Abu Dhabi Nomads

Riding on a bus with boys

Ann Marie McQueen

Today - the last frenetic hours before Ramadan - was one of those times where you just know a cab is not stopping anytime soon. Dozens sailed past me, the number of people waiting around me grew, and I started to panic under the midday sun. Then a bus filled with labourers heading home for their afternoon break pulled up. The driver pointed down the road - his signal that he was heading right in the direction of the office - and a dozen men gazed out at me, smiling widely. I waved him on, second-guessing my decision briefly, and even contemplated running
in my heels to catch up with him in traffic, but did not. Then I waited. And waited. And when another bus full of workers pulled up, and the driver opened the doors and gestured me on, he did not have to ask twice.

I sat in a jump seat, facing the rows of worn-out men who smiled and talked and laughed, mostly, I have to guess, at the strange lady at the front of their bus. They said I could take this picture, so I did. The driver told me a story that involved 1970 and the "low, low president" of Canada who, oddly, he seemed to have met, and described an accident he'd just narrowly avoided, and then explained he had to pick up a couple of more men on their way to Mussafah, on the outskirts of Abu Dhabi. When we pulled up and they weren't ready, he drove me to work, dropping me right off at the front door. I tried to give him money twice, and he refused to take it.

I have to say, taking that bus made my day. I think I am going to try to catch it tomorrow, too.

Culture shock. Times two

UAE Minister of Presidential Affairs Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan hands Tala Alramahi a certificate at the graduation ceremony for presidential scholars in Abu Dhabi in June 2008.

Tala Alramahi

It has now been almost one year since I completed my undergraduate degree in sunny (can I add, idyllic and beautiful) Palo Alto, California and took the long journey home to equally sunny (can I also add, uncomfortably humid) Abu Dhabi.

Despite the numerous all-nighters, occasional episodes of homesickness and four subsequent Ramadans (and Eids) spent away and alone, I nevertheless grew attached to Stanford.

After all, we - Stanfordians- fondly called our 8,183 acres of campus bliss, the country club. It wasn’t hard for even the visitors to point out why: with a golf course, tennis fields, horse riding tracks, swimming pools, an art museum, sculpture gardens  and a shopping mall (Yes, you read that correctly!), we clearly could not ask for more from our new home.

But I also terribly missed a lot of the “heart” from the city that hosted this 22-year-old for seventeen years. Even the largest university campus in the world - and that Stanford was - could not provide me with protective parents, iftar feasts (and the accompanying Eid celebrations), and the warm fuzzy feeling of “home”.

And so, as I hauled my boxes of stuff out of my dorm room and unto the UPS truck, I looked at my now-empty room and was filled with great ambivalence towards the transition I was about to go through; I had two homes now, each with much to offer, and I was about to leave one of them forever.
And here I am now, 12 months later, and still feeling very much in transition as I was when I first stepped onto my British Airways flight bound to Abu Dhabi. No sooner had I arrived did the the city, my city, seem unfamiliar, different to me. Even my parent’s innocent inquiries about my life and whereabouts, seemed so overbearing to me now- as if they were interfering with my independence; something that I took for granted while I was away.

And then the little things started to irritate me as well: drivers who did not use their car indicators, people who do not grasp the concept of a queue,  those people who made grandiose assumptions that I was making a sexual proposition every time that I smiled at them, and even the ignorance of people who asked me how Los Angeles and Hollywood were, just because I had lived in the same state as Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

I have heard of culture shock. I psychologically prepared myself for it when I left Abu Dhabi five years ago. But reverse culture shock? That was something that I did not even know existed - until now. After all, who would’ve thought that you would need to get accommodated psychologically with a home you have known (and loved) for most of your life.

Thank heavens my parents understood -somewhat- what I was going through. Both have studied abroad at some point of their lives, and understand that transition is never easy. They even proposed I do what I need to do to make it easier: volunteer with a non-profit organization, learn a new language, travel with my college friends - even attend counseling if it is necessary.

Now is the time where another batch of Emirati students will return after four years of study abroad. Let’s hope that those returning home after graduation abroad will be aware of the hardships, but also be provided with the support needed to overcome the all-so-confusing (but nevertheless, real) phenomenon of reverse culture shock.

Waking up early helps get things done

Mahmoud Habboush

The last time I used to wake up early regularly was nearly ten years ago, when I was in high school. For twelve school years, I had to wake up some time between 6 to 6:30 in the morning so I could make it to the first class on time.

I remember envying college boys who did not have to get to their lectures before 8 am. After spending a year at a British university, going to a lecture that started before 9 am did not seem like an option that I would even entertain.

This week, for the first time in years, I've been waking up every day at exactly 5:40 am, for a very unlikely reason — to take driving classes.

Because I've been doing late shifts at work, the only time that suited my Pakistani instructor was 5:45 a.m. He always shows up at exactly on time, but has to wait for several minutes before I show up.

I don’t mind the timing, thinking that I would go back to sleep straight after the class, which  I did for a couple of days. Yet for some reason, I decided today to make use of my morning. I had a few options; go for a jog or for a swim or go to a cafe for tea and some reading.

I did the latter. But before doing that, I decided to do something that I had done before with a group of friends from work. I went to the fish market, bought a super fresh mullet and took it to a shop inside the market where they cook the fish for you.

The guy suggested to only add some salt to it and bake it. It’s simple, clean and preserves the fish’s real taste. He asked me to come back in 45 minutes. It was nearly nine when I came back. If it was just another day, I'd probably still be in bed, as I've been waking up on average at 9 am since arriving in Abu Dhabi eight months ago.

Having taken the cooked fish, the question was, were to eat it? The shop had no dining space. I walked around the market and saw a restaurant frequented by workers. I asked the cashier If I could sit at one of the tables for five dirhams.

I shared the table with a worker clad in blue overalls. He was eating a Dh5 fish curry meal. The scene, apparently, was unusual for most of the workers in the restaurant. It was clear to them that I was selfishly devouring a meal that cost enough money to feed one of them them for nearly two weeks and possibly more, if my taxi fare to get to the market were added to the total amount I had spent.

Then it suddenly hit me: It was barely 9:30 in the morning and I had done many things!

I always knew that by starting my day early enough I could get a lot of stuff done and I would feel better and even healthier. For some reason, I've never done that consistently. The last time that I woke up that early and got enough stuff done was possibly a year ago, if not more. I am a lazy person, I must admit.

I finished my delicious fish and headed to Mug & Bean at Abu Dhabi Mall for tea and newspapers. There, I ran into a colleague from work. I told him how excited I was that I have been waking up very early for a week. He said he always did that. I told him I promised myself to try and make that a habit. He smiled and replied that Ramadan might ruin my plans. He's probably right as the concept of time changes in Ramadan.

When I went back home it was around 10:30 am. I took a nap. Woke up. Checked the time, it was one in the afternoon —goodness it felt like another day and I hadn’t gone to work yet.

Wretched weather

Suryatapa Bhattacharya

The weather does not care if you are a construction worker or a journalist.

Whether it is threatening to bite off your toes in the middle of winter or setting your skin on fire at the height of summer, when you expose yourself to the elements, the weather does not discriminate.

If this nugget of wisdom had somehow managed to evade me, I was gently reminded of “how to prepare for the weather” by an Indian diplomat recently when he talked about campaigns the Indian missions in the Middle East were running in the summer months to educate labourers on how to avoid a heat stroke. Pamphlets printed in five Indian languages were being handed out at construction sites. During our conversation, I managed to blurt out that a friend of mine had recently suffered a heat stroke: She blacked out, hit the concrete, bashed her head open, and lay in a pool of blood before paramedics arrived. That morning as I spoke to the diplomat, the doctors had managed to put an end to her dizzy spells by suctioning blood clots out of her right ear and finding a bone contusion in there — bone trauma that resulted from the fall.

“Perhaps we should send you some of these pamphlets,” said the diplomat with a smile.

Indeed, he reminded me of my uncle, now a retired diplomat, who firmly believed in the principle that one battled the weather by appropriately dressing for it. After being posted around the world - from Russia to Bahrain - he had enough experience to make his case.

So when I went to live with him and my aunt in Ottawa to study journalism, my aunt taught me The Ritual, wherein I would dedicate at least 15 minutes a day (and thus, a significant portion of my life) to properly putting on and taking off a series of layers of warm clothing, starting from a woolen cap and working all the way down to the extra-thick socks, pulled as high as the winter boots.

But eight months ago, I moved to the Middle East after spending more than a decade mastering and successfully executing The Ritual every winter, and found myself ill prepared to face the wrath of the sun.

With no gentle hand (or pamphlet) to guide me, I recently woke up one morning and found myself screaming in pain, unable to stand, as a string of pains - from sharp to throbbing - coursed through my lower back.

The doctor informed me that I had suffered a series of heat strokes, which had resulted in a kidney infection. And these were symptoms common to construction workers.

Then, the doctor, just as surprised as the diplomat at our ignorance of how to deal with the weather, dictated to me a version of the pamphlet the diplomat spoke of, How to Avoid Heat Stroke: A mix of juice (or re-hydration salts) and up to three litres of water at regular intervals in order to prevent dehydration that also results in a loss of vital mineral and salts from the body.

This is my new Ritual.

Rain, glorious rain

People make their way along Southbank in London, England. Daniel Berehulak/Getty Images

Anna Seaman

On returning to the UAE after a recent trip to the UK I was grateful of two things, the sun and the smiles that such sunshine brings. In London, even though it was the middle of August and supposedly the height of summer, the dreary rain constantly fell and with it fell the faces of the people.

I could understand. It wasn’t many months since I was one of those masses, trudging through the slippery streets, negotiating the Tube and fighting my way for a seat on the bus. But now, with the perspective of a relative tourist I found it odd. For me the rain was refreshing. Yes it meant that temperatures struggled to reach above 20 degrees but it was worth it for the cold lungs full of air I inhaled and the dewy smell that lingered in the air after the downpours.

Also, the city sparkles after the rain. During a sunny spell one afternoon I visited a friend and we had lunch on her roof top terrace. From there we could see all over London, from Canary Wharf in the east to planes landing at Heathrow in the west. Alongside the River Thames we saw the London Eye, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben and Battersea power station. Although the sky was full of clouds, they were white and fluffy and the whole scene was beautiful. I realised the saying is true, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. London was all the more stunning to me because I’d left it behind.

But despite this nostalgia I did not want to return. London is lots of fun and a great place to visit but you won’t catch me queuing up to take my place among the glum faced masses any time soon. I prefer to see people smile.

In the countryside, where I stayed with family, I walked the dogs through muddy fields and watched farmers struggling to take in the harvest amid the bad weather. It was a very English scene and it did make me realise what I had been missing in Abu Dhabi.

Although it is a relatively green emirate with kerbsides and parks watered on a regular basis, nothing could really compare to the luscious countryside of the UK. But, I also noticed another particularly English pastime - all anyone could talk about was the weather. It was either too cold, too wet or on the day the sun came out it was too hot! It made me grateful for our perpetual sunshine.

Although it is common for us to complain it is too hot or too humid out here in the Gulf, as far as I’m concerned the weather is not a problem. Ok so for a couple of months a year the steering wheel is too hot to touch when you get in the car and walking outside for more than a few minutes is a sweaty experience. But for the most part, we don’t have much to complain about, apart from maybe the lack of rain.

Making friends at The National

Hessa (right) and Fatima. But is that an "S' for Sunderland or a 5 for Arsenal's Kolo Toure?

Hessa al Romathi

The first thing came to my mind when I saw Fatima al Shamsi for the first time was "I can't be friends with her, she is so different."

But Fatima and I had been assigned to work together as interns at The National, and that was a good reason for getting us talking to each other from the first day.

The first thing she asked me was: "What is your favorite football team?" In silent reply,  I just thought: "Oh my God, not this question. I know nothing about football and I'm not a big fan of anyone."

And yet this question was the beginning not only of our conversation but also our friendship. When I said she is different than me, I meant in our interests, and they could not get much more different when it comes to football and Fatima, and especially her beloved Arsenal.

Interestingly, the time we met was during Euro 2008 championship. Each morning, she would come to tell me about the previous night's match and I listened to her with full attention, and also - unfortunately - without understanding a word. But the way she talks about matches grabs my attention even if I do not recognise the players' names or their teams.

Whenever Fatima and Colin Randall started talking about football, I just stared at them, trying my best to catch some terms and be with them. If they turned to ask me a question about football or to comment on something related to football my only answer would be: "Not a big fan."

It became Fatima's routine. Every morning, sometimes before even drinking her morning coffee, she switched on the computer to start reading about football; how often did I see her on Colin's Salut! Sunderland website or reading a book about a team even I didn't know she supported (she blames Colin for that).

She talks about football with real passion. I found this fascinating because it is so rare to find in our country such an ardent female football fan. I will not forget her first article published in The National: you guessed it - about being a female football fan in the UAE.

Now I look back and am grateful that I learnt a few suitable football terms during the time we were together.

Despite our differences, we became good friends.

My sisters are always telling me it is good to make friends with people of different interests and personalities, so that you exchange knowledge with each other. This is exactly  what happened with Fatima and me. As she introduced me to the world of football, I introduced her to the world of the toastmasters.

And while each of us lives in a different world, we share a same identity.

It is known that people are attracted to one another when they find something similar between them. But in our case it is different. Maybe one of the reasons that we became good friends is that we were only the two interns who worked together all the time, to the extent of sharing the same break times and praying together.

Do not forget also that most of the articles we wrote during our internship were written together, enabling us to learn many things from each other. One funny example: during our time at The National, Fatima was increasing my English vocabulary while I was teaching her additional Arabic words and phrases.

Our differences cover even the way we dress and talk. But the most important thing for me now is that we became friends and — inshallah —  friends forever.

Remembering her commitment to Arsenal, and also — it now seems — Sunderland, I decided while on a visit to Bahrain to buy her a little farewell gift, marking our imminent return to school: her to college in New York, mine here in Abu Dhabi. Luckily, the colours work for both teams: a red and white rubber bracelet to match her new red-trimmed abaya.

Is importing athletic talent that bad?

Bahrain's Rashid Ramzi celebrates as he crosses the finish line ahead of Kenya's Asbel Kipruto Kiprop during the men's 1,500 meters final at the "Bird's Nest" National Stadium during the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games. Gabriel Bouys/AFP

Rasheed Abou-Alsamh

The brouhaha over whether Moroccan-born runner Rashid Ramzi, who won a Gold medal in the 1,500 meter race at the just-concluded Beijing Olympics for Bahrain, is really a Bahraini or just a money-crazed mercenary, seems to me to be rather irrelevant.

While UAE sports officials were quoted by The National as saying that they would never, ever give citizenship to foreign athletes in order to win medals, I don’t see anything wrong in importing talent.

Almost all of the ping-pong players at the Olympics were of Chinese origin, whether they were playing for the US, Canada, Argentina, Spain, France or Italy, while the two male beach volleyball players representing the Ukraine were Brazilian-born!

Heck, even the US delegation to the Games used a Sudanese-born athlete in the opening ceremonies, and a Georgian-born one in the closing ceremonies, to make political points. Some Americans were not happy with this obvious politicisation of the competition, grumbling that multiple Gold-medal winner swimmer Michael Phelps should have carried the US flag at the closing ceremonies. But there was a social point to be made here too: That the US is stronger and constantly reinvigorated by the regular flow of new immigrants to America.

On Mahmood’s Den, a Bahraini blog, most commentators agreed with Mahmood that Ramzi winning a Gold medal in Beijing was good for the country and something to be proud of. “Best gold money could buy. Cheap cynicism aside, I just hope that this fantastic achievement, and I do consider it a great achievement, means that more money and publicity is put into sport in the kingdom. I listened to the race on the BBC and felt proud that Bahrain had achieved an Olympic gold,” wrote Ratfink.

Another reader, Hisham, lamented the doubting of Ramzi’s true allegience: “God, people, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to indicate he’s born and bred in Morocco and therefore is not a true, well-dusted, Bahraini. That’s just rubbish pipsqueaking. The guy holds a Bahraini passport, having had it granted to him by virtue of his exceptional abilities. Now that’s a good thing in my book.”

I couldn’t agree more, especially since none of the other Gulf countries came near to winning a Gold medal at the Olympics, let alone a bronze one!

Hijama Happiness

 Anna Seaman

Although many residents and visitors berate Abu Dhabi for it’s lack of nightlife, lack of culture and all round sleepy village-esque social life. There is one thing that men and women alike can do and enjoy in this town - a good pampering.

There are salons are every corner. All the hotels boast top notch spas and the quality of service is far beyond what many Westerners can expect in their home countries. At least in my opinion anyway.
However when I go for a massage it is generally because I am in actual pain. I get very tense shoulders and stubborn knots all over my back. I always convince myself that a deep tissue massage will shift them - but generally I come back disappointed.

An ineffective massage is nothing short of infuriating. I have lost count of the number of times I have gone into a beautiful spa, paid over the odds for an aromatherapy treatment and come out with the same discomfort in my back. Essentially all the therapist has done is stroke some deliciously scented oils into my skin and relieve some of my mental tension.

After my last frustration a friend helpfully pointed out to me that these people are not medical professionals so why was I expecting them to relieve me of a physical problem?

I considered her point to be quite fair, so I decided to change my tack.

I had heard a friend of mine raving about an ancient Arab medicinal technique called cupping or “hijama” in Arabic.

Hijama has been compared to the medieval treatment of blood letting or the Chinese art of fire cupping, but this Arab method is neither of the two. Here blood is drawn by vacuum from small incisions in the skin and collected in glass or plastic cups.

I have to admit I didn’t exactly jump at the prospect. I am squeamish at the best of times and the sight of my own blood usually makes me cry.

However I did some research and became intrigued by the idea.

Hijama was specifically mentioned and encouraged by the Prophet Mohammed (PBUH). The prophet said those who receive the treatment on certain days of the lunar month “will be healed of every disease".

On a biological level this theory holds water. Hijama is not used to treat specific diseases but as a preventative measure. It removes the dead blood cells from the cardiovascular system and stimulates the bone marrow to make fresh ones.

In this way it can help rheumatic conditions such as arthritis and sciatica.
But I was more interested in the claim that it helps with anxiety and tension and that in comparison, one session of cupping was worth between ten or 20 deep tissue massages.

Despite my doubts, I had to give this a try.

Mohammed, the friendly doctor said that dead blood cells collect between the shoulder blades and at the base of the spine. This was the main reason for increased tension in these areas and a massage only pushes these dead cells around. Although this eventually helps them to break down, hijama, he claimed, was a much more effective way of relieving the pain.

So, a little nervously, I lay down on the bed for my treatment. He placed eight plastic cups in strategic points over my back and used a hand held vacuum machine to create suction. After a few minutes he removed the cups and made several tiny slices in my skin with a scalpel. It wasn’t really painful but decidedly uncomfortable.

Then he replaced the cups and reapplied the suction. It felt like someone was lifting my up by my skin. Over the next ten minutes, whilst I could not see, viscous fluid began to fill the cups. When it was over Mohammed showed me the contents of the cups.

It was unlike anything I had ever seen. There was a small amount of living or ‘good’ blood, this is the bright red stuff we are used to seeing if we cut ourselves. Then there was a huge gelatinous lump of slightly darker matter that resembled jelly. This, I was told, was the dead or ‘bad’ blood. It was absolutely disgusting and I couldn’t believe it had come out of my body.

I’m really sorry if anyone reading this blog gets put off by the pictures. I’m not sure I would have gone ahead if I’d have seen them. But let me assure you, the results speak for themselves.

As I left the clinic I felt a spring in my step and I had a burst of renewed energy which everyone I encountered commented on.

Although I walked gingerly to protect the wounds and felt a bit odd walking around with cotton wool padded to my back, by the time I got home I knew it was worth it.

That night I slept like a log and in the morning the familiar aches and pains in my neck and shoulders had vanished. I was also full of happiness and felt really refreshed.

Looking at the pictures still makes my stomach turn but now I will not look back. Hijama, at least for me, is the new massage.

Once a waitress, always a waitress

Ann Marie McQueen

I spent almost a decade working as a server and a bartender back home, which is why I find it hard to relax when dining out. I almost always overtip, even when the service is bad, and tend to eavesdrop on the waitstaff, to see if they are having as much fun as I remember.

I also can't seem to stop comparing the differences in serving styles whenever I travel. Sometimes this involves my own humiliation. For example, I once dined by myself at a quaint bistro in Paris. I was undaunted by the host, who sniffed "for one madam?" Not deterred when the waiter made a large show out of clearing away the extra place setting at my table for one. But I considered it just slightly over the top when, after I had asked what the specials for the evening were, he went outside to collect the sandwich board from the sidewalk. I grew horrified as he drew closer, making his way through the maze of tables with the giant sign foisted over his head and could only gape in disbelief as he set it down in chair opposite to mine.

In India I giggled with a friend in a restaurant as five waiters stood by, each of them leaping forward whenever our gaze so much as drifted in their direction.

Whether casually dining or going more upscale, I have noticed a common denominator in Abu Dhabi. That is a preponderance of attention during the first half of the meal, and a decided disinterest in follow up once the food has been served. It is quite common to have one's waiter hover about a metre from the table, returning over and over to take an order even if the menus have not yet been opened, let alone closed.

But when I was given a double order of potatoes instead of the vegetables I asked for the other day? Helloooooo? I had to flag down a passing waiter, who was less than thrilled to oblige. Mine appeared to have left the building.

One could wait forever for the bill, too. I am not sure why this top-heavy approach seems to have settled in, across a variety of cultures as well. And while I'm might sound like I'm complaining, I'm not. Given the choice, I would almost always rather wait for the bill rather than food and drink. But because the service is generally so over the top at the beginning, my curiosity has the best of me. I almost want to go undercover for a couple of weeks, just to see one of the restaurant training manuals.

Where much of the world operates on a "steps of service formula", which involves asking the customer if they would like anything else, here it seems to be a different story. "After the customer is sated," I imagine one saying, "always, always, let them come to you."