Cultural differences & customer service

I walked into a little shop today to buy water, and there was a man stretched out asleep on the freezer. I stopped in my tracks, uncertain as to whether I should advance into such a private moment, but the shopkeeper seemed totally at ease with the arrangement so I continued with my purchase while the man snoozed away. It got me thinking how odd some things are here, to my Western perspective. So many things leave me baffled at times. Like for example the way local people who need a pint of milk just drive up to the shop and blow their horn until someone comes out and serves them.

Yesterday, I pulled up to a little grocery shop at the same time as a young local man. He started honking his horn while I got out of the car and went into the shop. When I emerged with my purchases a couple of minutes later he was still honking away impatiently.

There is a culture of entitlement here in the UAE which leaves me both perplexed and cold at times.  A benevolent government, keen to ensure that the indigenous population profit from the riches brought about by the discovery of oil, have perhaps missed the point in some ways; the locals can come across as both lazy and aggressive: no doubt they feel outnumbered and enfeebled by the massive influx of expats who are hired in from abroad to carry out the roles that they are both unable and unwilling to fulfill.

And why is everything so complicated here at times? I received a call from Aramex today, to tell me that a package was waiting for me. Oh goodie, 3 new dresses from Boden (I know, I know, but they were on sale...well, two of them) so off I went to collect them. The Aramex office in Al Ain is about the size of a toilet cubicle and yet, in their wisdom they've provided the ladies with their own section of the 2 metre counter. Now I can't really see what possible benefit there is to this, it's not as if the ladies are served first so what's the point?

On arriving, you have to pull a ticket for the queue. Every minute or so a nasal woman's voice bellows out from the sound system 'ticket number 28, counter number 1 please’ which is pretty farcical because the bloke behind the counter could say it just as easily, and besides, I was the only person in there who actually took a ticket, everyone else just stood jostling and shoving up at the counter. I took ticket number 803 from the ladies ticket machine, and sat down.

After the jostling mass had been seen to ('ticket number 28, 29, 30...' I was feeling rather doubtful about reaching 803) I was beckoned to by the guy behind the counter. Ah, maybe this is the special ladies treatment!

'Phone number please' he said. I gave it to him.


‘I’m sorry ma’am, there is no record of that number ‘ he informed me


’Well, you just phoned me less than an hour ago' I calmly replied. He checked his screen again.


'Can you repeat the number please' he said. I repeated the number.


‘No, there is no shipment here for you' he said confidently.


'Yes there is, it says so online and YOU told me on the phone!' I retorted sounding more confident than I was feeling.

Customer service in the UAE is appalling, mainly due to language barriers and differing cultural expectations, i.e. I expect some service. He disappeared into another room and reappeared a minute later bearing a piece of paper, instructing me to phone the number on it.

I flounced out of the office and got into my car to phone the number. My two-year-old was crying and five  and six-year-old-boys were engaged in earnest Spiderman moves. Phoning the number, I was informed by the Indian man on the other end of the line that there was no record of me EVER with Aramex, or I think that's what he said, two-year-old-boy was really starting to yell at this point. 'Hold on a minute' I instructed the man on the other end of the phone, ' can't hear you, let me get out of the car ' just as the Adhan began, aka 'call to prayer' and the air filled with the earsplitting wailing of the muezzin from the mosque nearby. 'Ah Jeezus' feeling like an embedded journalist in Iraq I hung up and went back into the office.

And so the dance began again. This time I had evidence as I handed over my phone with the call log showing that I received a call from them earlier that day. He disappeared again and emerged 10 minutes later with my parcel. Pleased with himself, he handed it over to me without explanation. ' Well what the hell was all that about then' I wanted to splutter, but gave up, nobody will be learning any lessons here today but me.

Still, I am happy with my new purchases and can justify the cost since I've made the wonderful discovery that Ramadan has saved me money. Usually at this point in the month we're down to our last few shillings until payday. But this month I've saved a fortune in afternoon coffees, lunches out and pointless purchases as I wander around the mall (which is only fun if it's punctuated with aforementioned coffee/lunch). Don't get me wrong, I'm deliriously happy that it is over, it was without doubt the dullest month of my entire life, comparable only to that of the month before my birth. Of course, saving cash aside, it had its compensations, i.e DH coming home early each day, but where's the fun in that if there's nothing to do? We lazed the entire month away, watching Spiderman 3 on a loop and snoozing on the sofa with the only exercise being the occasional race to the off license before 5 o’clock closing.

But the customer service issues remain. Now I’m not looking at the customer service in Ireland with rose tinted spectacles, it can be painfully bureaucratic and unhelpful, but at least you can make yourself understood, well, most of the time. But Ireland appears to be run with the efficiency of Microsoft compared with the UAE. When Etisalat, the national telecommunications provider cut off my house phone for non payment of the bill, trying to explain that I had never received a bill, despite several requests for it, fell on deaf ears. After several million calls, I was instructed to go into their offices where I could get a copy of the bill. And so, off I went to collect said bill only to be told by the misogynist dolt behind the counter that he couldn’t give me a copy of the bill as it was my ‘husbands business’. That I didn’t pull him across the counter is a miracle… When I finally received a bill, it was extortionately massive. Optimistically, I phoned customer service for advice on better tariffs. The helpful young woman on the end of the phone made the brilliant suggestion that an effective way of cutting down on the cost of my calls abroad was to block all outgoing calls abroad!

But this administrative quagmire is assuaged by the unrelenting kindness towards kids in restaurants and shops, particularly I noticed, in Abu Dhabi. Two-year-old boy is regularly carried off into kitchens and behind counters where he invariably emerges with lollipops, balloons and even toys. The two young men behind the counter in the GAP even allowed him to work the till. This never ceases to amaze and enchant me as in my own country arriving into a restaurant with kids is the dining equivalent of wearing a lepers bell. Some ignore us and some have been down right rude.

And so, dear reader, this shall be my last post from Al Ain. When next I write I will be in a shoebox in Ras Al Khaimah, but grateful to be in this crazy country for the time being, as the rest of the world struggles to recover from the financial mess it's in. 

Leaving Al Ain

So we're moving....again. This time to the northern Emirate of Ras al Khaimah where we will inhabit a townhouse half the size of our villa for precisely half the rent. Since we arrived in the UAE we've been on a mission to cheat the outrageous rental costs here and in this latest move, we seem to have done that, albeit with the massive cost of DH commuting a couple of days a week to AD.

Moving isn't a new phenomenon to us, we've moved so many times I've lost count. I have a suspicion there is some itinerant blood running through my veins as after a year in any house ennui sets in and I find myself dreaming of a different house, different town, new curtains and just plain wanting to start 'afresh'. In addition, it's an effective, albeit drastic way to spring clean and throw out all the crap, (as students we used to hold a dinner party every now and then for the same reason).

This probably stems from a childhood which saw at least 8 moves (for me, for my siblings you can double that) and many schools. 'Always the new girl' is a frame of mind which comes naturally to me and I relish sussing out who you should know and where you should go (and in this country, where the off licenses are).

But I shall miss Al Ain, moving here seemed mad at the time but it worked out very well and we’ve been content. Al Ain is optimistically called 'the garden city' due to it's comparative verdancy but there is more to it than that. Below I have modestly compiled my opinion on some of what Al Ain has to offer...

Jebel Haffeet – Is the closest thing we have to a landmark here in Al Ain. Famous throughout the emirates, this mountain is visited by thousands of tourists each year. A drive to the summit is a weaving and treacherous ascent along an amazing feat of engineering, and is surely worthy of a supercar race between Jeremy Clarkson and Richard Hammond. However, once you get to the top, chances are you won't be able to see anything if it’s too sunny, too sandy or too misty but on good days you can see Green Mubazzarah down below on the UAE side, and Oman on the other. However, the splendour is rather tainted by the derelict looking coffee shop at the top. And a gift shop wouldn't go astray either, what's the point of seeing a famous landmark/painting/exhibit if you can't buy the mug afterwards??


[L to R -Me, DD and neice (who is now going to kill me for posting this pic) at the top of Jebel Haffeet]




Trader Vics- I’m on the fence with this one so I’ll start with the negatives. More expensive than most hotel restaurants in Abu Dhabi, this is a smart restaurant with an exotic feel. However, much to my chagrin, the last time we ate there I casually asked the waiter for a bottle of house white as he handed me the menu. When he handed me the bill an hour later that bottle of wine was 180 dirhams!! A bottle of house wine should be good value and good quality and any decent restaurant should pride itself on such. With a rare burst of assertiveness I asked to speak to the manager who patiently explained to me that they pride themselves on only the best of wines and indeed never serve cooking wine at the table. One of those UAE moments where you have to 'let it go'.

However, we like to sit up at the bar and annoy the lovely Sri Lankan barman while working our way through the cocktail menu and the Colombian band add a cheery addition to the evening. Shame that the house wine leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

Pacos -is described as an ex-pat bar and as such delivers in spades. If what you want is sweaty, red –faced men over 50, slobbering all over prostitutes of indeterminate gender then this is your one! Personally I don’t like it and the last time I was there the band were truly appalling and reminded me of the band on the alter singing ‘I can’t smile without you’ in 'Four weddings and a funeral'. Yuk!

Intercontinental hotel- For the best pizza in town go here. We usually order it beside the pool, it is a proper Italian pizza and not plastic like pizza hut. Highly recommended!

Coldstone creamery- Truly the most annoying place known to man! The ice cream is impressive (albeit confusing, why would I want a twix in my icecream??) but the staff, who clearly despise each other, insist on regularly breaking into renditions of 'don't worry, be happy' while drumming with spoons and other implements and generally being annoyingly festive. Over a smoothie the other day DH and myself could barely hear each other over the din. This hysteria only works in America where there is a minimum wage and freedom of labour, here it just makes the western customer feel uncomfortable at best and downright irritated at worst. In addition, in America the customer is always right, whereas here the customer is always wrong and the staff can't understand you anyhow and please just go over to that other counter and fill out a form.....

African & Eastern- on the outskirts of the post-armageddon district of Sanaiya is this well known secret (which was a late discovery for me). Selling the finest selection of wine and spirits available in Al Ain, this is a must visit for those who like to imbibe. Surrounded by dismembered cars, dust and shanty houses, the off license can be difficult to locate, indeed I’ve spent upwards of 15 minutes driving around at times trying to locate it, but when you do, it is a welcoming, shining beauteous beacon in an otherwise harsh and unyielding landscape where the staff are helpful and enthusiastic (they will carry your wine out to the car for you!).

Bukkhara- Situated on the town square, this Indian restaurant is arguably the best in town, certainly dirham for dirham it is. If it’s not too hot you can sit outside and the kids can run or rollerskate around the square. The food is abundant and sublime. For 6 of us we can get away with the price of a visit to Mac Donalds.


Jahli Fort- A wonderful venue for a concert. We attended the Womad concert there some months back and it was a fantastic night. Dramatically lit up it was an atmospheric and joyous occasion only tainted by the lack of a bar...

Jahili Fort - host to Womad concert

So there endeth my appraisal of Al Ain. There is much more I could have mentioned but I just wanted to highlight those things which either pleased or irritated me. Farewell Garden City, we are off to the seaside!

Neighbours

It's Ramadan, and that means platters of cakes and biscuits mysteriously appearing on our door step from kindly neighbours. Occasionally we'll throw open the front door to reveal a fast retreating maid or nanny scurrying down the drive but in general we don't know who leaves these gifts which makes thanking them or indeed returning the plate impossible.

I'd like to return the favour and have been told that the appropriate response would be a traditional dish or gift from our own country. However, I'm not sure a bottle of Jameson or Baileys will be understood or gratefully accepted in the spirit (pardon the pun) it was given. Pity, they don't know what they're missing.

Then I thought (in a rare burst of Nigellaesque enthusiasm), perhaps I could rustle up something my mother used to make. However, this too is problematic, not least because a) my mothers' idea of rustling up something was baking scones which could double as missiles and b) my interpretation of rustling up food is to nip down to the local Lebanese pizzaria where the guy's English is so bad (or my Arabic?) I invariably emerge with the same pizza each time, regardless of what I select from the menu. Maybe a trip to M&S is just the job, a tin of Scottish shortbread is fairly innocuous or maybe those lovely Melton Mowbray pork pies....perhaps not, I wouldn't want to throw a household into swine flu alert. I still think the Baileys is a good idea...

Our neighbours sometimes send their kids over to play with ours, ostensibly to learn English although on that score they are seriously short changed since my children are either glued to PS3 or are shouting bizarrely construed obscenities (it's a phase we hope, which seems to have filtered from the top boy down, which appears to be a cross between tourettes and an obsession with superheros...I can't bear to think of little Zayed returning home to his mother and saying 'mum, my balls are on the fire of destiny').

On one occasion the nanny, who was keeping watch at the gate while Zayed and co. were on the trampoline, invited my children to go over to their house to play. I agreed they could go, but since I didn't know exactly where they lived, I said I'd follow them to their gate, scooping my naked 2 year old as I went.

When we arrived at the gate, which, as it turned out was only 3 massive villas down, the nanny insisted I follow her a little further. Feeling awkward but not wanting to be rude, I obeyed. As we walked around the side of the large house, there was an identical one behind it. Wife number two then. On the balcony were perhaps 8 women all waving and beckoning to me. With a rictus smile pasted onto my face I muttered 'oh, please no don't make me do this, not now, not today'. Now, this isn't due to any hostility towards new neighbours or misplaced ethnocentricity, quite the reverse, I've studied Evans-Pritchards' Sudanese 'Azande' and Tsings' Indonesian 'Meratus Dayaks', I am interested in witnessing other cultures first hand. No, this was more to do with what I was wearing. And the naked 2 year old.

Now, bear in mind this was perhaps 2pm on a Friday. In English that means 2pm on a Saturday, which invariably means lazing, watching kids movies slightly hungover, wearing the cleanest thing you can find on the floor. In short, you're not expecting guests. Or vice versa. I was wearing a short, slightly see through, summer dress, a nighty if you will, which in Ireland would be considered appropriate for a lazy summers day. In the middle east it is the equivalent of walking around in just my knickers.

Following the nanny into the house I was led to an elevator. Yes, you heard me right, an elevator, which cranked me up to the first floor which opened onto a large living room populated by women in those traditional (but not particularly flattering in the way of my mothers M&S nightdress) floor length gowns. As I entered the room, naked 2 year old wriggled free and sped off into an adjoining room to the 'oohs and ahhs' of the seated women. Sitting down on the velvet chaise I was appraised for some minutes by the women, who chattered loudly in rapid Arabic between themselves, occasionally looking over at me. Looking around I guessed there were three generations of women in the room, from grandmother down to late teen. Eventually the woman nearest to me said 'you from America?' to which I smiled and replied 'no, no, I'm Irish...'. She looked perplexed and relayed this information to the others. I had obviously lost some of my appeal. A maid appeared with a small table bearing a tray of fruit and a knife which she placed before me.

-'Eat, eat' the main speaker prompted
-'Oh, er no thanks' I said politely
-'You not eat???' she enquired with genuine alarm
-'Ah, erm, I've just had breakfast' I lied, gesturing to my stomach
-'What?? what time you have breakfast??' she insisted before turning to the rest of the group and translating this last exchange. They descended into a rapid discussion.
-'Oh, um, how do I explain that it's the weekend, there's a change of rules...?' I mumbled weakly to the 4 walls since they were now in deep consultation about my latest expose.

The maid reappeared with a pot of Arabic coffee and a tiny cup. Attention was re-focused on me again. 'Drink coffee' I was instructed. Not wanting to offend any further lifted the tiny cup and drank while 16 eyes watched me with interest. Choking it down, the cardomen unpleasant to my fussy caffeine palate I nodded and raised my cup 'good'. Smiling and sipping as they watched in silence I drained the last of the cup and sighed with exaggerated contentment 'umm umm'.

Mercifully, naked 2 year old reappeared at this point with several other children in tow. 'Why you not dress?' one of the women demanded, but once again it was a question which couldn't be satisfactorily answered without the aid of a translator (and even then it's not an easy question, my children have an affinity with nakedness, which, coupled with my lack of interest in dressing them more than once a day leaves them in this condition semi-permanently). As he was now trying to stand on his head on the faux velvet upholstered sofas, backside on full display, I finally had a reason to escape from these bored women. Waving my goodbyes I was stopped in my tracks by an invitation to inspect the house before I left.

Emirati houses are interesting. The kitchens are dark, ugly and cheaply made. The reason for this is that they are the domain of the servants and so how they look is unimportant. The rest of the house is positively baroque, no expense is spared on the multitude of fabrics and clashing patterns, tasteless opulence and massive chandeliers. If there's a space, something fills it, a gilded side table perhaps, a plant, a chair, a bronze lion. Any sane person who had to clean their own house wouldn't keep a house like this, but of course the cleaning is for the staff and so this isn't given any consideration.

By contrast, the kids rooms were bright and pleasant and my daughter was instantly jealous. The girls room was a shrine to Barbie and had pink walls and chandeliers and three beds. Which is another issue. In all the dealings we've had with these kids, it's still not clear who are siblings and who are cousins. These 'communes' for want of another word, seem to house many children, obviously due to the fact that there are multiple wives as well as other extended family.

After a guided tour of both houses we were eventually free to go. The kindness of our neighbours is undeniable, and in addition they are quite tolerant of our sometimes loud parties and for that we are grateful. However, next time I shall make sure I am wearing more than a light dusting of clothing and that all naked children are at the very least nappied.

In the meantime, I shall take myself off to find an appropriate gift, perhaps some festive mince pies (is there animal fat in suet...pork fat?) or maybe some Christmas pudding (brandy?), I think I'll just buy a box of dates.