Back for a rare appearance of motivation

I swear I have a good excuse--I got a job! That's good, right? After a certain point, waking up everyday and having lazy morningafternooons (that is not a typo, that is to refer to the kinds of days where you wake up not too late but you still find yourself lounging in your pyjamas) got boring for me. And, yes, I know there are those of you saying that that is why I created this blog in the first place, to not have days like that, to having something to keep me going and out of the house, but both the scorching heat and the scarce sit-in-a-café-and-write-on-your-mac culture alas prevented me from being as productive as I wanted to be. 

That, actually, in and of itself is a rather Dubai-esque experience. I have found that in my nearly three months here: introductions to anything, whether it be a restaurant, an administrative building, or a business venture, with great positivity and hospitality (something familiar from my American upbringing) and yet after a bit of time lapsing, you find things actually happen in a more European/Roman descended/ Mediterranean kind of way and pan out in a much slower way. Maybe there are a few false starts (I hate to give a kind of #firstworldproblems kind of example, but it took one place five times, I kid you not, to get my business cards right), but add the back and forth, the (in my case) lack of a car and staunch refusal to have one, the heat, and the fact that it seems that everyone always expects you to dress up as if you are going to a business meeting, despite being a booming and growing metropolis, Dubai also has this small town kind of rhythm. So voilà my excuse for taking so long with this one. 

I also must admit that I am getting used to life here, so experiences I am having that may have seemed unusual and share-worthy in the beginning are slowly becoming banal and thus I have less of a desire to put them up here as after a few minutes of thought, I usually end up saying to myself "who would want to read about that?" There is also the added complication that while I have had certain experiences that at the time I thought were, and still do consider to be, something that would interest you faithful readers, I was not quite sure, nor am I still, if I could photograph such a scene.  

Notably, when I went to the police station to have my visa status changed from tourist to worker, I had one such experience. First of all, the fact that I could even simply go to the police station to do so, and not have to leave the territory, is something that merits being discussed. As I mentioned on my post about the "visa run" to Oman, after 30 days on a tourist visa, visitors have to leave the country; these individuals can simply turn right back around and come back in, unlike in Europe or the US, usually with no questions asked. The same procedure goes for those who want to change their visa status from visitor to worker/ professional. The only exceptions to this rule are if your company (usually a gi-normous kind of corporation, firm, or whatever other kind of monstrosity for which I'd likely never work) is big enough to handle everything (indeed, one of the upsides) or if you hail from certain countries such as several in Europe or the United States, that exempt you from one last visa-run and give you the pleasure of a trip to the police station to change it there. 

After going through very similar process for the past six years in France, jumping through kind of administrative hoop doesn't phase me. You want passport photos, I'll give you passport photos? What format? The weird American one? The deer-in-headlights French one? I'm also a pro at taking a ticket from one of those little machines and waiting...for hours. What I had never encountered before, however, are typing centers, fees and all the things that go along with it. While English is ubiquitous here, lest we forget that Arabic is after all the official language, so any such documentation needs to be translated at an official center called a typing center. 

So, rather than going in with a huge long list of documents, a folder about the size of a suitcase (that of course the on call civil servant frowns at, and with his or her x-ray vision, tells you that you clearly don't have the right ones), getting a ticket (around number 95), glancing at the screen (who shows number 5), and waiting for hours before your fate for the next year is determined...in Dubai, you arrive, the crowds construction workers and other laborers renewing their visas (nationals of any country can renew within the UAE so long as they don't change their status) split in two as if my gender, age and passport were Moses splitting the Red Sea, and without even having to get a ticket, I can stroll right up to the counter and explain my situation, sans frowns and bureaucratic judgment. So far so good. The man behind the desk, clad in military garb, asks for some basic information about me, why I am here, to see my passport, etc. He nods with each response and types away at his computer. Since he seems to be functioning as both an information desk and a visa dispatcher, every few minutes he is interrupted by people asking for where counter X is or, what they should do to get their husband's, child's, nanny's or drivers (this is Dubai, afterall) visa. 

We finally get through getting all of my information into the system and he writes down a number with his pen (very official, I think) in my passport. He explains that I need to take several documents (essentially everything he has typed up) to the typing center, where they will do so in Arabic and do something else official that I still fail to understand, pay the 700 dirham processing fee (about 190 dollars--still cheaper than a visa run) and come back to him with the receipt and the new documents. Fine, I think--this kind of back and forth is exactly what I had to do in France, so I felt comfortable doing it UAE style. 

The typing center is located across from the police station. Like other administrative centers, I am thrilled that there is a female-only entrance (and thus female only line), which means I will be out of there even sooner than expected. I walk in and find myself towering over a young Indian woman getting a visa renewal for her entire family, and a filipino maid with her employer. As those two women were waiting (no numbers or screens here, just waiting) for their requests to be effectuated, I had the man at the counter my documents and start to explain my situation. Before I can even finish, he interrupts me with a, "yes ma'am" and asks me to pay 800 Dirham. I ask about the price difference and he explains that the 700 AED is for the government, whereas the 100 AED is for the typing center (even though this is a government issued typing center...). I gave him several bills which to me still feel like Monopoly money because of their high number and color, as well, though more reluctantly so, my passport. I admittedly was slightly nervous to do so because I could see that once customers bequeathed their documents and precious national identification to the receptionist, there was no special order or organisation. The men simply just put them on a table in the center of the L-shaped room (the horizontal part being reserved for women, the vertical for men) from which typers on the other side would pick up random piles of passports and papers (not at all on a first-come-first-serve basis) and complete the necessary task). So, pay the extra price? Fine.  Relinquish one's only form of legitimate identity for who knows how long? Ok. Both of those actually seemed reasonable to me, a seasoned-visa requestor. 

What surprised me, and what has been the build up of this entire (likely boring up to this point) entry, is the fact that only once I was finally able to just wait a few minutes while my renewal was being typed up, I began to notice a familiar smell that I had not experience in several months: swiveling kebab meat. I glanced in the direction of this odor,and sure enough in the VERY SAME establishment, there was a full on donor kebab stand (it was indeed indoor, but saying restaurant seems far too fancy for this kind of place)--for those of you that know Paris, imagine those in the quagmire of streets at St. Michel. Yes, of all the strange things I have encountered throughout my ex-pat life, this is probably the most peculiar. A kebab while waiting to get your visa request typed up? I began to ask myself questions like, if the typing center is government run, is the kebab stand, too? Or do civil servants get some kind of a discount? I suppose these are the questions that come to mind when you are trying to wrap you head around the little idiosyncrasies of different countries.  I so badly wanted to take a picture, but then another question popped into my mind: as a government building, at least the typing center part, did I have the right to do so? Let alone, how would it look for a pale, white Western woman to take pictures of a room mostly populated by men from the UAE, India and Pakistan...and at a kebab stand. I opted not to. 

A man walked into the ladies entrance, and my Indian and Filipino neighbors promptly shooed him away, interrupting my kebab-why-and-how thought process. Fortunately, my passport was one of the lucky ones to not be buried by a plethora of other requests and my official English/Arabic extension request was completed. 

As I walked back towards the police station to finalize the renewal, I read on the paper that I was an unmarried, Christian who went to university.  Yes, true, but none of these questions were the ones that the original visa agent asked me. Assumptions like this, however correct, also don't surprise me after a few months in Dubai. They like to put people into categories here. 

I gave the final documents to the same visa agent as before who was already attending to someone, but like the little interruptions he did onto me when I had been there earlier that morning, he stopped everything with his new client to finalize my request. He took all of my documents and my reciept of payment (which he confirmed was indeed 800 AED and not 700) and put them on a table behind him that was even less organized than the one in the typing center. I thought to myself how the civil servants in France that handed my visas over the years would react to this: no multicolored folders with different degrees of thickness to classify everything? No passport photo and proof of housing with every document? Quelle horreur. He finally printed a new document saying that my visa was extended for another month--this relieved me as those random numbers written by ball-point pen before didn't really reassure me--and I was free to go. 

As much as I grew to love the visa renewal olympics in Europe, and as great as the Oman run was, this was a pleasant change to an otherwise often arduous process. It's even nice to think how thoughtful they are for proposing gastronomic break to celebrate a renewal or to give those whose process takes a little longer more energy. 

Oman...it's been a while

After only about month I've already begun to be lazy with my writing. Self-fulfilling prophecy I suppose, but I have a good excuse, I promise. Tourist visas for EU/ American citizens last only 30 days. Unlike other countries where one has to leave the new locale of choice for a considerable amount of time, here you can literally just cross the boarder and come right back. I have an acquaintance whose less-than-thoughtful boyfriend accompanied her most of the way on the couple hours drive from Dubai to the Emirati-Omani boarder, and dropped her off a few hundred meters away from the checkpoint so that she could walk there, get her passport stamped, and then come right back. His argument, I suppose, was that the boarder police wouldn't ask any questions as to whether or not she were living in sin with her significant other, but I don't think he reflected at all about how all the more unusual it would seem to see a scantily clad Eastern European blond walking the desert in stilettos to renew her visa. Luckily, this is not what I had to go through. I was fortunate enough to spend the weekend in Muscat, the capital of Oman, which was quite a delight. 

After a flight that lasts only about 40 minutes one can enjoy a change of scenery from soaring sky-scrapers in a city that boasts recently-accrued abundant wealth to far more quaint architecture in a land that has always been relatively wealthy, and thus shows it off less than its neighbors to the North.  In my case, the travel time as a bit longer, as some not-so seasoned traveler, or terrorist as the case may be, tried to board the plane with a forbidden object and when the presence of said item was discovered, the nice people at airport security had to kindly escort him, his checked-luggage, and illegal paraphernalia off the plane. Why and how he was actually able to board the plane is a (worrying?!) mystery to me, but either way I got there in one piece. 

Muscat has a tiny airport that reminded me of those in the Caribbean where everything is out in the open since there is hardly any rain or snow or other meteorologic conditions that would necessitate the presence of such shelter. Upon leaving the plane, everyone bum-rushes the sole shuttle bus that is intended to take us to the terminal. There were very few people on the flight, so getting on this bus was not a problem, but apparently should there ever be a flight with enough people for two busses, sometimes the unlucky travelers that miss the first bus have to wait for the first one to fill up, drop-off its first passengers, and come back. So I'm glad that all went smoothly. 

Arriving in the terminal, the first thing you notice are pictures of the Sultan everywhere, with saccharine phrases about how overjoyed his people are to have him home. They are big on the sultan in Oman: I thought these homages would be limited to the airport in the same way that many other countries decorate their transportation with hubs with official pictures of their leaders welcoming you to their land, but no, the Sultan is ubiquitous in Oman. 

Unless you have done so before leaving, you have to pay for a tourist/ landing visa which is not done at any official office, as I thought would be the case, but rather at the money-exchange counter that has absolutely no indication that this is its other, perhaps even more important, purpose. Inevitably, you have swarms of tourists looking very confused as to where they must go or what they must do at this point. Worse, others will just make a beeline for the customs queue, wait for about 30 minutes, and then when the officer asks for their papers, are forced to go back, find the exchange counter, and wait on the customs line once again. I am very fortunate to have been with an experienced Dubai-Muscat visa renewal veteran who guided me through this with ease. 

Despite the fact that at this point, it was past midnight and all wanted was a stiff drink and to crash into my tightly-made hotel bed with smoothly ironed sheets, I had a strange sense of joy throughout this experience as, for one, I finally received a new stamp in my passport! Living and traveling in Europe makes one forget that crossing boarders usually necessitates such documentation, so I am happy about the prospect of finally having all those extra pages I paid for filled up. 

A real visa stamp like in the days of yore 

Something else I forgot about was changing money. I had only just started to get used to using Emirati Dirhams and here I was needing Rials and Balsa for my weekend getaway. Life is tough. For the first few times I purchased things in Oman, I admittedly had to show the cashier the money all I had so that he or she could take whatever was needed to pay for what I owed, since I didn't quite understand their monetary system.  Beyond that, their currency changes color and size with value, so it kind of felt like monopoly money. 

Make it rain, Qaboos bin Said Al Said, make it rain!

Indeed, the whole weekend I felt like I was in some kind fantasy land in a different time. The Sultan has required quite a while ago that all new construction had to be faithful to the traditional architecture of Oman so one feels a far more homogenous style in Muscat than in Dubai. Dubai, with the exception of the Deira and Bastakia quarters around the Dubai Creek, and some newer areas that wanted to don themselves with a quainter style, is essentially tall steel and glass constructions. Dubai, having more recently come into money, and a great deal of money at that, very much tries to show off its wealth and power and abilities, and it succeeds. Oman, which has historically had more money than the Emirates isn't, in my opinion, going through a flamboyantly flashy period that its adolescent cousin is currently experiencing; Oman in is far more sage than that. Discreet. 

Goood morrrning Oman!

At the Southeastern tip of the Arabian Peninsula, it is farther away in distance and culture from anywhere else I have lived for an extend period of time. But there's more, there is a kind of timeless almost placeless concept. While it is a modern country with all the proper amenities one would need, it has a strange kind of colonial feel. It is of course the Middle East, but it does appear at all how we see some of the surrounding, at war, countries. Nor is it very extreme in its views and rules on dress or imbibing; You can sense the Western influences of places like Britain (for one, everyone speaks English), yet is is neither over-developed nor does it show too strong of an influence from any one place.  It has this naturally inconspicuous way about it that remains true from the arid hills, to the nearly virgin beaches and even to to simple architecture. 

A lot of it reminded me of what places like St. Tropez must have been like before hotels and a good reputation ruined them. I probably shouldn't even be telling you about this now, who knows, maybe by my next visa run (gad fabid) Oman will have started to welcome avid Dubai Impressions blog readers. We'll start a colony! In the meantime, feast your eyes on some of my experiences.

 

Appartently this is a busy day

No filter, just sun and palm trees at the end of the day at the beach

Not the best video quality, but just listen to the music 

And yet, despite how everything seems to be in a different time, they still have classy little modern places like this one that has pool side beds, 

since sipping a martini in a chair is far too exhausting 

Since the above photos are mine, but I see that they don't quite paint a full picture of my weekend, I found a few others of notable sights to give you an idea of what I saw.. 

Old Port of Muscat with a view of the fish-market, a traditional fishing boat, and the blue mosque 

(Photo courtesy of Panoramio)

Grand Mosque of Muscat, also known as the Sultan Qaboos  Grand Mosque 

(Photo courtesy of mrgoodlife.be)

The Main Gate of Muscat 

(Photo courtesy of azeric.com)

View of Old Muscat at night with mountains in background

(Photo courtesy of National Geographic)

The Royal Opera House, established under the patronage of the Sultan

(Photo courtesy of abt.org)

Dubai art week: Yes we can!

Upon announcing to people that I would be running off to this distant land, I recieved a mixed array of reactions, from very enthusiastic to completely against. For those who were against this move, among the maelstrom of criticisms that I received, one of them was the fact that there is simply no culture here, and that I would just fester away, ignorant, in the heat of the Arabian desert. Oh ye (oh y'all?) of little faith. There is a growing art and culture scene here both on a temporary basis in the form of art and design fairs, as well as permanent collection of galleries concentrated in two main parts of the city. 

For someone seeking employment in the vague art/ culture world, arriving in late February was perfect (unplanned) timing. Before leaving, I had been so consumed by getting rid of possessions I would no longer need here, and doing one last galavant around Andalusia with a dear friend (as one does), I barely had any time to devote to research upcoming events or galleries that could save me from what everyone described as a cultural dustbowl. As it turns out, every March, Dubai Culture puts on a series of fairs and events collectively known as Art Week that both promote local or regional artists and endeavor to bring more well-established players of the art scene in Europe or New York to Dubai. Think of it as an attempt to become a kind of cross-roads for contemporary Art: bring the world to Dubai, and show Dubai to the world.The main attractions of this week include Design Days, Art Dubai, and the Sikka Festival in the historic Al Fahidi district (you remember from last week, don't you?)--three large-scale art fairs, each with its own focus but all nonetheless committed to strengthening the cultural fabric of this city. While each of these fairs goes on for several days, there are a variety of other singular events, auctions, openings, talks, screenings, etc., that happen all throughout the city. 

During the first few days, everything au programme seemed feasible in terms of scheduling, but there was literally so much going on last week that I was forced to pick a select number of events and stick to those. Here is a collage of some of my favorite sightings and each event:

Arts Night at Gate Village--DIFC

Design Days--Downtown Dubai

Sikka Festival--Al Fahidi Historical District 

Art Dubai--Madinat Jumeriah

Of course, these events are only temporary and the overdrive artistic hoopla must end, but even then, Dubai boasts two central gallery hubs that promise to put this city on the international contemporary art map. The first of these two, the Gate Village, is part of the DIFC, a kind of free-zone where a good number of banks and other financial institutions have set up shop to get out of otherwise strict business establishment laws. It is home to a Wall Street kind of crowd and the area looks much like La Défense in Paris in that it is a kind of city within a city. It is certainly not the first locale one might think to create an cultural oasis, but the fact that the DIFC naturally attracts (often wealthy) foreigners who hail from places with more historical artistic inclinations, this "village" has become quite successful. Twenty-some galleries are there now, some from the beginning, others are just a few years old. Still others began at Gate Village and have since migrated to the second, newer, artistic district in Dubai. 

This industrial neighborhood, known as Al Quoz, has for most of its existence been the home to maritime warehouses, canning factories, storage units and other less-than-glamourous functions. Before the establishment of several galleries in this area, most notably those belonging to the Alserkal Avenue complex, unless you worked in this area, you would have no other reason to go there. 

Here's a fun anecdote: upon my first visit to Dubai, I tried to take the metro to Alserkal to check out some of the galleries there, stubbornly refusing to take a cab and not quite understanding or believing Google Map's claim that this cluster of culture was over a thirty minute walk from both "nearby" stations. Well, it was right. I found myself (clad in short lacy shorts and a tank top, mind you) lost in an industrial area where most people there had no idea that there even were galleries in the environs. I tried asking some of the few individuals that I came across for directions, but upon realizing that I was seemingly the first woman they had seen all day, if not all week, I decided to put an end to that practice. The area is so vast that even after having walked around for over two hours, covered in sweat and dust, I never did end up finding the elusive Alserkal.

My second visit was more successful, I had GPS, and I took a cab. When I got there, it sort of felt like walking into a kind of artistic Narnia: you pass through a set of imposing iron gates and discover gallery after gallery of new exciting art (both by artists from the region and beyond), creative "brainstorming" studios, funky little cafés and more. Some of the galleries at Alserkal, such as Carbon 12, actually began in the Gate Village or in other parts of the city but eventually moved here to have larger warehouse space, more conducive to larger installation projects. Other galleries opened directly in the Al Quoz area, while still others, though few, have branches in both main hubs. 

I have only been here for about a month, so of course I am sure there are other interesting pockets of art and culture here that I have yet to discover, but this is what I have been able to experience thus far. Indeed, there isn't the overwhelming choice one has in larger international capital cities, but there is quite a lot already. Something that is true in almost every domain here is that if it doesn't exist here yet, it will in the near future. "Coming soon" signs are ubiquitous in Dubai, and so like every other sector, I like to think that the art scene here is a work in progress and only promises to become more complex and nuanced with time. I personally hope to play a role in that transformation and hope that this move will provide interesting and elsewhere impossible career opportunities. Be the change you want to see in the world, right? 

Old Dubai: the pearl of a new city

When one thinks of Dubai, most people tend to think of indoor ski slopes (just one in reality), Maserati police cars (again, just one in reality), and a sea of soaring skyscrapers that have sprung up over city in the course of a few decades. While some of these images do indeed issue from truth, their exaggerated representation of the city also occludes other aspects of the city from making themselves known. One such example is the existence of an Old Dubai--the old port and fishing village that surounds the mouth of the Dubai Creek (Khor Dubai) that flows into the Arabian Gulf. 

Dubai from afar...you can't see the Burj Khalifa, but you can see notable landmarks like the Palm and the World

                                                                                                                             Zooming in just a little, the boxed-off area represents Old Dubai

                            ...and finally, Old Dubai surrounding the Creek.

These neighborhoods are known as Bur Dubai on the left bank, and Deira on the right. For centuries, before the discovery of oil, the main source of income for many families in the region was the pearl industry. Archaeological excavations have produced artifacts that suggest that pearl harvesting has taken place in the area for at least 7,000 years. Men from all over the region would leave their families, sometimes for months at a time, to participate in pearl-diving activities to supplement their family's income when they weren't tending to their date garden or herding camel. It also was not uncommon for other men to work full-time as pearl divers; these individuals would travel as far as Sri Lanka to continue diving after the season in the Arabian gulf had ended.

Despite the difficult nature of this work--one would have to old one's breath for sometimes two minutes at a time, and do dozens of dives from sunrise to sunset, safe for a few breaks for prayers and a midday meal--not just anyone could become a pearl diver. This industry and its methods have always been revered by the region's leaders, and the practice itself is a rich part of Emirati culture, complete with its own traditions and hierarchy. Foreigners, for example, could not become pearl divers and, after the advent of modern diving equipment, such technological advances were forbidden from use even after the demise of the pearl industry. 

While most divers made little money participating in this activity (and at that they were typically only paid at the end of the season, splitting the profits of their collective dives with every member of the crew), those who owned boats or who were merchants did indeed make money. This would allow them to construct houses around the Creek (mostly in the Bur Dubai area), which is where the Bani Yas tribe had settled in the 19th century. A small village then organically developed in this area, complete with a market place, a fortress (the Al Fahidi fort, which now houses the Dubai museum) and a number of traditional houses. 

Tower of the Al Fahidi Fort, constructed in 1781

A walk around the Al Fahidi neighborhood of old Dubai will bring you through a quagmire of little streets organized around traditional courtyard houses with the traditional wind towers that kept these dwellings cool during the unbearably hot summer months. Most of the wealth, and thus infrastructure and architecture present, exists thanks to the pearl. I could try to poetically describe to you some of my favorite sights, but I'd rather let you see for yourself. Here is a selection of photos from a walk I took there the other day:

A view of the traditional wind towers that define the houses of this region

The interior of a wind tower--the X design funnels even the slightest breeze down into the interior of the house

Closely aligned structures whose rain spouts--yes, even in Dubai--and cantilever beams reach out to each other 

  

An unusually ornate door leading to an outer courtyard

In a second courtyard in the same house, I stumbled upon this tree. 

Notice the hanging rocks that hang from it--they are weights that pearl divers would tie onto themselves in order to

 make themselves heavier and thus descend more quickly to the pearl beds below. 

Ramparts of the wall surrounding the former Dubai fishing village

Crossing the creek, which even to this day happens most easily in an Abra (a canopied wooden water taxi), one enters the other district that makes up the older part of this bustling metropolis: the Deira. This neighborhood was, and again still is, far less residential as it hosts a number of souks (bazaars or markets) for products such as gold, spices, fabric, perfume, fish, among other items. Each product has its own dedicated market where you get bombarded by men and women alike swearing to sell you the most beautiful, authentic, delicious, or whatever other superlative product in the souk. Again, rather than trying to wax poetic about the spectacle for the senses that one experiences in wandering this quarter, here is a preview of what there is to see:

 

Different views of the banks of the Dubai Creek

              

                                                                  An abra water taxi                                Larger dhows used for transporting heavy goods and merchandise 

  

A variety of smells and flavors from the spice Souk

Views from the streets of Deira

   

And finally, the furthest away from the heart of the Deira, the fish market. Luckily for you, smells don't translate well in binary code. 

These pictures really don't do justice to demonstrate truly how different these neighborhoods are from the rest of the city. I wouldn't say it feels like stepping back into a more familiar reality, because these areas, like parts of newer Dubai (read: those metal and glass sky-scrapers blinged out with marble interiors and Swarovski crystal chandeliers) also feel foreign to me, but there is something comforting about the more historical nature of these districts.