Dining Out

Learning a language often requires admitting to the person with whom you're attempting to converse that the grammatical intricacy of their speech, or perhaps just their vocabulary or sheer velocity of air and spittle, exceeds your level of comprehension. The problem in Dubai is that you have far more practitioners of Dubaian Pidgin English than of the language's more well constructed iterations (I myself speak American Screaming Eagle of Freedom English).

At times, I've found myself stooping to fragmented cave-person English (respect, ladies) in order to get my point across, often coupled with hand gestures. Many guest workers, employed in the service industry, seem deathly afraid of admitting when they don't understand a request. I empathize, and suspect that in part, it's because their employment is predicated on their English fluency, so in a sense, they are protecting their jobs by giving you horrible service. The following doesn't qualify as horrible, but it is a depiction of a fairly normal service experience in Dubai--- the food at this restaurant is very much above average:

"Yes Mahm?"

"We'll have one red cabbage salad, one pumpkin salad, and a hamburger."

Look of total incomprehension. Brow knits for approximately 45 seconds.

"You mean cheeseburger, mahm?" Going out on a limb.

"Uhh, no. This here..." Points to menu.

"Oh, you mean the beef burger?"Accompanied by look of relief. I guess Hamburger sounds like a pork product if your knowledge of German metropolises and/or sandwich history is lacking.

"Uhh, yeah. That one."

"Anything to drink?"

"Yes, one large water and one headache remedy juice."

"Ahh... let me check on the headache remedy." Walks to juice bar, returning about five minutes later.

"Ok Mahm, we can make that juice for you."

Ten Minutes elapse.

"Sorry Mahm, but we don't have fresh onion juice for the headache remedy."

"Well, can't you make some?"

"Ahh, sorry but no fresh onion juice. No onions."

"But this restaurant is in inside a grocery store."

"Yes but... juicer broken."

Kerala Back Waters

On the morning of New Year's Eve, Mahesh bundled us into his mighty Jeep, and carried us into town to meet our pre-arranged taxi to the Kerala backwaters. Hoping to avoid bathing our luggage in the thick layer of dust that covered the trunk of our driver's Hindustan Ambassador, a model which was once India's ubiquitous sedan, we loaded our bags into the forward passenger seat, only to learn that we would be sharing the ride with a young couple from Finland. The Fins turned out to be worthy conversationalists, and we apprised one another of our recent adventures for the first half of the journey. Conversation eventually faltered, and the driver, hoping to enhance the already daring thrill-ride he was providing us with, inserted a CD of early nineties techno into the Ambassador's aftermarket sound system. Having studiously avoided both raves and DJ culture, I'm not sure why all the tunes were familiar to me, but I suspect that movies and advertising are at least partially to blame.

Arriving at the tour operator's compound, we loaded our now dusty cloth duffle bag (one of those quilted jobs) onto the houseboat which, from what I can tell, was technically a large punt. At about 8,000 rupees ($175) per night, the backwaters trip was by far the most expensive thing that we did in India, and it was well worth it. I would love to go back sometime to spend multiple nights on the boat, and Bill has indicated that the prices are a good deal lower in the off season.

The brackish backwaters alternate seasonally between shrimp farming and rice paddies, and have a dark, reflective quality that gives the fecund tropical landscape a pleasing bilateral symmetry. We trolled along quietly, our motor-less vessel propelled by a pair of boatmen wielding impressive lengths of bamboo. At one point, the forward boatman's pole became lodged in the bottom, and went whap-whap-whapping down the side of the boat until the aft boatman was able to rescue it for him. This, and a bit of pre-party sound system calibration around the marsh, were the only (minor) intrusions into what was a thoroughly relaxing and enjoyable experience.

Vanessa and I were reminded very much our own favorite non-profit as we skimmed along, surrounded by alternating combinations by reeds, flowers, palms, houses, villages, canoes, birds, children, chickens, trains, cattle, passing Fins in their own extremely well appointed punt, and of course, the water itself. Lunch time brought another pleasant surprise, as our crew brought out huge portions of excellent, almost vegetarian fare-- in fact we ate all but completely vegetarian in India and, as I've said before, thoroughly enjoyed every meal.

That night we sat on the deck listening to dancing and drumming in the distance, watching the occasional bright swirling of flashlights and small fireworks on the shore. We'd brought a bottle of good champagne from the Dubai airport duty free and, decadent infidels that we are, managed to drink half the bottle between the two of us. The boatmen found the bottle tipped over on the deck the next morning and, after checking with us, one of the crew adopted the now empty bottle as a decoration for his home. He'd given us a tour of his house the night before, and we'd been surprised to see that his mantle was already adorned with the box from that very same bottle of Veuve Clicquot, in addition to a few other Clicquot cartons of unknown origin. We felt honored to be welcomed into our host's home, which was full of interesting found and handmade objects, including hand carved models of a cruise ship and an electric guitar. He also had a whole gang of very relaxed looking pigs under his care.

The Kerala backwaters are not so different from those in Quintana Roo or, if you squint, Petaluma, but to my knowledge neither of those places offer such a restful overnight experience on the water. If you ever have the chance to go, do so. Try to opt for a punt rather than a motorboat, as backwater tourism is big business in Kerala, and keeping the number of outboards to a minimum will help preserve this stunning spot.

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.