Learning About Dubai

Ejo #13 – My Life As An Air Traffic Controller at Al Maktoum International Airport and Introducing You To Dangerous Doug

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OK, I’ve had writer’s block.  To be honest, I’ve never really been able to write very easily when I’m employed as an Air Traffic Controller.  Perhaps that’s just an excuse, or maybe it has something to do with how I need to use the different sides of my brain.  Let’s go with the latter (though we all know it’s almost definitely the former).  There’s nothing like a bit of self-denial to get the ball rolling anyway.  But at least it’s rolling.

So, most of you know that I’m employed as an ATC at Al Maktoum International, the new airport in Dubai.  Some of you are aware that the airport has had a most unillustrious beginning.  Meaning that so far there’s been virtually no air traffic.  Before the airport actually opened we were warned of (and dismayed at the prospect of dealing with) only 60 movements a day.  And no, a movement (in this case anyway) has nothing to do with going to the toilet.  It refers to the number of times an aircraft uses the runway.  So an aircraft that lands at midday and then takes off two hours later counts as two movements.  So 60 is not very many considering that when I left Melbourne Tower we were handling 500-600 a day.  And it’s absolute peanuts compared to what David handles at Dubai International Airport – over 900 a day and creeping towards a grand.

So sure, the thought of 60 movements a day was somewhat disheartening.  But the reality has eventuated as even more depressing.  Honestly, the most movements I’ve ‘controlled’ in a single shift has been about eight.  Which is why (you may have noticed) I’ve not once referred to myself as ‘working’ as an ATC but rather as being ’employed’ as one.  There’s a vast difference.

Still, I am employed.  And the fact is that one day Al Maktoum International is slated to be the largest airport in the world (of course!).  It will have five parallel runways and be capable of processing 160,000,000 passengers a year.  That’s a lot.  But really, that reality is a long way off, and so I have been confronted with the question of, “What should I do with my time?”.  I started off whiling the hours at work away by playing solitaire on the computer.  Not very productive and it got very boring, very quickly.  So I decided to do a little bit of self-education (and make a bit of money hopefully) by studying investing.  You know, so that I could be more informed about dabbling in the stockmarket.  Well, what I learned is that I shouldn’t dabble in the stockmarket.  I also managed to learn a few other valuable bits of info though; enough to actually feel comfortable investing in equities for the first time in my life.  I am now the proud owner of a (very) small percentage of a few banks and a mining company.  Thrilling.  Now I just have to hold onto the shares that I’ve bought and in about 30 years I’ll have made my fortune.  But that still doesn’t answer my question of what to do in the meantime???

I decided, dear friends, that rather than do a course by correspondence (which is an idea I seriously flirted with), what I would do is snuggle up to my other dear old friends, words.  And I would, once more, make a serious attempt at writing something fit for publication.  So now, what I have is an idea to work on, plenty of opportunity (with the added bonus of being paid to do it), the equipment (a desk has finally arrived in the tower break room), a New Year’s Resolution to have the first draft of a book finished by the end of 2011, and absolutely NO MORE EXCUSES.

Wish me luck (again) please.

Oh, before I bid you all adieu, I have been reminded that in my last ejo I promised you all a funny story.  OK then, here it is:

I work with a wonderfully weird (and simply lovely) guy called Doug.  I want you all to get acquainted with Doug because he is the protagonist at the centre of countless strange and bizarre experiences and stories, which I would like to share with you over time.

Anyway, Doug is a never-married (but twice-engaged) gentleman in his fifties, though he doesn’t look that old as he takes very good care of himself.  Saying that though, I must also point out that Doug has absolutely no ego whatsoever.  He’ll always be the first to laugh at himself in any situation (and trust me, there are many, many situations).  I want to be as frank as possible here: the man is a poo magnet.  If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong when Doug is around, and furthermore it will go wrong in spectacular fashion.

To wit:  One day, several years ago, Doug was in his apartment (in Sharjah, a UAE emirate) making a late night cheese and tomato sauce sandwich (gross, right?).  Anyway, while making his midnight snack he was watching a show on TV, something related to surgery (possibly Dr. 90210 – I don’t really know).  Now, I’m not sure if Doug already knew that he had a tendency to faint at the sight of blood, or if it was a trait that he discovered that very night.  Suffice to say, he saw some blood on the TV show and fainted at the sight of it, and in doing so he dropped the knife to the kitchen floor.  Also on his way down, he banged his head on the kitchen bench knocking himself out cold for the next fifteen minutes.

What happened in that fifteen minutes reads like some kind of screwball comedy but I promise you all of it is true.  His downstairs neighbour (who’d been taking a bath when she heard the thump as he hit the floor like a sack of spuds), jumped out of the bath, into a robe and ran upstairs to see what the matter was.  She knocked frantically on the door and after getting no response she flung the door open, only to find Doug on the floor in the kitchen, unconscious, with blood pouring out of the wound in his head where he’d struck it on the bench.  She immediately rang for an ambulance, which turned up a short time later with a couple of police officers in tow.

The cops took one look at the scene: an apparently dead man on the floor with blood gushing out of his head, a red spattered butcher’s knife flung across the kitchen floor and a badly shaken, half naked, female neighbour in hysterics.  They quickly concluded the obvious.  The neighbour had murdered Doug.  She was promptly arrested.

Then, to shake things up a bit, Doug started regaining consciousness and protesting his neighbour’s innocence.  This, contrary to what you might imagine, did not actually help things.  What it did was lead the cops to wonder why this lady had tried (albeit failing in the attempt) to kill Doug and they came up with the only logical solution.  He must have tried to rape her.  It makes sense.  She was scantily clad, he tried to rape her, she defended herself by stabbing him in the head with a knife.  The case was all wrapped up.  And so, they arrested him too.

The two of them were then taken to the police station to be booked with their respective charges amid increasingly hysterical declarations of innocence that were only heeded once a senior police officer took the time to examine the knife more closely and discovered that the red stuff was indeed just tomato sauce and not Doug’s blood after all.  Both were let off with a warning (oh yes!): they should not have been alone in the house together as they were neither married nor related by blood.

Sharjah Police: 1, Doug: 0.

Next time I’ll relate how Doug managed to even-steven the score.  Til then, I wish you all a fabulous Xmas and I hope 2011 brings you all abundant joy, health and happiness.

Kiss

Chryss

PS David says hi!

Ejo #12 – Emirati National Dress: The Dishdash and The Abaya explained

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I’m lucky enough to work with an Emirati who is extremely open and more than happy to answer pretty well any question about his country, culture and religion.  His name is Omran and over the last six months I’ve discussed many, many interesting things with him.  I’d really like to share some of what I’ve learnt with you.  Let me tell you about the national dress of Emirati men and women.  I’ll start with the men as there’s a lot less controversy about what they wear.

 

Arab men wear an ankle length, dress-like tunic (usually with long sleeves) which is called a khandoura.  It is also known as a dishdash which is a much cuter name, I think.  Contrary to popular belief the dishdash is not required to be worn by men for any religious reason.  It is more a traditional outfit of the region, which has been adopted because of its versatility in the desert climate.  It protects the wearer’s skin from direct sunlight while providing very good ventilation under the ‘skirt’.  And of course the white fabric reflects sunlight, keeping the wearer cooler.

 

But white wasn’t always the traditional colour of the khandoura.  Apparently in the olden days the dishdash used to be a more sandy coloured fabric – for rather obvious reasons.  Now that every household has easy access to dry cleaners and can buy bleach at the local supermarket, it has evolved into a very brilliant white outfit.  I am constantly amazed by how bright and clean their whites are.  I know for sure that if I wore a dishdash, it would have coffee stains on it before I even left the house in the morning.

 

It’s not actually decreed anywhere what colour a dishdash is supposed to be so you often see younger guys being a bit more adventurous.  I’ve seen navy and I’ve seen a kind of pale green.  And I’ve seen several shades of brown, from light cream to dark chocolate and even black (which looks rather smart in my opinion).  So while there is variety, I am yet to see anything too crazy or out there.  No pinks or purples, but they do apparently exist.  I’m also pretty sure that Burberry do a dishdash in their signature check.  I sure would love to see that.

 

Another way the Emirati dudes express themselves sartorially is with the headscarf, which is part of their traditional outfit.  You do occasionally see an Arab guy in a dishdash without the headscarf (known as a ghoutra – no it’s not a tea towel, though, yes, they do sometimes resemble kitchen linens), but more often than not they are worn together.  The black coil holding the ghoutra onto their heads is called an igal, and it’s sole purpose is to hold the scarf in place.

 

The ghoutra, you may have noticed, comes in a range of different colours and styles.  All Arabs can wear the white ghoutra (it’s kind of like wearing blue jeans, it’s a staple but it doesn’t really say anything about you).  But each country in the area also has their very own special check pattern in addition to that.  This can be compared to the Scottish clans each having their own tartan check.  It identifies the wearer as belonging to a certain tribe or place.  The Palestinian national check is a large black and white pattern (as worn by the late Yasser Arafat).  The UAE national ghoutra is a small-sized, red and white check.  Actually you’ve probably seen it.  It seemed to gain prominence last year worn as a scarf around the necks of pretty young things around the world.  I’m pretty sure I saw a picture of Elle Macpherson wearing one once.

 

In addition to the pattern on the ghoutra it may also be worn in several different styles depending on how the wearer feels that day or what image he wants to project.  He can just wear it flat across the head or he may pull one side of it over the top of his head, or even twist it at the back kind of like a loose, long braid.  And when he’s feeling sporty he can wrap it around his head, bedouin style, with all the loose ends tucked in.

 

A few people from back home have expressed interest in what is worn underneath the dishdash.  To be honest, I haven’t actually discussed this with Omran, though I’m pretty sure he’d be more than happy to chat to me about it.  Anyway, from my own observations it would appear that, at the very least, they wear a t-shirt or singlet (‘wifebeater’ for my American friends).  I’m pretty sure the dishdash has some kind of  extra fabric around the nether regions (kind of like a skirt) but as for whether or not they wear underpants, this has not been so easy to determine from my casual and furtive glances.  If I had to say I would probably guess that they go commando.  Which is an interesting though when you consider what would happen should a young man wearing a dishdash become unexpectedly aroused (as young men are wont to do).  I’ve never seen it happen so perhaps there is some form of undergarment being worn.  Who knows??  It’s fun to think about anyway.

 

OK, so onto the women.  As opposed to the men, who are wearing the dishdash because of where they’re from, the women wear their national dress because of the religion they believe in.  They are required by the Qur’an to cover up with a loose cloth (in the Middle East, this covering is known as an abaya, and the headscarf is known as a shela).  According to the good book, women are required to hide their ‘ornaments’ in public.  ‘Ornaments’ has been interpreted to mean a woman’s body and hair which is why they cover them up.  Unfortunately, the more extreme Muslims of the world have a tendency to take what the Qur’an says and then try to amplify it in the belief that Allah will think they are better Muslims.  In this case they have decreed that a woman’s ‘ornaments’ means the entire woman, thus forcing her to also cover her face and hands.  From what little I know, this is not actually correct in the eyes of Islam but it is what is sensationally distributed around the world, leading to misinformation.

 

Another misconception is that women are forced to wear the abaya in order to prevent Muslim men from being overcome with passion.  This is bollocks.  First of all (in Dubai at least), Muslim men are exposed to women’s body bits every day as most of the women here are expats.  Secondly, no-one forces the women to wear the abaya (again, I speak only for Dubai).  They are actually proud to wear it.  This is worth repeating (and I’m not exaggerating it or making it up).  They are proud to wear the abaya.  I’m telling you, if you saw a group of young Emirati women in the mall walk past you, their black robes swishing around them, you could only describe them as regal.  It actually gives them a power – because only they know what is underneath the robe.  And it’s not a power that only the observer imagines.  You can see that they are more than aware of it themselves.  It was wonderful to realise this when I first came here, because just like everyone else, I assumed that they were being oppressed by having to wear it.  Not so.

 

Plus, in recent years, particularly with younger women, it has become quite the fashion to decorate the abaya with all manner of shiny things – like sequins, glittery thread and even Swarovski crystals.  Funny how the garment that they are wearing to hide their ornaments is now covered in them.  But they are pretty, and it is big business.  Even the major designers are jumping on the bandwagon and designing the black robes.  Christian Dior, Chanel, Gucci.  They all make abayas and charge up to 30,000dhs for them (that’s about AUD$10,000).  So tell me, if you’re wearing a Dolce & Gabbana abaya, are you really being oppressed???

 

The original purpose of the abaya is to protect a woman’s modesty – I suppose this could be interpreted as meaning it is required in order to prevent a man’s uncontrollable lust???  I don’t know.  What I do know is that, according to Islam, only her husband has the right to see a woman’s body.  Perhaps I’m romanticising it but I think that’s kind of cool.  I certainly know that some days I would love to have the option of wrapping an abaya around myself and stepping out in the world with no-one being able to see what I’m wearing underneath.  Admittedly those are either ‘fat’ days when my jeans are a bit tight and I just want to go out in tracksuit pants, or when everything else I own is in the wash.

 

OK, that’s it for now.  I had a funny story to tell you (unrelated to dishdashes and abayas) but this has turned into quite a long ejo so I’ll save it for the next one.  I’m sure by then I’ll have more than just one funny story to tell.  I promise, promise, promise not to take three months before I write to you again.

Ejo #11 – Greetings & Salutations in Dubai and Bachelor Boys

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There is something which happens in Dubai which, even though it is initially amusing and almost flattering, occurs so frequently that eventually you get used to it and even actually come to expect it.  I am talking about the phenomenon of being called Ma’am and Sir.

Everywhere you go in this city waiters, retail staff, receptionists, taxi drivers, concierges, cleaning staff, gardeners, nurses… everyone in the service industry, calls you Ma’am and Sir.  It’s such a frequently used salutation that they’ve actually inadvertently created a new word: Ma’amsir.

Because David and I go out together often, we hear this one all the time:

“Hello Ma’amsir, would you like to sample our new beef bacon?”

“Ma’amsir, are you enjoying your free-flowing champagne?”

“Good afternoon Ma’amsir, may I spray you with Britney Spears’ new fragrance?”

When I say you get used to it and come to expect it, I don’t mean to say that I actually like it.  Only that I become so accustomed to hearing it that when we travel overseas and I don’t hear it, it seems odd.  For about five seconds.  Then I rapidly re-enter normality and forget about it until we get back to Dubai and are immediately subjected to it before we even leave the airport (duty free beckons you know).

It has become such an expected part of being greeted here that I have a funny little story to share.  In the early days of our move here, David and I discovered a lovely little Japanese restaurant close to our home and had lunch there a couple of times, making friends with the staff.  The third time we went, we were warmly greeted by our favourite waitress, Apple, who took us to our table.  After a quick chat to catch up on what we’d all been up to she asked us our names.  I told her my name was Chryss – she giggled and said, “Ah, Miss Chryss” (it rhymes you see).  She then asked David’s name, to which he responded, “Sir David”.  No-one else batted an eyelid but I nearly fell off my chair laughing at his audacity.  Anyway, next time you see my wonderful husband, you know how to properly address him.

Another time, I went into a gourmet chocolate shop to buy a gift for David (I’m a good wife, aren’t I?).  As I entered the store, a delightful Russian male shop assistant greeted me with, “Welcome Ma’amsir”.  I was momentarily confused thinking that he might be addressing a couple that had perhaps stealthily entered the store behind me.  But I looked around and no, I was alone.  And apparently I was also to be known as Ma’amsir.  I don’t know if he referred to me as that because he was so used to using that salutation that it just popped out without him thinking, or if he just didn’t really know what the hell Ma’amsir was but had been trained to say it whenever a customer entered the store.  Either way I was amused.  And no matter how silly it does get, it sure beats being greeted with, “Whaddaya want?”.

There is another cultural phenomenon that occurs here which takes a little getting used to.  Two points to make before I go into it are that a) homosexuality is strictly forbidden in the UAE, and b) public displays of affection between a man and a woman (even if they are married) is frowned upon.  Between an unmarried man and woman, it is absolutely prohibited.  And here comes the twist.  We’ve noticed that amongst the labour workers in Dubai (the majority of whom are from the sub-continent) it is not unusual, it’s even common, to see two (or more) men holding hands or walking down the street with their arms draped around each others’ shoulders or waists.  If they’re sitting waiting for a bus, perhaps one can be seen caressing the other’s arm or leg.  And when the construction workers have their on-site afternoon nap, it is not uncommon to see them laying close next to each other.  Spooning even.

Now personally, I don’t see anything wrong with that EXCEPT that if David and I were to lay down that close (say in a park – yes, such things do indeed exist in this concrete jungle) we would risk being arrested, charged with indecency and possibly (if they wanted to push the point), even deported.  We do occasionally hold hands in public, usually at the mall but we are always very sensitive about the Muslims around us – we are, after all, guests in their country.

Apparently, however, between two men it’s completely fine.  Some people (David among them) believe that this affection is actually a sign of homosexual love – after all, these guys live in male-only labour camps, away from their wives and girlfriends for months, even years at a time.  I don’t actually subscribe to that notion though.  I just think that they were raised in a society in which it is accepted that men are affectionate together in a platonic way.  Either way though, I must confess that it is initially quite strange to behold.  To be honest, I think it’s kinda cute to see two grown men walking down the street with their pinkie fingers interlocked.

Speaking of all the Indian, Bangladeshi and Pakistani workers – predominantly employed in the construction industry – they are given an unusual label by society.  Check this out.  They are called “bachelors”.  Whether they are married or not.  Most of these guys come out here on a labour visa and earn a pittance.  They can’t afford their own housing so they live in over-crowded labour camps.  They can’t afford their own cars so they get carted to and from work in hot, over-crowded buses.  And they can’t even dream of being able to afford to bring their wives and family to live here.  Even a visit visa is beyond their means.  So, even though most of them have wives and several children, they live and are known as bachelors.

Bachelors really are treated as bottom of the barrel citizens here.  Even on their days off, if they go to the mall to hang out, they are frowned upon because they are seen to be lowering the tone of the place.  And it’s not as if they go dressed in their construction overalls and dusty boots.  In fact, they are usually better dressed in their long sleeved shirts, belted pants, dress shoes and pomaded hair than the Australian tourist wearing a ripped t-shirt, baggy shorts and flip flops.  But still, they are eyeballed by security from the time they enter to the time they leave and I find that shameful. 

There was a big story about a year ago of a ‘bachelor’ being refused entry to a shopping mall (albeit in Saudi Arabia) simply because he was a ‘bachelor’.  What is going on there?  Segregation?  Apartheid?  Thankfully it isn’t quite that bad in the UAE and I hope it never is.

It’s time to go now – David and I are off to Australia in a couple of days for a whirlwind three week visit and I’ve got lots to do.  Next time I’ll get a bit more stuck into the whole bachelor situation in Dubai.  It’s a complex and very confronting situation and I find that it’s something that I need to work really hard at not ignoring and actually dealing with.  I promise that the next ejo won’t take as long to produce as this one did.