India, Kerala, Kochi

I think I've been hesitant to write about India, because to do so requires acknowledging the fact that I'm no longer there. I'm physically in Dubai, but my mind is elsewhere-- partly in Kochi, partly in Albany.

Kerala, which boasts the worlds first democratically elected communist party, was the first Indian state to abolish the caste system, installing a social safety net that yet sways in the breezes of financial chaos. We didn't see much of the state, spending our time in and around Kochi, but in general, we found people were incredibly warm, genuinely returning a smile in a way that is largely absent in Dubai. Interestingly, a great number of Dubai's enormous Indian population are from Kerala, and we encountered several families in Kochi who had relatives working here, contributing to the household incomes at home at some personal cost. In fact, we live with one such person.

Our hosts, Bill and Mahesh, a former wigmaker to the stars, and award winning music video director respectively, were exactly the sort of easy-going, engaging, and welcoming hosts that one can only hope for. They toted us all over Kochi on their bike and scooter, Ness and I clinging to their backs like baby baboons traveling with their mothers. The roads in India are a little like the wilds of Africa, perhaps during a stampede, with drivers veering boldly into oncoming traffic to overtake slower tuk tuks and all kinds of vehicles in various states of repair. In this way, Bill and Mahesh were able guardians, transporting us not just to safety, but to our delicious daily breakfast of uppumavu, idly, curry, and chai masala every morning.

The decor of our breakfast spot was one part jail cell, and another part wood shed, with a layer of grease on the walls that looked a bit like the high water line in a flood zone. The proprietors of this spot are to be commended, as they eclipsed the funk to flavor ratio of my favorite taquerias and noodle stalls, serving up some of the best food I've had, for the least amount of money, in the most unlikely and yet inviting setting. Later in the day, we'd make an inevitable visit to Kashi for coffee and possibly cake. According to Bill, and I readily believe this, Kashi is one of the best cafes not just in Kerala, but probably in India as a whole. To sum up, we ate well, really well, and with out any gastronomical taxation to speak of. I can't wait to go back.

Masked Swordsmen and the Reluctant Prostitute

This story caught my eye today, not just for it's swashbuckling bravado and abusive misogyny, but because it's the first time I've read anything about the Dubai Police breaking up a prostitution ring. The standard water-cooler rumor is that Dubai, despite occasionally imprisoning its largely law abiding residents for displays of public affection, tacitly approves of prostitution in light of the city's huge guest worker population, many of whom are ostensibly away from their wives for long stretches. I don't see how someone making around $250/month by high estimates, in what is one of the world's most overpriced cities, could possibly afford the attentions of a working lady, but others have suggested that there's a certain amount of sharing going on. And yet the economics of that arrangement seem unlikely as well, since no one ever got rich offering a 'twenty-five for the price of one' special.

While all this is purely speculative, it seems unfair to blame (or thank, depending on your perspective) Dubai's poorest, least mobile residents for the city's reputedly large sex trade. It seems more likely that, not only must there be a large segment of middle income clientele, but that someone at the, uh, top is making quite a lot of money running these brothels. I don't mean to make light of the real issue here; human trafficking, FKA slavery. This is a problem that the United States should be doing a lot more to address, including offering asylum to the victims, rather than sending them back to their abusers to try again. What is unique to Dubai though, is the complexity of moral tight rope walking around issues of what a professor of mine once termed, "applied friction." Bravo to the Dubai P.D. for breaking up this mob of knife wielding slave-drivers, but as long as the government is going to turn a blind eye to a bustling trade in sex for money, could they also think about unblocking flickr?

Strange Glee Pt. II

First off, if anyone reading this didn't receive a visit from me during my recent whirlwind business trip, please know that it was partly because I was really busy, partly because I'm coming through again in November (when I won't have to work,) and lastly because I spent all my free time with the very charming Sonia Glass, whose antics are beyond description.

So with that out of the way, allow me to tell you that I'm not dying to own the new Cadillac SRX Crossover SUV, nor am I dying to own any car in particular, which means that my doe-eyed, yet ambivalent appreciation of luxury cars is for sale to the highest bidder. I do feel a new kinship with the Cadillac folks, who pampered me with business class flights (at least 48 hours of raw travel time) and two nights at the plush (yet stuffy in a golf-widow sort of way) Westlake Four Seasons. All this atop a raft of bailout greenbacks that we Americans helped lash together this winter, when the stormy waters of the global economy grew so very cold.

How could I say anything bad about the car after that? Aside from rejecting calls for a hybrid version due to lack of phsyical space, the real canard here, and it's one that Cadillac itself would love to disprove, is that Caddies only appeal to men over forty. This is factually and statistically debunked by the fact that my Grandmother, Ann, bought herself a woefully misundertood Cadillac Cimaron circa 1982, a vehicle that currently ranks number thirty five on Time Magazine's list of the 50 worst cars of all time. Personally, I rate the car very highly and feel that it might still represent a good buy on the used market. Although I wasn't yet old enough to drive when my Grandmother owned the car, I did particularly enjoy the smiling hamburger character that she kept suction cupped to the dash (she was, among other things, an iconoclast in the age of Garfield) but also because the only time I remember riding in the car we went to See's Candy.

So, I'm not really a car guy per se. I loved my three Volvo's, none of which were parts cars thank you very much, and I love my barebones pickup truck because it allows me to show up anywhere I want unannounced, just as long as I come bearing pizza in an insulated bag. Also, it helps to have some kind of ball cap. Towards the end of my California sojourn, when I found myself pinned to the passenger seat of Richard's (a good friend of the family down in Encinitas) monstrous Ford GT, where I couldn't help but grin the way one does on the Gravitron. So yes, I did enjoy yet another V8 engine, but keep in mind, the car was at HOV lane capacity (as a two seater,) which I imagine is usually the case, as I sincerely doubt Richard is at a loss for passengers on his land rocket. Richard doesn't commute in the thing, or use it to push hapless expats off the road, so he gets a pass from me. On the off chance that he happens to see this; thanks again!

The strange glee of enjoying things you would never buy or want in a million years.

Unlike a Rolls Royce product launch, which is basically a nice lunch and a couple minutes sitting in one of the world's most luxurious cars, the kind folks at Range Rover actually let you drive-- in fact they let you drive up and down a series of improbably steep ravines. For anyone interested, the actual article can be found here. Still, choosing to drive a car with a V8 engine every day is ridiculous, you might as well burn tires in your backyard.

The Fisherman's Casita

We spent our most memorable day in Mallorca at Juan's casita in Estaca, a rustic cabin in a small fisherman's retreat nestled into steep cliffs above the Mediterranean. As we followed our incredibly generous hostess along the road from Palma, winding our way up a verdant mountain highway, we enjoyed the calming effect of a landscape that was not quite, but almost familiar. It's difficult to express the relief one feels in simply getting out of the desert. The engulfing sameness of the sand has only heightened since our return to Dubai, as the Iraqi desert continues to blow into the UAE, casting a gauzy shadow over the landscape. Lately, it looks as if the temperature outside might be closer to a winter day in San Francisco rather than the 110 degree plus heat of summer. But there in Mallorca, as we wound our way slowly down the one lane road to the coast, the weather was clear and inviting. At the start of the private road, Kitty unlocked the gate and we made our way down a tree lined dirt track until the progressively worse road conditions, and lack of space to park caused us to pull off and take up our bags on foot.

Walking down the path to the casita we were met with a stunning vista of the centuries old retreat, and could scarcely believe our luck as invited guests. When I first spoke to Kitty about the casita, she seemed slightly worried that we wouldn't like it, as it's not brand new or particularly luxurious. In actuality, it was for us, burned out on Dubai's pompous facades, a perfect place to spend a relaxing afternoon.

The first thing we did was pile five of us, three adults and two pre-teen boy's, into Juan's (Juan is Kitty's brother) kayak, so that we could paddle out past an embargo of jellyfish for a sting-free swim. Once we'd all disembarked and enjoyed the sea, we realized that we'd overestimated the capacity of the kayak, and were taking on water. Additionally, we managed to capsize three times as the fifth person scrambling back into the kayak kept proving too much for the vessel's precarious stability. By the third time we flipped, we'd managed to lose all of Juan's goggles. (Sorry Juan!)

Finally we arrived at a plan-- Kitty and I got off the kayak, while Vanessa and the boys paddled to the nearest stretch of shoreline. Once there, Vanessa unloaded the boys and headed back out to retrieve us from where we were dog paddling offshore, just out of reach of the jellyfish. Sadly, when Vanessa appeared in the Kayak she was bleeding just under her left orbital as one of the boys had accidently whacked her in the head with his paddle as he left the kayak. The three of us then paddled back to the dock, just managing to keep afloat, and finally dispatching Uncle Juan to fetch the boys once we drained some of the excess water out of the kayak. 

Safely ashore, we took a few pictures before heading up to the casita to fix diner. Our brush with disaster wasn't over yet though, as little Martita, Kitty's niece, took a spill off the casita's rocky porch when no one was watching, much to the dismay of her nanny who was just out of arm's reach when Martita overreached for a drawing that had been whisked away by the wind. In the whirl of panic that followed Martita was bundled up and rushed to the nearest clinic, and we later learned that she was indeed fine despite falling at least ten feet onto the rocky steps below. In the rush to get Martita to safety, Kitty had given Jose her keys to the gate, leaving only one remaining set. After the rest of the children had been fed, and assured that their little cousin would be fine, Kitty assembled their gear and led everyone up the winding path only to discover that the running lights were ablaze on our rental car. Worried that we'd be stranded the next day with a dead battery, Kitty trudged back down the path to inform us, and together we walked back up to right the situation. 

Unfortunately, this wouldn't be Kitty's last unnecessary trip back down the hill because, as it turned out, she would realize only at the private gate that she'd given Juan her gate key and left us, all the way back down at the casita, with the only copy. And so, poor Kitty returned to us not once, but twice, first retrieving the key, and then, having decided it would be unsafe to hide it at the gate, she drove back down the treacherous path one last time to return the key. 

I think if I'd been anywhere else I would have been exhausted by such a crazy day, but on vacation in Mallorca, with the Mediterranean spread out at my feet, I was completely relaxed and ready for whatever adventure would present itself next.

Mallorca & Barcelona

Upon returning from one of the most relaxing trips we've ever been on, I was struck down by a crushing flu, from which I've only recently recovered. As such, I've been slow to return to my usual duties, and haven't written anything here in a little while. Mallorca and Barcelona were a welcome escape from the hot, dusty monotony of Dubai, and we enjoyed every sunny, obligation free minute if it. Most of the pictures above are from Mallorca, although Vanessa can be spotted in the top most picture as she patrols Barcelona's Boqueria Market for interesting treats.

Just before we left for Spain, our lease expired and we moved out of our overpriced studio and into a sort of high end rooming house. We now have domestic help for the first time, and count on our new pal Rajan for ironing and once weekly cleaning services-- all told, these rather minimal chores cost us 200 AED per month, or about $54.49. We've managed to cut our rent in half, but only after a good bit of wrangling. The transition form living by ourselves, to a shared living environment has been fairly smooth, as the new household is run something like a hotel.

As our lease was set to expire, we'd been looking around and after seeing several places, we informed Nabil that we were thinking of leaving. We used to think of Nabil as our crazy adoptive Arabian Uncle, but upon informing him that we wanted out of our lease, he responded that our lease required three months notice in order to move out. We re-read the contract and found that what it actually said was that we were required to pay the entire balance of the twelve month lease if we left before the lease period ended. I actually took the lease down to the Dubai Municipality rent board, who were very helpful, and informed me that Nabil was, to use the local term, pissing in my ear. So, we now find ourselves estranged from our chainsaw loving Arabian Uncle, and have the remaining task of trying to recover our deposit from him. All in all, it was worth the strife, and we're glad to have moved on. 

The Great Wall

I really enjoy the Lonely Planet series of guidebooks which, by trial and error, have proven much more reliable and accurate for us than most other publisher's efforts. Because we were sweetly gifted with around 487 Dubai guide books prior to our departure (thanks, by the way) we have become something of guide book connoisseurs. Conversely, we've been less lucky with our own purchases since arriving here, as the Gulf's ubiquitous "Explorer" series of guide books, whose jaundiced covers seem inspired by "yachting for dummies"et al, are a disappointment. These books, or at least their Oman and Dubai offerings, are particularly annoying for their lack of common sense landmarks, like say major hospitals, combined with the conspicuous inclusion of entire developments that have yet to be built.

My fellow Oaklanders at LP do let me down from time, in particular by recommending an amnesiac visa agent who is currently sunning himself atop an ill gotten pile of our Dirhams at this very moment. But that's a story that has nothing to do with China, and best left for another time.

The only other disappointment LP has dished out relates to a sin of omission, and one that could easily be fixed in the next addition of LP China. Essentially, the good folks at LP go out of their way to warn travelers against Great Wall bus tours that make excessive stops en route, all of which are geared towards hawking trinkets, adding at least two completely wasted hours to the trip. What LP didn't make clear, was that the bus line that they themselves recommend also includes two of these pointless field trips, leaving you to wonder if hiring a taxi for the day might have been a better option.

With the the price hovering around double the cost of two bus tickets, I'd say that it's well worth considering the taxi option, especially if you're only in town for a few days. Then again, I could see several of our wily Beijing cab drivers pocketing the three hundred Yuan and ditching us at the Wall-- unless a full day fare is paid upon completion? I like that idea though, it's second only to "follow that car" on my list of cinematic taxi arrangements.

In defense of LP, it's possible that the equally wily Chinese tour bus operators changed their routes after publication of the last edition. I did ask at the ticket window if the bus made extra stops, and was told "no stops," but here my sad lack of mandarin is probably to blame. Had I fully understood the situation, a feisty "bu yao" might have been useful. It says something about China's scrappy, ultra-capitalistic street vendors that the only two things we learned to say were hello, (ni hao) and don't want, (bu yao.) Actually, that sums up a large percentage of my interactions with the locals, and yet for the most part the experience is exceedingly pleasant as there always seems to be be some subtle, half winking pretext that the situation is more than slightly ridiculous.

And so, we made our way first to a complimentary lunch that consisted of the only bad food that China seemed to offer-- worse than any of the roach coaches or scary-aki joints I've ever braved, anywhere. Lunch was conveniently served on the campus of a jade factory, so we were given over an hour to wander aisle after aisle of jade walruses and magpies, wondering how much time we'd actually have at the Wall. After another short drive, we spent forty-five minutes sitting outside a wax museum (admission wasn't included or warranted) that has something to do with the ming tombs. Luckily, they had shaded outdoor seating, and I'd brought a book. Actually, that's my one piece of life advice for my lovely niece Sonia-- always carry reading material.

The Great Wall, which can be visited in multiple locations, is mainly accessible through controlled, park-like environments that feature multiple concessions, pay restrooms (although hardly restful, the word toilet is even less appropriate here) and a pit of forlorn looking black bears. Later on, I learned that you can find a guide to take you to the wild, overgrown sections of the Wall, which sounds amazing to me and well worth exploring if we make a second visit.

Before finally ascending the Wall itself, visitors must run one last gamut of commerce. The same stretch actually comes in handy on the way down, and I would recommend the beer and cucumbers, although not the hot dogs, which will probably be obvious.

The Wall itself is staggering, if you ever have the chance to see it, do so. We met a group of Chinese students at the top most part of our section of the Wall, which we reached honestly, eschewing the tram, which looked like a ride at some third rate theme park. Our new friends asked to have their picture taken with Vanessa, and later, after a bit of thought gave us the chinese names "Lucky" and "Flower". I suspect, and would agree, that the name "Lucky" derives mainly from being married to the very lovely "Flower."

That night, after resting up at our palatial, and yet slightly threadbare hotel, we made our way to a roof top restaurant bar that we'd ferreted out during our walk back from the Forbidden City. The view and the food were terrific, and made a fitting end to a very memorable day.