tenure on the no-fly list after some injudicious comments made post-7/7. Without further ado, except for the production credits by the hired infidel, I give you Yusuf Islam:
Might wanna listen to it twice, just to let the stream catch up. His Arabic is a little different from what we hear around here--might be because he's a Brit: he does the kinds of things I can imagine Dad doing if he ever got his Lancashire jaws on a semitic tongue (which sounds rather violent, now that I think about it).
Anyway, we hear "Allahu okhbahr," not "Allahu aikhbaihr." Potayto, potahto.
Things you can do cheaply, easily, and cheaply and easily in the UAE
get fat
get honked at
get glowered at
get smiled at
get your clothes washed
get your clothes pressed
get your clothes tailored
get tailored clothes
get your groceries delivered
get your pizza delivered
get your fast food delivered
get your furniture delivered
get just about anything delivered
get lost
get found
get even
get odd
get over it
get around
get palm dates
get your hair butchered
get a cow butchered
get a chicken butchered
get your tank filled
get your car washed
get fired
get hired
get expelled
get offended
get rear-ended
get religion
get cable vision
but not (and this seems only to apply to us, excepting Christopher, who is always the colour of darkish milk chocolate, even in the dead of the deadest, wintriest winter) get tanned
get honked at
get glowered at
get smiled at
get your clothes washed
get your clothes pressed
get your clothes tailored
get tailored clothes
get your groceries delivered
get your pizza delivered
get your fast food delivered
get your furniture delivered
get just about anything delivered
get lost
get found
get even
get odd
get over it
get around
get palm dates
get your hair butchered
get a cow butchered
get a chicken butchered
get your tank filled
get your car washed
get fired
get hired
get expelled
get offended
get rear-ended
get religion
get cable vision
but not (and this seems only to apply to us, excepting Christopher, who is always the colour of darkish milk chocolate, even in the dead of the deadest, wintriest winter) get tanned
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Good Clean Fun
When you're young, male, and you don't drink--leastwise not in front of anyone else--I guess you turn to other diversions to compensate for the absence of stupidity brought on by inebriation:
http://view.break.com/398332 - Watch more free videos
It seems you find Darwin Award candidates in every culture: we once saw a kid riding in a shopping cart hurtled toward a sidewalk by his "friends." Of course, his feet got tangled in his dishdash as he tried to bail, so he wiped out pretty nicely in the desert grit, narrowly missing a makeout session with the grill of a Dodge Durango.
Speaking of stupid human tricks involving SUVs:
Then there's this:
How do you say "moxie" in Arabic?
Anyway, we used to bumperski in PG, and in Maple Ridge a favourite neighborhood game was four-square-dodgeball . . . with lawn darts. So testosterone-induced moronism is obviously universal. (No Arabs were hurt in the making of these films: al hamdulillah.)
But lions at parties is a new thing, I should think: and Siegfried and Roy nowhere to be seen. But, you know, they don't have Siegfrieds and Roys here. Clearly.
We suppose we could blog about Arabic language and literature, or lecture disquisitionally on the history of pearl-diving and dhow-making, but quite frankly it's the public behaviours that fascinate us. This is indeed a surprising and sometimes shocking culture, or rather clash of cultures. Must be something in the lookha. Sheesh.
Riley just back from his youth conference in Bahrain. Good times. He made some new friends whose names he cannot recall, and we will have pictures from Shari before long. Next week, all goes well. 'Til then . . . .
http://view.break.com/398332 - Watch more free videos
It seems you find Darwin Award candidates in every culture: we once saw a kid riding in a shopping cart hurtled toward a sidewalk by his "friends." Of course, his feet got tangled in his dishdash as he tried to bail, so he wiped out pretty nicely in the desert grit, narrowly missing a makeout session with the grill of a Dodge Durango.
Speaking of stupid human tricks involving SUVs:
Then there's this:
How do you say "moxie" in Arabic?
Anyway, we used to bumperski in PG, and in Maple Ridge a favourite neighborhood game was four-square-dodgeball . . . with lawn darts. So testosterone-induced moronism is obviously universal. (No Arabs were hurt in the making of these films: al hamdulillah.)
But lions at parties is a new thing, I should think: and Siegfried and Roy nowhere to be seen. But, you know, they don't have Siegfrieds and Roys here. Clearly.
We suppose we could blog about Arabic language and literature, or lecture disquisitionally on the history of pearl-diving and dhow-making, but quite frankly it's the public behaviours that fascinate us. This is indeed a surprising and sometimes shocking culture, or rather clash of cultures. Must be something in the lookha. Sheesh.
Riley just back from his youth conference in Bahrain. Good times. He made some new friends whose names he cannot recall, and we will have pictures from Shari before long. Next week, all goes well. 'Til then . . . .
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Happy Whatsama What? Huh?
File this under "Oddities." There were many things we expected to see, coming here. And there were many things we did not expect to see. We were told that Al Ain was like the Jeddah of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi, except not quite so much. But yeah, you can tell a difference between here and Abu Dhabi and Dubai, not only in what westerners generally try to pull off (and by "Westerners" we mean godless heathens--mostly European), but in what Arabs and Muslim "others" will get away with (or without).
We did not expect, for instance, to see so many flipping lingerie stores. Good golly. And even if we had, we wouldn't have expected provocative displays. Alright, so they're marginally toned down, but the dummies are anatomically correct, except for those without heads; and the models are always godless euro-heathens, but its not their compatriots who are in those stores, either as customers or employees. Weird!--I'ma say it again--Weird! to see women in the whole shootin' match--abaya (body covering), shaela (head scarf), and burkha (veil) shopping at Victoria's Secret and other local, and more, erm, lingerial specialty shops.
Okay, so we've grown accustomed to that. Not that we spend anytime there ourselves, or tend to look in as we walk by, of course. Ahem.
We were told not to hold hands in public, but guess what! Couples under 45 generally can and/or do around here, so all bets are off. We were also told to keep shoulders and knees covered at least, but the memo seems not to have enjoyed total distribution. I mean, you can tell a difference between here and, say, Ventura Boulevard or the Las Vegas strip. Generally speaking--98% of the time--even the Arabs who wear western dress sans abaya are in the main more modestly covered than the average 'tween at Johnson Memorial Junior High. So that's good. But now and then some godless euro-heathen blows by who would easily fit in on Ventura, the Strip, or at JMJH.
What's interesting is, despite my views of radical forms of dress and the mixing of social rule with religious dogma, I still experience a kind of sympathetic disappointment when I see Arab women dressed provocatively, at least by comparison. And the fact is they're not really being provocative.
But it makes me think that the veiling of bodies and faces is, at least culturo-historically, meant to be sensual--the very quality it has been appropriated by religious law to suppress. Because judging from what goes on at VS and fellows, well, let's just say Valentine's Day is a pretty big deal. No, we are not in Saudi Arabia, where that's all been more or less banned. Here it's on open display. Might not be very many folks at the movie theatre tonight.
But this is a family blog. Forgive me. I'm just in sociological shock, because I was over at the mall early tonight (V Day), and saw 5, that's FIVE, interracial couples. And I don't mean the common types: Arab and African-extraction, or Arab and Filipina, all-muslim. I mean by golly Arab and godless euro-heathen. 5 Arab men in different places in the mall in the company of geh's. 2 of the men were in dishdasha, spandex-wearing lipstick hos (God forgive them) at their sides. I had to rub my eyes and pinch my arms. I do verily believe that the Apocalypse is nigh.
With that, a special treat. Three items for your reading and viewing pleasure. The last makes fun of Bush's Iranian twin, so I don't think you have to worry too much. And another disclaimer: poems just happen to poets. It's a mood thing, a kind of oracular mood swing, if we must have the truth. I don't feel this way today. In fact, I both fear for this wonderfully, comparatively moderate society and celebrate it, as long as it lasts. And may it last. Insha'allah. Because in the main, whatever they've inherited or adopted, these are good people: kindly, thoughtful, whispery smooth, and profoundly alight. And when the luxury train makes its last stop, I hope they're wide awake and ready to hoof it on ahead. We'll need them.
Sila, Liwa, Bani Yas
They keep this up, there’ll be no desert left,
No space to wreck, no four-wheel desert cleft
To winnow down: no dry-heave, tinder bone
To let a man alone.
The death-gasp of the culture that could tear
The banshee shriek of what is drawing near
Is such a modern thing it makes me grin
Like poison: sick of sin.
They keep this up, these mincing, drifting ghosts,
These zebra forms with all their Babel boasts,
They’ll blister from the artificial cold:
The center cannot hold,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer,*
The tent is void, the women too demure,
And from the mosques a bitter incense fumes:
It’ll bring them to their tombs.
And my valentine to Wendy: she'll forgive me for posting it. I was hoping she would either laugh out loud or say it was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard, but she, well, never mind. Let's just say she passed Go without collecting the $200, and the moment kinda fell a little flat.
Heart Failure: Averted
(Thanks to you)
Here are all the things I’d do
If I hadn’t married you:
I’d drive a motorbike too fast
And wouldn’t slow until I’d passed
Each station wagon, bus, and van
Along the hairpin-turn TransCan;
I’d live in Europe, catch disease,
And contract head lice, maybe fleas;
I’d prowl her humid streets all night,
Or stay up reading in too-dim light;
I’d eat too much of the wrong thing,
And sleep too late, and never sing
And I’d hate kids, and adults, too,
If I had never married you.
If I hadn’t married you
I’d probably have learned kung fu
And used it on some smaller bloke
And done some time in the provincial poke.
I’d fail at work, make big mistakes,
Spend too much dough on crappy dates
Grow far too old for the singles scene
And drown my sorrows in ice cream.
Then I’d move home, get fat and bald,
Spend afternoons in shopping malls,
Write little, think less, be profoundly depressed,
And despise myself. Yep, I confess
That this is where I’d likely be
If you hadn’t married me.
And finally, from JibJab (we don't know what he actually says, though this was clearly taken from his Columbia U speech),
By the way, it is confirmed: "Rai-li" does indeed mean "my husband." In their dreams.
*Credits (before I forget): "sick of sin" comes from Wilfred Owen's great "Dulce et decorum est"; both "The centre cannot hold" and "The falcon cannot hear the falconer" are from Yeats' "The Second Coming." Lest ye think me a base thief, and curse me for a hack . . . .
We did not expect, for instance, to see so many flipping lingerie stores. Good golly. And even if we had, we wouldn't have expected provocative displays. Alright, so they're marginally toned down, but the dummies are anatomically correct, except for those without heads; and the models are always godless euro-heathens, but its not their compatriots who are in those stores, either as customers or employees. Weird!--I'ma say it again--Weird! to see women in the whole shootin' match--abaya (body covering), shaela (head scarf), and burkha (veil) shopping at Victoria's Secret and other local, and more, erm, lingerial specialty shops.
Okay, so we've grown accustomed to that. Not that we spend anytime there ourselves, or tend to look in as we walk by, of course. Ahem.
We were told not to hold hands in public, but guess what! Couples under 45 generally can and/or do around here, so all bets are off. We were also told to keep shoulders and knees covered at least, but the memo seems not to have enjoyed total distribution. I mean, you can tell a difference between here and, say, Ventura Boulevard or the Las Vegas strip. Generally speaking--98% of the time--even the Arabs who wear western dress sans abaya are in the main more modestly covered than the average 'tween at Johnson Memorial Junior High. So that's good. But now and then some godless euro-heathen blows by who would easily fit in on Ventura, the Strip, or at JMJH.
What's interesting is, despite my views of radical forms of dress and the mixing of social rule with religious dogma, I still experience a kind of sympathetic disappointment when I see Arab women dressed provocatively, at least by comparison. And the fact is they're not really being provocative.
But it makes me think that the veiling of bodies and faces is, at least culturo-historically, meant to be sensual--the very quality it has been appropriated by religious law to suppress. Because judging from what goes on at VS and fellows, well, let's just say Valentine's Day is a pretty big deal. No, we are not in Saudi Arabia, where that's all been more or less banned. Here it's on open display. Might not be very many folks at the movie theatre tonight.
But this is a family blog. Forgive me. I'm just in sociological shock, because I was over at the mall early tonight (V Day), and saw 5, that's FIVE, interracial couples. And I don't mean the common types: Arab and African-extraction, or Arab and Filipina, all-muslim. I mean by golly Arab and godless euro-heathen. 5 Arab men in different places in the mall in the company of geh's. 2 of the men were in dishdasha, spandex-wearing lipstick hos (God forgive them) at their sides. I had to rub my eyes and pinch my arms. I do verily believe that the Apocalypse is nigh.
With that, a special treat. Three items for your reading and viewing pleasure. The last makes fun of Bush's Iranian twin, so I don't think you have to worry too much. And another disclaimer: poems just happen to poets. It's a mood thing, a kind of oracular mood swing, if we must have the truth. I don't feel this way today. In fact, I both fear for this wonderfully, comparatively moderate society and celebrate it, as long as it lasts. And may it last. Insha'allah. Because in the main, whatever they've inherited or adopted, these are good people: kindly, thoughtful, whispery smooth, and profoundly alight. And when the luxury train makes its last stop, I hope they're wide awake and ready to hoof it on ahead. We'll need them.
Sila, Liwa, Bani Yas
They keep this up, there’ll be no desert left,
No space to wreck, no four-wheel desert cleft
To winnow down: no dry-heave, tinder bone
To let a man alone.
The death-gasp of the culture that could tear
The banshee shriek of what is drawing near
Is such a modern thing it makes me grin
Like poison: sick of sin.
They keep this up, these mincing, drifting ghosts,
These zebra forms with all their Babel boasts,
They’ll blister from the artificial cold:
The center cannot hold,
The falcon cannot hear the falconer,*
The tent is void, the women too demure,
And from the mosques a bitter incense fumes:
It’ll bring them to their tombs.
And my valentine to Wendy: she'll forgive me for posting it. I was hoping she would either laugh out loud or say it was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard, but she, well, never mind. Let's just say she passed Go without collecting the $200, and the moment kinda fell a little flat.
Heart Failure: Averted
(Thanks to you)
Here are all the things I’d do
If I hadn’t married you:
I’d drive a motorbike too fast
And wouldn’t slow until I’d passed
Each station wagon, bus, and van
Along the hairpin-turn TransCan;
I’d live in Europe, catch disease,
And contract head lice, maybe fleas;
I’d prowl her humid streets all night,
Or stay up reading in too-dim light;
I’d eat too much of the wrong thing,
And sleep too late, and never sing
And I’d hate kids, and adults, too,
If I had never married you.
If I hadn’t married you
I’d probably have learned kung fu
And used it on some smaller bloke
And done some time in the provincial poke.
I’d fail at work, make big mistakes,
Spend too much dough on crappy dates
Grow far too old for the singles scene
And drown my sorrows in ice cream.
Then I’d move home, get fat and bald,
Spend afternoons in shopping malls,
Write little, think less, be profoundly depressed,
And despise myself. Yep, I confess
That this is where I’d likely be
If you hadn’t married me.
And finally, from JibJab (we don't know what he actually says, though this was clearly taken from his Columbia U speech),
By the way, it is confirmed: "Rai-li" does indeed mean "my husband." In their dreams.
*Credits (before I forget): "sick of sin" comes from Wilfred Owen's great "Dulce et decorum est"; both "The centre cannot hold" and "The falcon cannot hear the falconer" are from Yeats' "The Second Coming." Lest ye think me a base thief, and curse me for a hack . . . .
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Things we learned this week
Profound lessons, every one.
First of all--and this is important, so pay attention--"Extra cheese?", especially in the interrogative mood, does not mean, "Do you want a surplus of cheese over and above what you already have?" That is to say, it is not a hermeneutic intended to uncover the presence or absence of an existential desire for supernumerary slices of cheese.
No, it means more simply, "Do you want cheese? That'll be extra."
"Extra" is in contextual effect a misplaced modifier, and in actual fact a dangling modifier. Dangling like melty cheese, for which I have now paid a surprising extra. We learned this by refusing the "extra cheese," thereby getting no cheese at all.
Also, for the first few months of his schooling, the Emirati girls would often tease Riley, giggling and laughing at the mere pronouncement of his name. He did not mention this, of course, until recently, when he was informed by a smirking colleague that "Riley," phonetically, means "my husband" in Arabic. Well, we gave this a good long Pooh-think, and determined that the appropriate response to the Emirati girls calling him by name would be "You wish!" or "In your dreams, Sweetheart!"
So you can imagine the scene:
Emirati girl asks, "Who knows the most about Canada?"
"Oh," replies another. "That would be Riley."
"You wish!"
Or another scene:
"I'll be in the seat next to Riley."
"In your dreams, Sweetheart!"
It goes without saying that Riley has had neither the courage nor the self-possession to follow through, though he did acknowledge the especial hilarity of the tagline to the accidental pun.
Now he tells us that Riley is in fact meaningless in Arabic, but I think his leg has been pulled yet again, and I intend to ask my students about it this week.
A bit early this time: I won't be able to blog on Friday, or Saturday, or perhaps ever again, if this pace keeps up. Wendy will likely tell you something about Christopher's Arabian birthday. We appreciate, as always, your faith and prayers, etcetera. We're considering a change of school next year, and could use some clarity.
Shout outs: Steve and Camille for having a new baby boy. Especially Camille cuz, well, she actually did the having. But boo-hiss for calling the poor kid "Perry." Ay caramba. I know it's a Clegg name, but c'mon. Congrats to Steve for the promotion. Camille, we hope you recover quick like a bunny.
Adam: for funniest comment almost ever, but on purpose. See Jonahisms.
All y'all for digging us so much and coming back for more. By the way, I've taken restrictions off commenting, so feel free to say a few words now and then. We like knowing you're out there. Ask questions, voice exceptions, make requests, sound off: just keep it clean, and don't ask us to work too hard.
Seacrest out.
First of all--and this is important, so pay attention--"Extra cheese?", especially in the interrogative mood, does not mean, "Do you want a surplus of cheese over and above what you already have?" That is to say, it is not a hermeneutic intended to uncover the presence or absence of an existential desire for supernumerary slices of cheese.
No, it means more simply, "Do you want cheese? That'll be extra."
"Extra" is in contextual effect a misplaced modifier, and in actual fact a dangling modifier. Dangling like melty cheese, for which I have now paid a surprising extra. We learned this by refusing the "extra cheese," thereby getting no cheese at all.
Also, for the first few months of his schooling, the Emirati girls would often tease Riley, giggling and laughing at the mere pronouncement of his name. He did not mention this, of course, until recently, when he was informed by a smirking colleague that "Riley," phonetically, means "my husband" in Arabic. Well, we gave this a good long Pooh-think, and determined that the appropriate response to the Emirati girls calling him by name would be "You wish!" or "In your dreams, Sweetheart!"
So you can imagine the scene:
Emirati girl asks, "Who knows the most about Canada?"
"Oh," replies another. "That would be Riley."
"You wish!"
Or another scene:
"I'll be in the seat next to Riley."
"In your dreams, Sweetheart!"
It goes without saying that Riley has had neither the courage nor the self-possession to follow through, though he did acknowledge the especial hilarity of the tagline to the accidental pun.
Now he tells us that Riley is in fact meaningless in Arabic, but I think his leg has been pulled yet again, and I intend to ask my students about it this week.
A bit early this time: I won't be able to blog on Friday, or Saturday, or perhaps ever again, if this pace keeps up. Wendy will likely tell you something about Christopher's Arabian birthday. We appreciate, as always, your faith and prayers, etcetera. We're considering a change of school next year, and could use some clarity.
Shout outs: Steve and Camille for having a new baby boy. Especially Camille cuz, well, she actually did the having. But boo-hiss for calling the poor kid "Perry." Ay caramba. I know it's a Clegg name, but c'mon. Congrats to Steve for the promotion. Camille, we hope you recover quick like a bunny.
Adam: for funniest comment almost ever, but on purpose. See Jonahisms.
All y'all for digging us so much and coming back for more. By the way, I've taken restrictions off commenting, so feel free to say a few words now and then. We like knowing you're out there. Ask questions, voice exceptions, make requests, sound off: just keep it clean, and don't ask us to work too hard.
Seacrest out.
These are the rulers in our neighborhood!
Might wanna magnify this one:
So these are four of the big five: from memory, on the left is Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa (Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi, Deputy Commanding Officer of the Armed Forces), then there's Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammad, the new Crown Prince of Dubai, Sheikh Khalifa (Ruler of Abu Dhabi, President of UAE, Son of Zayed, all-around Big Kahuna), and Sheikh Maktoum bin Mohammad, Deputy Ruler of Dubai.
To clarify, the brothers Hamdan and Maktoum are sons of Sheikh Mohammad, Ruler of Dubai and Prime Minister of UAE, not Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa, Crown Prince (and therefore future Ruler) of Abu Dhabi. "Bin," sometimes "Ibn," means "son of": and boy howdy are there lots of "sons of," you know, given the whole polygamy thing. So chances are the brothers are half-brothers, but everyone's okay with it. "Big Love" ruffleth no feathers here.
Anyway, Sheik Khalifa is the son of Zayed, founder of the UAE, which you should all know by now is a union of separate emirates, or kingdoms, of which Abu Dhabi is the largest geographically and, by all reports, the wealthiest. There are also Dubai, clearly, Sharjah, Ras al Kaimah, and three others whose names I can never recall with certainty. Al Ain is part of Abu Dhabi, despite being closer to Dubai, and is in fact the birthplace of Zayed. Khalifa et al own 40% of the land in Al Ain, and have upwards of 20 palaces in the area. He spends roughly two days a year here, or so I heard. Maybe that's nights. I think he comes for lunch once a week to visit his mother.
So anyway, Zayed, as you may recall from last week's lecture, was the one who ushered in the era of oil exploration and development, taking Abu Dhabi and the UAE out of obscurity, and perhaps unintentionally turning them into a veritable orgy of shopping malls, fast food outlets, sheesha bars, car washes, Afghani cabbies, Pakistani barbers, Indonesian gas jockeys, Filipina nannies, luxury watches, ubiquitous incense, mysterious women, lonely men (though obviously not all of them are lonely), starving cats, befuddled moviegoers, stupefying architecture, theme parks, and marginally bemused expats. There can be little doubt that Zayed was like Gorbachev: hoping for a gradual accommodation rather than an explosion of wealth and development, though he was impatient to get things goind in terms of human resource development and infrastructure. But he also took a soft view of development: height restrictions in Al Ain, for instance: nothing over four storeys in the garden city, spank you very much. And Abu Dhabi seems to be less frenetic in its development as well when compared to Dubai. It is the seat of government, and some modicum of sanity prevails.
In sum: Abu Dhabi rules, Dubai helps out, and the others basically tag along.
Test next Friday.
So these are four of the big five: from memory, on the left is Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa (Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi, Deputy Commanding Officer of the Armed Forces), then there's Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammad, the new Crown Prince of Dubai, Sheikh Khalifa (Ruler of Abu Dhabi, President of UAE, Son of Zayed, all-around Big Kahuna), and Sheikh Maktoum bin Mohammad, Deputy Ruler of Dubai.
To clarify, the brothers Hamdan and Maktoum are sons of Sheikh Mohammad, Ruler of Dubai and Prime Minister of UAE, not Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa, Crown Prince (and therefore future Ruler) of Abu Dhabi. "Bin," sometimes "Ibn," means "son of": and boy howdy are there lots of "sons of," you know, given the whole polygamy thing. So chances are the brothers are half-brothers, but everyone's okay with it. "Big Love" ruffleth no feathers here.
Anyway, Sheik Khalifa is the son of Zayed, founder of the UAE, which you should all know by now is a union of separate emirates, or kingdoms, of which Abu Dhabi is the largest geographically and, by all reports, the wealthiest. There are also Dubai, clearly, Sharjah, Ras al Kaimah, and three others whose names I can never recall with certainty. Al Ain is part of Abu Dhabi, despite being closer to Dubai, and is in fact the birthplace of Zayed. Khalifa et al own 40% of the land in Al Ain, and have upwards of 20 palaces in the area. He spends roughly two days a year here, or so I heard. Maybe that's nights. I think he comes for lunch once a week to visit his mother.
So anyway, Zayed, as you may recall from last week's lecture, was the one who ushered in the era of oil exploration and development, taking Abu Dhabi and the UAE out of obscurity, and perhaps unintentionally turning them into a veritable orgy of shopping malls, fast food outlets, sheesha bars, car washes, Afghani cabbies, Pakistani barbers, Indonesian gas jockeys, Filipina nannies, luxury watches, ubiquitous incense, mysterious women, lonely men (though obviously not all of them are lonely), starving cats, befuddled moviegoers, stupefying architecture, theme parks, and marginally bemused expats. There can be little doubt that Zayed was like Gorbachev: hoping for a gradual accommodation rather than an explosion of wealth and development, though he was impatient to get things goind in terms of human resource development and infrastructure. But he also took a soft view of development: height restrictions in Al Ain, for instance: nothing over four storeys in the garden city, spank you very much. And Abu Dhabi seems to be less frenetic in its development as well when compared to Dubai. It is the seat of government, and some modicum of sanity prevails.
In sum: Abu Dhabi rules, Dubai helps out, and the others basically tag along.
Test next Friday.
Friday, February 1, 2008
On Family
Shout outs:
Ambrose--don't worry about commenting on every post. Save yourself for the ones you really get into. And we all know you're capable of incomparable wit.
Todos--thanks for the compliments on the poems. Well, they are what they are. I'm glad they served.
Note the note at the bottom of the page: we'd be glad to include more blog links if you have 'em. Remember that this is a family station.
Ahnos--still nothing. We miss you, and wish we knew who you were.
Alright. We were a bit neg last time, so we're going to point out some of the cultural high points in the coming weeks.
The first and best of these is the importance of family in Emirati culture--informed more by Arab heritage than by Islam, I think, but with its share of influences. We'd love to say that this is true of the muslim world in general, and it probably is to some extent, though it is also true that Islamic communities have historically tended to a quasi-pathological patriarchal structure. And we must also say that Emirati culture is not without its warts in this respect as well: women are still relatively limited in terms of the choices and kinds of choices they can make.
That said, domestic life here seems really very tranquil. We rarely see parents abuse their children in any way (even when we sometimes wish they would), and we see them together a lot. Emirati families love to be out and about, especially in the evening hours. There are parks all over the place, and these are generally busy: picnics in the evening, games and fun during the day. Couples and families shop together, and you'll actually see men with their children more than you see women alone with the children. Families that have nannies--the pyjama-wearing, deflated, Eeyore, subaltern types or the hip, chatty, liberated types--will generally always have the nanny in tow, especially a mother with her children.
They love them some kids, though. Jonah is regularly mobbed and always ogled wherever he goes. His hair has been tousled, stroked, finger-combed, and otherwise assaulted. His cheeks have been pinched, kissed, tickled, and scratched. He's been lifted up, full on mouth-kissed, cornered, chased, and traumatized in a thousand other ways. All in good fun. Kismet, we suppose, for the time he knocked that poor pregnant woman over on her keister (how does one spell that?).
Emirati children are a handful, mind you. We've dubbed those ones "Emibratties." We mean it in the best positive way. But they can be very sweet, and all in all kids is kids.
And we suppose that's what distinguishes and humanizes our Arab others: we all have fundamentally the same stresses, concerns, joys, and loves. Whatever its failings, Arab culture has learned to safeguard children and is increasingly egalitarian in its view of parenting and marriage. Modest displays of affection are evident even here: the holding of hands, an exchange of whispered jokes or glances, a watchfulness and patience. We've much to learn as westerners, in that respect at least. We probably chalk our own newly discovered family unity to our spiritual isolation, but we think it may well be part of an identification, an awakening, that connects us to our hosts, even as language and habit and doctrine still divide us.
And that's the way it was this Friday, February 1. We're not Paul Harvey (nor are we Walter Cronkite--whoops), but good day anyway.
Ambrose--don't worry about commenting on every post. Save yourself for the ones you really get into. And we all know you're capable of incomparable wit.
Todos--thanks for the compliments on the poems. Well, they are what they are. I'm glad they served.
Note the note at the bottom of the page: we'd be glad to include more blog links if you have 'em. Remember that this is a family station.
Ahnos--still nothing. We miss you, and wish we knew who you were.
Alright. We were a bit neg last time, so we're going to point out some of the cultural high points in the coming weeks.
The first and best of these is the importance of family in Emirati culture--informed more by Arab heritage than by Islam, I think, but with its share of influences. We'd love to say that this is true of the muslim world in general, and it probably is to some extent, though it is also true that Islamic communities have historically tended to a quasi-pathological patriarchal structure. And we must also say that Emirati culture is not without its warts in this respect as well: women are still relatively limited in terms of the choices and kinds of choices they can make.
That said, domestic life here seems really very tranquil. We rarely see parents abuse their children in any way (even when we sometimes wish they would), and we see them together a lot. Emirati families love to be out and about, especially in the evening hours. There are parks all over the place, and these are generally busy: picnics in the evening, games and fun during the day. Couples and families shop together, and you'll actually see men with their children more than you see women alone with the children. Families that have nannies--the pyjama-wearing, deflated, Eeyore, subaltern types or the hip, chatty, liberated types--will generally always have the nanny in tow, especially a mother with her children.
They love them some kids, though. Jonah is regularly mobbed and always ogled wherever he goes. His hair has been tousled, stroked, finger-combed, and otherwise assaulted. His cheeks have been pinched, kissed, tickled, and scratched. He's been lifted up, full on mouth-kissed, cornered, chased, and traumatized in a thousand other ways. All in good fun. Kismet, we suppose, for the time he knocked that poor pregnant woman over on her keister (how does one spell that?).
Emirati children are a handful, mind you. We've dubbed those ones "Emibratties." We mean it in the best positive way. But they can be very sweet, and all in all kids is kids.
And we suppose that's what distinguishes and humanizes our Arab others: we all have fundamentally the same stresses, concerns, joys, and loves. Whatever its failings, Arab culture has learned to safeguard children and is increasingly egalitarian in its view of parenting and marriage. Modest displays of affection are evident even here: the holding of hands, an exchange of whispered jokes or glances, a watchfulness and patience. We've much to learn as westerners, in that respect at least. We probably chalk our own newly discovered family unity to our spiritual isolation, but we think it may well be part of an identification, an awakening, that connects us to our hosts, even as language and habit and doctrine still divide us.
And that's the way it was this Friday, February 1. We're not Paul Harvey (nor are we Walter Cronkite--whoops), but good day anyway.
Friday, January 25, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, January 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, January 4, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Ho! Ho! Ho?
[from threesources.com]
Well, it's that time of year: the sun is shining, the pool is a clear, crystal blue, the weather has cooled off just enough that we have only one room requiring air conditioning at night, the flowers are in bloom, and our tans are a medium brown. Yep, it's Christmas in the Arabian peninsula.
Ah, how the old traditions warm our already warm hearts: hummus cakes on Christmas Eve, shawarma-on-a-stick for Christmas dinner, date pies, date jellies, date ice cream, the sounds of chanting and rousing anti-Western sermons drifting over from the mosque; it really is the most wonderful time of the year!
[by Brian McMorrow, goworldtravel.com]
What's fun is seeing how the Emiratis "get into" the Christmas spirit--in superficial ways, of course. The draping of lights corresponds with the National Day celebrated on Dec. 2 this year, and Eid al Adha, which is in full sway at present, so they'll just leave all the deco up through Christmas. Apparently some Emiratis buy Christmas trees and exchange gifts, but this is just another reason to party, not a chance to honor the birth of Christ: prophet he may be in the Muslim worldview, but not the prophet.
Every mall and most stores, however, do something to signal their business savvy and cash in on the expat appetite for things Christmasy. There are full-on displays, including a tree that straddles the escalator in a mall in Dubai, and is at least 50 ft. high. You hear Christmas music playing almost everywhere--but the secular stuff, not hymns, unless the stores are owned by non-muslims. Nativity scenes are available as well, but these aren't displayed prominently.
[from dubaithoughts.blogspot.com]
The upshot is that, while Jon still has to work on the 24th, 25th, and 26th (only for a couple of hours on Christmas, thank goodness), we are left unmolested in our celebrations. We've decorated modestly, and tried to connect with traditions from home. We have been reading Christmas stories in the evening, hosted a branch potluck yesterday where we compared cultural and family traditions, hope to find a service opportunity for next week, and plan a full-on Christmas dinner with the works (minus ham, which is available, but costs a tail and a snout) and two "bachelors" for company (J. Shewell, whose family is in Korea, and L, Ylanan, whose spouse works in Abu Dhabi). We'll even manage to get some skiing in: at Mall of the Emirates in Dubai, which has an indoor ski hill and snow park (environmentalists, avert your eyes).
So we'll miss you, and maybe even the snow (but not much), but look forward to our own little Christmas here in this strange place 3 hours by plane from where Christ was born. Alright, so it's a weak connection but hey, we take what we can get. We'll be thinking of all of you in your wind and snow-blasted homes, gathering around fireplaces, surrounded by loved ones, and up to your eyeballs in wassail and pumpkin pie. We hope you'll think of us over here in our sun-baked villa, gathered around the Wii, surrounded by tolerant indifference, and up to our eyeballs in mirinda and pistacchio ice cream.
Our collective love and best wishes to you all: Merry Christmas, and God bless you, every one!
And now individual greetings.
Riley: I miss the snow! Merry Christmas.
Christopher: I miss you, and Merry Christmas!
Jonah: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Happy Christmas! Melikilukilake!
Wendy: Thinking of you brings you nearer to us. We have such happy memories of Christmas at home. Here's hoping we get to experience it again. (And now she's fighting back the tears.)
Jon: Auguri di Natale. Vi vogliamo tutti molto bene! Eid Mubarak!
And something fun to leave you with: a little SCT . . . P!
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