Glitz and glamour in the UAE and why the hijab is the same as a bikini...

There is an article in this months‘She’ magazine describing the expat lifestyle in Dubai.  It serves up the usual profusion of adjectives such as ‘luxurious’, ‘opulent’ and ‘lavish’ to describe the lives of those of us living in the UAE.  

Gold vending machine Abu Dhabi

As I type, I’m sitting in my lavish, diamond-encrusted study, on a platinum chair imported from Brunei, typing on my gold-plated keyboard.  And while we’re in the realm of fantasy, the plumbing in my luxurious villa on the beach actually works, the kitchen sink in my designer kitchen doesn’t leak onto all the products underneath it and it’s possible to lock my back door.   

While undoubtedly Dubai is the poster-child for all that is glitzy, expensive and just plain gauche; the champagne brunches, glittering malls and luxurious villas certainly do exist here-  this is not the lifestyle that I or any of my friends experience.

In fact, Christmas day was the first time we’d experienced the legendary boozy hotel buffet: there were the obligatory ice -sculptures and chocolate-fountains, and I must admit that we hopped onto a little golf trolley down to the beach for after-dinner drinks, but this was quite a novelty for us.  We’re more likely to be found eating from the Rupee Room in the local mall or a cheap and cheerful pizza restaurant at the marina (which tragically suffers from a lack of wine license). 

Ras al Khaimah is about an hour north of Dubai and is very much it’s shabbier, less affluent, younger sibling.  It’s also a lot more down to earth than its more prosperous sister.  There are a couple of four star hotels as well as the ongoing construction of a preposterous seven star hotel (badly needed in the community) but really, most people I know prefer to drink in a shabby shack on a stretch of beach on the outskirts of RAK called the Sailing Club.  

The atmosphere in this expat outpost is unpretentious and the booze is cheap (a glass of wine is 10 dirham’s as opposed to almost 40 in the hotels) and the children play in the sand or paddle in the sea while the adults drink, chat and sometimes take to the mike for a song.

And most people we know, rather than the luxurious trips to Beirut or Goa described in ‘She’, tend to go camping on the beach in Oman, which is just up the road.

Obviously I don’t do camping – 3 weeks in a tent bumming from Bordeaux to Biarritz as a 22 year old was enough to quell that particular avenue of interest (both for me and DH) -but certainly this sort of trip is more realistic for us than staying in 5 star hotels quaffing champagne (not that I am repulsed by the idea you understand).

UAE in the papers

The UAE does suffer from pretty negative international press: deservedly so some would say.  The juxtaposition of the footballers wives glitz and glamour, with the attention-grabbing, fear-inducing headlines (bikini lady/kissing couple/sex on the beach idiots) means that any desire to visit the place is quickly negated by the risks involved.

Personally I think it’s a country suffering from an identity crisis.  It at once covets a reputation as an international tourist destination, offering shops and hotels which can (arguably) rival those of London, Paris and New York, while conversely and periodically stamping its conservative foot to reassert its status as an Islamic country and demanding to be respected as such.  

While most people I know wear what they want and drink when they want with little interference, there will be the occasional scape-goat trotted out before the courts and the press as an example of what can happen should you flout the rules regarding respect and decency. 

Much as I despise the idea of Saudi Arabia, at least it’s not pretending to be anything other than it is; I know I will never set foot in the place because it has held its colours aloft and declared itself unfriendly to women and indeed anyone who values liberty.

But the UAE is a country of ambivalence.  Is it not perverse on the one hand to have an abundance of exotic underwear stores (which make Anne Summers look like the undies section of Marks and Sparks) much beloved by the local population, and on the other insist that shoulders and knees should be hidden from view?

The hijab

I have on occasion been asked to cover up in order to not offend, but who exactly am I offending? The women? The men? Neither option seems sensible to me.  Women here may insist that it is a choice to cover from head to toe in thick black swathes of fabric, often with black gloves and tights, but to my western eye it just doesn't seem to be the case, particularly during the height of summer where temperatures can reach 50 degrees; there are surely easier ways to cover.

Woman wearing hijab with niqab covering the face.

In fact, the first time I saw a woman fully covered I got such a fright my heart almost leaped into my mouth.  To me she seemed barely human, a spectre, walking towards me in the middle of the day but completely hidden from view: like a non-person. That religion could do that to a person put the final nail in the coffin in favour of atheism for me. Two and a half years later I still find the sight of a woman so controlled (whether she sees it that way or not) upsetting (and I'm  not talking about the veil in general, I'm referring to the practice of concealing the entire body).

Human interaction relies on facial expression - the covering of the face (or in some cases wearing the niqab which exposes the eyes) - ultimately silences any relations between Western women and local Muslim women, particularly here in RAK where the population are much more traditional.  While relations between Westerners and locals are strained at the best of times, this helps to ensure that this remains the status quo.

And saying that wearing the hijab is a choice is like saying a woman suffering from Stockholm syndrome, who chooses to marry her kidnapper, is rational.  What choice has a woman who comes from a tradition where every woman covers? While there is no doubt that the uncovered female body is overly objectified and sexualised in Western society, it is no less so in Muslim society where it is covered in order that it not be looked at.  In both cases it is seen as little more than a sexual object with women being the loser on both sides of the cultural divide.

Phew...how did I get to the objectification of women from jewel-encrusted appliances?

And finally......... 'House' has been replaced by 'Dexter'.  Having watched 6 and half seasons of the former I finally got up to speed and the ensuing withdrawal symptoms saw me scrambling for a replacement.  Having worked my way through Season 1 of 'Dexter' within a couple of weeks (alone), DH finally sat down with me last night to start Season 2 - he was appalled at my latest obsession, declaring me unbalanced for watching such perversity on a nightly basis.  I tried to point out that my 'House' obsession didn't result in my becoming an MD in New Jersey, so watching Dexter was unlikely to result in my becoming a serial killer in Miami - he remains unconvinced.

Disclaimer- Any opinions expressed here, however misguided or misinformed, are entirely my own.  Opinions (on culture, feminism and American prime-time TV shows) are not the preserve of academics or TV critics only and I don't claim to speak for all expats, women or Irish people.  Just thought I'd add that before people get on their high horse!

Why I love 'House' but think SATC2 sucked...

Four weeks post-partum and I’ve been dismayed to discover that my seemingly miraculous recovery from wine-addiction was entirely fictitious, brought about solely from the pregnancy hormones swamping my body.  As the hormones slowly ebb, the love affair with the grape flows and I find myself once more enslaved to that glass or two each night as I settle down in front of House; series 1 and 2 of which I recently downloaded and have been watching obsessively ever since (who would have thought Blackadder's Prince Thickie would make such a brilliant, curmudgeonly American MD?) As a result of my 3 episodes a night habit, I’ve become somewhat of an expert on diagnostic medicine and am prone to pronounce ‘it’s got to be lupus’ every time someone in my house has a sniffle.
On the positive side, my penchant for the hot chocolate and apple crumble served up in my local ‘Shakespeare’ cafe has subsided giving my girth a fighting chance of fitting into my newly acquired wardrobe this side of Christmas.     
Pretentious, Moi? 

Is it just me or is ‘Little Einsteins’ the most annoying, pretentious and smugly middle-class kids show on TV?  It is the TV equivalent of a three year old learning to speak Mandarin and is a metaphor for everything that is wrong with modern parenting where a child can no longer just be 'normal' but must be either gifted or on a spectrum of one sort or another.

The plot, such as it is, is four precocious kids whizzing around in a rocket, landing in places like Tuscany or Paris where they chant the names of famous composers over and over again (‘Dvorak, oh! Dvorak!’) to the tunes of said composer, while words like ‘allegro’ and ‘adagio’ flash up on the screen along with a picture of that composer (eminently useful that the average three-year-old is able to pick out Grieg in a line-up).

Last week I struggled to understand the point of five cello’s prancing about to Peer Gynt on the banks of the river Po.  And today I really thought it had gone too far as the characters searched for the ingredients for rocket soup -- how pretentious! but it turned out the soup was actually for the rocket-ship, rather than a soup made out of a rocket leaves...mind you, it wouldn’t have come as a great surprise- next they’ll be singing about the virtues of cashmir sweaters or the difference between Chardonnay and Sauvingnon blanc (which to be honest might actually be quite useful as a life-skill).

Of course there is nothing wrong with introducing your children to classical music; my children hear it regularly if I happen to have Lyric FM playing on the internet; but being able to name a composer, while charming, is of little use to a three year old.  There does seem to be this drive among middle-class parents to have ‘gifted’ or ‘exceptional’ children who can read and play instruments before they’re three.  Learning to do something early doesn’t necessarily make a child any brighter than a kid who learns those skills later on: Steven Hawkings commented in an interview recently that he couldn’t read until he was 8- and it could be argued that playing in mud or emptying the pots and pans cupboard is more educational anyway.

Personally I’d rather they learned to tie their shoe laces or wipe their own bottoms than speak fluent French.
Abu Dhabi aka Morocco

And finally.... I recently got to see Sex and the City 2 which, much to my excitement, is supposedly part set in AbuDhabi.  It was, in a word, abysmal. 

I don’t know what was more unrealistic, the four subservient Emiratis holding open the car doors for the four female protagonists at the airport (I doubt Emiratis hold their own toothbrushes), or when Aiden tells Carrie that ‘they consider it rude to keep people waiting here’. This comment was so at odds with the way of life here is, where nothing happens on time and in fact it's practically mandatory to be late, with inshallah (roughtly translated: in Allah we hope/God willing/not a feckin' hope pal) being the stock response to any pressing questions.

Clearly they didn’t bother to employ a cultural anthropologist on the movie to lend a certain realism to it, if they had the girls would have arrived to Abu Dhabi airport to find that the cars weren't in fact there at all as there had been a mix up with the bookings, and were in fact on their way to Dubai airport.

The authenticity was further thrown in to question when the girls decide to visit ‘Old Abu Dhabi souk’.

Now, when I first arrived in Abu Dhabi I too had images of wandering around a traditional souk, Kristen Scott-Thomas-like, buying exotic silks, spices and rugs, haggling charmingly with the wizened old market sellers, while wearing crisp white linen (and still in the realm of fantasy with Ralph Fiennes clandestinely trailing me and without my four squabbling children).

Alas, it was not to be!  I was greatly dismayed as I emerged from my taxi in Al Meena Port to discover that the souk, located on a large piece of wasteland, contained mainly plastic buckets and industrial sized cooking pots, plants and household implements. There was nothing charming or exotic about it and I eventually gave up trying to be intrepid and cultural and escaped into the nearby mall for a coffee.

Yes, prior to my arrival, my idea of the Middle East had been mostly informed by the movies and I had erroneously believed that it was all belly-dancing, silken tents and sultry exotic evenings dancing the seven veils under the stars.

Thankfully SATC2 delivered on this fantasy; after all, who wants to see badly constructed hotels complete with leaking external air-conditioning systems or piles of rubbish on the side of the road. Or, for that matter, maniacal drivers mounting pavements to get around the too-slow car in front. Those images are best kept for movies like 'the hurt locker'.

It also helped that the movie was filmed in Morocco. Anyway, by the time Samantha spots the hunky Danish architect and utters the beautifully scripted line ‘Lawrence of my Labia’ I was done with the movie and went to bed.

Sleeping, breathing and the pursuit of Starbucks....

DH assures me I’m ‘ready to calf’ which is culchy-speak for ‘childbirth is imminent’ and, bloodcurdling as that thought is, I’m just looking forward to a proper night's sleep.  My nights are currently a revolving door of bathroom-bed-bathroom-bed and my sleeping positions have been reduced to a choice of precisely one: the left side, since sleeping on my back feels like there is a baby seal crushing all my internal organs and sleeping on my right seems to bring about all the symptoms of a minor stroke.  And it's been several weeks since I've taken breathing for granted.

Yes, nature has cleverly conspired to ensure that the closing weeks of pregnancy are so utterly uncomfortable that the agonising and horrific ordeal ahead is seen as a blessed relief.

I am slightly concerned about giving birth here in the UAE though - just ordering a coffee can be trying at times - so the idea of trying to explain my wish for an epidural could prove to be challenging.  I have this reoccurring nightmare where I'm yelling for an epidural while a smiling Filipina nurse sing-songs ‘sorreee ma’am, it’s Ramadan, you can’t have any pain relief until the sun goes down’ like some demented character in a Stephen King novel.

I can’t help but feel that might actually happen.

At the very least I fully expect to be told the anaesthetist has left for the day and I'll have to wait until the next day, and do I want a Panadol...

I’m not making out that childbirth is always smooth going in Ireland either; I’ve had good and bad.  On the birth of boy-child number two I arrived at the hospital in the throes of labour to be told by the nurse that they had lost my records and did I mind answering a few questions.  So there I sat opposite a woman holding clipboard and pen as she went through my name, date of birth, address.....

-'When was your last period' she inquired.

-‘Seriously?' (clearly I have issues remembering this sort of detail at the best of times) '...ah nine months ago I reckon’ I sniggered....'OWWW!'

-‘But we need a date’ she insisted.  I hazarded a guess.

-‘Well, in that case you’re not due for another three weeks’ she said, ‘you’d best go home’.

Ten minutes later my waters broke and boy-child number two was with us within an hour; had I taken her advice I would have been in my living room in front of 'Who wants to be a millionaire' by the time I was at the point of pushing.

I’m due to attend a hospital in an area of Dubai optimistically called ‘Healthcare City’, which is basically a number of hospitals and clinics surrounding a parking lot.  

In the UAE, if they can give it a theme and grandly call it a ‘City’, they will.  We have ‘Academic city’ which is a college surrounded by sand as far as I can make out, ‘Motor City’ which is basically a car racing track (not sure why they need this...they have the roads don't they?) and here in RAK the 'RAK Media City' which is an office on a piece of wasteland outside the town which houses several people who have no idea what to do all day.

Mind you, the emirate of Umm al Quawain is called a city and I’ve seen towns in Mayo consisting of a sub-post office, pub and undertakers all-in-one which have more life in them.  But they like to think big here so it’s not so much what you see but what you will see in the future that inspires them when naming things.

But it’s Ramadan once again and that throws up the same challenges as it did for the last two years.  It’s not politically correct to be negative about Ramadan here since there is a certain quarter of expat who insist we stifle any grumbles or grouses about what are, in my view, the undeniable inconveniences associated with it. If you complain you are being, at best, ethnocentric and culturally ignorant, at worse committing a hate crime and are therefore a small-minded, bigoted-racist who should be escorted to the nearest border and never be allowed to return.  

It has been argued that 1.5 billion believers can’t be wrong, but then I have little faith in the wisdom of crowds: just look at some of the winners of Pop Idol.  Besides, I find Ramadan and it’s application a little too arbitrary for my liking.  A group of guys with beards study some lunar cycles and decide its Ramadan and suddenly, although you can still buy a Burger King meal at the mall,  you have to eat it in your car as sitting inside Burger King has over-night become as unthinkable as walking around with your knickers on your head.  And why is it you can’t  have a coffee in Starbucks but you can at the Hilton?  The only difference I see is the price, but then maybe that’s the point.

Also, if you must only fast during daylight hours, what’s to stop you going to the South Pole where you might only have one hour's daylight a day and doing your fast there?  Not much of a challenge is it, an episode of House and your done!

But we shall struggle on and make the most of it and next time I post there should be one more flight to pay for next time we decide to go on holiday.  Bring on the agony, I need a proper night's sleep!