One more reason to become a shut-in

Our camera is on loan to some friends with a new baby, so here's a picture I took one day at the mall near our house. Judging by the wreaths, this must have been sometime around December, when the siren song of Christmas was wailing out of the shops here. Normally, wailing is left to the Muezzin, who's call to prayer excites the ether several times a day. Dubai is, if anything, a place of many contradictions. For instance, aside from certain designated free zones, which are typically several km outside the city itself, all businesses here are established in partnership with an Emarati local. If, for instance, I were to open my dream business; The Haiku Hut, purveyor of mercifully brief poetry, I would have to find a local business partner. Fine right? No reason that local businesses shouldn't benefit local people. Actually, local business is a bit of a stretch when you're talking about Ikea, or The Dubai Hilton, as all companies, large and small must play by this rule. It gets interesting in the case of hotels, as they have long been the locus of exception, which is to say, the places where people go to drink.

Recently, I met a coworker of Vanessa's for the first time, on one of her office's weekly after hours offsite meetings which, subject to UK rules, involve more than a few pints. Alcohol is currently a distant third to coffee and claritin, in my party regimen, and I had one unpronounceable beer before the two of us felt the call of the pillow. This coworker, who's name wouldn't mean anything to you anyway, thoroughly enjoyed himself until grabbing a cab home in the wee hours. He then spent the next fourteen or so hours sleeping off the night's excess, and then cabbed back to his car at the hotel where we'd been encamped. Somewhere between the hotel and his apartment he got into a minor scrape with a stationary object and, wanting to avoid the incredible hassle of an undocumented ding in his car, he called the police right then and there to settle the matter. This turned out to be a huge mistake, as the first thing the police did was give him a breathalyzer, which he failed. Now, failing a breathalyzer test is bad anywhere, but it's especially bad here and, conversely, much easier to do as the legal blood alcohol level in Dubai is zero. Additionally, he was charged with drinking without a license, as all Dubai residents are required to obtain a license to purchase alcohol. 

As I recall from my last visit to online traffic school, the legal limit in the US is .08 BAC. So, as the DMV hand book goes, you need to wait at least an hour per drink (and one Pint is two cups and therefore two drinks by this reckoning) before you get behind the wheel, although this varies considerably by body weight etc. Now, that rule of thumb is designed to keep your BAC below .08. After hearing about this person's arrest, I started to wonder how long it would take for the average person to metabolize, excrete, and evaporate one beer completely out of their system, to the point where they'd be in compliance with the zero tolerance laws. Morning after DUIs are apparently quite common all over the world, and it would seem to be a pretty serious peril in the UAE, where it's illegal to drive with any alcohol in your system.

Yesterday we had news that our acquaintance was out of jail. He'd been in a holding cell, one that is currently operating at about five times capacity, for nine days. The holding cell, unlike your typical drunk tank, was one huge general population cell filled with hundreds of criminals of all ilk, including the really bad kind of ilk: murderous ilk. He's now facing deportation, which I suppose could mean the loss of his job, and a hefty fine. His employer had retained an attorney the first day that he was incarcerated, and for whatever reason, it took around nine days for him to be released.

Dubai has long maintained a tension between conservative islamic values and a growing expatriate culture that makes very little concession to local tradition. This tacitly accepting coexistence has been challenged lately, not just by dwindling economic prospects, ostentatious wealth is the one thing 90% of Dubai residents agree on-- they really like it, but also by a tightening of rules governing public behavior. Because new laws in Dubai are announced via press release, and this particular release was only sent to one paper, it appears that no one really knows what the hell is going on. We heard recently that undercover cops, sometimes referred to colloquially as  pigs in a blanket, have been questioning and arresting pub crawlers on foot for lacking the proper alcohol license. The bars here will card you if you look under age, but they never check you alcohol license, as it's really only needed at the actual liquor store. Liquor stores are so low profile, and obliquely named here, that it took me months to notice that there's one on either side of our grocery store. I think one of them is called Marine Mercantile, or something like that, and all the windows are painted out-- no Cap'n Cork in Dubai.

It bothers me that local business interests profit significantly from the sale of alcohol, while at the same time local laws create a jackpot (in the Cormac McCarthy sense) in which consuming alcohol can very easily draw a sober driver or a drunk pedestrian into serious legal and financial trouble. I understand that in each case, theoretical or otherwise, the person in question broke the law, what galls me though, is that they did so in an effort to behave responsibly, and fell victim to laws that are not enforced equally, or consistently with international measures of sobriety. I take exception to a great many driving behaviors that place other people's lives in jeopardy, of which driving drunk is the undeniable apex. I would add that, if you sell liquor out of one side of your mouth, and then throw your customers in jail, with the assumption of guilt rather than innocence, for what is at least sometimes responsible behavior, leaving them in confinement for seemingly random lengths of time; well, then you may resemble Vonnegut's famous asterisk. 

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.

Thanksgiving

My visit to the police department was less than fruitful. I spent hours standing in line as countless post-accident odd couples struggled to get their story straight. These budding Oscar and Felixes would jabber loudly at the police officer until eventually the cop would throw his arms up in disgust and dispatch the arguing couple to negotiate amongst themselves. One of the things that makes police work so hard, is that an incredibly high percentage of the people that they interact with on any given day will be lying to them. Up is down, red is green, and so on. This is the very same thing that makes it painful to interact with the police (I absolutely hate being pulled over, although I'm basically a law abiding person) because dealing with a human lie detector, much like the mechanical variety, simply makes you feel guilty. I had the same reaction years ago when an employer sent me to a dismal, rundown clinic for a pre-employment drug screen. I had absolutely no cause for concern, and yet just taking the drug test made me feel both guilty and slightly degraded. 

When, after a long wait, it came time for me to approach the counter, the sergeant and I struggled to understand each other, finally agreeing that I should bring the car into the police lot for inspection. When I returned from moving the car he was busy writing up an accident report for another pair of misfits, and so I sat down and waited for him to finish. About half an hour later their paperwork was completed and the sergeant promptly stood up and left for his break. I tried to get one of the other officers to help me, but they insisted that I should wait for the sergeant, who, when he did finally return some forty minutes later, seemed to have no recollection of our earlier interaction:

"Two car accident?" "No just one car." Where?" "It was parked in Jumeirah Three, is that what you mean?" "No. Where car now?" "It's in the visitor lot." "OK, bring car here now."

Now, this guy is probably from Yemen, and he probably speaks four or more languages, so I really don't mean to criticize his english, which would have my non-existent Arabic pinned and howling in pain almost immediately if we could somehow pit our language skills against each other in an ultimate fighting cage match. But, explaining the fact that I had no clear idea how the scratch came to be, and that furthermore, I had nothing to gain by lying as the rental is fully insured, proved nearly impossible. He kept asking where we scratched the car, and, probably because he's in the business of listening to lies all day, he was offended by my perceived obstinacy, throwing his hands up in the air in the international hand signal for "you're full of shit, and I give up," and walking away. I think he had some idea that there was a communication problem, because he sent out a more fluent Emarati officer, who wore a festive police tunic, in what must be a nod to traditional dress. This new officer informed me that I should come back in the morning as they were "only dealing with emergency reports" for the remainder of the evening.

So, in order to reclaim Thanksgiving from the law enforcement blues, I drove to the store and grabbed whatever Thanksgiving staples I could find, which wound up being a giant halal turkey breast, a box of cran-raspberry juice, and some pear slices that came soaked in cranberry juice. Which, combined with mashed yams and asparagus, made a nice finish to a crazy day. After dinner we played scrabble, our ice skating plans long abandoned due to my lengthy stay at police HQ.