On the beach 2

I make it a habbit to drive by Sunset Beach on occasion to see if anyone's surfing, but have only seen activity there three times now. This past weekend was the best I've encountered, but I didn't have the camera with me and when I came back after an hour and half it had gone completely flat. I'm finding the conditions here much more mercurial than I'm used to, almost as if you'd need to sit at the beach all day waiting for that short window when it's good, but only on those rare days when its ridable. 

So, rather than head home immediately, I thought I'd take a few pictures of the sand excavation project at the end of the beach, on the opposite side from the famed Burj Al Arab. While this self proclaimed seven star hotel is architecturally interesting on the outside, and we were recently excited to see a helicopter landing on the tennis court/helipad/giant hors d'oeuvre tray, the interior is extremely gawdy. It makes Donald trump's affinity for gilt-everything seem understated.

I'm not sure what the impressively large pile of sand is meant for, Vanessa thinks they're excavating in order to build another hotel, I like to think it has something to do with the city's artificially enhanced coastline.

At the moment, Vanessa is waiting outside the house for round two with the police. This time we were smart and had her call. The one privilege afforded to women in Dubai is that they are often given more expedient access to services, especially governmental services, via the ladies queue. Shorter lines, longer hems, better scents (sense.) We've been waiting for about four and a half hours now, but they just called to confirm our address. So, that's pretty good by West Oakland standards, where one is encouraged to "see a gun" in order to illicit a quick response. Still, I miss my scrappy neighborhood. I'd been parking for weeks in what I assumed was a public lot, when a particularly abrasive man in a Misubishi micro-SUV rolled up demanding, "WHY YOU PARK MY HOUSE?!"

OK, so again, I'm the one with the limited language skills, I realize that. If Dubai had it's own verision of Geno's, they wouldn't serve me. And yet, there's no need to yell little man. I don't need one of your eight, usually empty, parking spots. I just didn't know it was private since it's located where the sidewalk would be, and features perpendicular parking, something I associate with municipal parking lots across the globe.

So I don't park there anymore, and I'm resisting the urge to menace my new mustachioed nemesis in a scene for scene recreation of Cape Fear or, alternatively, What about Bob?

Vanessa just walked triumphantly back into the house, holding a green accident report in her hand which will, we think, exonerate us from financial responsibility for the mystery scrape. She charmed it out of the police, telling them that their prowler was nicer than what a cop in the U.S. would have, which it is. The police cars here range from large Toyota SUV's to 3 series Bummers. Sadly, the motorcycle police in Dubai look like they should be directing runway traffic with a light baton, not at all tough, like the officer who impounded my pickup in San Francisco-- that guy was all leather (including his face) and cigar, which he lit up as he sat back to await the tow truck. I didn't do anything heinous by the way, I was too slow in registering my car when I moved back to California, and ironically, too quick in changing my insurance, which gave me away. 

I'm convinced that there's some nefarious scheme, or at least a policy change in effect because three other rental cars in our circle of friends have been rejected for undocumented blemishes, and none of the drivers are aware of hitting anything. At least we're free of the bureaucracy for a while. We'll have to get national ID cards eventually, for which the wait time has been reported at around seven hours, and that's if you make an appointment. But they've reportedly moved the deadline back, although it's unclear what limits might be placed on non-card holders in the interim. Why I need a national ID in addition to a Dubai Driver's License, a US passport, and a residency visa with my photo on it, remains to be seen. I suppose it's to keep us safe, very very safe.

The Notyssey

Dubai is like a fertile weed that has grown well beyond the confines of its formerly vacant lot, spilling suicidally into the desert and sea. It is a place constructed entirely of diamond encrusted Quakgrass, tangled in its own winding limbs, choking entire colonies of itself off, only to replace them with newer, shinier encampments. You can imagine what a visit to the local licensing agency (DMV) might be like. As our friend Phil puts it, "Dubai is efficiently inefficient," meaning that in its frenzy of growth, the municipality has churned out rule after rule to stem whatever crisis might appear, erecting layer upon layer of decree. And so, allow me to tell you about our eight magical visits to the licensing agency. A number which assumes that my final visit will be successful, which is a bold, perhaps brazen assumption. Let me see if I can recreate the series of events for you, it went something like this:

Saturday afternoon we finalized our agreement to purchase a second hand car, and, with our new pal Domenico riding shotgun, the three of us managed to exit the freeway successfully and drive right to HSBC's car loan branch by our third attempt. Dubai is growing at such a breakneck pace that by the time you visit a location a second time, the surrounding maze of rerouted roadways and exits will have changed so thoroughly since your previous visit, that successfully arriving at your destination will potentially prove more difficult the second time around. I think this is because the foreknowledge that would normally make it easier to return to a given location, actually just makes it more confusing and frustrating the second time around. As Domenico had originated the loan at this same office, this most certainly proved to be the case as we ticked off several laps around the Sheikh Road.   Upon arrival, roughly ten minutes before closing, we were informed that the loan application could not be initiated without providing a Dubai Driver's License number and expiration date, something the HSBC call center had failed to mention, and which neither of us, in our capacity as borrowers, were able to offer. At that time, I considered this to be a crushing defeat. I have since revised my standards.

Sunday morning, which marks the start of the work week, we set out for the Bur Dubai Licensing office, confusingly located in Al Barsha. Eventually, we found parking in large tract of mud that brought back childhood memories of my families second pair of hogs, Ron and Nancy, so named as to dampen our sympathy. We made our way into the lobby of the agency and were immediately intercepted by a traditionally dressed, almost contemporarily mustachioed man who said merely, "License. This Way." Thus taking us each by the arm, our stately new friend reversed our course, piloting us (he wore aviator shades) towards a small office off to the side of the foyer. The sign over the office entry way announced that it was a private outfit dedicated to the business of typing. A similar practice dominates the immigration office where, in order to extend one's visa you must first visit the typing office and sit at the mercy of its severely inconvenienced typists, who take occasional breaks from their, no doubt hilarious, office banter to peck a few choice characters into whatever form you need filled out that day. I have chosen to believe that these hard working men and women, normally paragons of productivity (unlike myself), are hampered either by 1970s computer technology, or perhaps a bad case of spyware set off by those riotous farting baby clips that made the rounds a while back.

And yet, there at the licensing agency, I did not allow these previous frustrations to concern me as I settled into the institution grade seating and watched Vanessa's application trickle through the works. After a time we were informed of a logistical problem that we'd in fact been expecting, as Vanessa's California license had expired in the months since her arrival in Dubai. This had come out the night before when it finally occurred to us to check. Luckily, a solution was at hand, we just needed to visit the Deira Licensing branch, where a certain Mr. Hamdam would dispatch this particular bureaucratic road block. In the meantime, I was sent to the adjacent, and similarly independent eye exam concession, located just outside the licensing building. Clearly, some sort of vendor pecking order was in effect because the eye exam shack, which one would hope might possess at least the slightest glimmer of medical proficiency, was really just a couple guys with some eye charts and a swamp cooler. I know this, having poked my head in to inquire after the fee, knowing full well that any self respecting semi-official paper pushers would only accept cash. So I trekked back to the lobby, where the softly glowing ATM machine declined our card, despite the presence of cash (no, really) in our bank account. I think the receipt said something like, "listen, you seem like a nice guy, but I don't know this HSBC character that's supposedly holding your cheddar, so uh, maybe try the gas station, I can't help you." And I did, but the gas station ATM offered a less eloquent dismissal, "go pound sand" it said firmly.

As an aside, I should mention that this was a brand new ATM card, recently delivered via messenger after extensive phone negotiation with the bank. We had used the card exactly once previously, thus ending a nearly three month period in which the only way we could get cash was for Vanessa (who has almost no free time during banking hours) to show up at the branch. My own presence at the bank was near meaningless as, pending my recently completed residency visa, I was not eligible for UAE banking privileges. In fact, we've actually transfered money to our US account to cover bills, and then found ourselves forced to withdraw some portion of that cash from said account just to cover a rash of unexpected typing charges. This deadly ouroboros of bank fees still plagues my waking thoughts. The ATM saga began when a run of ATM card fraud prompted us to change our pin online, which although offered as a service, doesn't actually work. And thus our first ATM card was seized by yet another tough guy ATM.

Day two of licensing hijinks continued basically along the same path. At the Deira branch we found Mr. Hamdam was on vacation, but his understudy filled in nicely, only to reveal that their eye exam hut had been hamstrung (and this seems like a good time to mention Pat and Dick, my families first pair of hogs circa 1979) by a malfunctioning printer. A short walk revealed that the neighboring optometrist had closed early. Mr Hamdam's understudy did happen to mention that, not only was there a suitable optometrist in the hypermarket near our apartment, but there was also a small licensing office up on the second floor of the store. So, we made our way to our third licensing office of the day, successfully obtained our eye tests, (and I quote: "do you wear glasses for distance," "yes, I do," "that will be fifty Dirham.") and proceeded up the escalator to the licensing office, which we found nestled in a deep corner of the hypermarket near ladies hosiery. Here we were told that Vanessa's application could not be processed without a letter from her employer indicating that they had no objection to her obtaining a driver's license. After considering my application for a moment, the gentleman behind the counter informed me that I should go see Mr. Hamdam at the Deira branch. We had, seemingly weeks earlier, been informed by Aviator Mustache that my then visa status, approved pending a health test, was acceptable for obtaining a license. Turns out, he was wrong.

I have subsequently navigated the health test maze, itself an exciting round robin involving four hospital visits, and emerged victorious, or at least HIV and Hepatitis negative with no worrisome blots on my chest x-ray. None of which is a joking matter, although I do find the testing policy disingenuous at best when one considers the constant, tidal flow of pervy business travelers in and out of the region, combined with their reciprocal mass of "night laborers," who are surely here at the mercy of  questionable visa sponsorship by the Al Swearengens of the arab underworld. And while I myself am not quite a kept man, my presence here, as sponsored by my lovely wife, is completely at her discretion, and includes the letter she signed permitting me to obtain a driver's license. As Aviator Mustache and his sidekick apparently joked to Vanessa while I was out arguing with cash machines, I'd better keep in line.

The next three visits to various licensing agencies were fouled twice by broken printers, "COME BACK SIX PM!" barked a startlingly wall-eyed and furious bureaucrat. Clearly he'd spent the entire day explaining the same problem repeatedly, until he could no longer bare to be civil about it. I was also deflected by a scheduling mishap-- turns out the Bur Dubai at Al Barsha Licensing office closes at 2:30, I got there 2:37. Vanessa did successfully obtain her license on Tuesday morning, and the car loan has since been approved, which puts us right on schedule to regroup with Dominico next Monday when he returns for Rome for a scant, anxiety inducing twenty four hours. I'm sure the loan finalization and title transfer will go fine.