Slumberjack

Our landlord and neighbor, Nabil, has become something more than a friend to us, taking on a role that I can only describe as Crazy Adoptive Uncle from Arabia. He is a guide of sorts, offering the type of insider information that only locals hold, such as the fact that there's both a corner store and laundry service randomly situated within the interior of our little suburban beach community. Although these convenient outposts are only a few blocks from our door, I probably wouldn't have ever noticed them, as a combination of speed bumps and oddly disconnected streets might have kept me off that block indefinitely. 

Nabil is also a conspiracy theorist of sorts, tilting his head down and looking at us appraisingly as he asks "you know the real story though, right?" What follows is often a mixture of healthy political skepticism, outright paranoia, and the occasional cultural roadblock that must be ignored. We are guests here after all, and I'm not about to start an argument. He has a lot to say that I agree with, for instance, we've both come to the conclusion that Hollywood's depiction of Islam is ham-handed and narrow. Naturally action films need bad guys, and so the world's small population of Jihadists have become the Commies of today's cinema.

Recently, Nabil announced that operating a chainsaw was his new hobby, and as his next door neighbor, I can attest that he's taken to this emerging sport with impressive zeal. Over the last several months the weather in Dubai has been nearly perfect, and in appreciation of this fact Nabil and family have moved operations into their large courtyard. We joined them there for Sangria, late one night a few months back, and I was impressed by the crackling fire and the large cache of wood stacked up along the side of the house. At some point, Vanessa asked him where he got the wood from, and he replied: "Oh you know, around the neighborhood." That night, Nabil's standard uniform, a white dishsadasha, bore the rosy smudges of an evening spent around a punchbowl full of wine and fruit. More recently, his clothes been marked by dust and bark .

We'd already heard the chainsaw several times by the afternoon when Nabil announced his new hobby, and he has very considerately offered to sheath his mighty saw if the noise ever becomes a nuisance: "One missed call from you and I will know; too much noise." And while the roar of a power tool, firing up around 11pm on a weeknight, might be annoying in another context, we can't help but turning to each other and laughing when we hear his late night lumberjack's song. Lying there in bed, it's easy to imagine him next door, his smile bright and menacing as he cuts into some tree trunk he's liberated from a construction site.

After repeatedly promising to let him know if the noise ever became a problem, an unexpected series of gifts began to appear in the front yard. Ever since we moved in we'd been talking about planting a tree to replace one that had died and been torn out. We even made it so far as to buy a tree at a nursery, only to return it and generate an, as of  yet, unused credit at a store that will probably go out of business soon. So we were surprised to wake up one morning to find that a tree had been planted in the sandy spot where we'd burned our prayer sticks on New Years Eve.

It wasn't until the second, and then third new plant appeared in the yard that I began to suspect that the mighty chainsaw had been wielded in our favor. We had regularly shared in the noise of the saw, now we would share in its bounty. At the same time, the apartment next door is vacant, and I regularly hear Nabil conducting open houses, his sales pitch goes: "where else in Dubai can you have private garden with apartment? I will tell you; nowhere." So I also suspect that the garden value proposition is being ratcheted up as rents continue to decline all over the city. It may also be a conciliatory gesture to those of us locked in at the old, higher rates-- especially those of us with (hopefully one time) mold problems.

We learned a few months ago that the four identical houses being built across the street from as, as pictured above, aren't the polygamist compound we'd imagined, but four cookie cutter rental properties. Vanessa had set upon the polygamy theory because, while multiple wives are acceptable amongst the wealthy here, the Koran apparently indicates that each wife should have an equally plush Villa and Teutonic SUV. Our dream of having quasi Mormon neighbors was dashed when it was revealed by another neighbor that the property belongs to a group of disgruntled half brothers, themselves the product of polygamy, who have erected the four identical villas at the suggestion of the Chief of Police. The Chief, who lives nearby, apparently wanders the streets at night, mediating complicated family disputes. Nabil should be careful, lest the pedestrian lawman stumble across one of his late night poaching sprees, which by the way, must be pretty damn loud. And so, the progress of these houses has served as a visual marker of our time here, each one changing a little each day, as our understanding of Dubai continues to evolve.

Return to Oman

This past weekend we drove over to Dibba, part of the Omani annex that lies, disconnected from contiguous Oman, at the northwestern tip of the UAE. Dibba is a sleepy fishing village with a few resorts, just over the border from Fujairah. We had followed our friends Jane and Andy from Dubai, trusting their many years of experience as Safari guides in the African bush would help lead us to our destination. In fact, this particular UAE/Oman border crossing is more relaxed than the main Oman border, and I was able to present Vanessa's passport while she slept heavily in the passenger seat. Still, the ever watchful UAE border police did wonder aloud about her prone position, and I assured them that she was only napping. 

We set up camp at the end of a long beach, as far as possible from the moronic escapades of several full size SUVs, one monster truck, and two quad bikes-- one of which appeared to be hobbled by some mechanical ailment that perhaps inspired the removal of the muffler from the second, otherwise working, vehicle. The overcompensating quad's throaty roar seemed to shake the canyon behind us as the rider dumped the clutch, thrusting his front wheels into the air and tearing across the beach. The bike's flatulence reminded me of one morning last year, when I started up my small Toyota pickup to find that thieves had stolen my catalytic converter in the night, disabling the exhaust system in the bargain and earning me a lot of unwanted attention as I drove through a throng of critical mass riders later that morning.

Eventually, the automotive revelers were replaced by a paramilitary dance group, whose chanting, drumming and inexplicable psychedelic organ playing continued into the wee hours. We did our best to ignore them, cooking over an open flame, and enjoying the fresh air and multiplying stars from our graffitied corner of the beach.

The next day we drove back accross the border and breakfasted at Le Meridien, also home to the dive center that would take us Snorkeling/Diving that afternoon. As it turns out, a red tide had suffocated the reef months earlier, cutting off its sunlight for weeks at a time, and the resultant destruction had severely impacted the ecosystem. There were a few sharks, clown fish, and eels on hand, but the amount of sea life was hugely decreased since Vanessa's visit there six months ago. Still, it felt wonderful to be out on the water, and the weather was absolutely perfect.

On the return trip we stopped at a road side market to buy two clay pots for our front porch, and met a few local characters in the bargain. We met a man in yellow sweater emblazoned with the number 23, who explained that he had been a sailor and truck driver all over the world. Upon hearing that we were from California, he listed off the numerous port cities that he'd visited before coming to the UAE and buying his own long haul rig. I tried to give my new good buddy a big ten four, but he shook his head, walking away in quiet disgust. We negotiated with the merchants, shaving a dirham or two off the price here and there, sampling fruits we'd never seen or heard of, and ultimately declining to try the salted sardines, which sat heaped in the late afternoon sun, flies festering from every nook and cranny. It was the perfect end to our brief escape from what has become a festering nook in its own right, as the unexpectedly wet winter has brought an outbreak of mold to our poorly ventilated apartment-- not to worry though, Sheriff Bleach has recently arrived on the scene, and all is well in Arabia.

One for the road

While the car remains one of my favorite places to listen to music, I've found myself gravitating more and more towards audio books as a means to enliven long drives. When we're at home in Oakland, we have the good fortune to live on the same block as a public library. As it's a small branch, I also used to make frequent trips to the downtown branch, where the selection is superior. Late one night as I was packing for a trip to Ventura, I realized I'd forgotten to visit the library, and wouldn't have a book to pass the time, so I did a quick google search and struck literary gold with librivox.org.

Now, Robin Cook fans will be disappointed to read that librivox deals only in works that are in the public domain, so fans of histrionic medical dramas will be forced to look elsewhere. Still, there's plenty of Twain, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Hawthorne, so you can at least avoid UK spelling, which just sounds weird on mp3. Another advantage that librivox has over the library, which admittedly does offer a tantalizing supply of potboilers to pass the miles, is that you can copy the files right onto your ipod, which beats swapping discs every hour and a half, or ripping ten CD's the night before. 

The audio quality and performance vary somewhat, and some novels feature a revolving cast of readers, which always seems to make the least capable orators all the more obvious. I've been considering volunteering, as I have all I need to make a professional recording here in Dubai, and would love to contribute to this excellent resource.

Lastly, because many folks just don't enjoy downloading legal content, here's a blog offering over twenty unreleased white album demos. I had planned on describing the sound of the generator we encountered at TBR by linking to the album version of "Back In The USSR", with it's opening woosh of jet noise, but I became distracted when I found these recordings-- score one for the legal team at Apple Corp, sort of.

Oman! You Devil.

It is almost impossible for me to talk about Oman without comparing it to Dubai, which is the only region of the Middle East that I know well, or at all. The essence of my feelings on these two neighboring countries can be distilled into two anecdotes, the first of which occurred while we were staying at the Turtle Beach Resort (TBR) in Ras Al Jinz, Oman. 

TBR is made up of ten or twelve humble straw roofed huts, which are comfortable enough, and have a slightly rugged charm, allowing the occupant to muse: "See? I'm not as soft as you think I am." All from the comfort of a queen size bed that is probably decked out with feather pillows brought from home. The first evening at TBR passed in tranquil fashion, as Vanessa and I seemed to have the place nearly to ourselves. In the morning, the resort's smattering of middle aged guests emerged well before us, and were already sunning themselves on the beach while we policed our breakfast plates against a squadron of Omani flies. 

We were still recovering from 36 hours of (mostly) driving and sleeping, and allowed ourselves a day of lazing around the beach and shack which, at its most active, included a dusty game of basketball with some gullible local children. "Isn't that Yusuf Islam?" I would exclaim, pointing and squinting into the distance as they turned to join me, knowing full well that Yusuf's latest album went triple frankincense in Oman. Having effectively diverted the ten year olds, I quickly passed the ball to Nessa down court where she proceeded to finger roll another two points for Team USA.

Needless to say, we were greatly enjoying our time at TBR, and continued to do so despite the arrival of a gang of cell phone encrusted Dubai residents, who had mistakenly booked TBR believing that it was some sort of luxury hotel with a night club and custom tortoise shell dance floor. 

Later, as I lay my head on the pillow, reading One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for the first time, our new neighbors proceeded to power up the AC in their shack, igniting a tortured sounding generator that turned out to be located six feet from my head, just outside our poorly insulated hut. I don't expect huts to be well insulated per se, but I also don't expect them to have air conditioning. I suppose the reason I most resented the resulting 14 hour mechanical serenade, was that the temperature was quite reasonable, on the cool side if anything. It's possible that the noise might have been meant to obscure the couple's amorous plans for the evening, but it proved no match for their braying affections, which suggested a film acting pedigree quite unexpected in an islamic state. 

When I awoke the next morning to find the AC/generator still whirring like a broken refrigerator perched inside my ear canal, I exacted my revenge by pounding on the walls of our hut, shouting over and over, "goddamn these plastic nails!" Still, I can't be sure that our slumbering neighbors heard me, as my antics probably blended in with the white noise of their personal comfort. I realize that I'm whining about minor irritations, but isn't a vacation hopefully a respite from such aggravation, especially when the nearest town is a sparsely populated fishing village? We relished our break from Dubai, so when Dubai came to us in Oman, it was quite unwelcome.

My second story about Oman, isn't so much a story, but the paraphrasing of an email I received from my friend and editor, Andy. Upon our return, I had sent him a new article, along with a note thanking him and his wife for recommending the Oman Dive Center (ODC) in Muscat, where we stayed for two nights towards the end of our trip. Returning from TBR at the start of the work week, we sailed smoothly down Oman's recently opened coastal highway, which afforded excellent views of the Gulf, and the pleasure of sailing through toll booths that weren't yet operational. The ODC is a somewhat more refined resort than TBR, in that the huts are a better furnished and more finished looking in general, including their own open air shower and bathroom. Nestled behind the hut and, protected by rock walls about five feet high, the shower was like some excellent backyard patio with an overhead sprinkler. Also, the coffee is pretty good at ODC, whereas TBR serves instant. Within minutes of receiving my email Andy wrote back the following reply, he'd just returned from almost a month in his native Australia:

"Yeah, having a little trouble adjusting myself-- wish I lived in Oman instead of Dubai."

Liam Getting Harried

Last night, "Rachel Getting Married" thoroughly trampled our spirits, mercifully offering a modest emotional uptick towards the end, along with some slightly whingy Robin Hitchcock tunes, and one enjoyable samba troupe. Unlike RGM's interminably glum and self involved cinematic doppleganger, "Margot at the Wedding," which I wish I hadn't bothered to finish (all squid and no whale), RGM features slightly more recognizable characters, even if the calmest among them often have the least lines, leaving the leads to carry the show with their raw, shrill emotions. All in all, it was one of the better movies we've seen here, but moviegoing in Dubai is a mixed bag. 

First of all, people talk and text constantly, and while I've gotten much better at blocking it out, it's still irritating. At RGM we were seated next to a group of middle aged muslim men and women who clucked their tongues disparagingly at the onscreen samba dancer's PG rated dance-kini, and otherwise seemed engaged in a running dialogue about their favorite character, the fictional family's pet poodle. The clucking was actually pretty tame compared to the riotous laughter that broke out during the last scene of "Australia," which we saw earlier in the week, when the aboriginal character King George's bare rump is displayed as he heads off into the light bending heat of the outback. George's ass completely slew the Emiratis next to us, they were practically falling out of their seats, and it was actually fairly infectious, if slightly unnerving. Somehow, the shared viewing experience that can make moviegoing so different from DVD, is broken here by the intense parallelism of culture, i.e. we are concurrently watching different movies play out on the same screen.

The second discouraging fact of moviegoing in Dubai is that the selection is usually pretty grim, last night, for instance, our options included; Pride and Glory, Genghis Kahn, The REC, The Women, RGM, Donkey Xote, Strange Wilderness, Traitor, Anywhere But Home (I think this was called Four Christmases in the US), Bedtime Stories, Australia, Bolt, Transporter Three, and Madagascar 2, the best of which we'd already seen. I've watched and enjoyed more mediocre films here than at perhaps any other time in my life, due to the fact the I simply like going to the movies and mediocre is after all, a relative term. In fact, the surprising thing about the above list is that it contains an unusually low number of horror movies for Dubai, a genre I've never really loved. In the UAE, a country where movies are regularly censored for sexual images and language, the low budget independent slasher flick reigns supreme, splashing crimson across multiplex screens alongside the latest Pixar offering, and what ever dreck Cameron Diaz has lent her two expressions to.

After the movie we stopped by Malecon, Dubai's lone cuban bar, the interior of which is completely covered in an admirably thorough amount of bar sponsored graffiti, much of which must have required a ladder or human pyramid to engrave. I was reminded of the Washoe House, a roadhouse in my beloved Sonoma county that, at least when I was there some 20 years ago with my pops, has its entire ceiling covered in dollar bills, business cards, and drunken missives scrawled out on cocktail napkins. Perhaps that, and the familiar faux cuban interior, are what help Malecon to offer a somewhat transportive atmosphere. The bar offers a carefully crafted dive feel, and I've always found fancy bars are best left to fancy people. Walking towards the rear of the dining area where the men's room awaited, I was lulled into a state of passivity by the musical chatter of a slightly harassed looking table of spanish speaking diners. Pushing open the men's room door I was surprised to find a startled looking attendant bidding farewell to the previous occupant. While I'm happy to tip an attendant, especially at the nicer hotels where such a thing is expected, I'm never sure what the protocol is at the mall or the airport, where such a thing seems unnecessary, like having a caddy at a miniature golf game. And really, I'm perfectly happy to get my own paper towel. 

I'm somewhat neurotic about appropriate tipping, but have had my usual adherence to the sort of mutual appreciation usually practiced by former service industry drones (like me) eroded by the vagaries of Dubai's bizarre social strata. For instance, many restaurants add a 10% service charge to the bill, but I find it unlikely that the server ends up seeing this money. Additionally, tipping isn't expected here the way it is at home, and Dubai's typically lousy service probably stems from that lack of incentive, coupled with an annoying brand of politesse that forbids bringing the bill unbidden or even dropping by to see if we might like to pay, having finished our meal the previous week. And so, darting into a private stall, not because I'm pee shy, or worried about some republican senator making overtures (different strokes), but because I need a moment to check my pockets for cash, which I typically lack. Happily, the attendant was absent when I opened the stall door, so I washed up and got the hell out of there without having to explain that I lacked even a one Dirham coin. 

I wasn't so lucky when meeting my first Dubai panhandler at the grocery store last weekend, the economic significance of which I've been pondering ever since. Upon parking I was approached by a smiling pakistani fellow with unusually inflamed looking gums. Raising his hand to his mouth in pantomime he managed to eek out the word "hungry," and I did my best to convey that I would try and help but that I needed to unload my recycling first. Eventually it became clear that I had more than I could carry and he reluctantly gave me a hand, I suppose he was new to the guilt game. After which I repeated the word "hungry" with rising intonation and gesture toward the market. "Money?" He replied. Naturally, I didn't have any cash and, showing him my credit card to indicate my willingness to help, he shrugged and walked way. When I finally returned to the car with several bags of groceries he was nowhere to be seen until I started to back out of my spot and he suddenly appeared from the bushes making the same gesture he'd first hailed me with. So, stopping the car and rifling through the bags in the back, I finally bestowed him with a large bottle of water, a couple bananas and some excellent potato scones (probably not what you're thinking of, but are more like a cross between flat bread and potato pancakes) from the bakery, which he reluctantly accepted, turning away bag in hand without a word of thanks. That's alright though, he may not have known how. 

Happy New Year

When my sister was a little girl she used to sing along to the Disney theme each weekend at the start of Disney's family hour on ABC. Our Grandmother Ann, a working actress in Los Angeles, loathed Disney and their three quarter scale fascism, yet such things are lost on children. This was in an age when the world hadn't yet learned to despise CEOs, and Michael Eiesner's puffy visage was a regular feature at the show's opening, offering bland moralism straight from the offices of what might be the most litigious company on earth. Anyway, we used to watch the show from time to time and Kate would sing along to the theme (wait for the hook, maybe 6 seconds in), except she had the lyrics wrong and would sing "everything your heart desires will be set on fire." My Dad thought this was especially terrific and used to sing it with her until it eventually became a standard tune around the house.

This new year's eve Vanessa presented two Hindu prayer sticks as our main form of entertainment, as we'd opted to spend the evening on our own, as is our tradition. Actually, anyone seeking a mob of like minded party people was no doubt disappointed to hear that Sheikh Mohammad Bin Rashid Al Maktoum, Vice President and Prime Minister of the UAE, Ruler of Dubai, and official mouthful had cancelled all of Dubai's NYE celebrations in a show of solidarity with Palestine. With our own plans unaffected by that sad, interminable conflict, we set about writing our wishes for the new year on the prayer sticks, which are sort of like slightly ornate, oversized bookmarks. The basic concept is that you write out a wish and then set it ablaze, which I've come to see as a form of letting go. It's interesting that we chose the new year to make resolutions, when the passing of each year actually marks the slight narrowing of possibility. Perhaps that is the point though, the march of time means selecting your commitments more carefully, and since they might include things like actually going to the gym, or rejecting bacon as a food group, your resolve could have the effect of widening the spectrum of possibility ever so slightly.

And so, at around 23:55 Dubai time, we took our wishes out into the yard and set them ablaze. There was an eery fog hanging over us that seemed to steal the breath from the flame, but with time and patience we were able to reduce our aspirational popsicle sticks to a satisfying ash. While my wish was singular, and related to our extended family, Vanessa chose a scattershot approach, including what I suspect were references to the Kyoto Protocol, and a nod to good shoes among many other important subjects.

And so, with 2009 seizing us in it's infantile grip, we find ourselves wondering what the year will hold. Dubai has seen it's share of economic slow down, with layoffs throughout its mitochondrial property development industry. Like anywhere else, Dubai is populated by a range of optimists and  alarmists, with some developers and consultants proclaiming the end of green in Dubai, even though it's principles are currently being set into law. I hear this from the panic stricken mostly, one German architectural consultant that I met at a party was plotting layoffs and a potential move to Saudi Arabia based on one project cancellation, and generally preaching despair to anyone who would listen. These types always assume green will be the first casualty because the initial costs are higher. As our friend Ben (a self described "evil developer") pointed out a few months back, developers don't realize the benefits of sustainability because so few of them are owner operators, so any energy and subsequent cost savings will be realized by the buyers and therefore requires legislation, subsidy, or serious marketing clout in order to have real teeth. 

Dubai, because it's ruled by one person, has the ability to make these sort of radical reforms into law overnight, but it's certainly true that we are heading into a period of greater economic conservatism, at least in the apolitical sense. Naturally, we can't help but wonder what our own fortune may be in Dubai over the coming year. Thus far, the signs are fairly positive for us personally, but having weathered nearly four years of continual corporate layoffs myself, I know first hand that you can simply never know for sure. In fact, seeing your co-workers let go is difficult for those who are spared, there's a sort of survivors guilt that comes with empty desks and overabundant sticky notes.

Breadsauce and Christmas Pudding

Now that I've finally had Christmas pudding, I can see why the British despise Bill Cosby, whose saccharine Jello ads promote a product that is completely unrecognizable to our powdered wig sporting friends. Christmas pudding is like a cross between a good fruitcake (let's postulate for the moment that such a thing actually exists) and a really good bran muffin, served broken up in a bowl and still relatively moist from the oven. We also had something called breadsauce, which to my surprise was not a type of beer. Breadsauce looks a lot like oatmeal, but tastes like wheat bread in sauce form, making it's name rather practical. This is perhaps the opposite of welsh rarebit, which is cheese on toast according to one welshman present at our feast.

English Chistmas seems to be fairly similar to our own, except there's a good deal more drinking and you have to wear a waistcoat. While many American's seem to retain some microbial amount of puritan shame, Brits are happy to drink to excess alongside their parents, grandparents, and religious officials-- in fact it seems to be encouraged and makes Christmas more exciting. In this state of ecstatic truthfulness, not one of the poms expressed even a hint of animosity toward us colonials for going are own way, isn't that nice? Even better, David Beckham's name never came up at all, although I did find out that Bay Watch is an infinitely more potent cultural export than I had imagined, fairly trouncing any other book, movie or television show as an instantly recognizable charades topic. Phil merely puffed out his chest and jogged a few slow motion steps to elicit an almost instant chorus of correct answers. This was, sadly, quite the opposite of "On The Road," which was identified phonetically although no one seemed to know the book. I'm sure ol' Jack was too drunk to care, wherever he is.

Other festivity highlights include Vanessa's conception of, sole entry into, and victory in the ugly christmas sweater contest. Secretly, her sweater is actually a Christmas tree stand cozy, but she wore it as a sort of serape and scored a box of chocolates as her prize. We also had a Christmas quiz, courtesy of our hosts Mark and Caroline, and played an impromptu version of pictionary, that was really just charades on paper, and a lot of fun. We also exchanged gifts in secret santa fashion, with everyone taking a wobbly turn on our gregarious Seeth Ifrican Santa's lap. I somehow managed to draw my own gift, The Godfather, at random, which was fine with me since they were mostly gag gifts anyway. Vanessa did OK as well, drawing a bottle of champagne and managing to avoid the Mrs. Claus costume and steering wheel cozy that others were saddled with. Since we couldn't be at home, this was a very good place to spend the holiday and we lavished a fair amount of attention on our little pal Harvey, as we were missing our new niece Sonia. We did get to coo at her later that night via Skype, which was great. Some people are embarrassed by the way that babies reduce grown men and women to gurgling imbeciles, but for me it's just status quo.