This is the last week of final exams. Everyone has been in an utter panic over exams, grading, absent students, and office relationships. I have stayed away, as I have learned to do throughout my year hear. At first I was a hopeful beginner—unable to grasp that being in a tizzy will affect nothing at all. No amount of fussing or yelling or arguing will get you anywhere here. All the hectic running about has led me to reflect on who we’ve actually got here in this esteemed bastion of academic excellence.
TEFL faculty are a crazy bunch, attracting the weirdest from across the globe. Terrifyingly Eccentric Forgotten Losers. It's a sorry sight most of the time. Nevertheless, much can be learned from them.
If I have learned anything so far here, it’s how to deal with irrational people and situations. There is very little room for logical argument and calm chronological thought. It’s something of a binding element, an emulsifier of sorts, for this heterogeneous and diverse group of people here at the college. It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to—my attitude is usually the same. It could be the Omani Islamic extremist with a long chin beard, the Alabama girl turned conservative Muslim, the schizophrenic British man who hides in the dark recesses of locked classrooms, the slimy former Bath Party informer who likes to chillingly flirt with me, the quirky Iraqi man who never has anything to say except that he was fine in Iraq and the Omani environment is killing him, or the rail-thin disease ridden British zombie who got deporting within a week (I actually didn’t talk to that one). Or last but not least the incomprehensible Irish woman, who doesn’t comb her hair, wears lipstick on her teeth and regularly gets irate with the very nice guards. Oh, or the “Parisian” woman who speaks to everyone in French, students and teachers alike, at staff meeting and while proctoring exams. I could go on, really, I could, for a long time. But now I will mention a few of the gems in the bunch.
And then there are the ones that, though thoroughly bizarre in their own right, I actually enjoy talking to. We have a flamboyantly gay Brit who we all lovingly call Papa Bear and who wears magenta corduroys to work, a deceptively sane and hard-working South African woman who wears a different ethnic costume everyday just to mix it up, a Southern gay guy who wears really pointy shoes and has a little crush on my husband, and the talkative young Omani man who is head of students affairs and the theatre director who gets harassed by the other Arab staff for fraternizing with the hell-bound westerners. He couldn’t care less.
I have grown here. If only in my ability to not laugh at inappropriate times, to not try to reason with the insane, and to calmly sit in my little bubble while the office goes to hell around me.
It’s an interesting world, friends. I do feel a little bit sorry for the lifers though, even if they did get themselves where they are.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Off with her hair!
In the midst of May madness here at the college, I finally decided to do something I've been planning on for a while. Cut my hair super short, a la Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Portman (post V for Vendetta).
I'm sending my long pony-tail to Locks of Love, an American company that makes wigs for children who have lost their hair due chemotherapy. That really wasn't the main reason why I did it though.
A woman's hair is highly regarded in the Middle East. Obviously, it's covered here all the time (except when exclusively and positively only in front of one's immediate family). They do this because of tradition and religion, but also because constantly covering the hair has fetishized women's hair (which cyclically makes the religious codes even stricter).
It is supposed to be the most beautiful feature of a woman. Having secretly beautiful hair is the key to attracting men. Even while I was in Palestine, some female Arab friends told me that no man would even love me until I started waxing my hairy southern Italian arms. Cutting off my long hair was antithetical to all things feminine here. I already wear pants, so this might just cause me to start sprouting male genitals, or at least get cancer. I have been told as well that if I do not start having children, like now, then I will get cancer. Special cancer for women who don't fulfill their female duties.
Most of the students are not here now (they all skip out the week before final exams). But just the response from the Arab staff has been telling. Lots of tisk-tisking, and "Haram-ing".
I guess I'm not a woman anymore, or maybe I'll die from feminist cancer.
I think it looks fierce. Nothing like causing a little cultural turmoil:)
I'm sending my long pony-tail to Locks of Love, an American company that makes wigs for children who have lost their hair due chemotherapy. That really wasn't the main reason why I did it though.
A woman's hair is highly regarded in the Middle East. Obviously, it's covered here all the time (except when exclusively and positively only in front of one's immediate family). They do this because of tradition and religion, but also because constantly covering the hair has fetishized women's hair (which cyclically makes the religious codes even stricter).
It is supposed to be the most beautiful feature of a woman. Having secretly beautiful hair is the key to attracting men. Even while I was in Palestine, some female Arab friends told me that no man would even love me until I started waxing my hairy southern Italian arms. Cutting off my long hair was antithetical to all things feminine here. I already wear pants, so this might just cause me to start sprouting male genitals, or at least get cancer. I have been told as well that if I do not start having children, like now, then I will get cancer. Special cancer for women who don't fulfill their female duties.
Most of the students are not here now (they all skip out the week before final exams). But just the response from the Arab staff has been telling. Lots of tisk-tisking, and "Haram-ing".
I guess I'm not a woman anymore, or maybe I'll die from feminist cancer.
I think it looks fierce. Nothing like causing a little cultural turmoil:)
Monday, April 27, 2009
End of the Semester
This past month has held in store some serious excitement and challenges. The week at the college was both utterly maddening and inspiring as well. As work winds down, I'll be back blogging more often again. Keep reading!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Naked Truth:My Ayurvedic Experience
I’ve had lots of massages in my time. Swedish massages, Thai massages, Balinese massages, massages from straight men, massages from lesbian women. All of them professional and pleasant.
I had never had an Ayurvedic massage before though. Ayurveda is a kind of Indian massage and yoga. It’s really a medicinal practice and is supposed to be able to heal your body of all its ailments. However, all I knew was that my mother does Ayurvedic yoga and loves it, that it’s a hip word in urban America, and that my back sorely needed some treatment. So I signed up.
First, a little background. Since coming to Oman, my massages have gotten progressively more “personal” shall we say. Americans are a modest people. We like our privacy. We like to be alone when we undress…of course, unless we are in one type of situation. Even then lots of ladies like the lights off and covers up. At the doctors, we cling to our little blue robe-sheets.
Everywhere else (in my experience) that is not the case. The Brits strip down in front of you in the locker room. Tribal women dance topless. Supermodels pose naked for European billboards. Nude beaches are a catching phenomenon. This we know. But what about cultures that insist on a strict segregation of the sexes? The same situation exists there. Although men never see women and vice versa, women mingle unembarrassed. The men do as well. In conservative societies, male bath houses are de rigueur, while in the West they are labeled as “gay.”
Well, to say the least, I have been getting more and more comfortable in my own skin lately.
As I walked into the dingy building, feeling disappointed at the lack of luxury, I felt a wash of a smell that I recognized from my childhood—that of a traditional Chinese medicinal shop, full of weird roots and dried herbs to heal the ailments of some very ancient Chinese man. It’s a very distinct smell, and somehow, I knew the massage experience would match.
Abandoned for 10 minutes in a small and scant Indian doctor’s examination room, George and I perused the faded wall posters of gastro-intestinal diseases and wondered if we were in the right place. Soon enough, however, we were prodded into separate men’s and women’s treatment rooms and left to our own devices. The room was bare and very third-world. I felt transported to Calcutta instead of Muscat. A plump 40-something Indian woman moved her head back and forth in that distinctly Indian/Pakistani way. Not a nod, not a shake, and can mean anything. Hello, No, Yes, Of course, Shame on you! Beautiful! And more…
She said in English that I had to strain to understand: “Take of clothes. Just panties.”
Okay, standard massage attire. That’s cool. I wait for her to turn and leave, giving me a few minutes to disrobe and drape myself modestly in a sheet or something. She doesn’t leave. She just wobbles her head again. Hmm. After an awkward moment, I figured she wasn’t going anywhere. I strip down to my bra and panties. And she says, “Take off! Take off!” I obey her oddly commanding tone, and take off my bra. I feel very exposed, sitting on a chair in a barren room with only my underwear on. She, however, doesn’t seem like she could care less.
She pours hot, dark oil on my head. I guess that’s the first thing done in an ayurvedic massage. I watch the dried-blood colored oil drip down my body, feeling less than at ease, but somehow the more it seemed that she didn’t care, the less I did too.
She shoos me on to the table. Very utilitarian-like; this was not a massage to be messed with. She had her routine down. First my back. This is pretty standard, except the hot oil dripping down my sides and onto the flimsy replaceable plastic sheet covering the table. The plastic gets slipperier and stickier as the massage goes on. A little unnerving, I will admit.
She took it up a notch when she yanked down my panties and gave me quite the non-embarrassed glut massage. I wasn’t quite expecting that. I think this would have been the point that many people would have walked out. I thought I had my panties on to cover something…not to give you something to uncover.
Well, you can imagine what the front side was like. I can’t say I have ever had a professional boob massage before. Now, the interesting thing is that she did all of these unusual (from my prudish western standards) and up-close moves with total panache. No awkwardness, no feelings of inappropriateness, no creepy caresses, nothing to arouse suspicion. It was all totally professional. Albeit third-world/old-world professional, but professional nonetheless.
My brush with ayurvedia medicinal healing ended being closed up in a wooden steam box. This actually would have been quite relaxing if she hadn’t perched herself on a stool about 3 feet from my face. She proceeded to ask me lots of questions that I couldn’t understand with a disarming sincerity and interest. I tried talking slowly, but with good grammar. That didn’t work. I decided that perhaps there are not two languages, English and Bengali, but rather a third, Benglish. It worked.
“This,” I say pointing to the box hiding all but my head, “hot box.”
“Yeeess…” Head wobble. “Hot box. Good box. Good body box.”
I smile and try out a little wobble. She wobbles back. Wow! Major bonding with the head wobble. She seemed to understand what I meant…even if I’m not sure what I meant.
This went on for another 10 minutes or so. Me pointing to things in the room—oil bowls, herb sachets, poky things—asking “What?” She was pleased to tell me all about them.
“This? Oil, what. Ayurveeeda. This good body. Hot for body. Make strong. Make happy. Make health.” She smiles. I feel like an expert now.
After emerging from the steam box, I underwent a very sketchy shower, which necessitated dashing back and forth from the bathroom to the massage room, hoping I didn’t bump into the male masseurs.
As I was about to leave, waiting for George in the lobby, she makes one more appearance. Walking by, she slaps the back of my thigh, shakes it a little and exclaims with an affirmative wobble, “Slim body!!”
And with that, George comes out of his room (equally perplexed by his loin-clothed experience) and we depart.
I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But I ain’t going back.
I had never had an Ayurvedic massage before though. Ayurveda is a kind of Indian massage and yoga. It’s really a medicinal practice and is supposed to be able to heal your body of all its ailments. However, all I knew was that my mother does Ayurvedic yoga and loves it, that it’s a hip word in urban America, and that my back sorely needed some treatment. So I signed up.
First, a little background. Since coming to Oman, my massages have gotten progressively more “personal” shall we say. Americans are a modest people. We like our privacy. We like to be alone when we undress…of course, unless we are in one type of situation. Even then lots of ladies like the lights off and covers up. At the doctors, we cling to our little blue robe-sheets.
Everywhere else (in my experience) that is not the case. The Brits strip down in front of you in the locker room. Tribal women dance topless. Supermodels pose naked for European billboards. Nude beaches are a catching phenomenon. This we know. But what about cultures that insist on a strict segregation of the sexes? The same situation exists there. Although men never see women and vice versa, women mingle unembarrassed. The men do as well. In conservative societies, male bath houses are de rigueur, while in the West they are labeled as “gay.”
Well, to say the least, I have been getting more and more comfortable in my own skin lately.
As I walked into the dingy building, feeling disappointed at the lack of luxury, I felt a wash of a smell that I recognized from my childhood—that of a traditional Chinese medicinal shop, full of weird roots and dried herbs to heal the ailments of some very ancient Chinese man. It’s a very distinct smell, and somehow, I knew the massage experience would match.
Abandoned for 10 minutes in a small and scant Indian doctor’s examination room, George and I perused the faded wall posters of gastro-intestinal diseases and wondered if we were in the right place. Soon enough, however, we were prodded into separate men’s and women’s treatment rooms and left to our own devices. The room was bare and very third-world. I felt transported to Calcutta instead of Muscat. A plump 40-something Indian woman moved her head back and forth in that distinctly Indian/Pakistani way. Not a nod, not a shake, and can mean anything. Hello, No, Yes, Of course, Shame on you! Beautiful! And more…
She said in English that I had to strain to understand: “Take of clothes. Just panties.”
Okay, standard massage attire. That’s cool. I wait for her to turn and leave, giving me a few minutes to disrobe and drape myself modestly in a sheet or something. She doesn’t leave. She just wobbles her head again. Hmm. After an awkward moment, I figured she wasn’t going anywhere. I strip down to my bra and panties. And she says, “Take off! Take off!” I obey her oddly commanding tone, and take off my bra. I feel very exposed, sitting on a chair in a barren room with only my underwear on. She, however, doesn’t seem like she could care less.
She pours hot, dark oil on my head. I guess that’s the first thing done in an ayurvedic massage. I watch the dried-blood colored oil drip down my body, feeling less than at ease, but somehow the more it seemed that she didn’t care, the less I did too.
She shoos me on to the table. Very utilitarian-like; this was not a massage to be messed with. She had her routine down. First my back. This is pretty standard, except the hot oil dripping down my sides and onto the flimsy replaceable plastic sheet covering the table. The plastic gets slipperier and stickier as the massage goes on. A little unnerving, I will admit.
She took it up a notch when she yanked down my panties and gave me quite the non-embarrassed glut massage. I wasn’t quite expecting that. I think this would have been the point that many people would have walked out. I thought I had my panties on to cover something…not to give you something to uncover.
Well, you can imagine what the front side was like. I can’t say I have ever had a professional boob massage before. Now, the interesting thing is that she did all of these unusual (from my prudish western standards) and up-close moves with total panache. No awkwardness, no feelings of inappropriateness, no creepy caresses, nothing to arouse suspicion. It was all totally professional. Albeit third-world/old-world professional, but professional nonetheless.
My brush with ayurvedia medicinal healing ended being closed up in a wooden steam box. This actually would have been quite relaxing if she hadn’t perched herself on a stool about 3 feet from my face. She proceeded to ask me lots of questions that I couldn’t understand with a disarming sincerity and interest. I tried talking slowly, but with good grammar. That didn’t work. I decided that perhaps there are not two languages, English and Bengali, but rather a third, Benglish. It worked.
“This,” I say pointing to the box hiding all but my head, “hot box.”
“Yeeess…” Head wobble. “Hot box. Good box. Good body box.”
I smile and try out a little wobble. She wobbles back. Wow! Major bonding with the head wobble. She seemed to understand what I meant…even if I’m not sure what I meant.
This went on for another 10 minutes or so. Me pointing to things in the room—oil bowls, herb sachets, poky things—asking “What?” She was pleased to tell me all about them.
“This? Oil, what. Ayurveeeda. This good body. Hot for body. Make strong. Make happy. Make health.” She smiles. I feel like an expert now.
After emerging from the steam box, I underwent a very sketchy shower, which necessitated dashing back and forth from the bathroom to the massage room, hoping I didn’t bump into the male masseurs.
As I was about to leave, waiting for George in the lobby, she makes one more appearance. Walking by, she slaps the back of my thigh, shakes it a little and exclaims with an affirmative wobble, “Slim body!!”
And with that, George comes out of his room (equally perplexed by his loin-clothed experience) and we depart.
I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But I ain’t going back.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Long Night: Part 4
Sorry for the lateness of this post, but I’ve been spending lots of time dealing with the aftermath of our car troubles.
But to finish our long night journey back through Oman…
After at long last getting through the Oman-UAE border crossing, the clock hit 9 pm. I figured, at our puffy rate, we could be home by 3 am. This part of the trip is supposed to take on 2-2.5 hours, so I thought almost tripling that would be generous.
The roads were deserted and it was dark, which provided a handy cover for our smoking car. At an agonizingly slow 35-45 kilometers an hour, the longest stretches seemed positively indefinite. At about 1 am, it started to rain. It came down in torrents. The wind was heavy and the few other cars that were still on the road pulled off. We kept going, desperately wanting to make it home. The fatigue, the trials of the day, the mountain roads, and now the monsoon lightening storm that ripped violently through the night sky, made us feel like the hero and heroine in an epic film of man vs. nature, man vs. man, and man vs. self battles all wrapped into one.
The rain didn’t stop, not for hours. Unfortunately, our car’s problem involved consuming massive amounts of engine oil, without which it can’t run. This meant that every 20 kilometers or so, we had to do something of a Chinese fire drill routine—George running up front to pop the hood, me running to the back to grab the oil container, George unscrewing, me pouring, George hoping back in to re-start the car…. I think after about the 10th time, we had it down to a well-oiled system, the whole thing done in 15 seconds. I felt like I was in the Marines. Performing extreme fatigue team-building exercises in the wee hours of the morning in tropically monstrous weather.
We plugged on. Desperate to get home, but knowing that no way in hell would we make it to work in a few hours. George, the only one with an Omani license did all the driving. I did my part by babbling on about anything and even occasionally biting his hand to keep him awake. Twice we stopped and snoozed for 20 minutes, too tired to go on safely.
Finally, at 5 am, a mere hour and a half from home, we could not continue. In addition to being exhausted, the sun was up now and there was too much traffic to take our car on the two lane highway the rest of the way home. We parked in the most private spot we could find, in front of a grocery store yet to open, and slept deeply until 6, when our office mate graciously swung by to take us home.
Being home was bliss. Our car was broken, our boss was peeved, we were deeply tired, but we were home, and we were together.
But to finish our long night journey back through Oman…
After at long last getting through the Oman-UAE border crossing, the clock hit 9 pm. I figured, at our puffy rate, we could be home by 3 am. This part of the trip is supposed to take on 2-2.5 hours, so I thought almost tripling that would be generous.
The roads were deserted and it was dark, which provided a handy cover for our smoking car. At an agonizingly slow 35-45 kilometers an hour, the longest stretches seemed positively indefinite. At about 1 am, it started to rain. It came down in torrents. The wind was heavy and the few other cars that were still on the road pulled off. We kept going, desperately wanting to make it home. The fatigue, the trials of the day, the mountain roads, and now the monsoon lightening storm that ripped violently through the night sky, made us feel like the hero and heroine in an epic film of man vs. nature, man vs. man, and man vs. self battles all wrapped into one.
The rain didn’t stop, not for hours. Unfortunately, our car’s problem involved consuming massive amounts of engine oil, without which it can’t run. This meant that every 20 kilometers or so, we had to do something of a Chinese fire drill routine—George running up front to pop the hood, me running to the back to grab the oil container, George unscrewing, me pouring, George hoping back in to re-start the car…. I think after about the 10th time, we had it down to a well-oiled system, the whole thing done in 15 seconds. I felt like I was in the Marines. Performing extreme fatigue team-building exercises in the wee hours of the morning in tropically monstrous weather.
We plugged on. Desperate to get home, but knowing that no way in hell would we make it to work in a few hours. George, the only one with an Omani license did all the driving. I did my part by babbling on about anything and even occasionally biting his hand to keep him awake. Twice we stopped and snoozed for 20 minutes, too tired to go on safely.
Finally, at 5 am, a mere hour and a half from home, we could not continue. In addition to being exhausted, the sun was up now and there was too much traffic to take our car on the two lane highway the rest of the way home. We parked in the most private spot we could find, in front of a grocery store yet to open, and slept deeply until 6, when our office mate graciously swung by to take us home.
Being home was bliss. Our car was broken, our boss was peeved, we were deeply tired, but we were home, and we were together.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
a border story interlude
So I have one more part to write about our long trip home, which will be up later today.
However, I just want everyone reading this blog story for whatever reason--entertainment, information, cultural significance--to keep in mind that while my experience was miserable and threw me off my game all week, that my struggle to get home is NOTHING compared to the everyday events faced by people around the world.
If you are reading MY story, which has more comic value than long-term trauma, please also keep up with the story of Laila el-Haddad, a Palestinian journalist from Gaza.
She has her own, much more serious, border issues at the moment.
It's also a fantastic blog and will give you insight into what's going on in Palestine more than the news ever will.
http://a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com/
However, I just want everyone reading this blog story for whatever reason--entertainment, information, cultural significance--to keep in mind that while my experience was miserable and threw me off my game all week, that my struggle to get home is NOTHING compared to the everyday events faced by people around the world.
If you are reading MY story, which has more comic value than long-term trauma, please also keep up with the story of Laila el-Haddad, a Palestinian journalist from Gaza.
She has her own, much more serious, border issues at the moment.
It's also a fantastic blog and will give you insight into what's going on in Palestine more than the news ever will.
http://a-mother-from-gaza.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Border Post: Part 3
After another hour of slow-mo travel though Al-Ain, we finally arrived at the right border. Surprisingly, the man at the first gate lets our huffing beast of a car through. The second gate does the same. This is such good luck. I’m in awe. Smooth, albeit slow, sailing from here.
We still needed, however, to get the ever illusive “stamp” in our visa. Depending on the country in the Middle East, and depending on the humor of the customs official, this could take anywhere from 2 seconds to hours on end. We parked the car and walked over to the first promising looking office. The man says to go next door without looking up from his phone. We head to the next office. With his feet up on the desk, a young guy in jeans and a tee-shirt looks at us like we’re from Mars. Friendliness is the key, I think to myself. If you’re positive, people will always be more likely to help you out. Well, generally this is indeed true. This dude was having none of it. He told us to go next door. I’m thinking that is becoming far more difficult than it needs to be. All we want is a visa stamp saying that we can leave the country. We weren’t even asking to come in. I guess they like to keep their tourists.
The men other next door were more like the first guy—dressed to the nines in the daily Emirati customary garb…a white thobe and a complicated turban held in place with a weighted rope. Not very practical to say the least, and somehow manages to make Emirati men look irrepressibly arrogant. This time there were 5 of them. No one seemed to see us. I moved closer. No one looks at us. I feel like I am a fly on the wall in the quintessential stereotype of an Arab officer’s office: the room reeks of the hustle bustle of inactivity. Everyone is shouting and doing a miserable job of trying to look busy. I don’t care too much about social norms at the point and push through the men to go up to the desk. I start explaining that I just want my exit visa, but the officer thinks he’s cute and decides it will be fun to tease me, pretending he doesn’t understand.
“You want to leave?” he says in Arabic.
“Yes, where can I get my stamp?”
“No stamp, just go back to Al-Ain there.”
“No I want to go home to Oman. I live in Oman.”
“Ah, you are Omani.”
“No , I live there.”
“Ok, fine, go next door.”
What a miserable man. Or at least what a miserable customs official.
Naturally, next door want the first office we went to. We have now been to all available offices. This same man, still playing on his phone, tells us to go next door again. We said that we’ve been next door (on both sides!). Go again, he says.
“To who?” we try to confirm.
“The Egyptian.”
I’m confused. Who’s the Egyptian? George, having spent a year in Egypt and a year in Saudi Arabia, knew that calling someone “Egyptian” in the Gulf meant “the non-traditional punk.” News to me. We finally get the man to come outside with us and show us where this office is. The young guy happens to be standing outside as well. The first officer says, “There, the Egyptian.”
The young guy looks totally not amused and says “My name is Ahmed.”
“Yeah, ok, Egyptian,” the first officer shrugs. Despite the undeniably interesting inter-Arab culture clash going on, I still just want my visa. It takes a solid 10 minutes of standing around in Ahmed’s office for us to acquire this all important little pink piece of paper. The Gulf loves superfluous paper-work. Get something stamped and you’re golden.
Well, back to my visit into Sartre’s Huis Clos (No Way Out/Dead End). I feel trapped and starting to get a little panicky. George thankfully is a border God and manages to keep his cool indefinitely. We end up back in the first guy’s office. He gives us a little green piece of paper for our pink one. But only after he insists on giving us a mini Arabic lesson. “You know, Dakhool mean enter place. Kharoog, that mean go out place.” He smirks about how stupid we are. Hmm. This would not be the time to start talking to him in Arabic. Do not insult the proud Emirati man who may, or may not, let you go home.
After the strain of the day, this experience felt entirely surreal. At least the men at the last exit gate were remarkably pleasant.
As the night wore on however, we moved from the world of existentialist literature to epic film.
We still needed, however, to get the ever illusive “stamp” in our visa. Depending on the country in the Middle East, and depending on the humor of the customs official, this could take anywhere from 2 seconds to hours on end. We parked the car and walked over to the first promising looking office. The man says to go next door without looking up from his phone. We head to the next office. With his feet up on the desk, a young guy in jeans and a tee-shirt looks at us like we’re from Mars. Friendliness is the key, I think to myself. If you’re positive, people will always be more likely to help you out. Well, generally this is indeed true. This dude was having none of it. He told us to go next door. I’m thinking that is becoming far more difficult than it needs to be. All we want is a visa stamp saying that we can leave the country. We weren’t even asking to come in. I guess they like to keep their tourists.
The men other next door were more like the first guy—dressed to the nines in the daily Emirati customary garb…a white thobe and a complicated turban held in place with a weighted rope. Not very practical to say the least, and somehow manages to make Emirati men look irrepressibly arrogant. This time there were 5 of them. No one seemed to see us. I moved closer. No one looks at us. I feel like I am a fly on the wall in the quintessential stereotype of an Arab officer’s office: the room reeks of the hustle bustle of inactivity. Everyone is shouting and doing a miserable job of trying to look busy. I don’t care too much about social norms at the point and push through the men to go up to the desk. I start explaining that I just want my exit visa, but the officer thinks he’s cute and decides it will be fun to tease me, pretending he doesn’t understand.
“You want to leave?” he says in Arabic.
“Yes, where can I get my stamp?”
“No stamp, just go back to Al-Ain there.”
“No I want to go home to Oman. I live in Oman.”
“Ah, you are Omani.”
“No , I live there.”
“Ok, fine, go next door.”
What a miserable man. Or at least what a miserable customs official.
Naturally, next door want the first office we went to. We have now been to all available offices. This same man, still playing on his phone, tells us to go next door again. We said that we’ve been next door (on both sides!). Go again, he says.
“To who?” we try to confirm.
“The Egyptian.”
I’m confused. Who’s the Egyptian? George, having spent a year in Egypt and a year in Saudi Arabia, knew that calling someone “Egyptian” in the Gulf meant “the non-traditional punk.” News to me. We finally get the man to come outside with us and show us where this office is. The young guy happens to be standing outside as well. The first officer says, “There, the Egyptian.”
The young guy looks totally not amused and says “My name is Ahmed.”
“Yeah, ok, Egyptian,” the first officer shrugs. Despite the undeniably interesting inter-Arab culture clash going on, I still just want my visa. It takes a solid 10 minutes of standing around in Ahmed’s office for us to acquire this all important little pink piece of paper. The Gulf loves superfluous paper-work. Get something stamped and you’re golden.
Well, back to my visit into Sartre’s Huis Clos (No Way Out/Dead End). I feel trapped and starting to get a little panicky. George thankfully is a border God and manages to keep his cool indefinitely. We end up back in the first guy’s office. He gives us a little green piece of paper for our pink one. But only after he insists on giving us a mini Arabic lesson. “You know, Dakhool mean enter place. Kharoog, that mean go out place.” He smirks about how stupid we are. Hmm. This would not be the time to start talking to him in Arabic. Do not insult the proud Emirati man who may, or may not, let you go home.
After the strain of the day, this experience felt entirely surreal. At least the men at the last exit gate were remarkably pleasant.
As the night wore on however, we moved from the world of existentialist literature to epic film.
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