Life is a trade-off. I have the Maldives and you have Miracle Whip. You have NY&Co and I’m trying to squeeze my arse into French fashion. Expats do not have Girl Scout Cookies, Andes Mints, and beef that tastes like home. Chili powder, Cheerios that taste right, and good New York bagels. Pork? Forget it! Whatever they do in the UAE twists the taste into something unrecognizable.
We traded a country that operated pretty much like a well oiled machine for a multi-ethnic experience where we only comprehend answers to questions, directions, and a restaurant menu about thirty percent of the time. And since we have no other choice, we have learned to trust people with things that would absolutely shock Americans.
Yes, we live an exotic life.
Which may sound like a dream to some, yet in reality it is a trade-off for things expats hold dear but gave away for the experience of traveling the world and seeing places and things many only see when they close their eyes.
Loved ones die and we are not there.
Families have holidays, weddings, reunions, birthdays and graduations; and we wish them our best from across the globe.
We miss the loved ones we really love, the ones we only like to see once a year and even the dysfunctional ones that cause more grief than good. We miss them all.
But we get to see place like the Maldives, Malaysia and Rome because they are as close to us as Florida, California and Mexico are to you.
Two of the top regrets for dying people are they wished they would have traveled more and they wish they would have lived their lives authentically. I believe I am doing both — but it comes with a price.
Expats trade the comforts of home for the excitement of the unknown. Instead of regular hugs from grandparents, our children see Buddhist temples, ancient history and the wonders of the planet many children will never experience.
But they miss hot dogs. Doritos with the good cheese. Chicken in the Biscuit crackers.
Life is a trade-off. You can’t have it all. We chose the Maldives and you chose Thanksgiving with family.
The best thing about this experience is that we can both live vicariously through one another. Keep sharing your pics of home cooking, family get-togethers, your dogs and your other experiences; and I promise to show you the world.
On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
11 Whispering Arabs
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Ethiopian Housemaids
11 Whispering Arabs
10 Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
P.S. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus in the Middle East.
Tomorrow is the day! I signed the entire family up for the Dubai Color Run. This is supposed to be happiness in a can of paint/stain/dye — whatever it is.
“What charity does this benefit?” asks my husband.
“Not sure. $1 of the $38 we spent on the ticket goes to some charity.” I explained.
“That’s not a very high percentage of giving. And this is supposed to make me happy? Do I not look happy? I am a little concerned about my tennis shoes and the leather in my car seat. Will the can of happiness rub off on these things?” my sly clever husband inquires with a tad of sarcasm mixed with humor.
My husband asked the questions only left brain people think about. They think about all of the details that are about as much fun as a fly in a punch bowl. After three months of anticipation my husband is putting the kabosh on my enthusiasm and seriously killing my buzz.
Dang it! I paid over $100 to run unbridled down a street while strangers shower us with dye/paint/stain. And fortunately, since I am able to partake in this opportunity for the Color Run to shower me with sticky/messy happiness they will then pass on a buck to some sick/impoverished/uneducated/homeless/dog/child/adult — this makes me very freaking happy. Then, and only then, when the fun is over and I’ve received my $100 of happiness and some poor shmoe receives their donation, I will think about the consequences of my enthusiasm — but not until then. I have been waiting for my happiness in a can for three months and I want to enjoy every dollar I paid.
“Is it toxic?” Hubby inquires further.
Oh, crap! “Seriously, you did not just ask me this, did you?”
“Mom that looks like a total mess to me!” Pipes in mini left brainer.
“Well apparently there is a problem with the two bobs” Laura explained in her thick Italian accent. Elize and I stared at her at a complete loss. “What does she mean Gina?” Elize asked in her very precise South African accent which sounds more German and less British than many of the other South Africans — total mystery to me — don’t ask. Sometimes it becomes quite confusing when we are all together trying to decipher exactly what the other person is talking about when we get stuck in our home country’s sayings, folk-lore and cultures. “The bobs!” Laura says waving her hand across her chest. Ahhh! Elize and I say in unison. Boobs! Laura they are called boobs not bobs. “Yes, of course — whatever. I once took a house slipper to the electrician because he asked for a ciabatta.” I thought ciabatta was bread? “Yes, ciabatta is bread but it also an extension cord and a house slipper. How was I to know?” Laura explained to us with several hand gestures, a roll of the eyes and shrug of the shoulders; all in a way that only Italians can do.
Because many expat women in the UAE are somewhat confused as to what we can and cannot wear it, and where we can wear it; we sometimes cross the line of appropriateness. We are asked to cover our shoulders and knees while at the local mall, yet there are a number of women’s lingerie stores with very risky advertisements prominently displayed at the front entrance. For many women, it is extremely confusing. I remember when I first arrived staring with dropped jaw at the naughty nurse uniform and the stick on pasties in the front window of the Fredrick’s of Hollywood store. Fredrick’s is definitely a little risqué even for the United States.
“I hate it when this (circling her hand over her entire upper torso) doesn’t seem to work.” Maha explains with a natural, yet unintentionally sultry Middle Eastern accent. As I understand it, some of the women from some of the Middle Eastern countries rely heavily upon their assests, either directly or indirectly, to get stuff done — not that this is much different from other countries, but it just seems to be amplified when you add sky-high jewel embossed stilettos, tight flashy shirts, fake eye lashes and an entire pot of MAC eye shadow. The combination is a killer presentation intended to lure unsuspecting man flies into a sticky web. It was just the other day that I caught myself saying at the mall, God, she looks sexy in that abaya! Definitely words I never thought I would say but then IT WAS an incredibly sexy, feathery, lacy abaya! (I promise the entire topic of abayas is a future blog post). See why it is confusing? This is definitely a culture that appreciates the finer things and there isn’t a shortage of expensive lingerie stores. Then again, there isn’t a shortage of cheesy lingerie stores either. I found the below items near the children’s pajamas at local store.
See why we are confused? As expats I think we feel that simply providing these clothing options gives us a license to wear them, but in this culture we can wear them but we have to put a housecoat on top of it. Most cultures dress for the outside world, but the Middle Eastern culture dresses for their inside world. Their best is viewed by their private inner circle and our best is on display for everyone. It’s a little tricky to get into the swing of it.
It sounded like a good idea. Kerstin, our little momma bear, decided to organize a desert safari for the PTA. “Steve goes dune bashing all the time by himself” she said trying to insert a little confidence into the plan. Well, I thought to myself, Steve runs 20 miles for no reason and is as thin as a Holocaust survivor even after a big meal — so that’s really not too comforting. The thought of tackling massive hills of sand in the middle of nowhere with an Emirati behind the wheel was more than a little frightening but if I didn’t do it, I looked like a ninny-boo-boo and everyone would gossip about me behind my back so I was forced into it.
Kerstin
We met in the school parking lot and began dividing people up into five car loads of five plus the drivers. Since HP is the only doctor in the group, we decided he would take the small children in case of a bloody nose or something like that, so he took the 5 elementary boys and the rest of us dispersed into the other SUVs. I was in the car with the Italians, Enrico and Laura, and Tonya, our Korean axis of evil (this is a story for another day) and her 4th grade daughter. I sat in front with our driver, Yousef, the Italians in the back seat and Tonya and her daughter in the third row.
We stopped off at a camel farm which really wasn’t a farm more like a desert feed lot in the middle of nowhere. I guess I may have downgraded it from a farm because there were no tractors. But then again, there’s really nothing to use a tractor for so why buy one? It’s not like they are planting wheat or anything so as far as implements go, they were sparse. So, yes, it was a feed lot, in the middle of nowhere. With camels. And we stood and took pictures. So far the trip was pretty mundane.
We piled back into the SUVs and headed on our way down a long sandy road which led to an even more deserted spot and as we drove the sand begin to get higher and higher. And all of a sudden the adventure began. The Emirati dropped the SUV into low gear and off we went! We started climbing a dune that had to be the height of a three story building. We drove across the very peak of a sand ridge which was barely a car width and then we would begin sliding sideways down the other side of the dune!
“How long have you been working here?” I asked the driver. “Four days!” he shouted with a smile.
OMG! OMG! I couldn’t breath. Between my allergies and the fact that I was scared I would let out an inappropriate blood curdling Stephen King scream, I couldn’t inhale air. I tried but it wasn’t happening. So I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see but this plan was subverted by Enrico’s praying in the seat behind me. As soon as we peaked and we were getting ready to fall down the other side, Enrico began to both pray and express himself in a way that only Italians can do.
Madre di Dio per favore non fateci morire dalle mani di questo pazzo degli Emirati Arabi!
Mamma mia! Stiamo andando a rotolare giù questa gigantesca collina di sabbia e morire.
WTF! I was raised Southern Baptist so when we pray we don’t really want to ALARM God. We pray politely so not to inconvenience our Savior. Such as in a Jerry Falwell sort of voice. “Lorrrd, Pleeease fiiiind the tiiiime in your verrry beeza schedule and hear our prayers our precious Lord” Where as the Italians pull the alarm, raise the roof, call the polizia! Some SH&%T is going down and we need GOD pronto, prego, allegra! And they speak fast, and loud, and close, and they have their hands going in a million different directions. When they discuss going to the supermarket, one would think the supermarket is on fire, not that they are simply having a sale.
So I am in the car with Enrico and some SH%&T IS GOING DOWN! And that SH%&T is us! We are going down a sand dune the size of the freaking Tetons in Wyoming. And my eyes are super glued shut and I would’ve been okay if it weren’t for the Italian in the back seat.
Wowzers! Madre di spaghetti ho bisogno di uscire da questa vettura o io potrei fare pipì miei pantaloni!
Odio la musica cazzo che questo ragazzo sta giocando!
I don’t understand. Enrico is excited, he’s happy, he’s crazy, he’s screaming and I don’t know if I should be concerned or enjoying myself. And then after an hour of emotional torment while listening to Arab club music (yes, didn’t know it existed either) it was over and we were delivered to a campsite, with food, henna, shisha, sand surfing, camel riding and a belly dancer.
After we ate, danced, smoked, and drank (non-alcoholic drinks) and then we headed back into the city. Yousef, our driver, watched soccer on his phone while driving 90 mph on the highway. Yes, I could’ve said something. Any GOOD mother would have said something but this skinny Emirati guy took us on the most amazingly skilled adventure of our life. My guess is at birth he drove himself right out of his mother’s womb. He was that good! If you ever have a chance this is one adventure that you will absolutely never forget. Seriously, if someone ever says do you want to go on a desert safari? Say yes.
I live in a compound. This scares many Americans because it conjures up memories of Saudi oil ambushes and other infrequent occurrences. In reality, a compound is another word for subdivision except with tall concrete walls and guards. Very nice guards I should clarify because I seriously wouldn’t trust these guys to protect me. They mainly argue with housemaids and taxi drivers because they need to feel some sort of authority. This is directly due to the Arab kids bossing them around all the time and then the British kids start bossing them around too and then the Australian kids join in. Next thing you know we have a bunch of whipped security guards afraid of being deported due to a bunch of bossy kids. A new guy showed up the other day and gave me a little lip about entering without a pass so I sicked Mini on him.
The tall walls, on the other hand, are desperately needed because I live next door to the community crack heads. No, they are not really crack heads because we live in the Middle East where even Advil is closely monitored but these people otherwise fit the profile. Their place is a mess. Deflated bouncy toys every where, the swimming pool doesn’t have any water, their windows are cracked and broken, they have five different curtains on their windows, and a never-ending menagerie of animals that quack, bleat, hiss and moo all day and night. They are crack heads without crack.
My View from the Kitchen
On the other side of my villa, resides a very nice Egyptian/Swedish family. They are both very attractive people who recently went on an exercise frenzy that lasted approximately 2 1/2 weeks. They ran, squatted, and did sit-ups in the neighborhood garden every morning. I didn’t have the heart to tell them their mat was located directly on top of my dogs favorite dumping grounds. It was a long 2 1/2 weeks for me because my dog doesn’t like to dump just anywhere so I had to wait for them to give up on the fitness frenzy and move their mats. The exercise couple has one housemaid, one nanny, and three children. One wakes up very early in the morning and rings the door bell which is not a polite door bell, but something like I imagine the electric chair sounding. This scares the beans out of both me and the dogs who bust into a full chorus of all hell-is-breaking-loose at 7:00am.
On the other side of the exercise couple would’ve been my good friend, AAA Elize from South Africa, and her well-connected American husband, Carl, but the landlord wouldn’t fix their pool so they moved to the other side of the street outside the compound (boo-hoo). If they were still here life would definitely be different because Carl is a story-teller and he would share his endless stories of Sheik I-Have-More-Money-Than-God and all the fascinating things that happen in Saudi, Jordon, Qatar and Kuwait and Elize and I would be sharing expensive champagne. AAA Elize has a love/hate relationship with food. All food is shitty unless she loves it, and then, she really, really loves it. She will then say in her South African accent which is totally different from the British South African accent, “Gina, you must try this.” So of course I must try it because AAA Elize suggested it and she and Carl are the kind of people who walk on the red carpet, stand in front in front of the overly used sponsor backdrop, and then end up in magazines.
Life is a trade-off. I have the Maldives and you have Miracle Whip. You have NY&Co and I’m trying to squeeze my arse into French fashion. Expats do not have Girl Scout Cookies, Andes Mints, and beef that tastes like home. Chili powder, Cheerios that taste right, and good New York bagels. Pork? Forget it! Whatever they do in the UAE twists the taste into something unrecognizable.
theabudhabipta.com 