We went to our favorite Indian vegetarian deli the other day and piled up on uttapams, pakoras, and dosas… always delicious and satisfying. When we were finished (patting our bellies lovingly), the manager talked us into getting a recommended dessert. It was called fooldi khufta or something. When it arrived we stared at it, poking gingerly. It was by far the strangest dessert ever.
Here’s what it was:
Some kind of cold grainy mascarpone-like cheese with chunks of ice-cubes, a purply raspberry-esque syrup, pistachios, and cold spaghetti noodles. Yes, that's right: cold spaghetti noodles! The noodles are what put it over the top… an undisputed dessert oddity.
Texturally, it was just too bizarre. Between three of us, we weren’t able to finish it. It would have made a great prop for a Halloween fun-house. You know, a dish of cold “guts” to scare children.
It sure scared me.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Living Smells and the Call to Prayer
all of my nerves are putting feelers out into the world. i'm finally galvanized again, eyelids pinned back and gaping, fingerprints lit up like tiny golden threads spreading and spiraling out.
there are the smells:
moist, underground odors and garbage throbbing like something alive in the damp heat; the wash of arabian perfume as a veiled woman walks by; spiky meat smells slithering down a murky alley; the clean smell of sand; a confusion of spices swimming around hazily after the market stalls have closed: cardamom, saffron, curry, frankincense, cinnamon. black-mustached men huddle together under a date tree, their sweat bleeding out like raw onions.
it's Ramadan. in the afternoon, the workers pass out one by one along the dusty highways, panting for water. they work under the sun without food and water and they pass out. they do it for the alchemy of turning dirhams into rupees. in the villas, the dignified men in their bone-white dishdashas lay down with their black-robed wives to sleep away the afternoon and forget the fast. to lay motionless and forget about their hot bellies.
everything strains for sunset, iftaar, a taste of something.
when it comes, it comes like a bruised mango, sloppy, sticky-sweet and pulsing with over-ripe heat. we stand there, bathed in over-ripe heat and look out over Khalid Lagoon. as if from out of the water, the voices begin to moan. they rise, loop slowly and descend. the call to prayer comes drenched in sweat and fatigue, rolling around from one mosque to another, unfurling like damp black feathers, like 10 different smells, body odor, cinnamon, garbage, meat. like 10 different smells battling for sense.
we just stand there, confused and sweating, our boiling organs twisting and turning, our nerves putting out spindly feelers into the half-dark.
there are the smells:
moist, underground odors and garbage throbbing like something alive in the damp heat; the wash of arabian perfume as a veiled woman walks by; spiky meat smells slithering down a murky alley; the clean smell of sand; a confusion of spices swimming around hazily after the market stalls have closed: cardamom, saffron, curry, frankincense, cinnamon. black-mustached men huddle together under a date tree, their sweat bleeding out like raw onions.
it's Ramadan. in the afternoon, the workers pass out one by one along the dusty highways, panting for water. they work under the sun without food and water and they pass out. they do it for the alchemy of turning dirhams into rupees. in the villas, the dignified men in their bone-white dishdashas lay down with their black-robed wives to sleep away the afternoon and forget the fast. to lay motionless and forget about their hot bellies.
everything strains for sunset, iftaar, a taste of something.
when it comes, it comes like a bruised mango, sloppy, sticky-sweet and pulsing with over-ripe heat. we stand there, bathed in over-ripe heat and look out over Khalid Lagoon. as if from out of the water, the voices begin to moan. they rise, loop slowly and descend. the call to prayer comes drenched in sweat and fatigue, rolling around from one mosque to another, unfurling like damp black feathers, like 10 different smells, body odor, cinnamon, garbage, meat. like 10 different smells battling for sense.
we just stand there, confused and sweating, our boiling organs twisting and turning, our nerves putting out spindly feelers into the half-dark.
Friday, September 12, 2008
ChicKing Zombie
Matt and I have a practiced aversion to fast-food, but Matt couldn’t resist trying out ChicKing. I’m pretty sure it was because of the name. We would walk around saying it to each other: “Chic-KING, Chic-KING, Chic-KING!” and fall apart chortling to ourselves. Anyway, the temptation proved too great, so we walked in one balmy evening to see what ChicKing was all about, and what followed was a very weird clash of cultures.
The Filipino girls behind the counter eagerly awaited Matt’s order (I sat down in a booth because I didn’t want anything).
“I’ll have a number 11.”
“But don’t you want…” and they extravagantly gestured to a poster of a back-to-school ChicKing promotion, which was a Fulla backpack for little girls. Now, Fulla is basically the Islamic version of Barbie. She wears a lot of pink shailas (head wraps) and spends her time frolicking with butterflies. She is extremely popular in this country, but nevertheless, Matt in all his bearded glory didn’t really want a backpack with Fulla’s rosy visage emblazoned all over it.
“Uh, no thanks.” The Filipino girls looked a little disappointed and surprised.
“Do you want to up-size?”
“No, I’ll just get the normal size.” More disappointment. Then they started getting desperate.
“So would you like two?” Matt was confused and asked what they meant.
“Would you like two number 11’s?”
“No, just one, thanks.” They were clearly heart-broken, but put his order through as they had no more options. (We wondered later if there was some guy in the back brandishing a cane and commanding them to up-sell everything on pain of death or dismemberment.)
While waiting for Matt’s food, we noticed that the girls (women probably in their twenties) were both wearing the Fulla backpacks themselves, and we felt kinda bad that they were subjected to this humiliation. But then some music came on. It was the Cranberries’ “Zombie” and the two girls started head-banging, dancing around, and belting out the lyrics… all whilst wearing their Fulla backpacks. They were having a grand old time…
“Zombie, Zombie, Zombie, ee, ee, ee, oh, oh!”
Surreal. Filipino ladies wearing Islamic girls’ backpacks, rockin’ out to the Cranberries at a chicken joint in the United Arab Emirates.
Meanwhile, we looked across the aisle and there was a Muslim lady, in full garb, sitting at another booth while “Zombie” was blasting. She was sitting there, very regal with her chin leaning on her hand, looking utterly disdainful. She was not amused.
The Filipino girls behind the counter eagerly awaited Matt’s order (I sat down in a booth because I didn’t want anything).
“I’ll have a number 11.”
“But don’t you want…” and they extravagantly gestured to a poster of a back-to-school ChicKing promotion, which was a Fulla backpack for little girls. Now, Fulla is basically the Islamic version of Barbie. She wears a lot of pink shailas (head wraps) and spends her time frolicking with butterflies. She is extremely popular in this country, but nevertheless, Matt in all his bearded glory didn’t really want a backpack with Fulla’s rosy visage emblazoned all over it.
“Uh, no thanks.” The Filipino girls looked a little disappointed and surprised.
“Do you want to up-size?”
“No, I’ll just get the normal size.” More disappointment. Then they started getting desperate.
“So would you like two?” Matt was confused and asked what they meant.
“Would you like two number 11’s?”
“No, just one, thanks.” They were clearly heart-broken, but put his order through as they had no more options. (We wondered later if there was some guy in the back brandishing a cane and commanding them to up-sell everything on pain of death or dismemberment.)
While waiting for Matt’s food, we noticed that the girls (women probably in their twenties) were both wearing the Fulla backpacks themselves, and we felt kinda bad that they were subjected to this humiliation. But then some music came on. It was the Cranberries’ “Zombie” and the two girls started head-banging, dancing around, and belting out the lyrics… all whilst wearing their Fulla backpacks. They were having a grand old time…
“Zombie, Zombie, Zombie, ee, ee, ee, oh, oh!”
Surreal. Filipino ladies wearing Islamic girls’ backpacks, rockin’ out to the Cranberries at a chicken joint in the United Arab Emirates.
Meanwhile, we looked across the aisle and there was a Muslim lady, in full garb, sitting at another booth while “Zombie” was blasting. She was sitting there, very regal with her chin leaning on her hand, looking utterly disdainful. She was not amused.
Hussein in the Membrane
Matt suggested that we put a sticker on the school van that reads: “Caution: Egyptian on board.” Hussein gave Matt the stink-eye in the rearview mirror, but he was definitely kind of amused.
I think that our commute would qualify for an exciting virtual-reality video game, something like Grand Theft Auto, middle-east style. Every day, Hussein takes a different route. Perhaps we’ll go off-roading through a dusty dump, or drive the wrong way on a two way street*. Perhaps we’ll avoid the long line of cars at an exit and race down the shoulder. Hussein is somehow able to make these snap decisions whilst cackling at our evident fear or screeching in Arabic (the timbre of his voice escalating up the octaves) on his mobile phone.
Well, one day after school another driver committed the ultimate no-no in Hussein’s book. An Indian guy made an obscene gesture at Hussein (probably because Hussein was cutting him off by inches). Well, Hussein wouldn’t have it. Somehow, he forced the other car off the road, jumped out of the car, and marched over to the other guy’s window to give him a piece of his mind. Simultaneously, an ambulance happened to be passing and pulled over to find out what was going on. We were all just sitting there stunned, wondering what on earth was going on. One of the English teachers got out to back up Hussein in the dispute. It turns out that the paramedics have some sort of police control to uphold the law in this country. Anyhow, after a lot of wild gesturing, it all ended in forgiveness. The Indian driver apologized, and the ambulance drivers and Hussein forgave the indiscretion because of Ramadan. Apparently, in the UAE flipping the bird can get you a month in the slammer!
The moral of the story? Don’t mess with an Egyptian behind the wheel. I think we really need to get that bumper-sticker…
*This actually happened one day. We were driving along what we thought was a two-lane one-way road, bumper-to-bumper, when a couple of cars attempted to inch into the road going the opposite way. We all screamed, “What are they doing?” and Hussein insisted, “No, they are correct.” Apparently, the Dubai-bound drivers had completely taken over the road! This is yet another example of the traffic anarchy here.
I think that our commute would qualify for an exciting virtual-reality video game, something like Grand Theft Auto, middle-east style. Every day, Hussein takes a different route. Perhaps we’ll go off-roading through a dusty dump, or drive the wrong way on a two way street*. Perhaps we’ll avoid the long line of cars at an exit and race down the shoulder. Hussein is somehow able to make these snap decisions whilst cackling at our evident fear or screeching in Arabic (the timbre of his voice escalating up the octaves) on his mobile phone.
Well, one day after school another driver committed the ultimate no-no in Hussein’s book. An Indian guy made an obscene gesture at Hussein (probably because Hussein was cutting him off by inches). Well, Hussein wouldn’t have it. Somehow, he forced the other car off the road, jumped out of the car, and marched over to the other guy’s window to give him a piece of his mind. Simultaneously, an ambulance happened to be passing and pulled over to find out what was going on. We were all just sitting there stunned, wondering what on earth was going on. One of the English teachers got out to back up Hussein in the dispute. It turns out that the paramedics have some sort of police control to uphold the law in this country. Anyhow, after a lot of wild gesturing, it all ended in forgiveness. The Indian driver apologized, and the ambulance drivers and Hussein forgave the indiscretion because of Ramadan. Apparently, in the UAE flipping the bird can get you a month in the slammer!
The moral of the story? Don’t mess with an Egyptian behind the wheel. I think we really need to get that bumper-sticker…
*This actually happened one day. We were driving along what we thought was a two-lane one-way road, bumper-to-bumper, when a couple of cars attempted to inch into the road going the opposite way. We all screamed, “What are they doing?” and Hussein insisted, “No, they are correct.” Apparently, the Dubai-bound drivers had completely taken over the road! This is yet another example of the traffic anarchy here.
SimCity Dubai (by Matt)
SimCity played out in real life, with Sheik Mohammed in the command seat, keyboard at his fingertips and mouse clutched in his right hand. The cityscape is laid out before him as he points and clicks on different areas and watches hundreds of new buildings pop up across the horizon. Amused, he watches the view fill with mile-high skyscrapers and grand villas, their windows reflecting the brutal sun through the thin layer of desert sand that has blown up from parched land below.
This is Dubai. In places where 10 years ago there was nothing but barren desert, now stand entire urban neighborhoods that are complete, and built according to traditional urban design codes and sensibilities. It’s a phenomenon that I, being American (therefore accustomed to the equation: new development = suburban sprawl), find fascinating. Dubai, and it’s surrounding metropolitan neighbors (namely Sharjah and Ajman) are a modern-day version of late 19th century Manhattan. This is a place where you feel like exciting things are happening all around you, where the face of a new city is being pieced together before your very eyes. And the Sheik’s appetite to endow another new building project with the label of “the-only…(dot dot dot)…-in-the-world” is something that partly makes this place so ridiculously interesting, and is something that I’m not sure the world has ever witnessed on such a grandiose scale.
And the race to build continues… The rate at which new buildings are springing up is staggering. In many cases, whole neighborhoods are materializing so fast that the State can’t keep up. It’s common to see dirt roads flanked on each side by million-dollar villas or high-rise apartment buildings. And these roads are dirt not because it’s a non-western country (therefore, not up to standards of luxury and living as the assumption may go), but because the government simply can’t keep up. The money supply here is spilling over the top, keeping everyone busy trying to get their fair (or not-so-fair) share of it!
This seemingly limitless prosperity is great and all, but at the end of the day, where does all of this glitz and glamour leave an average person like me? Well, I have happily discovered that the “Las Vegas on speed” label is not very appropriate for Dubai or its neighbors as a whole. If it were, the area would be nothing more than its pricey resorts, indoor ski slopes, mega malls, and record-breaking skyscrapers. It’s also a city of compact and frenetic alleyways and bustling souqs, where thousands of people cram into streets to take part in the chaos. It’s a place where Arabic, Indian, Pakistani, Lebanese, and Chinese cultures are authentic and abundant. The food, architecture, extreme heat (and sweat), and smells are very real and very stimulating. In Dubai’s central areas you can soak in the hot atmosphere of a more traditional and exotic Middle Eastern culture where fishermen and craftsman brush shoulders with seven-star swingers donning Gucci.
And it’s exactly this mix of glossy glitz and pulsing tradition that at the end of the day make the UAE an exciting, real place to live.
This is Dubai. In places where 10 years ago there was nothing but barren desert, now stand entire urban neighborhoods that are complete, and built according to traditional urban design codes and sensibilities. It’s a phenomenon that I, being American (therefore accustomed to the equation: new development = suburban sprawl), find fascinating. Dubai, and it’s surrounding metropolitan neighbors (namely Sharjah and Ajman) are a modern-day version of late 19th century Manhattan. This is a place where you feel like exciting things are happening all around you, where the face of a new city is being pieced together before your very eyes. And the Sheik’s appetite to endow another new building project with the label of “the-only…(dot dot dot)…-in-the-world” is something that partly makes this place so ridiculously interesting, and is something that I’m not sure the world has ever witnessed on such a grandiose scale.
And the race to build continues… The rate at which new buildings are springing up is staggering. In many cases, whole neighborhoods are materializing so fast that the State can’t keep up. It’s common to see dirt roads flanked on each side by million-dollar villas or high-rise apartment buildings. And these roads are dirt not because it’s a non-western country (therefore, not up to standards of luxury and living as the assumption may go), but because the government simply can’t keep up. The money supply here is spilling over the top, keeping everyone busy trying to get their fair (or not-so-fair) share of it!
This seemingly limitless prosperity is great and all, but at the end of the day, where does all of this glitz and glamour leave an average person like me? Well, I have happily discovered that the “Las Vegas on speed” label is not very appropriate for Dubai or its neighbors as a whole. If it were, the area would be nothing more than its pricey resorts, indoor ski slopes, mega malls, and record-breaking skyscrapers. It’s also a city of compact and frenetic alleyways and bustling souqs, where thousands of people cram into streets to take part in the chaos. It’s a place where Arabic, Indian, Pakistani, Lebanese, and Chinese cultures are authentic and abundant. The food, architecture, extreme heat (and sweat), and smells are very real and very stimulating. In Dubai’s central areas you can soak in the hot atmosphere of a more traditional and exotic Middle Eastern culture where fishermen and craftsman brush shoulders with seven-star swingers donning Gucci.
And it’s exactly this mix of glossy glitz and pulsing tradition that at the end of the day make the UAE an exciting, real place to live.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
ramadan kareem
for those of you who don't know, ramadan just began on september 1st. ramadan is a long month of fasting and feasting. what this means, practically speaking, is that the fast begins every day at sunrise and ends at sundown. nothing is allowed to touch the lips of any muslim during that time. that means no eating, drinking, or even chewing gum during the day... and the same goes for respectful non-muslims! we have been eating and drinking behind closed doors. no one expects us to fast, but it's kind of a slap in the face to eat in front of them. or drink. yesterday, one of the other english teachers was covertly passing around mentos like contraband. and i've been gorging on baklava, the rebel that i am.you can imagine how hunger and dehydration affects some individuals' level of irritability. road rage has increased ten-fold, much to our dismay and terror! the driving situation has been scary enough as it is, but now it's totally out of control. we've seen cars running other cars off the road; a car driving toward another car as it speedily backs up (going the wrong way down the highway); aggressive speeding up behind a car and slowing down in front (in order to prove a point); our own driver, Hussein, has had a number of face-offs, including one incident where he actually got out of the car and yelled into somebody's window. normally, he's extremely affable, but when he starts tearing off after somebody who just cut him off, screaming in egyptian arabic, i swear his eyes glow red. we've had more near-collisions in the past two weeks than i've had in a lifetime.
and for the parents: yes, we are wearing our seatbelts!
but when the sun goes down, the pressure perceptibly changes. people relax and recover from their hungry fatigue. lots of people are out and about enjoying the food tents set up around the city, fireworks, and a nightly festive atmosphere. the feast that breaks the fast is called the "iftar". basically, you get to shovel a lot of food in your mouth. you get to veg out. you get to lay around and digest. so it's a month of extremes. and not just for muslims!
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