Pakistani Taxi Driver – 30 years in Dubai and drives a Mercedes.
Mohammad from Egypt – waiter at a Lebanese food place for a year and seven months and hates it.
Indian physicality between men – holding hands/hugging.
Gangs of men at night.
Women only taxies.
Nice cars everywhere.
Nodding to everyone.
Dark sunglasses necessary for anthropologists.
Gold souq.
Crazy Taxi driver paid for ground covered and not time.
Paster Wilson – lives in the camps and must be quite about his faith.
Watching Metropolis as I go to sleep every night.
Hot water always in the showers here.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
वेयर'स माय Rolex
Anyways it is Easter Sunday now and around ten o-clock. I fell asleep writing last night and was in the middle of explaining my research question for this trip. My hope is that when I leave Dubai in a week that I will better understand the life of a migrant worker. This city is expanding so fast and is stretching the limits of what is humanly possible in regards to development. A huge force of Indian, Pakistani, and Pilipino nationals have been brought in do this extensive work and are now a diverse and prominent crowd all through Dubai. Many are employed for years and live in specialized labor camps. Their families live back in their home country and they are permitted to visit every so often.
So while looking for new friends I first met Yussar who had sold my brother some coffee from Yemen. He was very pleasant and eager to talk about life in Dubai. Yussar has lived here for about ten years and was able to move his family over making him a permanent resident.
Later that same hour as I was walking around through the alleys I was approached as a potential buyer of fake Rolexes. Now Dubai has been a hotspot for all types of nock-offs such as purses, clothing, watches, and even in rare cases cars. Lately the government has been cracking down on these goods and have forced them to go underground with their sales. A few persuasive gentlemen had already tried to get me interested but so far I remained unmoved by their goods. This time though I felt compelled to comply as this little Indian man begged me to come and follow him. I asked about his life as he led me deeper into the maze of back alleys and although he did not speak very good English I was able to understand that his name was Zubelure and that he had been living in Dubai for nine years. He talked to me about going back to India for two months out of every year to see his family. By this time had already led me through a short door and up some tile steps. We turned a corner at the top and then Zubelure knocked on a door. By this time I was fascinated by the secrecy that was being used and it gave me a very different perspective of what it is that they are actually doing. The room behind the door was covered from wall to wall with fake Gucci purses and there were two other Indians who looked at me expectantly as I nodded to them. Zubelure said something in Telegu and one of the others brought out a dresser drawer full of what looked like thousands of dollars worth of Rolexes. Now I was then persuaded to try on about five before I stopped and asked for a price. “Good deal for you today” is what he kept telling me as he typed some numbers into a calculator seemingly for a purpose. I have a suspicion that these numbers were all random because at the end he cleared the screen and typed in two-five-zero. He looked very official and he would not say the price but only show me the numbers. I shook my head and told him that I didn’t have two hundred and fifty dirhams (roughly sixty dollars). He erased that number and went down to two hundred. I told him that I would think about it and maybe come back in a day or so. After making sure that we were all good and learning how to say goodbye in Telegu I had them unlock the door for me and I left down the stairs.
Wandering around the souqs led me even deeper into the heart of the poorer sections of Dubai. I met a man named Ishmael who sold me and my family some great Indian samosas and a specialty drink of his which he called “milk with butter”. He is forty and has a wife with two kids back in India. A younger Indian who worked with him and was also named Ishmael was very helpful in showing me where to use the restroom. I followed him down a dark alley to their community toilet and found him waiting outside when I was done just to make sure that I got back all right. This Ishmael was twenty-six and lives with the other one. I do not know if they are related but intend to go to see them again later in the week.
After wandering for hours my dad, my brother, and I decided to get on a bus returning to the other side of the creek. We got one but were surprised as instead of going directly across the bridge it made a wide arch around the city and through the cultural districts. I have ridden the bus many times now and am always surprised to never see any white people. Not one that I have noticed has ever ridden the city buses. Many of my co-riders were all Indian workers just getting off of their shifts. I was reminded of how tired I was when the man next to me started to snore. I looked around and realized that just about everyone on the bus was falling asleep or at least trying to. The sun was still out and the traffic was thick but here was a bus full of tired workers after what must have been a long day. The bus drove speedily out of a tunnel and immediately I was looking at a view of the Burg Dubai, the monolith that happens to be the tallest building in the world. The tiny looking cranes were still visible at the very top and just added to the understanding of just how tall it actually is. I had a moment of wonder as I realized that I have never seen any man made thing that was bigger than this tower ever before in my life. A sense of wonder gripped me and I glanced at all the men sitting around me. It might have been the Emirates who funded such a building but it was these small, thin haired, tired Indians who actually built the worlds tallest structure. I was in awe of these men and became even more curious about the lives that they must live.
Later that evening we caught a cab to the Emirates Mall and ate sushi while watching people ski down an indoor slope. Quite a contrast to earlier in the day.
That was all yesterday and today it is Easter Sunday and we all got up for a sunrise service at Dubai evangelical church over in Jebel Ali. We were picked up by some friends of my dad named Bob and Caroline. They have been living here for about five years and love it. While they were driving us there I learned that as of a few weeks ago the Dubai police had closed down the church parking lot and designated a special spot a little ways away for all the cars to park. This was thought to be for security reasons as people now arrive at the church in buses and are searched and scanned before being able to enter.
The church location is shared by all the evangelical churches in the area and is located exactly where the government will let it function. Today being Easter and all meant that all the churches were there at the same time. We heard worship in Chinese, Indian, Korean, and even Arabic. The sun came up and then we all ate together.
So while looking for new friends I first met Yussar who had sold my brother some coffee from Yemen. He was very pleasant and eager to talk about life in Dubai. Yussar has lived here for about ten years and was able to move his family over making him a permanent resident.
Later that same hour as I was walking around through the alleys I was approached as a potential buyer of fake Rolexes. Now Dubai has been a hotspot for all types of nock-offs such as purses, clothing, watches, and even in rare cases cars. Lately the government has been cracking down on these goods and have forced them to go underground with their sales. A few persuasive gentlemen had already tried to get me interested but so far I remained unmoved by their goods. This time though I felt compelled to comply as this little Indian man begged me to come and follow him. I asked about his life as he led me deeper into the maze of back alleys and although he did not speak very good English I was able to understand that his name was Zubelure and that he had been living in Dubai for nine years. He talked to me about going back to India for two months out of every year to see his family. By this time had already led me through a short door and up some tile steps. We turned a corner at the top and then Zubelure knocked on a door. By this time I was fascinated by the secrecy that was being used and it gave me a very different perspective of what it is that they are actually doing. The room behind the door was covered from wall to wall with fake Gucci purses and there were two other Indians who looked at me expectantly as I nodded to them. Zubelure said something in Telegu and one of the others brought out a dresser drawer full of what looked like thousands of dollars worth of Rolexes. Now I was then persuaded to try on about five before I stopped and asked for a price. “Good deal for you today” is what he kept telling me as he typed some numbers into a calculator seemingly for a purpose. I have a suspicion that these numbers were all random because at the end he cleared the screen and typed in two-five-zero. He looked very official and he would not say the price but only show me the numbers. I shook my head and told him that I didn’t have two hundred and fifty dirhams (roughly sixty dollars). He erased that number and went down to two hundred. I told him that I would think about it and maybe come back in a day or so. After making sure that we were all good and learning how to say goodbye in Telegu I had them unlock the door for me and I left down the stairs.
Wandering around the souqs led me even deeper into the heart of the poorer sections of Dubai. I met a man named Ishmael who sold me and my family some great Indian samosas and a specialty drink of his which he called “milk with butter”. He is forty and has a wife with two kids back in India. A younger Indian who worked with him and was also named Ishmael was very helpful in showing me where to use the restroom. I followed him down a dark alley to their community toilet and found him waiting outside when I was done just to make sure that I got back all right. This Ishmael was twenty-six and lives with the other one. I do not know if they are related but intend to go to see them again later in the week.
After wandering for hours my dad, my brother, and I decided to get on a bus returning to the other side of the creek. We got one but were surprised as instead of going directly across the bridge it made a wide arch around the city and through the cultural districts. I have ridden the bus many times now and am always surprised to never see any white people. Not one that I have noticed has ever ridden the city buses. Many of my co-riders were all Indian workers just getting off of their shifts. I was reminded of how tired I was when the man next to me started to snore. I looked around and realized that just about everyone on the bus was falling asleep or at least trying to. The sun was still out and the traffic was thick but here was a bus full of tired workers after what must have been a long day. The bus drove speedily out of a tunnel and immediately I was looking at a view of the Burg Dubai, the monolith that happens to be the tallest building in the world. The tiny looking cranes were still visible at the very top and just added to the understanding of just how tall it actually is. I had a moment of wonder as I realized that I have never seen any man made thing that was bigger than this tower ever before in my life. A sense of wonder gripped me and I glanced at all the men sitting around me. It might have been the Emirates who funded such a building but it was these small, thin haired, tired Indians who actually built the worlds tallest structure. I was in awe of these men and became even more curious about the lives that they must live.
Later that evening we caught a cab to the Emirates Mall and ate sushi while watching people ski down an indoor slope. Quite a contrast to earlier in the day.
That was all yesterday and today it is Easter Sunday and we all got up for a sunrise service at Dubai evangelical church over in Jebel Ali. We were picked up by some friends of my dad named Bob and Caroline. They have been living here for about five years and love it. While they were driving us there I learned that as of a few weeks ago the Dubai police had closed down the church parking lot and designated a special spot a little ways away for all the cars to park. This was thought to be for security reasons as people now arrive at the church in buses and are searched and scanned before being able to enter.
The church location is shared by all the evangelical churches in the area and is located exactly where the government will let it function. Today being Easter and all meant that all the churches were there at the same time. We heard worship in Chinese, Indian, Korean, and even Arabic. The sun came up and then we all ate together.
The Dubai Saga Begins
Right now it is nine o-clock on a Saturday night and I will certainly say that I haven’t really slept since Wednesday and yet although I am tired beyond even my own understanding of it I feel compelled to write out my day lest it’s finer points leave me in my dark slumber.
Today really started Thursday morning when I left my family’s house in Temecula and caught the red eye that night to New York. From there, my brother and I boarded Emirates airlines for a thirteen-hour flight straight to Dubai city. On the way we met a teacher from San Luis who was born in Saudi Arabia and had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and a freelance photographer who was on his way to India to shoot a project for National Geographic.
We arrived in Dubai at eight in the morning and met up with our dad outside of customs. The airport was lavishly decorated and the size of the terminal alone put any other we have ever visited to shame (and we have been to quite a few). The air was a little sticky but not as hot as I expected. It made me think of when we lived up in the mountains of Java where it was moist and warm all the time.
A taxi took us to the Number One Hotel so named for a gigantic “number one” that is visible in the building’s architecture when looking from a distance. The hotel resides on the main strip of Sheik Ziyade Road where all the newest skyscrapers are located and where if you had been here fifteen years ago you would have been in the middle of the desert. Towers of all different colors and designs line the sides of the road making it seem like some sort of futuristic city that you might see in a superman comic book.
We dumped off our stuff and quickly showered before heading out into the heart of Dubai determined not to sleep until night so that we would be able to quickly adjust to the twelve-hour time difference. A free bus and taxi later left us at a large bay that separated two parts of Dubai. We walked along the waters edge and ended up going to a museum on the history of the city. This part of town was full of Indians and we walked endlessly through their bazaars and tailor shops. At midday we crossed the bay via a water taxi for only one dirham (twenty-five cents) a person. My brother was looking for a good deal on raw Arabic coffee and we found him one at a little Souq in an alley way.
Wandering around this maze of alleys and shops brought me into the hands of a short little Indian looking to sell me a fake Rolex. He asked me to follow him and I pleasantly said yes. I had been looking out all day for potential friends that worked in Dubai but had a family elsewhere for so that………..oh wow…….tired……I’ll finish the story tomorrow.
Today really started Thursday morning when I left my family’s house in Temecula and caught the red eye that night to New York. From there, my brother and I boarded Emirates airlines for a thirteen-hour flight straight to Dubai city. On the way we met a teacher from San Luis who was born in Saudi Arabia and had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro and a freelance photographer who was on his way to India to shoot a project for National Geographic.
We arrived in Dubai at eight in the morning and met up with our dad outside of customs. The airport was lavishly decorated and the size of the terminal alone put any other we have ever visited to shame (and we have been to quite a few). The air was a little sticky but not as hot as I expected. It made me think of when we lived up in the mountains of Java where it was moist and warm all the time.
A taxi took us to the Number One Hotel so named for a gigantic “number one” that is visible in the building’s architecture when looking from a distance. The hotel resides on the main strip of Sheik Ziyade Road where all the newest skyscrapers are located and where if you had been here fifteen years ago you would have been in the middle of the desert. Towers of all different colors and designs line the sides of the road making it seem like some sort of futuristic city that you might see in a superman comic book.
We dumped off our stuff and quickly showered before heading out into the heart of Dubai determined not to sleep until night so that we would be able to quickly adjust to the twelve-hour time difference. A free bus and taxi later left us at a large bay that separated two parts of Dubai. We walked along the waters edge and ended up going to a museum on the history of the city. This part of town was full of Indians and we walked endlessly through their bazaars and tailor shops. At midday we crossed the bay via a water taxi for only one dirham (twenty-five cents) a person. My brother was looking for a good deal on raw Arabic coffee and we found him one at a little Souq in an alley way.
Wandering around this maze of alleys and shops brought me into the hands of a short little Indian looking to sell me a fake Rolex. He asked me to follow him and I pleasantly said yes. I had been looking out all day for potential friends that worked in Dubai but had a family elsewhere for so that………..oh wow…….tired……I’ll finish the story tomorrow.
Friday, February 29, 2008
The Jon Frum Movement
The Jon Frum movement appeared for the first time in the 1940s in the New Hebrideans. At that time some 300,000 American troops established themselves in the New Hebrides. The islanders were impressed both by the egalitarianism of the Americans and their obvious wealth and power. This led them to conflate perceived benefactors such as Uncle Sam, Santa Claus and John the Baptist into a mythic figure called John Frum, who would empower the island peoples by giving them cargo wealth. The power of Jon Frum appeared to be confirmed by the post-war influx of tourists to the region, who brought with them a degree of material prosperity to the islands. The movement was involved in the quest for independence in 1980 and continues today.
At the heart of the movement is a mythic messianic figure called Jon Frum, who allegedly appeared on the island of Tanna and who is variously identified as a god who lives in the crater of Tanna's highest mountain with his several thousand strong army or the 'king of America'. Jon Frum day is celebrated annually on 15 February; it is believed that Jon Frum will return on this day, bringing with him the cargo from heaven that westerners are selfishly diverting for themselves.
The most sacred symbol of the Jon Frum movement is a red cross. On Jon Frum day prayers and flowers are offered at the cross. In addition to this members involve themselves in a flag raising ceremony and a miltary parade in which they carry rifles made of bamboo.
Click for more on Jon
Dubai Dreaming
Only eleven more days until my birthday...I would be excited but it is Dubai that I am really looking forward to in twenty days.
Checklist:
passport
camera
good book
money
desert shoes
wallet
bible
Mental Checklist:
21
freedom
wits
courage
language
Monday, February 25, 2008
Livin' in the TARDrix
As I exit this humble dream of idealism I join reality with a red jaded eye on the all my past transgressions. Could the tumultuous maze of my emotions really be so predictable that I can know my anxious mornings and lonely nights even months in advance. So far have I come and yet so far can I fall from you my God whose comfort sooths like like a million raindrops on my cold tin roof. My companions who leave with me are the fools of old who know not what your judgement could drown them in. Their hearts crumble with the crusty flakes of pity that settle under the couch until we all move out.
I leave them at their games as you take me further into your world of understanding.
Whose pulse is beating in this skin?
Whose eyes moist and dreary glean your radiance from the early sun?
A sun so fast it makes me dizzy to stand upon reality.
A symbol for peace could be a dove, a white flag, a wave, starry night, moon, dancing bridge, red tunnel, green sweater, party pants, severe mercy, dead sheep, cold shoulder, last kiss, and maybe even love.
A symbol for love could be a.......
Your love is like no other though! No other could love me as you do. BROKEN and RAW I come crawling to your resting place.
The West is no longer the best for me anymore...could I ever have imagined anything else.
I am a wordy man with wordy thoughts that lean to lengths that no longer allow me to sleep at night.....@#&%*.
How can I become more simple?
I leave them at their games as you take me further into your world of understanding.
Whose pulse is beating in this skin?
Whose eyes moist and dreary glean your radiance from the early sun?
A sun so fast it makes me dizzy to stand upon reality.
A symbol for peace could be a dove, a white flag, a wave, starry night, moon, dancing bridge, red tunnel, green sweater, party pants, severe mercy, dead sheep, cold shoulder, last kiss, and maybe even love.
A symbol for love could be a.......
Your love is like no other though! No other could love me as you do. BROKEN and RAW I come crawling to your resting place.
The West is no longer the best for me anymore...could I ever have imagined anything else.
I am a wordy man with wordy thoughts that lean to lengths that no longer allow me to sleep at night.....@#&%*.
How can I become more simple?
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