History will remember you.

Burj Dubai-Part 1

However it's encountered, the Burj Dubai fills the Dubai skyline and landscape like nothing else imaginable. Four lights seen flickering through the darkness. A stray glimpse through the dusty terrain. An upward gaze to count the 162 floors. Marked as a testament to Dubai's achievement, the tower stretching nearly a kilometer into the sky marks the spirit of this rapidly modernizing city. At first thought, it is redolent to America's skyscrapers of early twentieth century in the way that it embodies the city's rapid industrialization. As a wheel to the stone age, it represents this zeitgeist in a way that no other symbol comes close to matching. Yet, in the process, it bypasses a skyscrapers most basic purpose--to increase the efficiency of space amidst a rapidly urbanizing population. With the empty desert landscape looming in the background, the building's functionality seems a moot point in the face of its symbolic claim as the tallest building in the world.

So if you are to read the building symbolically, what does it say about Dubai? What collective and individual ideas and emotions are scattered onto this architectural wonder?

Is it as a schoolboy discovering his prepubescent muscles for the first time, flexing them to his peers in efforts to amass some sort of confidence? Or is it more genuine than such overcompensation? Should the skyscraper instead be likened to a student who, amidst years of recurrent study and failure in his maths class, finally grasps fractions for the first time? Or, more directly, after years of toil in the desert, have the Emirates finally affirmed their rightful place in the world?

Whether it is a deep-seated arrogance or this sense of perseverance and providence that shape the building's identity, the wonder and amazement that it brings remain paramount to me. And these feelings cannot be escaped. This attention is affirmed by the Burj Dubai's centrality in Dubai's skyline (it is over twice as tall as the next tallest building!). Unless dust or haze shields its view, I encounter and admire it on a daily basis. A towering silhouette of the Burj even graces my "Building Sentences" board in my classroom. Now, all I have is to look forward to its grand opening in the next couple months.

(Photo: "Skyscraper" by Howard Norton Cook. Print: "Chrysler Building" by Bernice Abbott. From the Philadelphia Museum of Art's "Skyscrapers: Prints, Drawings, and Photographs of the Early Twentieth Century").

Candylicious

Since arriving here, Julie has dreamed of a candy store as massive as Dubai's ambitions. Her dream seems obvious amongst Dubai's notorious renowned superlatives: the tallest building (Burj Dubai); the biggest man-made island (Palm Jumeirah), the largest mall in the world (Dubai Mall). So, it only makes sense that the largest candy store in the world would open across from the largest aquarium in the world that so happens to be situated inside the largest mall in the world and nestled beneath the tallest building in the world.

With the signs up since last spring, Julie and I and I had been waiting for Candylicious to open. Making (or being forced to make?) the prudent decision to open after Ramadan, Canylicious is now open in full force. Heading to the store for dessert, we were met with some initial crowd control. Learning a lesson from the Dubai Metro's opening fiascos, we were met with an orderly que and a list of the store's rules, all written cleverly with the occasional candy-related pun: "Don't talk too loudly, our candy is shy." "Our candy doesn't have to be crunched to be enjoyed." "Break any of the rules and you'll be sent to Mars" (as in the Mars chocolate bar). "No Photography" (there were no jokes about that rule). After our short wait, we entered and passed the sign that notified us that if we spent 1000 dirhams (nearly $300) we were entered in a special candy drawing.

I paused for a second, taking in the sight of the most candy that I have ever seen. The 10,000 square foot store was jam-packed with candy. The walls were lined with the range of candy dispensers from jelly beans to roasted and flavoured nuts. The insides were marked by one candy display leading to the next. The store was separated into unmarked but clearly identifiable sections: chocolate, chewy candy, gummies, lollipops, mints, M & Ms, and Hershey's. Like some liminal space, you passed to and from candy lands without any clear boundaries of where you were until you finally left the store. Like two adults in a kid's candy store, we ambled throughout.

Julie settled on some Jelly Bellys and I on a Hammond's twist lollipop. We steered clear of (Oprah's favorite) Garrett's popcorn on the western wall and the faux-Soda Shop in the eastern corner of the store. We steered clear of the few children that were actually in the store (all of whom seemed to asleep in strollers or already too pent up on sugar to enjoy the majesty of the store in the first place) and made our way to the cashier. Waiting in our second line, their mission statement was drapped behind six cash registers. Basically it said:

Candy makes people happy.

Their store has all the candy you could ever want.

Their store makes people happy.

And this is just the beginning. Candylicious is going to bring mega-candy stores to all the Gulf States! With a goal of making $10,000,000 in Dubai in the next year, they say its the recession-proof business.

So with my lollipop in hand, Julie and I continued our walkabout in the expanse that is Dubai Mall. Though I was not the only one carrying a lollipop, Julie teased me about my "swine flu receptacle" as we passed through the masses of Friday night mallgoers. A joke that becomes less and less funny as more than a few Sharjah schools have now been closed because of the virus.

Swine Flu

Last May, I contracted the worst flu that I have ever had. With nothing moving too quickly in the emirates, it came on like a car creeping through rush hour traffic, reaching its peak one night at Al Zahra Hospital. My temperature surpassed 39 degrees Celsius (over 102 Fahrenheit) which felt exceptionally brutal given the temperatures outside surging to their highs for the year. With an IV in my right arm, two bags of saline solution and a candy-apple green antibiotic eased their way into my bloodstream. In the hour or so that I lay there, I could feel my body temperature drop and the most brutal symptoms of the flu dissipate. While the symptoms did not disappear altogether, my health improved over the next few days. What was the doctor's original diagnosis?

Hepatitis A?

(The question mark was part of the diagnosis).

For the next week, I assured myself that the doctor was being over-cautious as my health returned to normalcy. That was until ten days later when the same symptoms struck again, except this time not quite as forcefully. The thought that I might have Hep A continued until I left the UAE for the summer and came home where the illness did not strike again. What the doctors that I saw did not consider (at least vocally) was that it might be the H1N1 virus. The one response I did hear was from one of my students who joked/teased me that maybe I had the swine flu.

That was before the swine flu scare hit the country. Fears of a swine flu outbreak filled the media throughout the summer. Last spring, H1N1 was covered most nights in the news but it was always something that was happening to someone else. It was treated as the natural consequence of what happens to people who live around such a filthy animal. Now, the swine flu scare permeates the entire news. Each night, a different story documents how a different sphere of society is addressing concerns about the swine flu. Frequent coverage also asks individuals to discuss what they are doing to prevent the swine flu (anything from washing their hands more to wearing masks to isolating their family from strangers or food prepared outside the house). Finally, most stories conclude with a small summary of what preventative measures should be taken when you are in crowds (My favorite being text messages being sent out over the Eid holiday to warn people not to greet each other by kisses on the cheek or touching noses).

In a country made up of a majority of expatriates, many of whom are traveling throughout the summer, some of the fears about the spread of flu are warranted. Combined with the warm humid climate, the UAE could be seen as a perfect atmosphere for the H1N1 virus to thrive. However, the intense media coverage and public concerns have created a very different atmosphere than when I was sick last spring. At school, parents are withholding their children from starting at the normal times, wanting to keep their children out until they are positive that they are not putting their child at risk. Nursery and and preschools in Abu Dhabi are rumored to be closed indefinitely while schools that have opened are reporting some of the lowest student turnout ever (Schools Reopen, but H1N1 concern forces low turnout--the comments at the bottom of the article give a particularly vivid example of the public feeling). At our school, each class now has its own hand sanitizer, signs have been posted in the bathrooms for how to wash your hands, and parents have been told that if their child show any signs of the flu they will be restricted from coming to school for one week. At Julie's early years campus, teachers who show serious flu symptoms have also been asked to stay home for at least a week.

In a place where the virus was once treated at an arms length, now everyone is screened at the airport and people with a minor cold are flocking to hospitals to ensure that they haven't come down with the dreaded sickness. Women using their scarves to cover their faces have become part of the landscape in malls. Travel agents have noted a major reluctance to go abroad. It's been odd coming back to all of these symptoms of the public fear of a swine flu outbreak. Coming back after being gone for the summer and seeing these symptoms of the public fear of the H1N1 virus, it's a big change from joking last spring that my claim to fame might be the first case of swine flu in the UAE.

09/09/09 at 9:09

09/09/09 at 9:09 PM the Dubai Metro began its inaugural run. A procession of dignitaries and government supporters followed Sheikh Mohammed, the ruler of Dubai. He was shrouded in his token gold kandora and they in their white ones. As he eased his way through The Gallery in the Mall of the Emirates, his cavalcade followed suit, waddling their way up two escalators, two moving walkways, and through several air-conditioned corridors. Fireworks and clamor greeted the crowd as they arrived at the metro station. But this was not the end of the inaugural run. They stopped at each of the ten open stations for Sheikh Mohammed to read his poetry, cut ribbons, and further commemorate Dubai's miracle of moving from camels to this celebration of the first Metro in the Gulf, all in less than forty years.

A couple of weeks later, Julie and I inaugurated our first trip on the Metro. It was not quite the spectacle as the opening ceremony, but it was indeed a spectacle to be seen. After looping the seven-level parking lot for a spot to park, we made our way to the station.

Our expectations that the Metro wouldn't be crowded on Eid al-Fitr (the Muslim holiday after the holy month of Ramadan), were quickly found out to be false. The station was packed. There were lines for men leading to the ticket counter. Lines of women leading to the ticket counter. Lines to swipe your Nol (fare) card to get on the train. Luckily, one of the many RTA (Roads and Transit Authority) employees that the emirate hired for the launching of the Metro directed us to one of the unused ticket machines. Swiping our newly acquired cards, we rode the escalator to a train awaiting departure. The two-thirds full train left a couple minutes later to the glee of everyone on board. Cameras and cell phones captured the view of Dubai from the elevated tracks. Sailing past several mosques, the airport, and the heart of Deira, the train dropped underground, swooping under the Dubai Creek. In Bur Dubai, on the other side of the creek and above ground again, the Metro begins its parallel course along Sheikh Zayed Drive--the main thoroughfare through the heart of Dubai. Past the Emirates Towers, the Burj Dubai, car dealerships, and industrial areas we were soon arrived at the Mall of the Emirates, a little over half an hour after we left the opposite side of Dubai.

Backtracking along the dignitary's path from a couple weeks earlier, we made our way past the several signs warning that the station would close if too many people were present. Ignoring the signs and their imminent foreshadowing, we soon passed Borders and a Coldstone Creamery and we were in the mall, never having to face the 109 degree heat outside. After our day of mall-walking we followed the signs up two escalators to the metro station. Unfortunately, a crowd(cum-mob?) stood in our way of the moving walkways and the several air-conditioned corridors to the train itself. In a country that has no large public gatherings outside of the occasional winter concert it was an obvious mess. As the crowds built up behind and beside us, we were obviously not the only ones with the idea of taking the metro on Eid. Thinking that people would be with their family did not necessarily mean that they would not go out with their family. Instead, it was like people in the US going out for a movie on Christmas afternoon.

We spent the first forty minutes in a crowd of over 500 people, all pushing our way towards the automatic doors that were opened by security for about 30 seconds every 5-10 minutes. Next, we were herded into the moving walkways, now turned off, used merely for crowd-control. Twenty five minutes later we were raced with the crowd onto the waiting train, filling the four cars (the fifth was for Gold-class passengers) to their brink. When we arrived, the women and children's car had already been invaded by men. In a place were obedience to authority is the norm (with the most imminent threat being deportation with spending time in a local jail near behind that), the security guards were unable to restrict people from coming in the car. At the first station, another guard came in and asked the 34 other men and I to move from the women-only car. With the other cars being even more full than this one, all of us looked at him in disbelief and he abandoned his mission as as the train's automatic doors closed down. The car went through the same routine as the train arrived in the next station with similar results. As the car started emptying out, four stops later, the men in the train only then moved to the next car. Arriving in Rashidya Station, Julie and I were worn out. We walked by even more crowds waiting to board the trains, most likely making their way to the Mall of the Emirates. Julie and I wanted to warn them to turn around.

On the short drive back to our flat we made up chants in case we faced this situation again and their actually was a riot. "Don't Go, Metro," "Say No to the Metro," and "Drive Don't Ride" were the best we came up with. Back home, thinking of the opening of the metro, the hour that it took us to get to the train was the one similarity between our trip and the royal procession from 09/09/09. The train itself was amazing and once the remaining stations and lines begin to open in the next several months, it will only become more convenient. Hopefully, they'll work out the "kinks" and with the tracks fully completed be able to cycle trains in and out of the main stations quicker than every ten minutes.

So even if it wasn't on the cover of every newspaper across the world, as some of the local commentators predicted, it is still a milestone in the city's development. Still, Julie and I won't be riding it anytime soon, but it was fun.

Dying Camels

Earlier this year, there were several reports on City 7 News about an exorbitant number of camels dying in the deserts of the Emirates. The camels would eat plastic bags and other trash as they grazed through the small shrubs throughout the desert. The trash compacts and is calcified in their stomach. This blockage clogs their digestive system and makes it impossible for them to eat, causing a prolonged and painful death. Though it seems pointless to even allude to the irony, it is just too much to pass up. Camels are dying as a result of the excesses and consequent environmental degradation.

The UAE carries an understandable pride in the country succeeding, in moving from "rags to riches." This pride and self-regard carries over to the Emirati identity and traditions: the candora and abaya for dress, falconry, Arabian horse-racing, and the desert for leisure, and Islam for religiosity.  Besides the latter, however, these were all pursuits that were either out of reach for all but the wealthiest sheikhs, utilized for purely pragmatic matters, or were invented in more recent decades.

A man's candora is an example of a tradition that was used in the past for practical role. The robe is complemented by a head scarf and an ogal (the black cord that holds the scarf in place). The scarf was tied to shield the face from dust storms while the ogal could be twisted in half with a small ring around a camel's feet to prevent it from walking away. While men's dress can be traced back to a traditional root, women's clothes do not have as straightforward of heritage. Emirati women wear a black abaya (that's frequently embroidered) with a scarf covering the entire face, all but the eyes, one's head, or fashionably draped halfway back one's head. In this dress and with henna and jewelry on one's hands, there is not much direct link with a lived past. Speaking of Iran, Michael Axworthy highlights just how different society was before industrialization and urbanization. Women had to actively work to support a family, doing routine tasks around one's village and home. An awkward veil was not always compatible with this type of work. Instead, at least in Iran, heavily veiled women began to emerge around the end of the 19th century as a sign of a man's status. A husband would leave his wife at home, only to emerge by his side, veiled, and with no work like to do. The veil then became an a symbol of upward mobility. In the UAE, the abaya would fit in with this heritage, rather than a form of timeless Arabic dress.

Also part of the Arabian heritage is the desert. Because of its physical and historical presence, all locals are forced to negotiate the meaning of the desert in their lives. Some people, such as Dubai's ruler Sheikh Mohammed take inspiration and solace in the desert. His result is his recent reflections in "Poems from the Desert." It seems that for most others, however, it is a place to conquer.  Trips to the desert aren't desert sojourns to remember and honor the area's Bedouin heritage, they are leisure trips for dune-bashing and camping.  Quadbikes have replaced camels while generator-powered stereos and movie projectors replaced storytelling for a truly authentic Bedouin experience. 

The most tragic result of this cultural conquering of the desert is the trash that is left behind. As a joke went in South Africa, the national flower was plastic shopping bags stuck in barbed-wire fences, blowing in the wind. A drive through the desert shows how the same holds true in the UAE. It is hard to maintain any image of a pristine desert when the view from the road (and popular camping spots) is scattered with rubbish. To make matters worse (and more ironic), the trash not only tampers the desert landscape but it is killing camels. Again, though it doesn't even have to be explained, the camel--the most popular symbol of Arabia--is suffering a brutish death as their digestive system is slowly forced to a halt. Could there be a more dismal example of the excesses and environmental destruction going on in the Emirates?

Living here, its been powerful to see the ownership that Emiratis have over their culture. Their traditions have been solidified (calcified?) in the face of their recent prosperity and in light of the fragility of the system that has been created. Basically, if tourists stop visiting, the service sector will dry up, there will be less of a demand on housing, there will be less construction, and, with each successive downturn, more resident visas will be cancelled and more people will leave the UAE, leaving it with less capital to maintain its "world's biggest" endeavors. With the rapid change of the past forty years and the insecurity of the future, the pillar of Emirati identity rises above the transience of life. This identity, like many other people in the developed world, is seen as a step outside of history. With the perspective that you have conquered the most basic challenges of life (food, water, shelter, etc.) and now have time for leisure, your destiny is no longer determined by questions of where your next meal is going to come from. Now, you are in control of your destiny, your life, and your identity, with tradition supporting one's sense of self.

This shift treats tradition as something that isn't determined by the immediate forces around you. It isn't knowledge passed down to deal with the harsh realities of nature and the surrounding world. Tradition, now, is determined despite the realities of the natural world. This isn't to say that tradition carries no connection with the lived past but that explicit traditions are now being created in an entirely different framework, one detached from the basic pressures of survival. For this reason, people have the tendency to either glorify or scorn the past. Tradition can paint an all too clear of picture with too neat of connections with the past. For some, this painting is incomplete, however, needing a painter to continue the work of preserving its heritage. For others, tradition is forgotten altogether, the painting is white-washed, the painter steps out of history, seeing their past works as a stumbling block towards future prosperity. Either way, the past is seen as such a potent force that must be dealt with and controlled. For someone living in these realities, the individual is above the clutch of history, they are now in control of their traditions, their identity, and their place in the world.

One of the primary issues that these types of tradition must confront is prosperity. Most Americans have answered this question with an attitude of entitlement: we (and our ancestors) worked hard so we deserve our wealth. With Bedouin ancestors and poverty throughout the world, this is not an easy task for Emiratis. Emiratis have fallen into wealth even easier than Americans, with a deeper sense of entitlement that prosperity is part of their heritage, just like family, the desert, or Islam. As we have seen, this same heritage has led them to weekends of leisure in the desert, the place where their Bedouin ancestors lived under the grim realities life. If destroying the desert landscape isn't enough of a departure from the Bedouin lifestyle the fact that camels are dying should be enough to highlight the disjuncture between tradition, the past, and the present. So I conclude, how can you make sense of the reality of camels dying in light of the past?

Happyland Hotel

The first time they wake up it is three in the morning. They couple had strayed into their meandering sleep several hours before. They stumbled upon the hotel just as they had slept that night, without a clear beginning or end. Their assiduous searching and muddled sense of direction lent itself to the suspicion that the search was futile. Yet, an overbearing feeling of fate, preordination, pushed harder as they walked downtown.

The last half an hour had been spent walking down Al-Malek al Hussein St. They tried to avoid the side-street cognates of King Abdullah II’s name that branched aside. The hotel was characteristic of the area. The four-story building was set along the skinny sidewalk. A local travel agent worked next store and a small jewelry repair store was situated on the other side. Downtown Amman is a commuter destination, bringing tourists in for its Roman ruins and locals for shopping. Immigrants have also squeezed in above stores and behind main streets, Palestinians, Iraqis, Checens, Armenians, and Kurds suffused downtown as urban flight took local Jordanians to the eastern suburbs.

The shops were segregated on a block-by-block basis. Travel agencies. Tailors. Electronics. Pastry shops.  All were dotted with the intermittent hotel. All were family-owned. All were in stark contrast to the white limestone bricks that built the communities surrounding downtown Amman.

The couple entered the Happyland Hotel as they had done everything since they stepped off the bus, with hesitancy and self-possession. A middle-age gentleman and an adolescent girl sat on the couch and were watching afternoon TV on MBC. Until the following morning, the travel agent was the only connection in English that they had with the hotel. It was with him that the couple went through the routine bargaining on the room’s price. Settling on a price, he finished, “It’s a yanni, one-star-hotel.” In the process Chris went upstairs to look at the room, a meek affair with a lone fluorescent light on the high ceiling, a TV sitting above the closet, two single beds, and a bathroom with the paint peeling from the ceiling. Unfortunately, he was not perceptive of the room’s possible shortcomings, still feeling as if they were, for some reason, fated to stay at the night at Happyland Hotel.

Leaving their passports at reception they climbed the stairs to the second floor.  The room was one of four rooms, all much more homely than their room and all filled by the family who ran the hotel. Inside, Julie’s penetrating eye and the hotel’s odors grew by the minute. The meekness of the room was now transformed to a state of shabby disrepair. The high ceilings were not high enough to contain the mustiness of the room. The bathroom’s dilapidated floor was too high to close the door and rid the room of the smells of aged poop. After a failed attempt to switch rooms, they fled for the time being in search of food and to take in the after-work crowds moving home for the night. 

After eating a whole days share of hummus, falafel, and pastries they returned to Happyland. The couple quickly got into their respective beds. The beds were nothing more than a welded iron frame, a piece of plywood, and two blankets veiled by a mattress cover. The couple stacked all of their sheets onto one bed, thickening the space between them and the board. They then turned on the TV only to find that it had two channels: Arabic kids programming and whatever the owners were watching in the room next door. Their voyeurism ended when they decided against watching the Jordanian soap operas. The Ipod came out next as they shared his music on her headphones and played music, movies, and TV quiz show games. The game show intensity faded and they soon fell asleep under the fluorescent light with an unhurried draft coming from the single-pane windows.

At three o’clock, they wake up with an intensity and purpose that they failed to bring to falling asleep. This pent up energy is now utilized to keep Julie from falling back asleep. Several hours on the plywood frame stiffens their backs and attitudes. She stands up to stretch her back as she prepares herself for sleeping through the rest of the night.

Half-awake, Chris utteres, “Honey, come back to our board.”

She ignores his drollness, gets back into bed, and rotates two times to find the right spot where her neither her hip bone or elbow don’t press into the mattress. While he falls right back to sleep she wafts in and out of sleep for the next hour and a half. The adan trumpets through their unsealed window, sounding off as if the mosque is right across the street as Julie rustles in Chris’ bag for his cell phone.

“Do you need help?”  He mumbles.

“My watch is wrong.  I think it’s later than four-thirty.”  She responds.  “The adan isn’t usually until six or so.”

“Yeah, I think some Muslims pray seven times a day.” Chris quips from his half-sleep.  “It’s because we never turned off the light it seems earlier.”

Getting up again, Julie turns off the light.  It no longer brutalizes the stark façade and they quickly fall asleep. At 6:45, the morning light peers in through the window. Julie goes to the bathroom only to find that the toilet doesn’t flush. Last night’s smell was not only from the dank moisture that filled room but from the treat that the last guest had left them, ruminating for days in the pipes during Amman’s off-season for travelers. Following what had become the previous night’s routine, Julie is alert, seeming as if she had slept through the whole not but feeling as if she had not rested a bit. She packs the little that was unpacked and coaxes Chris out of his sleep. He reverts to his jocular mood, feeling that he has slept disturbingly well on their board. He arises, dresses, and orders his things before heading downstairs. They wake up the next member of the family who sleeps at the reception desk. They retrieve their passports and are on their way.