Category Archives: Expat

Silent Sunday: The furnace

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They say you know you’ve been living in the Middle East for too long when a problem with your car’s air-conditioning or horn is more serious to you than a problem with the brakes. I think this picture illustrates quite nicely why:

That’s almost 115 °F. With a sandstorm blowing today too, I felt like I was navigating my way through Jupiter’s red spot.

That’s almost 115 °F. With a sandstorm blowing today too, I felt like I was navigating my way through Jupiter’s red spot.


PS: When it’s this hot outside, do you think: “46 degrees? Quick, open the car window!” After six sticky summers of clambering sweatily into hot cars, I’ve just read on a blog that breathing in the fumes from an enclosed space jammed with super-heated plastics every time you get into your vehicle is like doing glue from hot vinyl bottles! Like I needed another thing to worry about!

Dubai on steroids

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Working on a business magazine that reports on Dubai’s latest building boom, I get the scoop on the multibillion-dollar megaprojects that the emirate is so fond of.

By these, I mean things like the planned Bollywood theme park, the life-like dinosaur park, the double-decking of Sheikh Zayed Road, the new skyscrapers, and secretive projects such as the 2008 plans to build a Union Canal through Al-Quoz.

The schemes that are the most intriguing are the more fanciful ones, even if they tend to borrow from other parts of the world.

Modelled on the London Eye, do I need to tell you it'll be the biggest Ferris wheel in the world!

Modelled on the London Eye, do I need to tell you it’ll be the biggest Ferris wheel in the world!

Eighteen months ago, the emirate announced it intended to build a replica of the Taj Mahal (only bigger) and a copy of the Egyptian pyramids containing offices and a museum.

This was the first clue that Dubai was moving on from a debt crisis the size of China quicker than you could say ‘refrigerated beach’.

Now, not only is there a whole new city being built (with 100 hotels, a Universal Studios and a park bigger than London’s Hyde Park), but work is also underway to create a new island off the coastline that will cradle the Dubai Eye. There are plans to build an opera house next to the Burj Khalifa, Dubai Mall is being extended and, of course, there’s an Expo to host.

When a photo was emailed to me at work recently, it occurred to me that if we were REALLY rich, we’d invest in a waterfront property along the gondola-serviced mini-Venice currently being excavated:

Dubai takes on Venice: The AED1.7bn Dubai Water Canal Project will excavate a 2.5 kilometre canal connecting Business Bay to the Gulf ( running under Sheikh Zayed Road)

Dubai takes on Venice: The AED1.7bn Dubai Water Canal Project will create a 2.5km canal connecting Business Bay to the Gulf (flowing under Sheikh Zayed Road)

But, then, as I was driving home, I was reminded by a gigantic, oversized billboard poster that there’s a development springing up in our neighbourhood (which, when we moved here five years ago, was just barren desert) boldly advertising itself as The Beverly Hills of Dubai. Eat your heart out Al Barari!

Hello, Mr Trump! Welcome to the neighbourhood

Hello, Mr Trump! Welcome to the neighbourhood

The cheesy billboard (pictured below) makes me laugh, not least because the scrubby landscape beyond the huge advert is as flat as a pancake and distinctly sandy coloured, not green. But when you look into it, the proposed development is rather impressive: comprising high-class villas, townhouses, and an 18-hole golf course, to be named Trump International Golf Club after the eccentric US businessman.

And that’s not all: also being built in our area is Akoya Drive, which will apparently be modeled on Paris’ Champs Elysees, with shopping, a cinema screen, and (no kidding) an outdoor artificial ice skating rink.

Looks like we should stay put in the ‘Dubai belt’, after all. See you on Rodeo Drive – in six years’ time!

Building boom on our doorstep: Much too big to take in one shot, so here's a wonky panorama of half of the Beverly Hills billboard, featuring Marlon Brando from the Godfather

Building boom on our doorstep: Too big to take in one shot, so here’s a wonky panorama of the Beverly Hills billboard, featuring Marlon Brando from the Godfather

Bounce Dubai: The harder you fall … the higher you bounce

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After eight years of mothering rambunctious boys, I’ve found out how to totally exhaust my eldest, without even going outdoors.

The opening of Bounce in Dubai couldn’t have been timed any better – as temperatures reach 113 degrees outside, the owners must have known there are legions of mothers in the UAE wondering how on earth to stop their overactive children from bouncing off the walls at home.

Enter Bounce Dubai. As vast as it is fun, the ‘trampoline universe’ houses about 82 interconnected trampolines in an urban playground loaded with springs and circus-grade sponge. Containing 500+ square metres of foam pits and padding to land on, as well as trampoline ‘dodge-ball’, it was the ideal venue for a party attended by the boys in my son’s class this weekend.

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So much fun, kids don’t even know they’re exercising

As you drive up, you can’t miss the warehouse, located beside the entrance of the industrial maze that is Al Quoz. Stamped boldly on the side, in giant letters, are the words: ‘Bounce Inc. Free-jumping revolution’, and inside, the branding continues with shocks of pink, blue and yellow on the edges of the ‘tramps’.

Given that it was only the second weekend since the Australian import’s opening, I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised to see so many edgy-looking teenagers queuing up, all seeking an adrenalin rush with a soft landing at the bright, bold, in-your-face trampoline park.

Energetic staff members with job titles like ‘experience manager’ and ‘bounce master’ were on hand to manage the hordes of youngsters who’d turned up to jump, and my son was shepherded away to put on his rainbow-coloured gel gripper socks. (As well as freestyle trampolines and an airbag-fitted section, there are 45-degree trampolines against walls that you can run up and launch yourself off.)

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

With 10 minutes on the trampoline claimed to be as good as jogging for 33 minutes, I know which I’d prefer

It was at this point that Son2 broke down with fury that he wasn’t going in too, so we made a hasty departure, leaving Son1 to enjoy his high-octane party while we grabbed a far more leisurely coffee at the nextdoor Times Square Center.

That evening, as I put his ‘sticky socks’ in the laundry and Son1 let out gaping yawns of exhaustion, I resolved I’d definitely take both boys back to burn energy – and might even give it a go myself (yep, Bounce is aimed at adults too!).

Anyone remember being a kid and jumping up and down on your bed before being yelled at to stop? Well, here’s your chance to experience that giddy euphoria all over again.

Click here to visit their website. Do call if you’re planning to go as sessions sell out.

Job creation in Dubai

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If you live in the Middle East, you’ll know how good they are at ‘creating’ jobs here – to the extent that phrases such as ‘potato peeler’, ‘dish washer’ and ‘fly killer’ don’t refer to household items, but are, in fact, job titles.

I mean, goodness, where would we all be without the man at the Mall of the Emirates who takes your parking ticket and puts it in the machine that operates the exit barrier for you?

This Silent Sunday pic is provided by my friend L, who snapped this scene while waiting at a traffic light today… Thanks L!

So how many men does it take to change a lightbulb in Dubai?

So how many men does it take to change a lightbulb in Dubai?

And lest the gardeners in our compound run out of work, they went and planted a row of bushes bang in the middle of the pavement!

And lest the gardeners in our compound run out of work, they went and planted a row of bushes bang in the middle of the pavement – all the way along! I guess no-one ever said Dubai was pedestrian friendly.

June in 12 phrases

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With the summer holidays hurtling towards us like a steam train, here are 12 things on every mum’s lips this month as we sweat our way around Dubai running errands and making sure our little ones don’t expire in the heat:

– “Are you all set for summer? What date are you leaving? Wow, France, Italy AND Austria!”

– [to DH] “I know I keep withdrawing money, but none of it’s for me. I’m dishing it out in envelopes for teachers’ gifts / support staff appreciation funds / class parties / library fines.”

Meanwhile, in the car...

Meanwhile, in the car…

– “Ouch, the steering wheel just burnt me.”

– “Put your shoes on! The ground’s too HOT to go barefoot, and I can’t carry you.” [Think: scalding hot coals]

– “Ahh, the swimming pool water’s cool. They’ve turned the chiller on at last.”

– “When is Ramadan, again?” [Go moon! FYI: Expected to start this year on 29 Jun.]

– “You will be back in September, won’t you?”

– “No, we’re not going to America today, tomorrow, or the next day. We’re going in three weeks’ time. 1 – 2 – 3– WEEKS.”

– “Lucky kids! Outdoor playtime is cancelled, and school’s taking them to the local softplay instead.” [Cue: another money-filled envelope.] “And more party food?”

– “Could you show me where the fake tan is please? Everyone at home expects me to look sun tanned.”

– “Try the hot tap. The water should be colder.”

– “Mwah! Good-bye! Safe travels.”

Expat paperwork

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We made a trip to the American consulate in Dubai this week: I had to surrender my US green card (long story); and Son2 needed his passport renewed.

DH and I, and Son2, all had to attend, in case one of us was trying to spirit him out of the country without the other knowing. The appointments for consular services were helpfully during school hours, so the place was crawling with children in school uniform, adults clutching paperwork, steely eyed officials and guards.

Son2 wasn’t happy at all about missing swimming at school, so DH told him a little white lie: “We’re going to the president’s mansion,” he said. “You’ll have to be good,” we added. “There’ll be handcuffs there and everything.” (That bit’s probably true.)

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So we might have glorified it a bit to Son2

On arrival, we passed through the body scanner, gave up our phones, the car keys and my handbag, and proceeded to Fort Knox’s main area – a large space containing half a dozen rows of chairs and a concession stand selling pizzas and other snack foods.

We waited our turn, and I asked DH for the umpteenth time if we had all the paperwork we needed:

– My green card – tick

– Son2’s passport, and copy of the bio data page – tick, tick

– Original birth certificate, and one copy – tick, tick

– Mine and DH’s passports, plus copies – tick, tick, tick, tick

– Passport form (fill out online, print and bring with) – tick

– Passport photo (US size, full-face, no looking down, ears exposed) – tick

– Fees: 388 AED – tick

I was almost holding my breath at the counter, sure there’d be something we’d overlooked. Son2’s school reports perhaps. His great great grandmother’s (on the paternal side) proof of pioneering voyage across the Atlantic and first homestead. Our tax returns. First pet’s photo, eye level 28-35mm from the bottom of the photo, no sunglasses.

“Do you have another picture?” asked the official, frowning at the perfectly proportioned, US passport-sized headshot we’d had taken of Son2.

“No,” we answered, glumly.

“The background needs to be white,” he said, pointing out the so-opaque-it-was-barely-there tinge of colour visible in the backdrop.

Any mum who’s ever felt like she’s trying to pin a woodland sprite to a studio chair when getting her young child photographed will understand why we groaned – then crossed our fingers and toes when he said he’d put the application through and let the system decide!

Quiet car anthems

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There are some mornings when Son2 doesn’t say anything on the way to school. Then there are other mornings where it’s like having a pint-size dictator sitting in the backseat, and you realise that, compared to dealing with a small child, pregnancy was really a nine-month massage.

Today, I banned Son2 from bringing the iPad into the car, so he grabbed the Kindle instead. For some reason, there was heavier traffic than normal, and I was just attempting to merge onto a fast road when he started shouting.

“MUM! LOOK! Stop the car, quick, look!”

It was something on the Kindle he’d found incredibly funny.

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“I’m just a bit busy right now darling!”

“I can’t look,” I replied, keeping a watchful eye on the slow-moving Datsun Sunny in front of me, and the much faster Land Cruiser I could see in my mirror about to sling-shot across three lanes. “I’m driving.”

“Just look quickly!” (What could be more pressing than Robo Shark turning mines into missiles, he’s thinking.)

“I really can’t!” A motorbike was now vying for pole position too.

He reluctantly agreed he’d have to wait for me to look until we’d parked. But then something on the radio disagreed with him. At age 5, he’s developed opinions about whether the DJs are talking too much and which songs he likes – his favourite, ironically, being I Crashed my Car into the Bridge by Maytrixx.

I switched channels. I wasn’t in the mood for an argument and knew I’d soon have the car to myself and could then rock out to some quiet car anthems (a mum has to take her chance to rock out when she can).

At school, I kissed him goodbye and his eyes suddenly looked downcast. “Don’t go to work Mum. What takes you so long there?” he asked, forlornly. “Just quit!”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked him why he didn’t want me to work.

“Because I love you,” he said quietly, as a teardrop squeezed its way out of one eye and trickled down his cheek.

Miss you kiddos when I’m gone all day.

The green-eyed monster

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green-eyed-monster

“Enjoy Sydney,” I said tersely, and I did mean it; it’s just that I wished I was going too. Like I do nearly every time my DH goes on a trip.

Yes, I can be a jealous wife – and it’s a horrid, energy-sapping emotion that I wish I could banish. And, I’m going to be completely uncensored here: it gets worse when you have children. And they’re dangling off you like deranged Christmas ornaments and depending on you for everything.

It was probably just a bad day, but my boys were awful today. AWFUL. I woke up with a small knot of dread in my stomach. I knew the morning would bring with it dark forces: the battle over homework. Getting my youngest to sit down at his wordlist is like trying to trap a will-o’-the-wisp. The older one is in cahoots and just as bad.

But, actually, the homework went OK; it was later in the day that I plummeted into the doldrums. Son2 bailed on a class he’d previously begged me to pay up-front for by screaming all the way there. His punishment – not being allowed to see a friend he’d already spent all morning with – caused his tantrums to crescendo, becoming a punishment for us too, and my equally strong-headed Son1 made a big scene about something else.

By dinnertime, my nerves were frayed, and the work I was meant to be completing still wasn’t done. When DH, nervously, asked what we were doing for dinner, I lost it. “They won’t eat anything I make anyway,” I raged, referring to a lasagna I’d cooked the other night (containing mushrooms) that had actually made Son1 vomit at the table. “Food I’ve spent ages preparing just gets thrown back at me!”

So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I wished my beloved (who does so much for us at home) a good trip as he went to bed at 6pm. I might even have told him he was lucky, and that I wished I could get away. If I’m honest, it’s not the layover in Sydney I’m jealous of (although it is one of my favourite cities); it’s the minutiae of everyday life and the juggling I want a break from.

“Have you seen the state of our cat?” DH asked the other day. “She really needs a bath.” “Look at Son1’s fingernails. You really need to cut them.” Then get the nail clippers. I’m pretty sure you can cut nails too.

Then there’s the Rasputin ants in the kitchen; the two-tonne grocery runs to feed ravenous boys on top of full-time work in media; the fact they’re getting up at 5.30am to play on the Xbox and are like grisly, overtired bears when I put them to bed – not to mention the never-ending logistics of the car pool I’m indebted to because I can’t get Son2 home from school when I’m at the office.

And don’t get me started about the school projects my older son can’t do himself, that last week saw me up until midnight making a beard for an Ernest Shackleton costume. (When do the costumes end?) I can’t be the only working mum who spends lunchtimes sneakily printing pages off the office printer when the bosses aren’t looking?

If there are any men reading this who want to know what a woman’s mind is like, imagine a browser with 2,671 tabs open.

I’ll feel better in the morning, when I’ve laid the green-eye monster to rest and am getting on with everything – because all this stuff, it’s just life, isn’t it? And it’s nearly the end of term.

The BMW-sponsored ball

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It was a long weekend here in Dubai, thanks to an Islamic holiday being declared – and, for me, it was good timing, as I put my glad rags on to attend a ball on Friday night.

It took much of Friday to make myself look posh enough, and Saturday was spent recovering, so the extra day was a welcome bonus with bells on.

I don’t usually spend a great deal of time in the salon, but I did decide to treat myself by outsourcing my nails and hairdo. It took a couple of phone calls to secure a same-day blow-dry appointment at a local salon that’s recently been revamped (and now has these plush, comfy chairs at the sinks that are more like beds, so you get to lie down while having your hair washed. Bliss.)

“Madame, if you could just wake up, and step this way,” the stylist tells me, motioning to an empty seat in front of (horror) a full-length mirror. I tried to figure out what was missing, and worked out it was the shelf that usually hides your lower body. Dressed in beige shorts, this meant staring at my thighs, knees and lower limbs for the next 45 minutes. (I defy you to not book a leg wax after this).

A great style for a ball. Not a boat.

A great style for a ball. Not a boat.

My lovely stylist had only been in Dubai for 10 days, so we chatted about why she’d moved here from a Swiss village, then I told her I was going to a ball that night – lest she think I was too lazy to do my own hair every weekend.

“Ah,” she said. “A ball.” At least I assumed she said ball. She’d actually mistaken the word, and thought I was going on a boat. So we talked at cross-purposes for some time, before the penny finally dropped and we decided that, since my hair wasn’t about to be buffeted by a stiff sea breeze, an elegant updo held together by about 100 grips and half a can of hair spray would work.

At the ball – each hair still ensnared in place! – my DH and I caught up with some dear friends I don’t see enough of; we feasted on a lavish buffet; sampled the chocolate fountain; and danced to a four-piece party band called The Maplejacks. I’ve never seen so many pilots – in James Bond black-tie – throwing shapes on the dance floor.

It was sponsored by BMW, who provided some great prizes with a sales pitch attached. Several lucky ball-goers won a BMW for the weekend – a test drive that sounded like a lot of fun. But did our table win this?

Hell, no. We won family tickets to Wild Wadi water park.

Adult words

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The word is used in so many songs, but I think it was the rapper, musician and horse dancer Psy who made the biggest impression on my children.

And, now, I’ve just realised, I have to write this blog post without actually mentioning the word, just in case it sends people to my corner of the internet for the wrong reason.

So bear with me.

Psy’s viral hit Gangnam Style didn’t only become the first YouTube video to reach two billion views, it also led to millions of primary school-aged children reciting (endlessly) the lyrics, “Hey, s**y lady”.

This, of course, then evolved to my boys saying, at the top of their voices, and usually at an inopportune moment: “Mummy’s s**y!” … *Awkward*

"Erm, ask Daddy!"

“Erm, ask Daddy!”

“Do you know what that means?” I asked my oldest.

“Well, it’s quite hard to define,” he replied.

I nearly choked on my tea. What, on earth, was he going to say next? Is it possible an 8-year-old could articulate the very essence of **x appeal?

“Daddy says it means beautiful,” says Son1.

“Or I love you,” chipped in Son2.

“I don’t know exactly what it means,” Son1 continued (PHEW!), “but I think I’ve seen it on TV.”

“Well, it’s an adult word,” I told them. “You shouldn’t say Mummy’s s**y.”

The sound of a drumroll echoed in my ears the way it always does when my children ask me hard-to-answer questions about the universe. I braced myself, ready to explain it was ‘complicated’.

“Mum, what’s for dinner?”