Clever Clogs

On the approach of the anniversary of my departure from Ireland nearly two years ago, I look back on my initial attitude to emigration.  I did draw a few lines in the sand at the time and while I stand firmly behind the principle of same, I would like to highlight that these projections were made at a time of personal ignorance to expat life in the Middle East.   I may have said that I wouldn’t have any visitors ,  I may also have said that I wouldn’t drive a gas guzzling 4 x 4, attend coffee mornings or have a maid,  all points which could be interpreted to the extreme if so wished.

This morning I was running late for my weekly catch up breakfast with the girls, late, due to the fact that Ghianni had yet to wash the 3.8L, 4 wheel drive, long wheel base Pajero sport, but mea culpa, I should have made it clear that the car was a priority over the rest of the housework.  I thought I did but maybe she just couldn’t hear me behind the mound of ironing which separated her and me, in more ways than one.  I took the time, whilst Ghianni ironed the creases from my favourite Ginger Mary top to note that I now have a maid ( part-time) even though I said I never would.  I was willing to forgive myself this, on the basis that I was being conditioned subconsciously and therefore couldn’t help myself.   However, it was when an old friend from Ireland visited and asked, “What’s Ghianni’s story?”  that guilt set in.   I didn’t know.   I knew she was from Sri Lanka and I knew that she liked her coffee black and her digestives buttered but other than that,  I just never asked.    All I had ever done for Ghianni was to pay her 25 dirham’s per hour, the going rate, in my defense I had  given her a few pieces of clothing, rather than discard I let her have them,  save the applause.  I had also given her my favourite impulse buy,  a lime green pair of Franco Sarto clogs purchased in Century 21, New York, a “must-have” purchased at the climax of boom times in Ireland, when a shopping trip to New York was par for most gals of limited foresight but maximum credit accessibility.   Since I’d given her the heels,  I’d taken great pleasure, every time I saw her pass on her ancient Raleigh bicycle, the Franco Sarto creations glinting in the Arabian sun and her skinny tanned legs sticking out of the shoes as if they were wearing her, rather than her wearing them.

This morning, time was on my side and sitting at the kitchen table, I chatted amicably to Ghianni,  and asked her a little about herself.   Turns out, that this week the windows are being fitted to her newly built three bedroom house and after another two year stint, calling Madam to Mary,  she would be leaving Abu Dhabi with her house built, paid for and furnished back in her home in Sri Lanka.   Sitting in my temporary abode in Abu Dhabi, thinking of my multiple mortgages in Ireland,  I thought what would greet me in two years if I went back to Ireland, certainly not a fully paid house due my stint in the Middle East.  I sit watching as she irons diligently, standing tall in the Franco Sarto clogs wearing a T Shirt saying “Just Do It”  I’m thinking, ya, she’s doing it, in every sense and I’m sitting back watching her wearing a four euro pair of Jesus sandals from Penneys and a t-shirt saying  “Whatever”.

Ghianni, with her two brown skinny ankles was raising the profile of the shoes,  I wanted them back.   But alas, there’d be no back.  I had given the clogs with such ado that the action could not now be reversed.   Ironing complete,  money in fist ,  Ghianni clopped outside with an overtone of aplomb in the designer clogs and setting off on her rusty bike, she showed her missing tooth as she smiled back at me, as I stood at the door of my rented house, waving her off with an air of gratitude as if by operating the iron she had solved world hunger , “I look forward to see you next week Madam” she called.   Clever Clogs.

Censored!

Pornography, gambling and anything deemed to the inconsistent with the political, religious, cultural or moral values of the country is censored in the UAE.  Censorship is practiced in the UAE throughout all the media communications. 

Not having a global outlook on the overall effects of censorship on a nation, the limitations are not of huge consequence to myself, in fact the restrictions are nearly a welcome guest when raising two pre-teens with associated addictions to their lap-tops and all things online.

I can understand the irritation caused, when watching a blockbuster and the dialogue goes silent or when at the slightest hint of a steamy scene or nude clip the screen goes blank.  Certainly a step further than the TV censorship of old where the dad takes the remote and switches channel for few minutes in order to allow the offending images to pass.   Or the total ban on certain movies, like Brokeback Mountain, again not a massive problem for me as I don’t do cowboys anyway.     All online gambling including dating and relationship websites are also banned.  Again, duly married and not at present seeking extra-curricular stimulation this does not pose a problem for me.   It is however good to know that arranged marriage websites are not banned, ironic, as surely an arranged marriage is the biggest gamble of the lot!

Oblivious, dis-interested and unaffected by censorship, I continued on with normal life in Abu Dhabi.  My long awaited internet connection installed and a strong signal for Wi-Fi coursing through the house I felt secure in the knowledge that the world (if I wanted it) was once again just a few taps of the keyboard away.   It was February 14^th, the most important day of my year, my son’s first birthday.  Humming with contentment as I busied myself creating the perfect baby bash for my little tot, I started preparation of the party food from scratch.   I designed and discussed every detail of the birthday cake I wanted for my young son, with the lady who makes the cakes.   I carefully chose from the costliest delicatessen, the choicest of hors d’oerves for the adult attendees.  I defrosted the Irish cocktail sausages specially smuggled from Shannon and I selected the ingredients for my own handmade contribution, a 750g box of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies and two large bars of Swiss cooking chocolate.   Business was brisk, preparations were running smooth and the baby was strapped into his buggy in order keep his clothes clean for the party and for family and friends in Ireland, who would be dialing in to share in the celebrations.  Eager to project the perfect happy family images together with the one hundred mini Rice Krispie buns handmade by myself, I set up the computer and logged on to Skype.

All was ready, the cake was delivered, the balloons floated tall above the heads of my little boys group of friends, Connor, Lauren, Maggie and Johnny,  all chosen by me to represent the perfect cross-section of multi-cultural, racial and religious backgrounds.  I like to call this steering his future not controlling his environment. 

Turning to Skype I pressed the call button, the connection was patchy, making the sound unclear and the picture frequently freezing.  Perhaps it was version of Skype, keying in the web address, skype.com a screen came up, “This site is blocked”,  I turned to Viber, “This site is blocked” , censorship was ruining my party, sorry, baby’s party.  Unwilling to pay the equivalent of a trip to Mauritius to phone Ireland from my Abu Dhabi mobile, I dropped the idea.

I since found out that Skype to Skype calls have only been permitted in the UAE since 2010 and the functionality to dial an outside line from the internet is prohibited, a fact that wouldn’t have stopped me pirating a program if it wasn’t broadcast earlier this week that a man was deported because he was calling Bangladesh via the internet.   Confident that the same rule applies to those ringing Ballycotton or Bantry,  I used my iphone to track a vendor in Umm AL Narr that sold international calling cards –how eighties!  Next we’ll be back listening to Smokie and drinking Harp!.

Frozen out by Facebook

Four weeks into my new life in Abu Dhabi and the dust has settled.  Life has gained a momentum in the way that life always seems to.  Many acquaintances made by the playground or the school gates, “school gates” being a metaphorical symbol for the sandy car park, home to scores of 4×4’s every morning and afternoon at pick up and drop off.   Many acquaintances but no friends.   Lots of suggestions but no invites.   Always the same line, “I’ll post the details on the wall”, every day, I go to the notice board in the clubhouse, but no notice.   “There’s a wine and cheese night coming up, I’ll post the details on the wall”,  “Hey, we’re organizing a recipe evening, I’ll post the details”.  Every day I look, but only see the same few outdated notices, nothing current, a cluster of coloured pins in the corner remain untouched. 

Being a social butterfly and having always relied on the company of other women to give me the illusion of sanity while on hiatus for a few hours from my family, I began to yearn for female company.     The situation finally came to a head when earlier this week when my neighbour held a social morning at her home and hadn’t posted and hadn’t invited me. 

Peeking through the curtainless windows so as to spy on the goings on across the road, I firstly noticed that at least twelve young mothers were chatting animatedly whilst taking their babies and associated apparel inside.  Many had tin foiled trays and some had Tupperware containers, what was this?  A full blown party, without Moi?!   Secondly, I noticed that from the outside I may have looked a little ridiculous peeking without a curtain to provide shield, so I did what any Irish woman with a problem would do, I opened the front door and took the sweeping brush and started to brush the floor vehemently.  “Hi, are you all set, did you see the notice?”, shouted a voice from across the road.  “Oh I’m fine”, I replied, applying undue pressure to the handle of the brush, “Carry on with ye’re get-together”, I shouted back as I continued to sweep the floor with growing vigour.  The voice crossed the road and reiterated, “Are you joining us”, enough was enough, I set the brush to one side and divulged my frustration at the lack of notices and general arrangements.    It was then that she pointed out that all arrangements and notices are posted on facebook. 

That was it, I was being frozen out by Facebook.   I should have guessed, quickly making myself presentable and wiping the excess mushed banana from my baby’s hair, I skipped across the road and was greeted with a warm welcome by all.   Indulging in the female company and delighting in the diverse discussions I enquired as to the upcoming events, to which I received the reply, “It’s all on facebook, have a look”.   Bravely, I stood up ( mentally, I actually stayed sitting) and said, “I’m not on facebook,  can someone email me about upcoming events?   A deflated tone washed over the group and after much mumbling the general consensus was that no-body was willing to take the time to email and a text message seemed to be out of the question.   I sat for the rest of the time listening in to conversations about what was on facebook, someone’s new photos or a cryptic comment that someone posted.  

So here’s where it’s at , in order to find out what’s going on around the corner I need to be on facebook.  Being an active anti-facebooker, I can vouch that more and more of real life is being channeled through facebook, almost as if it is becoming the conduit for communication with all other avenues slowly being shut down.   Many businesses are advertising only on facebook while others are providing offers and discounts for patrons who “like” them.

Staunch in my position I will refrain from communicating my life via facebook, however, nose to the glass and out in the cold, even in a small community in sunny Abu Dhabi, I can feel the nip, brrrrrr

Non-Muslim Section

“Non-Muslim Section” the sign read.  Being non-Muslim and human, I just had to take a look behind the beaded streamers at the rear of the local supermarket.

Coming from the fairly stringent Muslim society of Doha, the slightly more liberal laws of Abu Dhabi were welcome.  Since arrival in Abu Dhabi four weeks ago, it has become evident that in many areas the ratio of Expat to Emiratis is more equal than expats to Qataris, which possibly has the side effect of diluting the Middle Eastern culture and shaping a new Arab society with a western twist.

So although the Muslim culture is still very much alive and kicking, Abu Dhabi has accommodated western culture and beliefs to a small degree at least. Shoulders still need to be covered and knees should also be kept under wraps for ladies heading out.  Alcohol is still only available in select hotel bars with alcohol shops requiring a liquor license; however, it is not always requested, as it was in Qatar, and so the rule is not as strict.   There are ways around sponsorship which enable you to stay in the country after ceasing employment and there is no agreement in place which prevents moving employment from one company to another within Abu Dhabi.   The nightlife in Abu Dhabi is a lot more diverse with ladies nights and happy hours available in a lot of the hotels. So, aware of the little pockets of opportunity available to express our Non-Muslim religion, I was intrigued to see the sign “Non-Muslim Only” in the local supermarket.   Having a vivid imagination and a natural curiosity for what goes on behind closed doors, or in this case, plastic beads, I couldn’t wait to see behind the curtain in the section that was off limits to my Muslim counterparts.

I decided to drop the kids home and come back alone later for a proper look, after all, liberal as I considered myself to be, I didn’t want to expose the children to multi person sex acts being performed by feral Christians in the back of the supermarket, or a smoke filled casino frequented by a handful of clapped out Catholics, down in the mount and down in their luck, angry and aggressive at their growing losses.  Whatever was behind curtain, I would experience alone, when the kids were in the bed.

Later that evening, inquisitiveness high and mind wide open, I got ready to go back to the supermarket.   Mentally running through the possibilities and deciding if I would partake or not, rows of slot machines and roulette tables, not for me,  pole dancing pagans to uncut Eminem, maybe, key parties with wall to wall mattresses areas, I dabbed on a spot of perfume just in case.  Walking through the doors of the supermarket, I thought it a good idea to linger behind the well appointed fruit stand for a while to get a look at the kind of clientele going in and out.   Behind the stand of massive African imported yellow bananas, I got a good view of the beads and from what I could see it was mostly young to middle aged professional men, walking in an out with ties loosened as they mopped their brows before entering the den.  Tension rose and I found I began to falter, but it was time I bit the bullet and entered the lair.

Sweeping the beaded curtain to the side with an air of tentative caution and bubbling excitement, I squinted my eyes before opening wide and taking in the full view before me.  This was what separated Muslims from Non Muslim right before my eyes was German, Polish, Irish, Australian, American, English and French, Pork Sausages, stacked neatly by order of country in refrigerated display units.   Turning to inspect the other side of the area, I saw ham and pineapple pizza, pork chops, ham joints, rashers, gammon steaks you name it was in it.  This den was filthier than any Muslim could ever imagine.  A real find.  Finally the laws were bending to accommodate us piggy lovin’ people. I felt accepted, acknowledged.  So then, with the full fare available, I went home and had chicken.

End

denisehession@gmail.com

Off the Grid

Three weeks in Abu Dhabi and the novelty of living life “off the grid” is wearing off.   Having no internet connection, no postal address and no clue of where I’m going or coming from whilst driving around did hold certain attraction for me at first.   That first few days living in glorious isolation cut off from the rest of the world, with nothing, apart from TV and a mobile phone and a built-in sat nav in Arabic, were sheer bliss.  Without access to my email and my trusty accomplice, Google, I was excited that my new state, would prove liberating and I had planned using the time to develop other communicative and informative resources, like reading maps, conversation and telephoning friends.

Having been accused by my family several times of being addicted to my baby, sorry laptop, I was as eager to prove them wrong, as I was to prove to myself that I could live without internet connection (for a limited period ).  I would like to point out that no-one in my family has ever accused me of being addicted to the hoover, the iron or the dishwasher, despite me spending an equivalent amount of time using these. 

Not naïve to the invaluable attributes possessed by the internet, I lodged my application with Etisalat, Abu Dhabi’s telecom company, the efficient sounding assistant, guaranteed connection within five to seven days,  I felt satisfied that my experimental isolation period would be complete by then and that normal communication would resume.  

By the end of week one, I was proud of my achievement to have survived without internet. I learned that map reading was not my forte. I also learned that I had forgotten how to just sit and read a book, I kept glancing the right of the page expecting “Living Social deals in your area” to pop up, or “take a personality test in just 3 mins”.  However, I was most surprised when I realised that this was the first time in years, I had knocked on a neighbours door.   While internet connection was keeping up to the date with my online life, I wondered was it in fact isolating me from real life? With no Wi-Fi available in any of the cafes or malls that I hadn’t missed the turn for, I now felt cleansed of any previous addiction and was keen to start fresh, wean myself slowly back online. I had gone cold turkey and was ready to come back. Telephoning Etisalat, the polite assistant confirmed that they had my application and it will be five to seven days.  

By the end of week two, I was showing acute signs of withdrawal I had taken to bringing my iphone around the compound at night to pick up on any unlocked broadband signals.  I felt tetchy if I couldn’t get out and irritable with poor or low connectivity alerts.    Then I found it, in Zone 6 “Ahmed  Jufeiri – Unsecured Wireless Network – Connectivity excellent”.  Like heroin to an addict, I felt the euphoria as I clicked on my inbox and saw, “downloading message 1 of 57”.  What a high, back online.  Reading the two messages that weren’t spam, I felt satisfied that my online life was in order. Telephoning Etisalat, the annoying assistant confirmed that they had my application and it will be five to seven days.

Week three wasn’t pretty, two residents in Zone 6 complained about a woman lurking around suspiciously at night and one day there was 14 litres of milk in the fridge, each litre an excuse to leave the house and log on.  With my shaking hand, telephoning Etisalat, the absolutely useless assistant confirmed that they had my application and it will be five to seven days.

Now entering week four, numbness has set in.  I check my email every day outside the house in Zone 6 and the people on that street, now bring their children inside when they see me coming.  Curtains are pulled and blinds are drawn. My inbox is up-to-date with nothing significant and yet I yearn to be back in the fold.  Hollow, I phone Etisalat, the voice confirms that they had my application, I will have connection tomorrow.  What is left of me, whispers – Hurray!

End

denisehession@gmail.com

Desperate Housewives

Coming from Doha, entering Abu Dhabi I feel like Dorothy clicking her red heeled shoes to change life from black and white to colour.  The landscape is a lot greener a nice change from the monotonous beige of dusty Doha.

Choice of accommodation for expats across the Middle East falls into three categories, a stand-alone house, a compound or an apartment, often company owned and used mostly for hunters living alone and sending every brass dirham back home faster than a hare in a hunt.  The stand-alone houses tend to be relatively large and often don’t have a swimming pool, as they are largely occupied by Arabs, for whom the novelty of having an outdoor pool has long since worn off.  Having lived in a stand alone in Doha I can confirm that the term has two meanings the house itself is unattached to another and is not part of a community, estate or compound.  The second meaning is that the inhabitants also “stand alone” in that without the support of a community or accessible neighbours, life in a stand-alone can be isolating and end up with the occupants writing details of their life story for weekly publication in order to reach the outside world.  Thus, moving to Abu Dhabi I decided to live in a large compound. 

Prior to my immigration to the Middle East I had expressed revolt to living in a compound. On hindsight it was possibly the word “compound” that was the deterrent and not necessarily the conditions.  The industrial sounding word does not lend itself to the often beautiful man-made, landscaped, well-serviced areas, which at home are called housing estates.

The search for the perfectively appointed compound began and agreed upon and despite me having viewed the website and online photographs many times, they still hadn’t prepared me for the sight of entering the gates of compound and our new home at Sas Al Nahkl, Abu Dhabi.   Mount Oval on speed. That is if Mount Oval had a heated/chilled outdoor swimming pool, state of the art clubhouse with everything from sprung floors to squash courts and fully equipped gym and leisure facilities.  The top notch Spinney’s supermarket, brioche café, barbers, beauty salon, dry cleaners, chemist and crèche were all housed under the central amenity area, all built in the same architecturally sensitive construction.  The labyrinth of walkways and housing areas, consisting of varying shapes, storey’s and sizes, provided the perfect backdrop for the elite housing area and the Porsche and Maseratis parked in the shaded driveways sparkled like diamonds in a ring.   Doing in the school run in my Asics and Mitsubishi Lancer I began to feel the first nibbles of peer pressure, as I took note of my well heeled and immaculately manicured neighbours.  Living in Abu Dhabi’s, Wisteria Lane would prove a challenge and keeping up with these desperate housewives could become a full-time job!

Embracing my new post, I made my way to the clubhouse to attend Zumba, wearing all my new Nike gear, which was more tight-fit than dri-Fit, signing in I noticed, a surname on the list above, “Mullally”. I make enquiries and sure enough she was Irish,  she wouldn’t be attending Zumba today, she had other arrangements.  Irish and haphazard about fitness, this could be a match made in heaven, I scanned the list again for her zone and house number, taking the initiative, I too dodged Zumba, grabbed a packet of Jaffa cakes from the stash of goodies brought over from Ireland and headed straight for Jackie’s,  looking forward to meeting someone Irish and having a natter while scoffing a few biccies over coffee.

Two ding dongs later, Ami Yong, answered the door and called for Ms. Jackie.  In a puff of glamour, Jackie appeared at the door, smart, short, navy dress, red heels and long flowing hair. She looked like she hadn’t had a biscuit since 1988. The Eva Longoria of Dublin 6.  She was just dashing out for lunch, she told me, as she smiled wryly at the baby-chewed box of the Jaffa cakes. We made arrangements to meet for coffee as she slipped on her oversized sunglasses and hopped into her gold coloured 4 x 4, speeding off, she called back, “by the way, welcome to Abu Dhabi, see you soon”, I replied under my breath, “shoulda gone to Zumba”.    

denisehession@gmail.com

Cheerio Then

My plans to leave Doha in the coming weeks and re-locate to Abu Dhabi would surely result in the weeks between being laden with lots of loose ends to tie up and finalities to be sorted and of course the long tearful goodbyes.  So, whipping out my gilt edged appointment diary, (a consistent Christmas stocking filler from my husband and one that faced a decline in details year on year since 2009) I proudly began to draw up to-do lists for the big relocation, careful to list the acquaintances I had met in Doha, lest I would forget a farewell.

Remembering the dramatic goodbyes had with family and friends in Ireland almost two years ago, before we travelled across the globe to seek refuge.  Long evenings spent by the home fires rocking to and fro with arms folded, discussing the whys and wherefores of emigration and loss, stoking the embers of a life in Ireland, with only ashes falling from the poker.  Heart-warming but aeartHearrm-numbing, embraces at the airport and fond tussles to the children’s hair through misty eyes and hoarse words, was all part of the fanfare.

And so, I mustered the strength to say goodbye again and I prepared my monologue which I would deliver to my Doha links.  It would go something like, “I have a bit of news, there’s been an offer in Abu Dhabi, what can we do, we need to go….”this, followed by a regretful shake of the head would set the scene, for my Irish farewell.   It would have an obvious undertone of regret mixed with resignation with a very slight hint of optimism about our new lives in Abu Dhabi. 

 Choosing my former place of employment for the first delivery, I drove to the office to speak my former colleagues, my hangdog demeanor assumed, along with an evident remorseful tone I launched into my speech, and braced myself for yet another heart wrenching adieu as my news ricocheted around the open plan office.   Like coyote, when he ignites the bomb to blow the roadrunner to bits but it doesn’t go off, I lit the dynamite but there was no explosion.  Standing there with eyes and teeth clenched tightly shut and mouth mimicking a smile which deepened the furrow in my brow in an effort to stunt the blast, the silence was deafening.  Ironing out my face and opening my eyes I scanned for room for reaction.  “Nice to make a change, are you selling your car or taking it with you” punctured the silence and led the way for “If you have any plants, I’d like them” and, “Are you selling your sofa?” and above all others, “What are you doing with your maid?” topped the polls.  Aghast at the insensitivity shown towards my departure and offended on behalf of my presumed however, non-existent maid, being treated like a utensil,  I reiterated, in case it wasn’t clear, that I was leaving for good, never to return, hoping for the sake of human nature that it might tempt a tear or coax a croaky “so long”, but the resounding response was upbeat, well wishing and opportunistic .  Taken aback at the candid reaction of the various nationalities to whom I had delivered the news of my departure I realised that there is something inherently self deprecating ingrained in us Irish, slow to congratulate ourselves on achievement and loathe to show excitement about new adventures, preferring instead to downplay events and highlight the negative aspects.   Although aware of the transient nature of the expat society in the Middle East,  I wasn’t quite prepared for the casual cheerio.

And so, one hour and as not as many tears later, I left the office, feeling bereft but hopeful that if the traffic wasn’t too heavy, I would make the Monday coffee morning of my Irish counterparts. Luck was on my side and twenty minutes later I was delivering the same speech to my fellow patriots and oh how the dulcet tones of the possibly insincere yet comforting words fell with great welcome on my ears. “that’s terrible, moving again so soon?”, and “Just when ye were getting settled”, compassion mixed with negativity, a little bit of home abroad

denisehession@gmail.com

 

Abbi Dabbi here I come!

Life was just settling into a comfortable monotony in Doha, we had emigrated and said goodbye to Ireland nearly two years ago, and it has taken that length of time to find a rhythm to my new life in Qatar.  Uprooting from Ireland and setting up temporary home in the Middle East was a massive shock to the system a direct repercussion of the recession and it was the ultimate sacrifice I had made in an effort to dodge financial ruin.  I had left Ireland very much a reluctant emigrant and met Doha with a skeptical pout and crossed arms, the body language of a spoiled Celtic Cougar born of the glory years in Ireland. 

Realisation of the world outside of Cork (I wasn’t sure there was one)  and encounters with expats from all over the globe  had changed that skepticism into a grudging acceptance which in last few months had further developed into a sedate security that if Doha for five or six years was the answer to escaping the fallout, then, how bad.   Similar to the relationship between the kidnapper and the captive, I had begun to rely on Doha to at least be consistent.  “Home away from home” may be a stretch but it had become a palatable “Refuge away from home”, a comfort blanket that was a little itchy.

And so, contentedly living my days in Doha, I began to invest a little in this sandbox pushed off into a peninsula and I began to make our house a home.  I had been hesitant to do so up to now, as the purchase of a picture frame, plant or fridge magnet might suggest that Doha was a destination and not the en-route pit stop I saw it as.   It was just as the plastic was taken off the glass jar that held the cinnamon scented candle, that I received a phone call to say we were moving!   My husband was being transferred to another project in Abu Dhabi.  Stumped, stunned and shocked I stood in the open plan living area holding the candle not knowing whether to place it down on coffee table or straight into a suitcase. Reeling from the news, and thoughts of packing, unpacking, finding a new house, securing places in a new school, saying goodbye, saying hello, I lugged out a suitcase and placed the candle inside. I knew Doha was a transient society, people come and go all the time, nobody stays too long, people inevitably move, but like a house fire, I always thought that it happened to other people. We had three weeks left in Doha.  As little as there was to do in Qatar, I began to think of the things we hadn’t done.   I wasn’t a moving around the UAE kinda gal, my big move was Doha, next stop home not Abu Dhabi. Abu Dhabi was one of those places that in school we thought didn’t exist, like Timbuktu or Tasmania.  Abbi Dabbi was a made up name, a place you said when you didn’t know where someone lived, e.g. “Where do Timmy and Rita live now?”  response, “they live out in Abbi Dabbi or somewhere”, translation, somewhere foreign and hot, not America or Australia.

Slowly, regret crept in and despite having spent an eventful 20 months in Doha, the birthplace of my young son, I had never exhaled, never fully embraced expat life, and never shook off the reluctant emigrant hankering for home, never lit the wick, as it were.  I thought I could hold my breath and exhale when back in Ireland, but alas, it isn’t that easy.   Was I to become an eternal expat? Would I, in years to come, talk of how we moved from place to place before eventually settling back to hibernate at home.  If so, it seems more pertinent than ever to adopt the belief that home can be anywhere as long as you’re with your family. 

And so I exhale,  surprised to notice that part of me is fond of Doha,  I decide to strike a match and light the wick, no more wait and see, no more reluctant emigrant, home today is Doha, next month Abbi Dabbi, here I come!

Reduce Reuse and Recycle

Bludgeoned into submission by active greens over the last twenty years does tend to leave an impression.   Not being the earthiest of citizens, the habit of recycling was something that crept up on me slowly at first, made a serious acceleration when pay-by-weight refuse collection came into place and finished off at a rubber burning pace by the time I had left Ireland.  Deftly handing the shoebox back to the assistant, as I just took the bag, became an ingrained reaction. The very sight of excess cardboard and superfluous packaging would instigate a rough calculation on the cost to dispose and of course the effect on the atmosphere.   Buying a washing machine was no longer a carefree Saturday morning job, browsing through different spins and cycles, it had become all about what would happen to the old one!  How to bring a broken washing machine into a recycling centre in a Mini Cooper with pearl metallic paint?, or  how to ask your brother to bring it in his van, which is insured as a commercial vehicle and not for personal/domestic use?

Life in Qatar doesn’t pose such problems.  Recycling, or the notion of recycling is something that takes up an office in a government building somewhere with a well-written 5 year plan to back it up, just in case some visiting environmentally aware official asks.   The Qatari recycling campaign, ironically, is well supported by stacks of glossy handouts, which are distributed at the high-level conferences discussing the importance of recycling and their great expectations to incorporate recycled materials into the construction of new developments to save the environment and raise the general awareness of recycling methods over the coming years.   Signs of pro-active recycling don’t trickle down to everyday life in Qatar, where one can dispose of everything from a bottle to a battery at no monetary cost to ourselves and no vision as to the effect on environment.   The one great advantage to living in a country with a blinkered view of environmental issues is, yes, you’ve guessed it, the good old plastic bag.   Reminiscent of twenty years ago in Ireland where after the big weekly shop you’ve an abundance of plastic bags which have never ending uses,  it’s hard to keep focused on the environmental effects and easy to park our  past recycling efforts right up beside the customary 4l petrol powered 4 x 4, standard issue in the Middle East.

Among the commodities that Qatar doesn’t recycle is people.   Qatar takes the crème de la crème of human resource , thousands of the most highly qualified people in Construction, Oil & Gas, Finance, Medicine and Education from all over the world, arrive in Qatar to work in, build and develop Qatar.   The rate of expat home ownership in Qatar is nil.  The rate of expat planning to live out their days in Qatar is nil.   The encouragement expats receive from the Qatari Government to set roots down in the desert sands of Qatar is nil.   These sandy dunes, see people ebb and flow from Qatar and the only footprints left on Qatar’s land progress and development as Qatar employs on an as required basis and you need company sponsorship to enter.  There are no government pensions or payments are due to expats at any stage, no matter the investment made and no loyalty is offered for in many cases, years of good service.  Employers have the security of the NOC in place, allowing  companies operating in Qatar to seek and employ professionals without having the implication of possible company hopping and sporadic salary increases, as on employment in Qatar, you are bound to that company until you leave and cannot return to work in another Qatari company until two years have passed.

 

 

 

So while Ireland is flat out saving the world by charging 22c for a plastic bag and on the other hand, crippling themselves by paying out EU. 207.38 a week to thousands of unemployed expats, along with free housing and a range of social welfare benefits,  it’s possible that perhaps Ireland should take the lead from Qatar a bit more and reduce and reuse their expats and maybe in turn Qatar would recycle a few plastic bags.  It makes you wonder, which country is looking at the big picture?.  You’ll never see a Qatari emigrate leaving an unemployed Indian to rent their home and live in their country and be funded to do so by the Qatari government and if you do,  I’ll buy you dinner.

Drink Less Enjoy More

Born into a society that sells alcohol in every local convenience shop and supermarket, every day of the week and that also has designated alcohol stores, like, party shops, wine retailers and of course the run of the mill off-license, it can feel a little like strange living in Doha and not having the same access to the anesthesia to which we’ve become so accustomed.   No nipping out to Super Valu for a cheeky bottle of Wally’s Hut midweek, no impulsive bottle of red whilst in the petrol station on a Friday evening to congratulate yourself on getting through another week and no temptation of a chilled pinot grigio with lunch in town on Saturday.    

At this point I should clarify that as arid as the landscape in Qatar is, it is not a dry country altogether. To put a bad rumour to rights, alcohol is available in Qatar. It can be obtained for consumption in your own home if you hold a liquor license.  To obtain a liquor license you need to apply through the company that sponsors you, they will follow through on the license application and you are given an allowed monthly quota in Qatar Riyals (to be treated as limit not a target).  Depending on the religion and nationality stated on your passport, you will be granted a liquor license.  You are not allowed to purchase alcohol for anyone else and if you do so, and get caught, it will result in deportation.  Interestingly, there is a cut-off point of QR. 4000 salary per month, so those earning below that amount, are not eligible for a license, ironic, that the people probably most in need a drink can’t get one!  

As there are no bars in Qatar, alcohol can only be served in hotels and only to passport holders and those that carry a Qatari ID, stating religion and sponsor details.   Before you purchase a drink you must first produce all the relevant documentation to the hotel where you are then required to purchase a permit card for that premises i.e. pass to buy alcohol at that hotel and hey presto, you can then relax and enjoy the measly glass of beer that you wanted,  Phew!

Having suffered the red tape in my first weeks in Doha, I gave up on the notion of having a social life outside of the sitting room with mugs of tea and Skype and I noticed that most expats in Doha, visit the QDC (Qatar Distribution Company ) just once a month and purchase their quota in one go.  I would follow suit.  I would visit the QDC, well actually I wouldn’t, because I personally am not allowed to purchase alcohol in Qatar, I would have to ask my husband and sponsor to pick up the estimated month’s supply, I reminded him that any alcohol purchased must be covered over and not visible in the car.  My mind quickly thought of the car roof box, we had used in France three years ago, as I pulled out the largest bath towel I had to place over the offending goods in the boot space.

A trip to the QDC is an item on your to-do list, I’m told, and not the enjoyable browse down the ale aisles at home in Tesco as you stray off the beaten grocery track and take a meander through the Valpolicella’s and Chardonnays.  A limited selection of overpriced, undervalued bottles is the extent of choice along with a small array of beers. In appreciation, I prepare the fattened calf (Indian take-out in this case) for the hunter’s return with the precious bounty, which has become a monthly ritual and strangely the order decreases each month.   Secure in the knowledge that with significant effort and a good dollop of inconvenience that booze is available the taboo lifts and the effort required obtaining it, increases the satisfaction of each glass of wine and so re-born, we enjoy one glass of wine (large) with dinner most nights, mindful of the limited monthly allowance and the happy in the knowledge that there won’t be a glimpse of liquor in any shop or supermarket to whet the appetite. It raises the question, if alcohol wasn’t so freely available in Ireland, right there in your local supermarket somewhere between the milk and the magazines would we drink less and enjoy more?