Fly Dubai: Like Never Before

I am no stranger to traveling, or to using budget airlines. I have stood for hours in caged waiting rooms to be herded like cattle on to a bare-bones flight knowing that I will see a loved one at the end. I can put up with quite a bit of discomfort in the name of travel.  And this time I was even more unwilling to spend money on a trip we were forced to make in order for Ben to renew his visa.
We settled on Fly Dubai, known for its low cost and frequent flights. As expected, the flights leave at inconvenient times to little used airports, but we figured it would do for a short 48 hour trip out of the country. The very name of the airline is puzzling, suggesting that Dubai is a country, and it is not. It is similar to having a Miami Airlines, or Fly Houston... puzzling.
We received an email asking us to check in online and print our boarding passes, "in order to speed up the process at the airport". I should have seen what was to come when I tried to print these boarding passes at our local electronic shop. The shopkeeper acted as if he had never done this before and had to call for help.

 This morning brought in some heavy fog.  Arriving at the airport we joined the passengers of four other flights to go through security and customs. The customs officials stamped us out of the country, then asked for our boarding passes. When we produced our print-outs they looked puzzled, as if they had never seen one before. They called over a few more officials and claimed that these were not boarding passes. We had to return to the check-in and get boarding passes... but we had already been stamped out of the country. We waited while they figured this dilemma out. Someone would have to go back to check -in for us.

 Most of the signs were in Arabic, although we could recognize the symbols of the coffee cup and the mosque. We finally found one monitor with flight information in a corner and learned that our flight was delayed one and half hours, we assumed because of bad weather. No other information. So we followed the coffee cup sign and settled down to wait.  I was reminded of my time traveling between Rio and London and how the Brazilian Airline would deal with delays. They never came out and said how long the delay would be, "just another few minutes," would be the announcement. This could go on for hours, and finally the pilot himself would come out and commiserate with us and let us know how sorry he was.
Fly Dubai gave us no announcements.  Travelers started to group and complain. When an attendant happened to pass through the waiting room he was immediately accosted and answers were demanded. One man found his flight had actually left, and another woman found out that her flight wouldn't be leaving for anther two hours. Things got ugly and more crew had to be called in.  I followed the coffee cup once again.

Glancing up at the monitor I saw that our flight, along with two others, were now described as BOARDING, but no gate number was given. I grabbed Jon and Ben and we hurried toward where we thought the gate might possibly be. Other passengers were also congregating, crowding the glass doors that looked out onto the runway, and a possible plane.  A set of doors opened and the crowd surged forward.  The monitors were now flashing LAST CALL and still no gate information was available.
The next two events were completely new to me in terms of air-travel.  First, since no one knew where they were supposed to be boarding, the flight crew was having to turn people away at the gate, telling them that they were not on this particular flight. This led to more confusion, and bad feeling. When it was our turn to board, we were told that we were on this flight, but our boarding passes had not been stamped by customs, and we would need to go back to customs in order to get them stamped. What?? I panicked for a minute, then realized that customs was not that far away, and this was doable. I fought my way back through the on coming passengers only to arrive at customs without Ben. This is not the first time we have lost Ben in the rush to catch a flight. Lets just say he identifies with the boy in the "Home Alone" movies. So now we rush back to find Ben in the crowd.

Needless to say, we made it on to the flight and found the Fly Dubai plane to be clean and comfortable.  As we settled into our seats, Ben looked at his choices on the screen in the seat back before him.  I heard him sigh.  The start-up screen gave him two options:
Over 16   or    Under 16
As he is 16, he didn't know how to respond. I told him that is how I felt about our experience with the unhelpful, and often frustrating, communication from the airline.
I have higher expectations for the city. We will find out tomorrow. I am already impressed with their duty free selection and public transport.

Baqala Buys

If you shop in my neighborhood, you shop at a local baqala. These small grocery stores look much the same on the outside, and are crammed full of an amazing assortment of imported items from around the world.  Although you can find American candy, the places don't really cater to westerners.  And until now I had been taking a taxi to the nearest mega-mall/shopping center to buy my groceries at a proper supermarket.  I came home with brands I recognized, and trusted, and avoided having to walk around my neighborhood.
Around here you will find the HIGH QUALITY SALOON FOR MEN, and the HIGH QUALITY LAUNDRY (also for men), but my neighborhood is anything but "high quality".  Walking out of my place I dodge traffic and the worst piles of garbage. I can't avoid the smells or the dust and dirt.  When going to our nearby take-out restaurants for a chicken or curry, I always feel as if I have walked into a private meeting to which I was not invited. While waiting for my order, the Indian owner offered to deliver my food to my apartment, just to get me out of his restaurant.
However, it seems silly to continue taking a taxi to an overpriced hypermarket if I can get something

locally. So I ventured out in search of orange juice and peanuts. My path was blocked by, among other things, a water truck delivering water to our nearest baqala. A group of children were waiting for a chance to play in the water that spilled out of the hose pipe.  This was their evening entertainment and had come prepared to have a bit of fun.  I watched them for a while before edging myself into the extremely narrow aisles of the store. If there are more than three customers at one time, we all have to synchronize our movements to be able to get around. I found no orange juice, so I knew I would have to go further a field.

I next tried my luck at the baqala calling itself a supermarket and advertised "VEGITIBALS".  Since the Arabic word "baqala" literally means "what comes out of the ground," I was not surprised to find sacks of seeds and beans. I had hoped to find the juice section quickly and make my purchases but I became totally engrossed in the products I found on the shelves, and the randomness of their display.  The sugar was by the flipflops, and the pasta sauce beside the screw drivers. Pumpkins were wherever they could be, and the shisha tobacco was in the refrigerated section with the milk.  What more could I find here? It became a quest. Did they have tapioca flour? Did they have peanuts or another favorite snack? What was the weirdest thing I could find?
I did finally find some 'mixed orange' juice, and some 'garlic peanuts'. The owner politely rang up my bill and asked me where I was from.  He then explained that his place was small but he had much, and could he help me find anything. He must of been watching me poke around his shop, wondering

what in the world I could possibly be looking for, and why I was taking pictures of his shisha tobacco.  (It was an interesting package!) I told him not too worry, I was just curious as to what he had.  He said he had so much more than I would be able to find by myself, I just had to ask.
He was right. I have to ask for help to be able to make the most of this neighborhood. Just as those children had been right when they decided to go out and have some fun.
On the way home I saw two colleagues who know more of Kuwait than I do. I stopped to talk for a while and knew that if they asked me if I needed anything, I would let them know. Yes, I need so much, much more than I will be able to find by myself.

Oh, To Feel Normal Again!

We are working in Kuwait, surviving, but not having much fun yet.  The surviving takes too much time and energy.  We have been trying for weeks to furnish our empty apartment with inexpensive furniture. We desperately need some storage so we headed out early to the Friday Market.  This is a large area of vendors and you can find just about anything there.  I've been told that the prices are good if you are willing to haggle.
As we walk around I find myself feeling exactly like a fish out of water: no energy, hot, gasping for breath and having the panicky feeling that I am lost.  I don't belong here.  I have no interest in the shrink-wrapped furniture and TV sets.  No one is looking particularly helpful, a man is following us around like a tail, and we have no way of getting these items home except by taxi.  Jon senses my disinterest and suggests McDonald's.  This is his way of giving me something familiar, air conditioned and a chance to catch my breath. I just want to go to IKEA, be done with shopping and go home.
IKEA isn't much better.  It is another mall with high prices, little service and lots of people. I contemplate taking a nap on one of the show room beds while Jon makes up his mind of which set of shelves to buy.  My job is to bring Jon back down to earth with the question, "but will it fit in the taxi?"  And then we got our first break... after calling our local taxi driver called Abdul, we found out that he has a jeep and could transport us and our furniture boxes back home for no extra cost! We were thankful.

My normal reaction to days like this is to find something that makes me feel normal again. Usually it involves cooking a favorite dish, or enjoying my favorite drink.  It reminds me of better times and by its sheer familiarity I can feel normal again.
Today I had no time to cook, I had booked a hair appointment at a salon nearby.  This meant that I had a 15 minute walk through sandy streets, avoiding both the heaps of trash and the gaping holes of the constructions sites. I passed a cricket match and an Indian couple in the middle of a fight. Sweating, and with sand in my sandals, I skirted the bulldozers and the mosque which was just announcing 3 pm prayers. I don't belong here.  I am a stranger in a foreign land and I don't feel normal.

And then I stepped into ECLIPSE beauty salon and met Bella. "Welcome, maDAM!" She literally ran to greet me, sat me down and said enthusiastically, "How can I help you, maDAM?" and she meant it.
Bella is Filipino and I am truly thankful for the 240,000 Filipinos who work here in Kuwait. They make my life easier and brighter. Always happy, they do everything they can to be of service.
Bella sat me down, put my feet up, started the massage chair, and washed my hair with minty shampoo. I started to feel normal again.
She continued to pamper me over the next hour and she will never know how much I needed that pampering. I let her take care of me and started to reconsider that $3000 Hilton Spa membership.
Back home Jon suggested we go home to the states for Christmas.  I know how he feels, he wants to feel normal again, by sharing familiar things with those who make us happy... relax and feel taken care of.
Here in Kuwait we just haven't yet found those activities that bring us joy, and relax us in the way the old and familiar ones did back home. We haven't yet found the people who remind us of who we are and where we come from. That will take time.... and a gathering like yesterday's Canadian Thanksgiving celebration seems odd to us, but I know exactly why all those Canadians make a big deal out of it. We all need a bit of home with us where ever we go.

"Welcome to Kuwait!"

"Welcome to Kuwait" is a phrase I keep hearing from other expats. It is equivalent to me saying, "Welcome to the world of rational numbers!" to my Middle school math students. It is more of a warning that the most bizarre and incomprehensible is still to come.  When I make a comment about some aspect of Kuwaiti life that seems unreasonable, the response is always, "Welcome to Kuwait!"
Since we arrived we have been working on trying to understand how our phone plans work.  This involves a trip to the main shopping mall to track down a representative at the phone store. We choose a plan, pay and leave.  A week later we get a message..."Activate your phone". ???
So we go back to the mall and to find out what we need to do to be able to use the phones we were under the impression we had paid for.  The representative looks at us like we are old and senile, "Put money on it!" he says.  We question the need to put more money on an account that was only just opened and activated. "Just put money on it!" We have no other choice than to use the cash machine to put more money on the

account and our phones work.  A few days later our data is cut off. We receive another message telling us we need to choose another internet plan. As we trek back yet again to the phone store in the mall I start to appreciate the wisdom of the unlimited plan. This time we are told, "Use the machine to recharge your phone."  Didn't we just do that???? Again the representative does not understand our reluctance to simply pay the suggested amount and walks us over to the machine and guides us through the payment options. We accept defeat and pay the money.  As we walked away we received yet another message warning us that we didn't have enough credit for our data plan.  This time I took a seat while Jon sought the help of another representative.  "Just pay more money, sir."
I accepted a drink served to me from a silver coffee pot. The unusual karak tea temporarily distracted me from the fact that we still had no idea how our phone plan worked and why we kept having to add more money.  When I asked my colleagues they simply smiled and said, "Welcome to Kuwait!"

We had the same reaction when we told people of the difficulty we were having getting our shipped items cleared through customs.  Most people were amazed we had even attempted a shipment to Kuwait.  Our main frustration was that our shipping company seemed to have no influence when it came to obtaining the correct documents, dealing with customs officials, or generally gaining audience with the right person who could make things happen.  The shipping company, of course, did not employ local Kuwaitis. So, over the course of a month, we became accustomed to receiving text messages in broken English late at night with a request for an unheard-of document, large sum of money or an appearance at some mystery location early the next morning. Well, what did we expect, people pointed out... "Welcome to Kuwait!"  Just as we were giving up all hope of ever seeing the inside of our boxes, and had all but forgotten the contents, one early morning visit to the port resulted in a container-load of our belongings being delivered to our door. And I have spent the day unpacking all those unnecessary items like corkscrews, umbrellas and other promising white elephant gifts.

So the phrase "Welcome to Kuwait!" is more in tune with "You're not in Kansas any more!" If you move to the Middle East, then you can't expect everything to work like it did in the west. I am having to adjust my reaction to these differences and expect something completely unexpected.
"Welcome to what will be!"

Tang, Tea and Tradition

It never fails... I go somewhere new with my own mundane expectations, and find so much more. I went with a group to the Al-Mubarakiya Souk in the center of Kuwait City anticipating an afternoon of experiencing a market place like many others around the world. I wanted to feast my eyes on the colors of the local artisans, poke around in shops full of culture, and eat some local delicacies in a vibrant setting.
If I had read the travel guides beforehand, I would have found that I was going at the wrong time. Three in the afternoon during the summer is simply too hot. Many of the shops were closed and not even the cats were stirring.
The market covers a large area, so we did our best to visit it all. Most shops had cheap clothes, but nothing I would wear. There were brightly colored blankets, (in this heat??) but no sign of the carpets we were hoping for.  The fruit and vegetables were stacked in a beautiful array, but the smell of the fish market next door was off-putting. We wandered around the meat market and saw lots of offensive sheep parts, but most were unmanned, as if their owners had taken the day off.

We walked past a small counter behind which a man was brewing a large kettle over a wood fire. I found I was too hot for coffee, but I was able to buy water.  Only then did I realize that all the coffee drinkers were men. No women sat on the pillowed benches of the coffee houses. And the businesses were run by all men.
We went in search of cool drink in the food area where  families were eating. Others had already ordered food and we sat down to a plastic covered table strewn with small plastic plates. There was fresh, hot pita bread, hummus, tabbouleh and cucumber yogurt. Nothing too out of the ordinary.  Then I realized there were no forks, knives, plates or napkins.  I was brought up in a culture that does not touch its food and will even eat a sandwich with a knife and fork.
So I nibbled on the bread dipped in hummus and tried not to think of the mess I was making.

When it was time to leave I found I was not ready.  I suddenly realized that I was not seeing all there was to see in this market, dwelling instead on how it wasn't up to what I wanted it to be.
Curious as to how the delicious bread was made, I walked round the back side of the kitchens and found an open door. The bakers must have been taking a break from shaping and slapping the flat bread to the inside of the oven. Instead they were busy grilling the kebabs and kafta. Not something I'd like to be involved with on such a hot afternoon.
Going further we seemed to find places we hadn't been to, or maybe they just looked different now the shops were opening for business. I found all the shops with piles of spices in bins, the shelves loaded with boxes of tea, and every other available space was taken up with towers of TANG. Why the space-age orange powder? It turns out it is a tradition, as almost everything is in this place. The shops sell the same things they have been selling for decades.  It is the oldest market in the city, and the crudest. No efforts have been made

to modernize it.  Hence the terrible smells that follow you around, and not only near the fish.  The water taps don't work, and even the cats look worn down.  This is the opposite of the modern malls that have taken over the rest of the city. Instead of ATM machines they have a whole street of money changers. These men sit at a glass counter above a case of piles of paper notes. I've heard they run a good business because they offer competitive rates.
Encouraged by the new business activity, we went in search of some carpets. Although most were opening up about 5:00 pm, we noticed that there were piles of carpets lying about in corners and alcoves with no one caring if they were carried off. Carpet theft must be unheard of here.
Mohammed welcomed us into his Persian carpet shop called "The Three Brothers". He gave us a short lesson in carpet quality, thread-count, and labor time. Thankfully he was happy to instruct and did not try to sell us anything.

As we hurried to get our ride home we realized that we hadn't bought anything. We felt like we should have come away with something!  But there wasn't anything we really needed other than some exposure to tradition and some instruction into what makes tradition so valuable.

What You Won't See in Mahboula

When describing my neighborhood, it is more effective to discuss what you won't see here. Mahboula is a 'suburb' of Kuwait City which has become a housing complex for immigrant workers. I use the term 'suburb' loosely because it conjures up images of quiet residential streets outside of the hustle and bustle of the city's business center.
Mahboula is not that. This brings us to the first noticeable absence: Kuwaitis.  The residents are a melting pot of workers from the Indian subcontinent and East Asia, with some westerners thrown in.

The nearby hole-in-the-wall restaurants advertise "Arabic, Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Filipino and Chinese Food." There are many from other countries in the Middle East who speak Arabic, but mostly they get by with English. If I was more knowledgeable about these cultures, I would be able to tell them apart by their dress. Their traditional clothing is strikingly different... from each other and from the local Kuwaitis.
You will not see grass in this neighborhood.  Of course this is the desert and nothing was here before the buildings sprung up in the last ten years. But no one has bothered to plant grass or do any sort of landscaping. The cricket players and footballers play on the open sand lots.

The building entrances are right on the dusty road giving them an unfinished look, like their residents are living in a construction zone.
You won't see sidewalks or pavements in this neighborhood.  Everyone drives, takes a taxi, or is transported in a company bus to their work.  The buses take workers out to the oil fields, or in to the city where they work in the service industry or construction, then back home late at night. There is no one out for a pleasure stroll and my family stands out as we walk about, dodging cars, looking for a eating place.
I also stand out because you don't see women in my neighborhood.  Most of the immigrant workers are men, but there must be wives and families somewhere.  I haven't seen any out on the streets.  Women don't venture out alone, nor do they work in the small businesses here.  All the salons, or as one was signed: "saloon", cater to men only.  I've been told that if I want a haircut here I will have to find a place three floors up behind an unmarked door.  All the local gyms are also "men only". There is no wonder the women stay indoors.

After a few days here I noticed other basic businesses that were missing.  There are no bookstores, newsagents or magazine kiosks here.  This is not a culture that reads, except on their phones.  There are two phone stores on each block.
I also began to wonder why there were no banks, ATM machines, or gas stations.  Surely these are facilities that are both necessary and lucrative.  My only explanation for why there are none is that Kuwait wants us to remain foreigners and not feel too much at home.  This is not our home, we are not Muslim, do not speak Arabic and have no part of the oil wealth.  We must live here as strangers in a foreign land, and not forget that fact.  Life can't become too comfortable. We must be made to feel some hardship and lack of convenience.
'Mahboula', literally translated, means "mad woman", and that is the mentally ill meaning of mad.  True to its name, the area is chaotic and without order.  However, it reminds me that I am no longer at home and truly overseas living a life experienced by thousands of others who up until now were only a headline to me or a picture in a magazine.

Lavatory, Restroom, WC or Toilet?

We visit public restrooms in the the places we travel, and they tell us something of the culture we are in.  I have been in inviting ones, ones I'd rather not use, and those super modern hi-tech featured ones.  I sometimes have to watch the other users of the facility in order to pick up necessary information.  While in some airports I find that whatever triggers the water or towel dispenser is a mystery. In Frankfurt I had to watch the other passengers before discovering the soap dispenser disguised as a water tap.  And, perhaps the most necessary clues I gleaned were from the users of Europe's oldest toilets in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I couldn't read the signs and had to watch into which door men entered, and then followed behind the women.
Ben had his first Kuwait restroom experience in the airport as we were awaiting the arrival of our luggage.  He followed the clearly marked TOILETS sign, but didn't make it in because of an attendant who might be charging an entrance fee at the door. Since we didn't have any local currency I encouraged Ben just to walk on in. Later he came back with the report that they seemed to be under construction because there were no actual toilets. I laughed at the idea that Ben had never before experienced the hole in the floor type of facility.
Jon was the next to experience the mystery of the men's room while shopping in IKEA. He followed signs to the toilets and wondered why everyone was taking their shoes off to go inside. It turned out that the men's room was actually a prayer room.  Fortunately the restroom attendant directed him to the right door and allowed him to enter with his shoes on.

My first Kuwait restroom experience was in the huge Avenues mall which draws quite a crowd on the weekend. I followed the international sign depicting a woman, and found myself in some back hallways leading away from the main shopping area. An attendant jumped up to usher me into a mirrored room where some other ladies were waiting. After several minutes I was curious to see what I was waiting for, and ventured through the room into another area with doors. In a space that could have fit 10 to 15 stalls, there were four glass doors.  Although the glass was smoked, I could clearly see what seemed to be four women and lots of black material being flapped about. This went on for quite a while until finally one burka clad woman came out. Another lady who was waiting, instead of taking her turn, called another attendant to come and clean out the room before she entered. This took a while, and we all waited for the cleaner to finish her job. I was getting tired of waiting, so when another room became vacant, I darted in, not caring if it was cleaned before I entered. The room was large, with high-end fixtures and a very wet floor. A shower hose coming from the wall had been used for washing, which is probably quite difficult to manage in a burka. I washed my hands in the polished bowl set into a granite counter, but couldn't find any towels.  Leaving, I found a blow drier in the first waiting room.  The awkward placement of it was just one of the unanswered questioned I had about that facility.  I still don't know why there is an attendant sitting outside. Not much can be revealed in the toilets of a Kuwait woman's restroom.