Category Archives: Expat

Wild Wadi at night

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Every now and then, every adult should feel like a big kid. And what better place to do this than at one of Dubai’s famous water parks.

We didn’t mean to go to Wild Wadi yesterday at all. We were simply driving past at about 5pm, on the way to the beach. The children wouldn’t even have noticed, but suddenly my DH came out with:

“We could go to Wild Wadi?”

“Isn’t it a bit late?”

No such luck. It was late-night opening day. A couple of coupons were located in the Entertainer book, and all of a sudden, my plans for a lazy sunset on the beach mutated into a high-energy, wet, extremely splashy and tumultuous time on rides such as the Burj Surj, the Jumeriah Sceirah and Tantrum Alley (named after my overtired children on the way home, I think).

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Brave rider shown not the blogger

Located right next to the Burj Al Arab, the great thing about Wild Wadi is there’s something for everyone: a huge wave pool with lifejackets for little ones; surfing simulators; family rides; downhill free-fall slides; and rides in which you get blasted upwards so you don’t even have to climb the stairs.

Unlike when we visited a few years ago, Son1 was now old enough, tall enough and brave enough to lead DH and I (separately, because one of us always had to stay with Son2) on all sorts of hair-raising, daredevil watery adventures.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I’d ask, hastily trying to take in the stunning view of the white, sail-like Burj set against a pinky-purple sky stretching over the Gulf’s distant horizon. “Yes, c’mon Mum,” he’d reply, with a thrill-seeking glint in his eye.

As a grand finale, we found ourselves on a gravity-defying, aquatic rollercoaster, being rocketed upwards by water jets to a small, ‘we’re not finished with you yet’ holding pool. From here, there were two options: the less-scary way down, and an ominous-looking, churning tunnel of doom.

I started paddling us furiously away from the black hole towards the gentler shoot, when a lifeguard grabbed our double-ringed inflatable. “Sorry,” she grinned, “You can’t go down that in a double.”

“Enjoy!” she called out mercilessly, pushing us into the ‘intense-thrill-factor’ tube and heralding the start of an insane blur of speed, in the pitch back, through watery twists and turns that rearranged my innards on the way down.

Our verdict: an absolute blast. Can’t wait to go again.

Fishy pedicure: I didn’t have time to do this, but there’s also a fish spa, where toothless Garra Ruffa nibblers turn your tootsies into fish food. Said to be slightly ticklish at first, these renowned flesh-eating fish exfoliate your feet by removing the dead skin cells. There’s an extra charge to submerge your lower legs and feet in the tank, but I’ll be giving this micro massage a go next time too!

Fishy pedicure: I didn’t have time to do this, but there’s also a fish spa, where toothless Garra Ruffa nibblers turn your tootsies into fish food. Said to be slightly ticklish at first, these renowned flesh-eating fish exfoliate your feet by removing the dead skin cells. There’s an extra charge to submerge your lower legs and feet in the tank, but I’ll be giving this micro massage a go next time too!

Bouncing back from expat-no-return

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You might remember that a few months ago, I was attending job interviews. I’d reached a point of expat-no-return, in which, to be brutally honest, playdates were beginning to bore me senseless and the freelance work I’d been doing for a couple of years had hit a dry patch.

Is this it, I thought? Have I really sacrificed my former career in glossy magazines to spend my days wiping bums, noses and tears, making boiled eggs with soldiers and listening to my boys talk about their willies non-stop.

In a grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side moment, I decided I needed a full-time job. With colleagues, interesting projects and (remember this) a salary. My next lightbulb moment came during one of my interviews, while sitting in what can only be described as the office’s broom cupboard.

“The hours are 9-6, and we work six days a week. Saturday to Thursday,” the Turkish interviewer with a dark floppy fringe told me, looking at me intently as my eyes darted to the floor in search of a trapdoor.

Kids, shhh! (I need earplugs, don't I?)

Kids, shhh! (I need earplugs, don’t I?)

“And it’s all office based.” Which surprised me somewhat as to get to the broom cupboard, we’d practically had to climb over at least a dozen workers crammed into a space no bigger than my kitchen.

Armed with the knowledge that publishing sweat shops packed to the rafters and operating on a six-day week do exist, I gave up the job search.

And decided to go it alone with my own little venture (big plug here).

It was fairly quiet to begin with, but then, just like buses, three jobs came along at once. And, all of a sudden, my little dipping-of-the-toe in the shallow end of the mumpreneur pool turned into a thrashing, front-crawl Channel swim, against the tide.

But, complaining I’m not. The mix of office work, work from home and playdates is suiting me nicely, despite being totally run off my feet at the moment.

The only thing is, during my days working at home, I’ve noticed that the boys have moved on from talking about their willies. And have, instead, started photographing their bum cheeks and front bits with my iPad.

Lord, help me.

Broken elevators: A tall order

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Riding elevators cheek by jowl with co-workers is a fact of life when you live in a city containing not just the world’s tallest tower, but, at last count, 448 smaller skyscrapers and 909 high-rises.

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Glinting in the hazy sunshine, Dubai’s skyline rises from the desert like a mirage

The most space-agey elevator ride is of course the minute-long high-speed ascent through 124 floors to the Burj Khalifa’s viewing platform. While standing in the futuristic, darkened elevator, you at first don’t even realise you’re moving – until you notice the floor numbers rapidly rising and your ears popping.

Being propelled upwards at the lightening speed of 10 metres a second is quite a ride. Though, I must say, I’m very thankful I wasn’t in this elevator when it broke with a loud boom in 2010, stranding a group of terrified tourists 124 floors above the ground for almost an hour.

The 24-storey building where I work is served by just two elevators going all the way to the top, and during peak ride times, the office workers squish themselves in like suited sardines in a tin.

On the upside, our lifts now have ‘elevision’ – TV monitors that, though mainly screening advertising and scrolling tickertape news headlines, at least provide a welcome distraction as we all huddle together.

You’re wondering where this blog post is going, aren’t you? Bear with me.

Today, I vowed I’d never moan about our elevators again – because at least they work.

Wealthy homeowners living in penthouse flats on the 97th floor of Dubai’s Princess Tower – the world’s tallest residential skyscraper – are having to climb up more than 1,300ft of steps after all eight lifts in the building broke down last week.

I had to chuckle (okay, belly laugh), because that’s the equivalent of walking one-third of the way up Scotland’s Ben Nevis.

Residents, some of whom paid £2 million-plus for their flats, were told today that a solitary ‘service elevator’ is available for ‘limited’ trips to the 50th floor – but anyone living above that level would still have to walk the rest of the way.

Bet they can’t wait for those elevator parts to arrive from Finland.

Read the full story here.

Silent Sunday: Cool cuts

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I’ve tried all sorts of things to persuade my sons to have a haircut with minimal fuss. There was the trendy toy store in the UK where they cut kids’ hair in front of a fish tank (my boys frightened the fish), and more recently, the pirate-themed salon playing DVDs on a continual loop (you have to pay with a Fun City power card, big faff really). Finally, I’ve found the solution:

Located in Dubai’s Motor City, this salon is totally geared up for car-mad little boys.

Located in Dubai’s Motor City, this salon is totally geared up for car-mad little boys.

Sunscreen: The new rules

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“But I DON’T like it!” [Makes face as though I’m about to smother him with acid.]

It’s what I hear every time I put sunscreen on my boys at the pool or beach. “Well, tough,” I reply, barking marching orders. “Stand here, arms out.”

I’m quite determined, because sunscreen is, of course, as essential as sweat-busting deodorant out here. But even so, I then only have about 15 seconds to do a high-speed all-over application before Son1 jumps into the water and swims away like a fish being chased with a net (and yes, I know, I should really apply it before we even leave the house).

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Why do boys as young as 4 think sunscreen is “just for girls”? Sigh!

My boys have skin with a slight olive hue, thanks to their Lebanese roots, and in five years, we’ve thankfully managed to avoid a bad burn, but for blonde children with a whiter complexion the intense sun in the Middle East is a major concern.

As it also is, on a cosmetic level, for desert-dwelling Mums who don’t want to resemble a leathery handbag by 45. Like many expats whose path to Dubai has included postings in Singapore, Hong Kong and other hot countries, we’ve spent time living in Florida, as well as the sun-drenched UAE, and so I thought I knew all there was to know about sun safety.

Turns out I didn’t: I learnt yesterday that many sunscreens aren’t as good as we think they are.

Rates of melanoma – the deadliest skin cancer – have tripled over the past 35 years, and part of the reason could be the decades of deceptive marketing claims made by sunscreen manufacturers, according to the US’s Washington DC-based Environmental Working Group (EWG).

We all know, by now, the old rules: Look for products with an SPF of 15 to 50, labeled “broad spectrum protection” (meaning they protect against both UVA and UVB rays); reapply every two hours; keep babies younger than 6 months out of the sun; and avoid the really harsh sun between 10am and 2pm.

To these, we’re now being urged to add the following new rules:

Higher SPF values (above 50) are misleading: Go on, admit it – if you see an SPF of 75, isn’t it tempting to think you can enjoy the sun 75 times longer before you burn? Not so. These products encourage us to apply too little sunscreen and stay in the sun too long; in the US, there are even calls to ban the sale of sunscreens with SPF values greater than 50+.

Avoid sprays: With my two boys already thinking suntan lotion is “just for girls”, I was dismayed to read that this easy-application method is frowned upon. The concern is twofold: that not enough sunscreen makes it onto the skin, and that the spray may be inhaled into the lungs.

Remember the days when we attempted deep, dark tans by sun-baking?

Remember the days when we attempted deep, dark, mahogany tans by sun-baking?

After a swim or sweating, reapply: Under new rules in the US, companies are now prohibited from making misleading advertising claims such as “sunblock”, “waterproof” and “sweat-proof.” Labels must also note a time limit of either 40 or 80 minutes before the sunscreen is ineffective.

Be generous: Aim for a golfball-size dollop, or roughly one teaspoon per limb. Use too little and your SPF 15 won’t work effectively, becoming more like an SPF 4.

Read the ingredients: Avoid products with vitamin A, retinol or its derivatives (such as retinyl palmitate and retinyl acetate). Although the jury’s out, Canadian health authorities are worried that the additives increase sun sensitivity. They’ve even proposed requiring that sunscreens with retinyl palmitate carry a warning saying they can increase the chance of sunburn for up to a week.

Steering clear of products containing oxybenzone, a chemical that may disrupt hormones, is also advised. Opinion is, again, divided (many scientists say the effect is so weak as to be insignificant), but the EWG recommends products that use zinc oxide and titanium dioxide as active ingredients.

Opt for fragrance-free: Scents bring more unnecessary chemicals and potential allergens to the mix.

For a list of the EWG’s best sunscreens (such as Coppertone Kids Pure & Simple Lotion, SPF 50), click here

A list of the best moisturisers with SPF can be found here

Safe tanning fellow sun worshipers. Circles x

The one in which I resign

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My Facebook friends will know that yesterday I threw a bit of a paddy – and resigned from my role as the glue, grocery shopper and crisis manager of little people’s tantrums.

Obviously, I felt pretty silly this morning, as I got the chicken out the freezer to defrost, packed the school bags and did the school run.

But it did seem to resonate with my Facebook pals, who cheered me up immensely with their comments (“I didn’t realise that was even an option,” remarked my Uni friend A. “A whole world of possibilities opens up.”)

It also got me thinking about the multi-faceted role of being a mother. Specifically, how it translates to positions that Mums in Dubai may have held previously, are still working in, or hope to return to one day.

So, just for fun, here it is, the expat mum’s job description:

mom_is_love_mothers_day_appreciation_sticker-p217259561246218932bah05_400*Fun mum needed for lifelong position in growing international company (Trailing Spouse, Inc). Must love sand.*

Roles and skills required

– Domestic engineer (fix broken toys, leaks, the Internet)

– Director of child development (must be available 24/7, and responsive at 3am)

– Senior buyer (why go to one supermarket, when you can go to three to get everything you need?)

– Chef (Tesco’s ready-meals are a looo-ng way away)

– Risk analyst (if another mum picks up your child, will she use a car seat?)

– Fashionista (full make-up, sundress and heels by 7.15am)

– Diplomat/negotiator (small warring countries are a cinch compared to hot, overtired siblings)

– Chauffeur (long-distance/defensive driving experience on supersized highways preferable)

– Creative director (how many days stuck inside in the air-con can you fill creatively?)

Candidates with eight arms will be given automatic interview

Candidates with eight arms will be given automatic interview

– Home studies supervisor (how long till you lose the plot?)

– Translator (French, Arabic, Hindi)

– Event co-ordinator (two children, three parties, one mum)

– Stylist (kids must be well turned-out, shoes clean enough that you can see design/original colours, hair combed)

– Investment manager (prices of bread, fruits and fish fingers need to be monitored to avoid bankruptcy in Spinneys)

– Counsellor (pick up the pieces when grandparents leave and/or school friends move to the US/back home)

Specific duties related to spouse

– Greet within two minutes of arriving home or be accused of mood swings

– Muster energy to spend evening talking coherently

– Look presentable  (clean clothes, make-up reapplied and definitely no elastic)

Salary

Ha ha ha ha ha!!!! (Unless you count the coins that drop out of the dryer after a load of laundry)

Benefits

Happy, healthy children (mostly), raised as global nomads. Bundles of love. Travel perks. SUV with 7 seats. Sunny days. Lots of love (I know, I said it already but it’s worth saying twice)

“God could not be everywhere and therefore He made mothers.” – Jewish proverb

Descending into password hell

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“We’re going to change the way we talk to you,” the school announced by email. A parent portal that mums can access via a log-in password was launched last November, comprising diary dates and all the information needed to ensure our children’s wellbeing.

Now, you’d think an online message board would be right up my street. But (and the irony of this is not lost on me) it’s playing hardball. I’m convinced it’s because the school never sent me the username and password, but there’s a chance these details are floating round my bottomless in-box.

Anyway, it’s causing me embarrassing problems, because, as a result, I’m not on top of what’s happening at school. I get wind of things, like wet n’ wild day, look at your three-year-old’s scribbles day, but don’t have enough information to avoid making a fool of myself.

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I might look like I’m working, but really I’m still trying to log-in to the system

“Is there something going on today?” I chirpily asked the teacher when I realised the mums weren’t hot-footing it to Costa Coffee in their maxi dresses and shades as usual, but were gathering outside the classroom.

“Yes, it’s sports day,” she replied, deadpan. “You need to go to the sports hall at 8.15am.” (*thanks lucky stars LB co-incidentally had his PE kit and I wasn’t dashing off to the office*).

I can circumnavigate this problem by lurking around other mums, particularly the class mum, who probably synced her iCal to her iPhone months ago. By doing this, I learn all sorts of things about how much money I owe for the janitor’s son’s leaving present, but it’s not a fool-proof substitute for actually accessing the damn portal.

It just seems that EVERYTHING is password-protected these days. I try to use the same combination of initials and birthdays for everything, but this doesn’t work. “Crap” the dialogue box says, after assessing the strength of my password and finding I might as well have it pinned to my forehead. So I hurriedly invent a new one, and promptly fill my mind with other stuff.

Then, the next time I log in, that TORTUROUS box pops up asking for the 2nd, 9th and 23rd letters, and it’s like playing a game of roulette, in which – as we found out the other day – if you don’t win, you’re locked out of your life savings.

Just as frustrating was last week’s eye-rolling run-in with the website airbnb.com due to a password issue. After much teeth gnashing over an ‘invalid’ password, I contacted customer services – who told me they couldn’t help in case I was a fraudster (“you could try guessing the password,” they helpfully suggested), and then signed off their response with the words “Peace and long life”.

*Runs into the desert screaming*

Silent Sunday: Car oven warning

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A serious one today, because there was some really sad news here last week about a three-year-old Yemeni boy, who died in a hot car after his family forgot about him and left him in the vehicle for almost three hours. The tragic incident, which happened outside the child’s house, has sparked a campaign in the UAE to remind people that heat kills when children or pets are left in cars (even at lower temperatures than on this poster.)

Because babies and young children are not able to regulate their body temperatures well, they warm three to five times faster than an adult, especially in a car, where the windows create a greenhouse effect. Backseat tragedies don’t just happen in the Middle East, either: about 450 children have died this way in the US since 1998.

Because babies and young children are not able to regulate their body temperatures well, they warm three to five times faster than an adult, especially in a car, where the windows create a greenhouse effect. Backseat tragedies don’t just happen in the Middle East, either: very sadly about 450 children have died this way in the US since 1998.

Working for the woman with no children

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I vaguely recall being in my mid-20s, working as an editor on a magazine and having no children barnacled to my ankle. There were several working mums in the company, and rather than thinking ‘how do they do it?’, I would wonder to myself, ‘why do they do it?’

It just looked so exhausting; all that juggling, constantly being on pick-up deadlines, and trying to have it all. They also seemed, dare I say it, pleased to be at work. I remember one going on holiday with small children and coming back looking more tired, ragged and hollow-eyed than before.

Fast-forward 15 years, and the tables are turned. At one company I work for, there’s a 50:50 split between parents and non-parents, and while everyone, for the most part, jollies along together, the divide occasionally widens into a gaping canyon.

Just before Christmas, a children’s afternoon was arranged, in which an onslaught of small kids arrived to wreak havoc in the office. As they drank apple juice in the boardroom, smeared sugary donuts all over the furniture and hid behind the filing cabinets, I sat back and enjoyed the whole thing, mainly because my boys weren’t there to have to supervise.

I loved watching my colleagues – steely journalists – in Dad mode (not many of the mums brought their kids in, can’t think why), but it didn’t go down well with everyone. One young fella, about as far off reproducing as I was in my mid-20s, looked visibly pained by the chaos, and eyed any toddlers who approached him as though they might be carrying explosives.

Before sidling off home early, I heard him say: “They did this last year too. One kid ate so much junk that she was SICK everywhere.” [almost shuddering as he recalled the horror!]

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I’m the one (happily, depending on the day) in the shadows now!

For me, the mix of parents and non-parents is a refreshing change, but at another place I work, it’s a different set-up: the staff are all younger and it’s here that I came across her:

The 20-something career woman with no children, bucket-loads of ambition, two Blackberries and dry-clean-only clothes.

And I found myself working for her.

At about 5.40pm, she (nicely) asked me to make some fairly extensive changes on the project I was working on.

“Ok,” I said, nodding, and because she needed them that evening and DH was already on his way to pick me up, I offered to email it later.

“What time?” she asked, a little sharply.

I made a mental calculation: get home [45mins]; see kids [1.5 hours]; bedtime routine and reading [1 hour]; do work [1.5 hours] … it would be at least 10.45pm.

“Um. About….” I couldn’t say it. “9?’

We locked eyes. I could feel tension. She wasn’t impressed.

Ouch.

“Alright, I’ll stay now and get it done,” I relented.

“Good,” she trilled, and turned on her heel to get back to her desk to start her evening shift.

One day – if she has kids, that is – she’ll get it.

Why kids LOVE the lunar calendar

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Despite the fact the two-month summer holiday is hurtling towards us like a steam train, Son 2 is now on half term. With only 15 school days left until the end of term, springing a half-term holiday on us now does seem a little unnecessary. Unless you’re a teacher, I suppose.

I’ve mentioned this before, but expat children have so many days off school. Once you’ve transferred your life savings, taken out a bank loan and sold a kidney to pay the school fees, you can expect your little darlings to be actually taught for a grand total of 179 days a year. Not even half the year!

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C’mon moon: I really need the kids back to school

It’s because children in the UAE enjoy the best of both worlds: Christian and Muslim holidays. Even though they’re not Islamic, my boys get time off for all the major Muslim festivals – the exact dates of which we don’t always know until just before, due to the fact Islamic holiday timings depend on sightings of the moon.

In our household, our calendar is further complicated by the fact our sons, who are in different schools, often have different holidays. It’s no wonder I get it totally wrong sometimes.

This list of holidays that parents in the UAE have to contend with cover with childcare doesn’t include all the extra days off given for teacher training and for unexpected shut-downs, thanks to problems with the water / flooding / earthquakes / chemical fire (yes really, see here) or SARS/MERS-like viruses.

– Winter vacation (18 Dec-6 Jan)

– Prophet Mohammed’s Birthday (24 Jan)

– Half Term (10-11 Feb)

– Easter vacation (24 Mar-7 Apr)

– Lailat al-Miraj (Ascension of the Prophet) and half term (4-6 Jun) circa*

– Summer vacation (27 Jun-2 Spt)

– Ramadan (predicted start 8-10 Jul): A month-long period of fasting for Muslims. If schools are in session during Ramadan (which they’re not this year), the school days are usually shortened by a couple of hours. It’s followed by the Eid al-Fitr holiday

– Arafat (Haj) Day – the second day of the pilgrimage (14 Oct)

– Eid al-Adha (Feast of the Sacrifice) (circa* 15 Oct) – rolled into a five-day half term

– Al-Hijra – Islamic New Year (4 Nov)

– UAE National Day (2-3 Dec)

Circa* = Moon-sighting committee confirms the date nearer the time, so published dates can be off by a couple of days

In my next life, I’m coming back as an expat child.