New Years Resolution

For the “school year people”, like myself, that exit the UAE the instant the last school bell rings in June and don’t return until the day before school starts, it can feel like punching time.   Similar to working in a job where you feel under-utilized and under-stimulated, you can seek small solace in the fact that you can play Solitaire behind the bosses back or at least catch up on your emails.  

So every September offers the opportunity for a re-birth, a second coming so to speak, the punctuation marking the end of one year and the beginning of another and all the best made resolutions that are associated with the opening of a new chapter.    Having a penchant for over-estimating myself, I set myself some pretty tough targets for the coming September – June term.   

Target number one, I would not enter into road rage and I would refrain from using expletives at every and any junction, roundabout, slip-road etc, with particular abstinence from expletives when the children are in the car.   Haphazard driving would not cause me to see  red, literally, instead,  I would view the experience as part of the overall course of living in the Middle East,  I would be entertained, amused and most of all,  calm behind the wheel.

Target number two, I will become the perfect parent,  forgotten P.E. gear, lost swimming hats, mouldy lunchboxes, torn shirts, cracked iPads, crocked laptops, overflowing laundry baskets, unmade-beds, unrecognizable bedrooms,  and the non-replacement of an toilet roll in the bathroom would no longer instigate world war three, resulting in everyone cowering in various corners cos mom’s gone crazy again.  Instead, I would embrace these happenings as beautiful hiccups in parenthood.   I would smile, tut and tousle their hair lovingly, reassuring them that mom had it all sorted. I would exude an aura of calm and the house would be filled with a Zen-like atmosphere.   

Target number three, to rejuvenate my tired back garden, making sure to water the scorched grass morning and night in the hope that it would come good, I would become green fingered, I hoped by Christmas, to be a regular user of the line, “My garden is my solace, it’s where I spend all the time”,   one would need to witness the bleak state that my garden is in now in order to fully appreciate the scale of this ambition.

It was morning number three back to school and all was good, Zen hadn’t exactly arrived fully  but crazy had left the building.   I was taking the time to catch up on some emails while the children prepared their bags for school.  It was then I heard the niggle begin of children arguing.   It was a mislaid locker key.   I bowed my head at the computer and tried to drown out the voices but my keypad was too  expensive and so the silence did nothing to help me ignore the voices, which escalated rapidly.  Twenty minutes later than scheduled we left the house, arriving at the school just at the most trying time for the rush for car park spaces.   I pulled off road and switched to 4 wheel drive for the sandy dunes which were the new school car park.   I could see the perfect parking spot ahead and in the bouncy suspension of the 4 x4 we clambered towards it.  Just as I was about to pull up,  a large black Hummer halted in my pathway and started letting out kids, like Smarties from a box, they just kept coming!  And my ass was causing  massive obstruction as a result.  ( I would clarify at this point, when I say my ass, I mean the back of my car, while my own ass is far from pert, it would not cause a road blockage) the horns blew loudly behind. Several hand gestures, expletives and retaliated horn blowing later, I topped off the morning by loudly adding that if the locker key wasn’t mislaid, we wouldn’t be late and in this situation.

I returned to the garden, I grabbed the hose with one hand and played Solitare on my iPhone with the other.  I was still on course for target number three.

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.

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

Maid Up

It was on my departure from Doha Clinic and my arrival into the First Time Motherhood that I first felt the weight of being an emigrant in a Middle Eastern country without the support of family, friends and neighbours.  

As husband and I brought our baby boy on the silent but tension trimmed journey home, silent because we’d had a row over the installation of the car seat and frantic due to arrogant 4 x 4 road butchers, I began to conjure up the image of what this day would be like in Ireland.   A fire would be lit, there would be the support and meddling of adoring grandparents, there would be flowers from places of work and there would be a flow of visitors eager to welcome baby, which would turn into a welcome drip after a week.  The house would be filled with welcome baby cards, soft toys and thoughtful baby gifts.  Offers of help and support would flood in, trumpets would sound and people would cheer, ok, there probably wouldn’t be brass but there would be support and the awareness that this baby was now part of an established, caring, community.    Turning the handle of our tiled, white walled, open plan house in Doha, I entered with care lest there would be a welcoming committee inside with hot casseroles held under warm smiles, I wanted to absorb the moment, the faces and smell the warmth of the welcome within.   Alas, there were no faces, no casseroles, only the monotonous tone of the A/C unit chilling an already chilly space.  

The next few days saw a number of very classy and expensive gifts arrive from our respective work-colleagues, handmade French baby clothes, where a packet of bibs and a few babygros should be and Designer baby bags in place of a thoughtful photo album, such stylish gifts, delivered by courier, given with the utmost of etiquette but no hint of affection.   An Arabic handmade chocolate tiered hamper, Giordano nappy bag and a Swarovski crystal studded rattle were not effective in their mission to welcome.  In fact, the opposite was the case; they couldn’t have reflected more the lack of belonging to a warm community, despite the 34°c outdoor air temperature.  

So, days later, you can imagine my delight with a neighbour knocked on the door, with no fancy gift ( no gift at all in fact but then, we’re never happy are we?) and said she was just popping in to see the baby and how I was doing.   Rejoice!  This was indeed the closest thing to a friend I was going to get!  Eager to nurture this nugget of normality, I quickly put on the kettle and put out a plate of biscuits, using one of the good plates.  A very normal chit chat followed, general comments on the weather, her family in the U.K. and of course babies, and the trials and thrills of motherhood.    Up to now in my adult life I had a criteria to consider before I called someone a friend, for example I would need to have met them more than once, we would need to have identified a common interest or identified that we had a common .lack of interest in something, i.e bargain rails and cheap shoes. While it didn’t form part of the initial criteria it would cement the friendship when there was a display of kindness or a willingness to help out shown.  My caller had the advantage of meeting me at a point when I wasn’t in a position to refer to the criteria, instead I had flung the parameters as far as I could and began to consider her my Bessie mate. 

Like any self help book will tell you, just as I let her as a friend, albeit mentally and in a forty minute timeframe,  she too held out the hand of friendship and she said, “if you ever need help or someone to babysit……….(my heart lifting here it was, the cement, and so quickly)…………I’ll give you my maid”.  Disenchanted, the mirage of my new friend dissolved before my eyes as it transpired that the offer of help would not be from her own fair manicured hand.