Tag Archives: Dubai Covid-19

Back to school … and back home again

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I am beginning to wonder whether my boys will be properly in school ever again – and I mean full-time at school and with PE and activities and a fully stocked canteen where they can eat food not provided me. Maskless in lessons and corridors would be even better.

Have you noticed that some naturally withdrawn children are using their masks to hide behind? It’s like they’ve almost started adopting the masks as their face – like it’s part of their identity, their security blanket. They want to keep the mask on, even while playing sport, or at lunch they want to eat a bite, put the mask back on, take another bite, put it back on. 

The continued policy of masking at school just to be safe – with no end date in sight – makes me terribly worried that being over cautious has a cost, while the benefits are uncertain. 

Anyhow, I digress. Son2’s year got closed down this week, which is what I’d meant to write about. He – and all his friends – are thrilled. He’d left already on his bike when I got the urgent email from school about the closure. The bus kids had already arrived and been ushered straight into quarantine, sending mums back at work into a tailspin. 

I called Son2 to tell him to turnaround, and, of course, the news had travelled fast. 

“Is it true? Is school cancelled?” he whooped with delight down the line. In the background I could hear quite a commotion, like a party had already started. Cheerful voices noisily hollered to each other. Son2 began to cheer. The only thing missing from the jubilation was the sound of glasses clinking.

“Yep, you can come home,” I sighed. “They’ve closed down the whole year.”

“The WHOLE YEAR?” he replied in astonished amazement. 

“Yep, the whole of year eight.”

“Oh! I thought you meant for the rest of the year,” he explained, because honestly the way this term is going with all the cancellations makes anything seems possible. (He admitted later that this scared him a bit – the thought there’d be no more school all year. It’s actually, hopefully, just for a week – adding to the first missed week at the start of school.) 

He arrived back home shortly after, at about 8.05am.`My other son is on study leave, so was also home, but while he can be relied on to study independently, Son2 needed supervising to make sure he actually logged on to online school.

Later that morning, I heard raucous laughter through the wall – it went on long enough that I had to investigate. As I walked in, he quickly flicked his laptop screen from some software he’d been using to mess around with a friend back to the school platform, where I could see a weary-looking teacher talking in a small box at the top. 

“You WEREN’T IN SCHOOL,” I roared, feeling highly annoyed and at the same time utterly defeated. Because it really seems, doesn’t it, that Covid parenting has passed the point of absurdity?

Reading another email from school this evening about PE and extra-curricular activities returning, but “with a cautious approach” to “ensure our pupil’s safety remains a key priority” (the full programme basically not starting until after half term), I found myself ranting to DH about the insanity of cancelling healthy exercise – not to mention how much we’re paying in school fees for all this.

Still, it could be worse – a friend works in the school’s nursery and they’ve had to switch to online nursery. Those parents have all my sympathies! Perhaps we should all follow in the footsteps of the group of 20 mothers from Boston who met up outside a local high school, to stand in a circle – socially distanced, of course – and scream.    

Enough already! Please make the disruption stop

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25 of the craziest Covid meaures from the past two pandemic years

The ultra-contagious Omicron mutant continues to cause chaos and disruption here in Dubai, leaving me longing for stability as school dangles by a thread and I wonder if I’ll ever actually see my work colleagues in person again.

As the pandemic drags on, we’re all working from home again, motivation levels perhaps gauged by our cameras all being off on zoom calls. I’ve even heard about people beginning and leaving new jobs without ever seeing their colleagues face-to-face. I mean, if you never actually met your co-workers in real life, did you even work there? 

This week, Son1’s first GCSE thankfully took place without him catching Covid or being a close contact. But after the first paper, he then got quarantined in moral education class the next day. Of all the classes to get quarantined in!

As the lesson neared its end, the announcement came that there was a Covid case in year 11. The kids had to stay confined in the classroom (“Don’t leave the room! Don’t move”) while close contacts were traced. 

The moral education teacher, on the other hand, legged it to her next class. How moral was that, I wondered?! 

Sitting on backless stools in their temporary enclosure (I’m not exactly sure what kind of classroom it was, but Son1 insists there were no chairs), they continued their learning online, like they did from home for the first week of term when the school was closed at the last minute, leading to the all-too-familiar pandemic scramble to adjust child-care arrangements and work schedules. 

Two hours later they were released, the close contacts having been sent home. I did wonder what symptoms the infected student was having – a scratchy throat maybe, itchy nose? God forbid, a bit of a fever. I hate to ask, but was s/he even actually, you know, ill?

Son1, meanwhile, missed his crucial in-person maths lesson while sitting in quarantine, just days before taking the second paper. 

Still, he was actually really lucky. The two brightest kids in the class didn’t even get to sit the exam, due to becoming infected or having to isolate. I can only imagine the disappointment after all the studying they will have done. 

I thought it might be worth compiling a list of some of the craziest, most-lunatic Covid measures I’ve come across. Lest we forget.  

I’m sure you will have some of your own and please do add them in the comments. 

  • When students have been revising in groups at school during study leave, the teachers have had to break the study groups up due to social distancing rules

  • Being sardined into a queue at Heathrow immigration with people arriving from all over the world, then having to legally isolate for 10 days and be visited by Track and Trace

  • Putting padlocks on the gates of outdoor playgrounds and our compound’s basketball court (for 18 months)

  • My parents allowed to go for a walk on a golf course, but if my dad had taken clubs and a ball, it was a criminal offence (could you get a more socially-distanced sport, especially when balls fly off into bunkers?)

  • No butterfly stroke allowed while swimming

  • Being told off in a store for not standing on a yellow circle – when you’re the only customer

  • The one-way system at school with roped fences along corridors, meaning if the kids needed to get next-door, they had to make a circular journey through the whole building, ensuring they passed every person on the way

  • The poor lady who came out the toilet on my husband’s airplane, scrabbled around to put her mask on, fell down the steps and broke her ankle

  • The rule of three in Dubai taxis, so my household-sharing family of four couldn’t ride together and needed two vehicles for the airport run

  • PE lessons and sporting activities currently forced to be suspended at school, just as some immune-boosting, healthful, outdoor exercise in the cooler Dubai weather would be a jolly good thing for the kids

  • The water fountains being taken away at school. And now the canteen closed (food and team sports are about the only things Son2 really enjoys about school)

  • Library books getting sanitized and quarantined for two weeks before being exposed to the next child

  • Having to wear plastic disposable gloves in the supermarket

  • The cubicle-style Perspex screens put up around each desk at work that I continually banged my head on

  • The sign in the elevator telling us to face the wall

  • Having to stand five-feet away from the perimeter of the rugby pitch Son1 plays on, lest from behind masks we breathe on the players all the way across the field

  • Not being allowed to watch our kids play sports at all, leading to some parents standing on step ladders to peer over the wall (not a good look)

  • Rugby tackles only allowed if the player is in your bubble

  • Drones disinfecting Dubai’s streets so we wouldn’t catch Covid from the pavement – and the plastic slippers given to my DH by the Egyptians to wear when inspecting the plane in Cairo, in case he infected the tarmac

  • Neighbours who thought someone jogging by their open window without a mask on risked infecting them

  • British influencers and sunseekers hopping on a plane in the winter of 2020/21 to Dubai, bringing the Kent variant, resulting in the UK government slamming the borders shut to UK expats, a flight ban and six months of Hotel Boris (horse already bolted sprung to mind)

  • Getting back to Britain via an 11-day stopover in an amber or green country, massively increasing the chances of picking up Covid on the way

  • Permits to leave home during the mass house arrest of the UAE’s lockdown

  • Public toilets being closed in the UK, causing people to use bushes, beaches and beauty spots instead

  • A lovely friend not seeing her two sons in New Zealand for two years. How many million light-years of misery have these painful, enforced separations caused? How many?

A year on: What’s changed since the first Covid case

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Almost a full year after the first Covid-19 infection in the Middle East was officially diagnosed on 29 January 2020 in the UAE, the number of cases in the Mena region has crossed 4,835,531.

If you had told me twelve months ago that we would be doing and seeing some of the things that are now an everyday part of our lives in this crazy world dominated by Covid, I would have thought you were mad!

But fast forward a year, and the pandemic has altered the very fabric of our existence in the most unimaginable ways, shutting down so many things we hold dear, from schools to watching our kids play sports to movies to music concerts to the very notion of human interaction.  

It is quite incredible how all of our worlds, both personally and professionally, have been turned upside down. 

If you had told me I would not be able to visit my family, I would have said, never going to happen! But it has. If you had told me that I would be running a home school for two boys, I would have said ‘no way!” But it happened, for months, and let me tell you it was an experience, and nothing I ever got taught at journalism school!

Did you ever imagine a world where temperature checks would be carried out before entering offices or malls; where toddlers would cover their faces with masks as that’s what all the adults do; where window visits with care home residents, Zoom Bingo and PPE were the norm?

Here’s just a few more of the things I never, ever imagined would happen, not even in my wildest dreams:

– That my friends in the UK would be on their third serious lockdown in less than a year

– That work would erect glass cubicles for us all to sit in, and issue work from home (WFH) orders

– That WFB (working from bed) would become a thing

– That while it was a terrible year for most humans, it was a great year for my dog, who was barely alone for a second

– That the cats would get seriously sick of us being home, and now just give us constant side-eyes

– That my DH would be home for a whole year – and counting – swapping a life in the skies, hotels and foreign cities, for, well, the living room during our extreme lockdown in March/April.

V-Day: On getting vaccinated in Dubai

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I’d been mulling getting vaccinated for several weeks, but didn’t really fancy the enormous queues at Dubai Parks and Resorts field hospital. When it first opened, huge numbers of people waited for hours in their cars as Dubai Police officers guided them to the hospital in batches, 40 vehicles at a time. 

But then I started to hear that more vaccine centres had opened, and that getting vaccinated was easy and quick. I can vouch that it was! And as an epi-pen carrier who had good reason to be worried about a bad reaction (more on my anaphylactic tendencies here), I can honestly say I’m so glad I’ve done it!

My thought process was that Covid seems rampant just now, with outbreaks at work and my kids’ school, and so many friends of friends getting infected. But there was more to my decision: I want to be part of the solution to this dreadful pandemic so we can all live and be well. By being a teeny tiny piece in the most complex Covid jigsaw, perhaps I could help humanity in its journey towards herd immunity (or community immunity is probably the more PC term). I’ve felt pretty powerless throughout this crisis, and so getting vaccinated was the least I could do, because this microorganism we can’t see is destroying not just lives but also society. 

On a personal level, I’m longing for the pandemic to be over, or at least contained. My pilot DH hasn’t worked since March 2020, and is now on a year of unpaid leave. I’m just so very, very tired of it all, and missing friends and family back home. Borders, meanwhile, are clamping shut again, closing off arteries to my homeland and any hope of my DH getting back to work anytime soon.

It was time to do something proactive.

The number of people milling around outside the vaccine centre this evening in the dark suggested anything but a quick and easy experience. I thought we didn’t stand a chance. But myself and Catherine the Great were waved through the gate. It was ladies and families only. You’ve gotta love this about Dubai.

I felt horrible for all the single men outside, though, many of whom were desperate to get the jab. The poor chaps – especially as men appear to be worse-hit when it comes to Covid. There was one group standing nearby made up of three men and a woman, clearly not a family. An attendant said to the female: “One woman can’t have three boyfriends, sorry!”

So she had to choose which male to take in with her. 

I hope they have a male-only day soon. 

Covid-19 vaccine centre, Dubai
vaccinated in Dubai

To cut a long story short, it was all very well organised inside – more of a vaccine factory, with at least 30 vaccine stations and a seating/queuing arrangement reminiscent of a passport office. I was also reminded of musical chairs – as the rows of queues moved, you shuffled up a chair, bums on seats rotating fairly fast.

It truly was mass vaccination – at scale. It was also free (just your UAE ID card needed). Whatever doubts I’d had before about the Chinese Sinopharm vaccine had already lessened greatly – and I’m happy to say, it was painless and no side effects at all. 

Nǐ hǎo!

Where to get vaccinated in the UAE
Dubai: Free Covid vaccine now at 120 centres; full list

Escape from Dubai lockdown: part 3

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On route to the beach, we came across two peacocks, much to my delight.

The beautiful blue peacock displayed his fan of elegant feathers and appeared to be doing a courtship dance as he approached the less attractive, brown-feathered peahen. I was enchanted by the display.

Even the boys seemed impressed. I might not see a Robin Redbreast anytime soon, but the male peacock, a bird of the Eastern world, had just more than made up for it. Even better, my mood was rapidly improving. 

Our end of the beach was blissfully almost empty, just a couple of families watching their children playing in the surf. We set out our towels and sat on the sand, which had been combed so there were neat grooves running the length of the beach. The beach was far better groomed than my kids’ hair. 

I stared at the sea, which was still there, and the horizon, which was still there, and the kitesurfer being pulled along by the wind, which was still blowing. I realised I felt properly alive for the first time in weeks. Then we all plunged in, and experienced something else we hadn’t had much of in weeks. Fun. 

On the way back up to our room, fifty minutes later, two things came to my mind: that I felt really, really normal, and that this was the first time I had felt properly human for weeks. In the terror of the pandemic, I think we have forgotten that we are allowed to seek happiness, that having fun isn’t breaking Covid rules. 

There has been such judgment about people, that at times it’s been easier just to suffer, as if feeling anything other than anxiety or misery is in some way belittling to those who have sadly lost their lives to this truly dreadful disease.

But this Eid, I hope everyone will try to do one thing that makes them happy (as long as it’s within the Dubai government’s rules). We must do what we can to keep going. We must remember there is no Covid rule against searching for hope.

Escape from Dubai lockdown: part 2

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Leaving the confines of our immediate neighbourhood, I let out a gasp. “Gosh this feels so weird,” I said, taking in the sight of buildings and landmarks I hadn’t seen in ages, the fascinating signs for far-flung exotic places such as DWC Airport and Jebel Ali free zone. 

Passing the exit to the industrial port, I began to feel quite exhilarated, if only because we had done the journey in world-record time due to the absence of traffic jams.

A giant flashing sign caught my eye – warning drivers to “Stay home, stay safe’ – and I felt a twinge of guilt. Was our break for freedom a selfish idea? A friend in the UK told me yesterday that they were too scared to drive to a near-ish beach in case the locals came at them with pitchforks.

As we pulled into the carpark of the JA Resort, my heart sank. There were so many cars that finding a space was going to be tricky. Valet parking was deemed a health risk. Judging by the busy parking lot, we clearly weren’t the only people who had decided a staycation was ‘essential travel’.

DH dropped us off as close as he could to reception, and I trundled my wheelie bag over the hot paving, the boys in tow, towards the glass-door entrance.

Inside, the queue to check-in stretched all the way round the atrium. Guests were maintaining the obligatory two-metre distance from each other, but even if they hadn’t been, it would have been the longest check-in queue I’d ever seen.

There were kids sat on lounge chairs looking like they’d been brought to extra maths tuition rather than on holiday. One couple appeared to be mid-argument about the wife’s desire to “just go home!” Another man was demanding a refund from a masked customer representative whose initial happiness about being back at work was rapidly diminishing. 

“Oh my,” said DH when he joined us in the queue. “Wasn’t expecting this.”

A young girl just behind us chose that moment to start wailing. “I want to go home,” she cried. Her face turned a violent shade of pink, almost matching her bright pink backpack and sunhat.

Her dad put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll be in our room soon, then we can go to the beach.”

Our boys, meanwhile, stood in silence, stoically accepting their fate but glum.

When our turn to check-in finally arrived, DH handled the paperwork while I politely stood back to maintain social distance. Just as I thought we were about to be handed our room keys, the receptionist went silent and stared at his computer.

Not being able to see any facial cues due to his mask, I tried to read his eyes. It’s my strategy for communicating in this new era of mask wearing: I smile (anyway), use my eyes (cue acting skills from every medical show I’ve ever watched) and gesture with my hands in a bid to connect with the other person. It sometimes works.

“Your room will be ready in about forty-five minutes,” the receptionist finally said, apologetically. 

DH glanced at his watch and frowned, as I took a step closer to check I’d heard properly. I’d calculated that if we could get to the beach in twenty minutes’ time, we’d still have a couple of hours of sunshine. I was determined we’d all get some vitamin D on this trip, especially as I keep reading it might have a protective effect against coronavirus. 

“I thought check-in was three pm,” I bleated, frustration prickling my skin. 

“Sorry. It’s the municipality’s new rules. The room has to be vacant for a full twenty-four hours before the cleaning crew can go in. They’re just on their way to the room now.”

DH nodded his acceptance as I tried to keep my annoyance under wraps. “The pools are definitely closed, right?” he asked.

“Yes. Again, Dubai government rules. But the beach is open from ten am to six pm.”

“Only until six?” I said in a slightly too high pitch. Our couple of hours on the beach was fast being reduced to about fifty minutes. 

The receptionist gave an apologetic but firm nod. “We’re operating under a lot of restrictions.”

Escape from Dubai’s lockdown

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With lockdown finally eased, I’m craving a trip to the beach. I need to check it hasn’t disappeared, that the horizon is still there, the waves still rolling in and out.

Perhaps I’m being a Covidiot. The beach is still off limits. And it’ll be a hundred degrees, with burning hot sand that’s probably already too hot to safely walk on. But I need to see the sea. 

I also want reassurance that the existence of the rest of the world isn’t just a figment of my imagination and that life outside the compound we call home, the concrete compound we’ve barely ventured out of for all these weeks, is continuing. 

There’s little scenery to speak of in our compound – just bricks and mortar, and pavement and roads laid out in rows. Pre-pandemic beautification efforts in private gardens and porches add bursts of colour, but the greenery in communal areas is already beginning to wither. It’s almost as though it’s recoiling from what’s to come – the long summer months during which grass, plants and shrubs are scorched by the hottest sun on earth.

If life doesn’t feel dystopian enough now, it surely will by the end of August,

I find myself day-dreaming about walking through a lush forest, under a canopy of trees. The kids kicking leaves, even building a treehouse. Friendly woodpeckers tapping away, and that most English of birds – the Robin Redbreast – ducking and diving through the branches.

Though, if I’m entirely honest, I know this isn’t the reality for most Brits in lockdown. In the neighbourhood I lived in when I first moved to London, if I saw anything green, it was more likely to be a crisp packet floating by, or a discarded beer bottle. 

But I can’t be the only desert dweller craving visiting a beauty spot with room to breathe and listen, with nature all around, and who’s wondering why on earth they chose to live in the desert.

Still, now is not the time to make major life decisions – it is a time to whinge about the ones we’ve made in the past. 

And so it was that, after weeks of me complaining about not visiting the beach, DH finally snapped. 

“Let’s go on a staycation – just for a night,” he suggested.

“But we CAN’T,” I wailed. “We can’t afford it – we should be saving every dirham right now, not spending our money at lavish hotels.”

“Actually, if it cheers you up, it’ll be worth every dirham.”

To be continued