Celebrating Robbie Burns Day

Melissa and I had been invited to a small party by my Scottish Dean (Ta!) and her husband to celebrate Robert Burns Day, a very famous and celebrated Scottish poet from the mid-1700s. Every year they throw this soirée with another couple (Scot and American) and this year it would be at their place. You probably think you’ve never heard of him but I’m guessing one of his pieces is one of the top three songs that most Americans know. First being ‘Happy Birthday,’ followed by the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ (which many don’t know all the words too anyway) and then the song played every New Year’s Eve at midnight, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ by Robert Burns.

Unfortunately, early during the day of the party, Melissa had two cups of a ‘laxative tea’ which contains the plant senna that acts as gentle laxative…unless you have two cups, which then turns you’re lower intestines to a cannon…for hours and hours…and hours. So, it was the opportunity to bring my lovely daughter Haley instead of my extremely noisy wife. The added bonus to me was my secret, somewhat evil plan, of having Haley eat haggis. I then would have something to bring up during any future arguments…’You ate haggis, Haley…’ and that would have been the end of the argument – for all time. Tonight was going to be great!

If you’re unfamiliar with this Scottish mainstay, here’re the ingredients:

Sheep’s stomach bag and pluck (heart liver and lungs of a sheep - you can substitute a selection of organ meats)
2 onions, peeled
2 cups Pinhead oatmeal; (Irish oatmeal)
1 2/3 cup suet Salt and pepper,
trussing needle and fine string

While sheep stomach stuffed with organs doesn’t sound like something you would want to order at TGIFridays, I have learned to like it – not something to eat every weekend (once a year is fine), but I knew Haley would not touch it if she knew what was in it. “If,” she knew what was in it. Moooohahahaha.

The rest of the small guest list was couples consisting of other Scots and their spouses, a sprinkling of other Britts, and us. An eight foot wall surrounded the compound where the party was. Most of the stand-alone homes here had the same. There was a large gate for cars, and to the left was a smaller door for pedestrian traffic. As we walked in, it was like the scene from a Rockwell painting. I mean Abdullah Rockwell. There was a long, wide brick driveway with trees on each side that had grown over into each other to create this wonderful, natural canopy. White Christmas lights dotted through the the brances like a star-filled sky. There was a fire pit at one end and another small fire over by a majlis or tent-like area with large, long Arabic cushions on the ground. On the other side toward the back was a duck pond. The driveway ended at the steps leading to a large stone porch, and then into the house.

The haggis sat on the dining table next to bowls of mashed "neeps and tatties" (turnips and potatoes). It looked like a shot-put covered in gray skin. Haley eyes picked up on it immediately.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“That’s the haggis.” “Okay. But what is it; I mean what’s it made of?”
I had to keep a straight face. “It’s like a Scottish sausage…like a bratwurst. You know meat and stuff. It’s good, you’ll like it.” She continued to stare at it like she was watching a cow give birth. The host set a bottle of aged Scotch on the table – tradition, and several of the men and I had a wee bit of a toast to Robbie Burns. Apparently while I was occupied with the guys, Haley asked someone else what was in haggis (apparently she didn’t trust her dear old dad – see why I wanted to trick her into eating some!) so that was the end of my secret evil fun for the evening. (What I didn't realize is that she had her own evil plan of vengence that she would soon launch on me.) I think she put a thimble of potatoes on her plate but that was it…until dessert.

Dessert was another traditional Scottish dish called Millionaire Shortbread (I’ll give a link to the recipe at the end of this and you must make these).Squared layers of shortbread, caramel and topped with chocolate. I mean these things are fantastic. Even Miss-I’m-to-good-to-eat-sheep-stomach-Haley continued to take one after the other and push them into her gob.

After dinner we moved back outside to the courtyard/driveway. Speakers were hooked up to the computer which had all the evening’s folk songs programmed in. My Dean (Ta!) and her husband were our dance instructors. They would show everyone the basic steps, and then dance it again to the music. It was very similar to our square dancing, which is probably where our square dancing came from. Duh! Now it was our turn. Five couples stood across from each other, Haley across from me, and our bellies were full of bellies (except Haley’s). 'What a great moment this is,' I thought to myself. It had been a long time since I had danced with my daughter. Now all my daughters are beautiful but she was my youngest - the last to dance with daddy by standing on his feet and walking around a room and now I'm dancing with her all grown-up. I wanted to cry, but then the music started and I was wrestling with a bear. All we had to do was go round-and-round, twice, then backwards, back-to-back, then left foot ball-change, one, two, and repeat. Or, just go around in circles and don’t smash into anyone else. But noooooo, that’s too much to ask my 18 year-old daughter. We went around the courtyard like a pinball bouncing and jerking here and there. I tried to explain what the problem was, “Haley, you keep trying to lead.”
Her response, “Somebody has to.”
“No, Haley, I mean the man always leads.”
“Says, who?”
Okay, game on. And so the evening went. Fighting for lead, song after song, dance after dance. I couldn’t believe how strong she was. I mean she’s a college student, not a steel mill worker. No matter what I did, she countered, and with more force than what I could deliver. In the blur of the beating I was receiving, I could see the lights growing dim and could have sworn she was somehow draining the power into her. I tried everything I have ever learned in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat but nothing could stop her. Finally it came to me, ‘let’s see how you handle this’ and I went completely limp pretending to be dead. It worked! But not for another five dances. For 30 more minutes she continued to whip me around like a life-size rag doll until finally tossing me in the dirt to go get some more Millionaire Shortbread. I think one of the dogs even peed on me. I woke up the following morning all bruised and battered. She told Mom I fell out of a camel truck and I was too embarassed to say anything different.

This was my Scottish Robbie Burns celebration in the UAE. This was my dance with my youngest daughter. All because I thought it would be funny if she ate sheep stomach stuffed with sheep heart and organs. Is that too much for a father to ask? Damn haggis!

Millionaire Shortbread Recipe

She Deserves So Much Better Than Me

I started having some kind of rash – nothing for medical journals but it was bothering me. I had no idea what it was, eczema, heat rash, old-guy skin, who knows but instead of rolling the dice with one of the hospitals here I thought I’d just go to a pharmacy and get something over-the-counter. The pharmacies here look similar to those in the U.S.; white walls, white tile floors, white counters, and employees wearing white medical jackets. They do not have the number of OTC meds and few western brands (we’ve never found Tylenol here), and there’s no 'back area' where a pharmacist would be working filling prescriptions - really not sure where those medications come from. But one item that jumps out that you can’t find in the U.S. is “virginity soap.” It’s a bar of soap in metallic silver box with a picture of a woman in a field full of flowers. On the box it says something like, “restores your virginity for a fresh feeling…”  I tried it and it sort of worked - my face broke out and I had a tremendous feeling of insecurity. One of the other products that are very different is skin lightening products. Lots of them. Different soaps and creams that lighten the color of someone’s skin. The cultures (Indian) that use these are those that have traditionally believed lighter colored skin to be more desirable and prosperous. Meanwhile, whitey America spend billions on tanning beds, tanning products, spray tans, to look darker. I guess the grass is always greener (lighter green or darker green) on the other side, eh?

It was grocery day weekend, and no two grocers carry the same things - and just because they have it one week, does not mean they will have it the next. We decided to go to Carrefore (Middle Eastern Wal Mart) at Bawadi Mall. This choice allowed Melissa to shop in peace while I had my traditional fat-free cappuccino and read the newspaper. Noah would bounce between us as he made the rounds of his normal stores – video games, sporting goods, candy kiosks,and a few clothes shops. I finished my coffee and found the two of them in the dairy isle (the dairy isle is the last isle before checking out so the milk doesn’t get warm). I told Melissa I was going to see if the pharmacy had anything for my rash and would meet her on the other side of the check-out, which is right by the pharmacy. It’s a small place so after a few seconds looking under the ‘skin’ sign, I decided to just ask the pharmacist.

“Can I help you?” the female pharmacist said from behind the counter.

I leaned in a little bit so no one else could hear and said, “Hi, yes, uh, what do you have for a rash?”

She looked me over for a moment trying to spot the problem area. “What kind of rash is it?”

Having not put any thought into what she would ask me, I had no prepared responses ready.

“Uh, I don’t know,” was the best I could come up with.

“Is it for you?”

This is where the tires meet the pavement for the sacred bond between a pharmacist and a customer – you have to be able to tell your health care professional the truth, in complete confidence so they can accurately treat you. I decided to just lie.

“Uhhh, no, it’s for my wife.” I mean I quickly rationalized that she doesn’t know Melissa so what’s the problem if I say it’s for her? The pharmacist nodded and began contemplating all the possibilities of what the rash could be and how to best treat it.

“Is she a little fat?” (People in the Middle East do not ‘beat around the bush,’ in their discussions. They can be very frank in their speech but no offense is met – just factional.) Of course the answer was ‘no’ but we weren’t really talking about Melissa (I’m working on it). I was too embarrassed to tell her the rash cream was for me, but what kind of husband would I be to tell anyone, let alone another woman, even a pharmacist, that my wife is fat because I didn’t want to say it’s for me?

“Uh, yes, uh, she’s a little fat,” escaped from my dry, lie-filled mouth before I could stop it. I looked around to see if Melissa was coming - the coast was clear but I knew I had to hurry. The pharmacist turned around for what seemed like hours as I kept looking over my shoulder for Melissa and Noah, and then she brought back a grey plastic jar.

“Try this,” then she continued with its application. “The heat gets trapped in the fat rolls…have her put this on after her shower, before she starts sweating in her fat.” (I heard my 'good guy' voice saying to me, 'Just stop it. Stop it now. It's not too late. Tell her the truth - that it's for you, that it's for your fat...I mean come on, she's not a blind pharmacist - she knows it's for you. You look like Santa for God's sake, just tell the truth and everything will be fine.')

“Okay, I'll tell her. Thank you,” I said as I ran from the pharmacy and straight into Melissa and Noah pushing the cart of groceries.

“Did you find anything?” she said with honest concern.

“Yes, honey, we’ll see if this works,” I said as I pulled my ball cap down trying to hide my face of shame.

“Good baby, I’m glad.”

I am going to hell for sure, rash and all.

And I'll be the greatest Dad ever in the history of the world!

Chapter 8

     It was hard trying to think of a great Christmas gift for Noah. The things he wanted - All Terrain Vehicle, dirt bike, camel, or iPad, were not going to happen. But as his Dad, I needed to get him something memorable. My search took me back to the Bawadi mall, to ToysRUs. This is one of the experiences that is pretty much the same globally. A chain store full of crap is a store full of crap anywhere, and ToysRUs is as good as anyone for this. I walked up and down every isle in the store, even those I knew would not yield anything (baby clothes, baby toys, girls dolls) just to ensure I was doing my best, covering all possibilities. Although on this mission I wasn’t conscious of time, it had probably been at least a good hour when I turned the corner and found exactly what I had been searching for. This is it! A remote controlled airplane. How cool he would think I was. Finally, I would be able to live up to my coffee mug, 'The World’s Greatest Dad.' The next step in this quest was to select just the right plane. This could not be rushed. Not that was ever time efficient in any of my shopping. Unless I know exactly, 100%, what I’m going to buy, I can spend hours wrestling with myself on whether I should buy something or not. Put it in the cart, take it out of the cart. Like a shopping Hokie Pokie. I would tell Melissa I was going to the store to pick one thing up and return two hours later with nothing. Today I knew what I wanted, but I wasn’t prepared for all the choices. When I was a kid we basically only had two types of toy planes; paper that you made yourself and the thin balsam wood planes that flew under rubber-band power. I would get half way through winding it up when my kid fingers would slip and then be mercilessly beaten by the propeller. Then start again. These were good for one flight before a wing or rudder would get broken off because it landed or touched air in flight. Now I was looking at dozens of different remote controlled flying machines. Helicopters, jets, hovercrafts, space ships. Some were hundreds of dollars with real gas powered engines. ‘No, no, too big for him right now.’ He’ll grow into this type later after he gets hooked on flying. Finally my eye fell on a box that showed little hands bending the wings upward. It read “Strong Foam Wings.” Foam wings? Yes, of course, foam wings! Like the cheap beer coolers you buy in a hurry, only coated with some kind of plastic so it kept them flexible. No pulverizing of the fingers. No busting to pieces upon the slightest impact. Why didn’t I think of that? This one had two AAA battery powered engines, one on each wing. Yes, this is the one. I imagined him on Christmas day opening his present; eye wide open, speechless for how cool this remote plane was. Just for him. This is going to be the best Christmas present ever!

     Finally, Christmas morning came. I can’t remember any of the other presents, or what I received, or what I gave anyone else. It was all about the plane. Noah’s lifetime of fun, enjoyment and awareness of what a great dad I was, was waiting for him under Spiderman holiday wrapping paper.  When he unwrapped he looked at it for about two seconds and then picked up another box to open. Obviously he didn’t realize the improvements in airplane design that he was now the owner of. I picked up the box and pointed out to him the foam wings. ”When I was a kid, we didn’t have foam wings. These are very strong,“  I said as I pointed to the hands on the box bending them upward. He didn’t seem very impressed but Christmas morning is such an exciting time I’m sure it was just hard for him to focus.

     By the end of December, the temperature in the UAE is really very nice. Somewhere in the 80s, slight breeze but not a hot one, a beautiful day for flying. Across the street from the back of our villa was a cleared area about half the size of a football field. Something was going to be constructed on it but at this stage they had only encircled it with corrugated steel panels and a few pieces of equipment onsite. The primary use of it since we arrived was as a cricket playing field for Pakistani workers who lived somewhere in the area. They played every weekend, all afternoon. Cricket reminds me of stickball. Similar to baseball, but no gloves. What the actual rules are, I still don’t know, but it was a game that only required a bat, a ball and a stick in the ground instead of home plate. Right now it was empty except us; a father and his son and his remote controlled airplane. I asked Melissa and Haley to go to our bedroom window on the second floor – the best seats in the house for the inaugural flight. We looked up and waved at them to confirm they were watching. This is probably what Lindberg felt just before taking off for Paris. I handed the remote control to Noah and turned on the engines. Wind was light. We looked at each and saluted. “Ready, Colonel?” I asked. “Ready, Dad.” I tossed the plane into the wind and up it went. Then it began coming down. “Up, up, higher, higher,” I said in a panicky voice. “I’m trying but it’s not doing anything, you do it.” and he handed me the controls. I steadied the plane and it began to regain altitude, soaring straight and smooth into the air. It was getting close to the other side of the area so I nudged the control to the left to begin an easy circle back. No response. I nudged it to the other side to circle on the right. Again, nothing. I extended my arms straight out from where I was standing as if the additional 18 inches would increase the signal strength. The plane just kept going, smooth and straight. It flew over the other side and continued buzzing until it was out of sight. While we never saw it again, I’m pretty sure it kept going north until it was eventually shot down by the Israelis.  Maybe next year I’ll just get him a camel.

Chapter 7

     The United Arab Emirates is a combination of Disney World and the Third World (Mubarek Mouse?). Emirates are not Third World but since 89% of the country’s population is expats, mostly from the Third World, it creates a unique environment. Over the last few years, this 40 year-old country has built the world’s tallest building, the world’s fastest roller coaster, indoor snow skiing, the largest shopping malls in the Middle East, and palaces that would make King Solomon’s place look like a shack in the Appalachians. While these accomplishments are very impressive, the Emiratis are on the funding side, not the building side. This is not meant to take anything away from their vision but just a statement on how it works. The actual construction came from the remaining four million inhabitants - Pakistani, Indian, Yemeni, Afghani, and Sri Lanky. The service sector is mainly managed by other Arab countries (Egyptian, Syrian, Lebanese) and staffed by Filipinos. The next levels of workers also include surrounding Arab countries and western managers and teachers; Brits, Aussies, New Zelanders, Canadians, South Africans, and finally me, one of the few Americans working in the country. Emiratis work in the government, police, and military. All businesses, any business must have an Emirati partner to operate here. This ensures some accountability but ultimately, all roads lead to the sheikhs because all roads (and everything else) belong to the sheikhs.

     The city of Al Ain, with only three large shopping malls, is somewhat mall deficient compared to her celebrity sister cities of Abu Dhabi and Dubai. There’s the Al Ain Mall, the Bawadi Mall, and the Al Jimi Mall. There are a few stores unique to each, but for the most part the choices are the same, or carry all the same type of merchandise; perfume, make-up, clothes, shoes, electronics, junk, jewelry and a larger store that includes groceries (an Arab version of Wal-Mart without the pepper spray). For this reason, our mall trip rotation is for a change in scenery more than that we need something specific from one of them. A different maze for the mice to navigate. When the spring and summer heat begins to cook the city at temperatures starting the day at 110 Fahrenheit, malls offer everyone the opportunity to leave their air conditioned villas, get in their air conditioned cars, and walk around the air conditioned malls, to spend their tax free air conditioned pay checks.

     Yesterday we're at the Al Ain Mall, what the signs around city proclaim as “The Glamorous Mall.” This doesn’t really reflect the nature of the mall itself but rather the poor European marketing firm that came up with the branding. In any case, we haven’t been there since our last combo night (Ponderosa buffet and a movie. I’m surrounded by culture and great food, and yet the kids want Ponderosa buffalo wings). Unless it’s a weekday where multiple activities are taking place simultaneously (school, work, after-school events), and thus we have to divide to conquer, we go everywhere together on weekends. It’s our family bonding time, or what I like to think of as the most efficient use of time for torturing each other. It‘s the full crew, myself, Melissa, Haley (who as a 16 year-old hates doing anything and everything with her family. Now she was able to hate doing anything with her family on an international scale) and Noah, who sees everything as a potential for fun, oblivious to any dangers or inappropriate situational behavior. We park under the mall and scurry our way under the low ceilings to the closest door.

     The glass doors part creating a vacuum that sucks us forward into the mall and I feel the rush of cool air begin to blow dry the sweat on my balding head. I had hair once. But that was long ago before kids. I don’t think hair loss is genetic, I think it’s tied directly to having kids, more specifically to their teen years. Most teenagers suffer from the medical condition called headuptheassitis. During these years they believe they are the only ones in the universe and nothing matters but what they, and their friends (who also suffer from headuptheassitis) think. And while this time is very difficult for parents (and admittedly for them also), the majority will grow out of this terrible state by their early 20s. Those that don’t, go on to become successful attorneys and investment bankers. 

     The lower floor layout is a small circle of stores, about a dozen, with the escalator going up to the main level. The shops at this entrance are more permanent kiosks than stores. A coffee place, a smoothie place, a Lebanese soap place, watches, sunglasses, diet powder and a little corn stand with a smiling corn cob on it. It consists of a big bowl of canned corn and a double hot plate. They heat up your size serving and add spices and lemon juice then dispense it in a cup with a plastic spoon. Hits the spot for those corn craving moments we all have. And the last stand was called, La Poupee.

     La Poupee is a French store/kiosk that sells make-up, perfume, hair things…general women stuff. Anyway, I see the name and I point it out to Noah (who at the age of 8 thinks bodily functions and parts are the kings of comedy). I say, "What's the name of that store?" and point to the sign. He studies it for a few seconds and says, "La Poopie?" I confirm his pronunciation is correct and wait for his response. He has a good laugh but it doesn't end here. We walk up to the counter and I'm begging him to ask the lady at the counter the name of the store but he's chickening out. Melissa is watching this entire thing but has remained on the sidelines, until now. Seeing that we’re hesitant on how far to take this, she walks up to the counter, "Excuse me, what's the name of your store?" and the women says in a Filipino accent (because she‘s Filipino of course), "La Poo-pee" and Melissa repeats back, "La Poo-pee and the lady says "Yes, La Poo-pee." Noah begins to howl with laughter - loud, uncontrollable, wonderful laughter from the heart of a child. The woman behind the counter asks Melissa what's wrong with him. “I don't know, he's crazy," and then draws her away from us by asking questions about their products. Way to go mom.

     It was a pie in the face, a rubber chicken, Who's on First, The Three Stooges, "Lucy I'm home" all at once. I'm crying with laughter alongside an 8 year old boy. Say it in English or say it in any language you want and it still comes out the same. The Poopie Store. When you can see the world through the eyes of a child, the world transforms to something of awe, wonder and adventure.  And I think that’s how it was always supposed to be viewed (before the bills came along).  

Chapter 6

    Our backyard was the worst one on the compound. The last two villas, of which we were one of them, did not have a water system (sprinklers). All the other villas did and therefore sustained plant life. Ours sustained desert weed life, Arab tumbleweeds. And Sand. Lots of sand. Susan, our next door neighbor, had a water line ran from her tank on the roof to her backyard and had hired a gardener. Her backyard was beautiful. A small grass lawn with flowers and flowering bushes along her back walls and fence. We had sand and giant desert weeds (reminded me of our lawn back in the U.S. but just bigger weeds). The policy of the management company was not to do anything to backyards so it was our responsibility. Melissa wanted a nice yard too where we could sit outside in the cooler winter months. But ultimately our sand yard would serve her next evil plans for me.

     We have always had animals. Dogs, cats, mice, gerbils, turtles, guinea pigs, fish, rabbits, lizards, you name it. I don’t have anything personal against any of them, in fact, I like animals very much. But there comes a time in a father’s life, where he’s done with dog poop and cat pee. It’s not being mean, it’s just that I’m ready for a new chapter in my life without the responsibility of taking care of animals. Melissa knows how I feel, not like that’s ever stopped her though. "Can we get the kids a cat?"

"No. We don’t need a cat."

"It would be a rescue."
"I’m sure it will be rescued by someone else."
"The kids need this (she needs it) and it would give them something familiar," (poop and pee).
"No. I am firm on this. No animals, no cat!"

     I come home from work and Melissa informs me that she saw a scorpion on our back patio. "What? Scorpions?"

"Yes." I grill her on the circumstances, the size, the color, etc. We tell the kids to stay out of the backyard for now. The next day I tell someone at work that we have scorpions and they ask where we live. Yep, the guy that lived here before said the same thing. There is also another person still on the compound, Naleene, had scorpions too. I haven’t met this person yet, but I email her. She confirms that she found scorpions in her house, in her bathtub. They had gotten in somehow and couldn’t get out. Okay. So I respond to her email, how did you get rid of them? I’m thinking they must sell some scorpion-b-gone traps or sprays. Naleene emailed me back. “Get a cat, they eat scorpions.” So now we have a cat, a stray rescue, Noozy. Well played Melissa. Later, after we had the cat (so I knew there were no hidden motives - Melissa) Noah spotted a scorpion in the backyard before it burrowed into the sand. I don’t go out back anymore.

Chapter 5

     I started my diet today. Breakfast was ½ cup oatmeal, ½ cup blueberries and a cup of skim milk. I brought some apples in for the week for snacks. Lunch will be a small salad with a little olive oil and lemon juice. My first week eating at the College cafeteria, I had a fatoosh salad; romaine lettuce, cucumber, tomato, garlic, parsley, green onion and sumac, a bright-red spice with a great lemony taste. Then you toast some flat bread, break that into pieces and mix it into the salad. It’s my all-time favorite but when I had it that day there was a small piece of concrete in it and I cracked a back tooth (I knew I should have ordered the Fatoosh, sans concrete bits. Shoot!).

     HCT is one of three institutions of post-secondary education run by the government (like our state schools – Go Buckeyes!). Zayed University (ZU) and United Arab Emirates University (UAEU) are the other two. There’s no shortage of private colleges and universities owned by various sheikhs, but these three are the oldest (24 years for HCT), government funded, and only for Emirati citizens. There are 17 HCT campuses throughout the 7 Emirates with each location having a men’s only campus and a women’s only campus. Outside of private schools, there is no co-education. Having three daughters and three sons myself, I don’t really object to separating the zooming testosterone levels of both sexes.

     It took me about a year to really understand the operations of the College and exactly what I was expected to do. In the U.S. my title was Executive Dean. I ran the business, technical and non-credit educational departments. Here, I’m the Chair of Business but the functions of the two are very similar. Hire and supervise faculty, address student concerns, and contribute to the overall management of the institution. But the culture here really wants to blame someone for anything that’s not perfect – which means always blaming someone, sometime for something. Blaming up, down, sideways, and deflecting blame to someone else when it’s your turn to participate. When blame is first on the list, everything else, including quality education becomes secondary.

     Female Emiratis are all dressed head to toe in a light weight black material including the students. A black scarf called a shayla covers their head and neck with only their face showing. Some of the girls, very few, also wear a veil so only their eyes are seen (quite challenging on exam day to confirm who is actually taking the exam). The rest of their bodies are covered by an abaya which covers their arms, down just over their shoes. Their dress is tied to their families’ cultures and belief in Islam to cover the flesh for modesty. What most in the West don’t understand is that under these black waves are the top designer fashions from Paris and New York. The students are smart, they are funny, polite, respectful, and in many ways very similar to college students anywhere – just trying to figure out where they fit in, and where they want to go. And yes, all classes are in English. I couldn’t imagine going to college and all my classes in Arabic. I would have flunked out the day. They come to us from high schools where they have had limited English. Then they go into what’s called Foundations, which is up to two years of English and math. When they reach a certain level of proficiency, they enter either the Diploma program (similar to our Associates Degree), the Higher Diploma (a three year degree the Canadians made up) or the bachelor’s degrees. Perhaps the biggest difference is that they must obey their guardians (father, brother, uncle, husband) about everything. This is not the Taliban’s abuse of women, and the ladies here have much more rights than any other Gulf country. But ultimately the male head of the family has the final say.

     Rauda was in her last class for her Diploma degree (like our Associates degree). She had been at the College for four years working towards this and was now doing Work Experience; a class where the students work at a business, 40 hours a week, for eight weeks. Because the College also has need of students, she was employed at our Interactive Learning Center which is a fancy academic name for the library. Four weeks into the assignment, her brother came to the College and removed her. He was very upset about something…something about her lying to him about classes, or grades, or attendance. While many College staff, supervisors, and counselors tried discussing this with him, it didn’t matter. Rauda was forced (not physically) to sign her own withdraw paper – four week short of meeting all her degree requirements. I was able to speak with her before she left. “It is my brother’s wife. She does not want me to have an education so she causes trouble for me.” It was very hard for me to respond. What kind of advice do you give? This wasn’t about her grade point average, or disruptions in class, or a hundred other things that are “normal” problems in education. “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” was the only thing I could come up with. “Enshallah,” (if it’s God’s will). I repeated back, “Enshallah,” and watched her walk away. My heart began to sink thinking that this was probably the last time I would see her. She was so close to finishing. But then I said again to myself, Enshallah, God willing. God is in charge. Nothing happens to anyone that He is not fully aware of. While it can be used with the same emphasis as we say ‘bless you’ after a sneeze (I mean we don’t really stop and think I’m asking God to bless this person), it does not change the meaning. God, thank you for helping Rauda and her family (and sometimes that help isn’t apparent to us at the moment). Then I turned and walked into my office where more students were waiting.

     Fatima stopped by my office to talk about her schedule. I quickly sort that out and then trying to get to know the students I asked her what class she has next. She tells me she has a project to present today.

"What about?"

"Plastic bugs on desserts are number one killer of camels in the UAE."

I repeated back, “Plastic bugs on desserts kill camels?” She nods yes. I immediately picture in my mind an Emirati family in the desert having a picnic. There’s a picnic basket on a red checkered tablecloth with plates and bowls of hummus and Arabic bread. At the end of the cloth sits a dessert. A large sheet cake, white icing, with 6 inch tall plastic bugs decorating the top of it…maybe a giant praying mantis. I imagine they are off playing some game in the sand (Jarts?) and a wild camel wanders over and eats the plastic praying mantis off the cake before they can shoo him away. Of course he chokes and dies. I don’t know why they would decorate with large plastic bugs but I’m sure it’s a cultural thing. Still curious I ask, "Where do the plastic bugs come from?" I mean if there's a place nearby I'd love to get some plastic bugs for Noah.
"All stores."
"Really? All the stores sell plastic bugs?" She could see the puzzlement on my expression.

"Bugs. Bugs, like when you buy something at the store and they put it in a bug for you." "Ohhhh, bags! Plastic bags! Ohhhh, plastic bags in the desert are killing the camels. I get it."

"Yes, they twist the camel’s stomachs and they die."
"Oh, that’s really sad." But there was some comfort in knowing they didn’t decorate large sheet cakes with giant plastic bugs. They might still play Jarts though.

Chapter 4
 

     We had always been a family of adventurers but this was definitely much bigger than the Sunday drive where I would become lost to wherever I was going to, which then qualified it as an “adventure.” To the disbelief of our friends and family, I had taken a job as the Chair of Business Programs for The Higher Colleges of Technology (HCT) in the Emirate of Abu Dhabi.

      Arriving for the first time to the Emirates, in August, during Ramadan (their holy month of Islam), is the worst time we could have arrived. The heat is in the 120s, and everything is closed during the daytime for fasting. Hot and hungry. And that’s exactly when we arrived, August 19 (a day after I turned 48 and a day after my daughter turned 16). Years ago as a young man in the U.S. Foreign Service Diplomatic Corps, I had lived in Saudi Arabia, Lebanon, Gabon, Columbia, and London, but this was the first time my wife, Melissa, my teenage daughter, Haley, and my son Noah had been out of the country, let alone to a culture so vastly different than what they knew. No matter how much research you do on the Internet, no matter how many pictures or stories you read about it, nothing comes close to the real thing. And that’s doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Of course for the girls and Noah it did!

 

     For the girls, getting used to the UAE did not mean just the heat and the language. It meant being stared at every single second they were out in public by the laborers. Both were blonde and blue eyed, and uncovered, so they stood out in this area of the UAE. Most of the time the men stared out of curiosity (just not a lot of blondes in the mountain villages of Pakistan) but there are also ugly male pigs everywhere in the world, including here. This type of behavior and other low-life criminal activity (like watching Jersey Shore or The Kardashians) are actually silently encouraged by the power to keep the masses occupied from realizing what’s going on. It seems to be working very well, too.

     My daughter and wife will say that the Internet has been a lifeline that keeps them going as they adjust to life here but I see it as just the opposite, especially for my daughter. People move from their home towns all the time and while it is normal to miss those friends we’ve made, we must now live in the new home, and make new friends. The Internet just prolongs the pain by allowing her to live in a dual world. Facebook is such an ugly tool for teenagers. All the nastiness one could ever want just a few clicks away.

     Living here also meant a more modest dress code than what my wife and daughter were used to, especially my daughter. It’s not that Haley dressed provocatively in the U.S. but here in Al Ain women are not allowed to wear shorts, or show their shoulders. The 16-year-old brain often wants to fight against anything it doesn’t understand (which is just about everything) so while she complied, she hated complying and made sure we hated her hating complying! This coupled with the fact that she had to leave her first boyfriend to come here meant a very unhappy camper. “That’s stupid,” seemed to be her battle cry and my normal response of wisdom was, “No, it’s not.” It was an intellectual draw.

     Melissa on the other hand is the rock of the family, most of the time. She’s very good at being strong for me, to pick up where I have failed. She is the love of my life and without any doubts my better half. As we were awaiting Haley’s resident visa we had to do what’s called “the Oman trip.” The border to Oman was right next to Al Ain. This trip isn’t a nice, relaxing few days in Oman but a pure border run to get a new entry visa. Since a visitor’s visa is only good for 30 days, people that didn’t have their residents visa yet had to leave the country (Oman) and turn around and come right back in. A new stamp, another 30 day visitor’s visa, another 30 days to get the resident visa completed. We had to do a few of these trips while the paperwork was being sorted out. On the last trip, we were still driving a rental car so they wouldn’t let me take it across the border without permission from the rental car company. We ended up parking the car on the UAE side and walking over the border. It was no more than a half mile to the Omani station but there was no pedestrian walkway, just desert. After Haley’s first favorite statement “that’s stupid,” her next one was, “It’s hot,” as if each time was a new revelation on the weather.

"It’s hot."

"Yes, it’s hot. We get it, you’re hot. It’s the desert, it’s hot here. Yesterday was hot, today is hot and guess what? Tomorrow will be hot too!"

"Why are you so mean?" Then of course, the workers traveling over the border in trucks slowing down to stare at Haley and Melissa. All she had to do, to help alleviate this, was to wear a hat, a baseball cap, and sunglasses. But noooooo.

"I won’t change for those pigs." (Uh, just as an FYI, never call a Muslim an animal name - extremely insulting).
"No one is asking you to change for them. Nor a permanent, lifelong decision to always wear ball caps. It’s just to cover your blonde hair as we walk across the desert. Lawrence of Arabia did it."
"Whatever." And Noah, being a boy, was all over the place. "You’re too far in front. Come back here. There’s things out there that can kill you. Don’t touch that..." Finally Melissa and her rock collection. She’s picking up rocks alongside the road.
"Why are you doing that?"
"They’re Omani rocks." We had started collecting rocks and shells from the various places we’d visit. She shows me one of her rocks.
“That’s a piece of broken-up concrete.” I throw it back to the ground as she gasps.  
"Just stop it. Our goal is to get to the visa place, get our passports stamped, and then walk back to the UAE so we have another 30 day visa. Period. Not exploration. Not women’s rights. Not rock collecting. Now all of you, stop it!" Then all hell broke loose with all of them fighting me, fighting each other, name calling.
"You know, they are not going to let us back into the country fighting like this!" But by the time we got to the Emirati border post, we all walked in silent, beaten down by the fighting and the heat. The visa was good for another 30 days, but whether we would make that long was another thing.   

Chapter 3

     When we arrived my weight was around 210 pounds. Since I’m 5’10” tall (really I’m 5’9”  but I’m sure I was taller 20-30 years ago so I’ll go with that) I’m what you would call a little stocky. But the weight is on the frame of a football lineman, a former U.S. Marine, and there was a time I had muscle so it wasn’t like 210 was really that out of shape. I do need to work on this as soon as we settle in. I’ll start back in the gym and the pool, eating right. In the meantime, I do need to buy a few larger pairs of pants for work, just to see me through.

     Strays are animals or people, abandoned or escaped, without a home. An expat (expatriate) is not much different than the stray cats and dogs wandering the streets here. We come from everywhere looking for something, and that something is unique to each of us. Strays are by no means unique to Abu Dhabi. In fact, there are probably more strays the U.S. then here, just based on the percentage of the population. They are in every country on the planet. It’s just that here, the demographic and cultural make-up of the United Arab Emirates is so unique, that they are more easily spotted than other multi-cultural locations. This is because of what I call the Reverse Cultural Prism that is predominant here. In other countries there are citizens, and their cultures from around the world, living in a singularly defined society, that of the host country. The national make-up of citizens in the U.S. and most European countries consist of people who came from all over the world. They assume, to some extent, the culture of their new country. But in a Reverse Cultural Prism, there is not a single host culture that defines how others would blend with it. Instead, the host culture, by default, is a mixture of all cultures, but all remain seperate. Again, we’re not talking about a ‘melting pot’ that melts into one, but a mixture of countless cultures that must coexist alongside each other with very distinct traits and characteristics. It is because of this Cultural Prism that strays are easier to recognize here than in other locations. The UAE has over five million inhabitants of which approximately only one million are Emirati, and even that number is questionably high. My Emirati student’s think it’s much smaller. “Much smaller, sir,” Khadijah said, with her classmates agreeing. “Real Emiratis, there are only 600,000.” When I ask what they mean by “real” Emiratis she explains, “The families that have always lived here, before it was a country.” The others with Emirati citizenship were not original Bedouins but those that were awarded citizenship or married into it. It’s not like the U.S. where we are the great melting pot of the world. There are more nationalities working in the UAE then anywhere in the world, but they are contracted by the Emiratis and while they build the roads, the country, they are not eligible to ever become citizens, regardless of how long they live here. Even those that marry Emiratis are not guaranteed citizenship, and when citizenship is granted, the benefits that go with that are not. Each citizen is provided tremendous benefits including free education, free medical, no interest home loans, land, and high salaries in the government sector. This government giveaway has been both a blessing and a curse to the country. The blessing is that it has allowed the development of a new country. The curse is that it has created a system where citizens expect all of this and more, not as a tool until they can sustain themselves, but as a right. It’s like the U.S. welfare system on steroids. This has created a country where people expect to leave school (even high school or less) and go into management positions. There is no such thing as an Emirati taxi driver or carpet cleaner. These jobs are felt to be below them and will also be staffed by others, as long as the oil money continues to flow. Probably not that much different than what we evolved to in the U.S. with migrant Latin American workers picking fruit and making our clothes. But that is changing too.  I do not mean to paint the picture where all Emiratis are wealthy - that is not the case at all. In fact, in some of the small Emirates, they struggle with everyday needs and wants like everyone else. Transmissions go, there's a budget for food and utilities, and they make the best of it like we all do.

    

     As for us, we have a home in Michigan, a mortgage in Michigan, and a home provided to us here. While I often feel as if I don't belong anywhere, as I watch the collapse of our country due to the greed of bankers and inept politicians, I try to keep focused that we are blessed...because it's true. Because it's true. I have a job. Thank you God.

Chapter 2

     The number of unemployed people looking for work in the United States is approximately 268 gazillion, of which many of those are in my State of Michigan. Once the automobile and greed capital of the world (both union greed and management greed), now only greed and unoccupied foreclosed homes remain. Those that eat their young are not capable of understanding the consequences of their actions, hence they will never change. They simply do not, nor will ever, care beyond their own wants. So be it. As my Scottish Dean says, “Ta!”

     The world is in a transitional stage not seen in the last few generations, and for the U.S. it is in the crippling stage of a new industrial and social-economic revolution that has been prolonged by our inability to define and accept these new commercial paradigms. Because of this entrenchment of the old, it becomes even more agonizing to the working (fewer all the time) populous. That’s why we’re in Abu Dhabi. I lost one house already and will not allow them to take another one. Our retirement funds have been depleted so our future is bet on Social Security – a losing bet. So, to make our mortgage payments, at the age of 48, which is far from the ideal time to make a career move, I pulled my daughter out of her junior year of high school (yeah, that went over well), my son out of 3^rd grade and my wife from her college studies to travel 10,000 miles away from our home, family and friends, and move to the United Arab Emirates. Americans in the Middle East, without body armor – go figure. But I am working, I am making those mortgage payments. I am providing for my family.  And while this move in itself may seem like a big life change, it is merely my last-ditch-effort to still live the American Dream. James Truslow Adams coined that term in his 1931 book, The Epic of America. According to Adams, “that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.” I wish I was that noble but really I’m just trying to pay the bills…the new American Dream.

Living the New American Dream by Alan Yeck

Chapter 1

     There was always a smell of concrete dust, diesel fuel, and old garbage hanging in the air. It was a beautiful compound of a 150 villas in a modern Arabic design complete with a big clubhouse, large swimming pool, workout room, and basketball and tennis courts. Date trees, that bore actual dates, were in front of every yard. The streets within the compound were all red brick with a small concrete sidewalk that matched the curves of the street. Very aesthetically pleasing to look at but way too bumpy for my 10-year-old skateboarding son. The old garbage smell came from the large, grey rubbish bins (trash dumpsters, but the English were here first so we use their vernacular) that were scattered every dozen or so villas – the community rubbish drop-offs. These were not the kind of bins where a truck pulled up and used hydraulics forks to empty them but rather emptied by hand. I would watch from our kitchen window, hiding my curiosity, and shame, behind the blinds, as the maintenance crew of Bangladeshis crawled into each one, rags over their noses and mouths, taking the garbage out and putting it into a large wheeled cart with tall, green meshed metal sides. By the time they were pushing it out the back gate, to take to an even larger bin, it was so big that it reminded me of the loaded sleigh in The Grinch that Stole Christmas, only instead of being packed to overflowing with toys and gifts, it was banana peels, rotten meat, and all the other disgusting things humans toss out.  The bins were never cleaned and depending on the time of the day, the smell could be less noticeable, but that was probably more from us becoming accustomed to it than that it ever actually dissipated to a zero on the stink scale.

     The compound was located in the area called Sanayis, about 15 minutes from my work. Housing compounds were not just for Westerners but for anyone who could afford them (the cost was somewhere between the expensive free-standing homes, and the rundown apartments in town center). We had Emiratis, Syrians, Egyptians, British, Australians, and a few Americans besides us. It was located in the industrial area of the city of Al Ain, which is an hour and a half from either Dubai or Abu Dhabi (or much less if you drive like a maniac, which isn’t uncommon here). It was also where the cement factory was located. It didn’t have the billowing smoke stacks associated with Western pollution but instead there was always a light haze of smog in the air consisting of millions of tons of smashed rocks. I could feel it in my mouth, mixing with my saliva. If I didn’t swallow I was certain my tongue would soon be encased in concrete.

     As I left our villa and drove to work I passed hundreds of men, uneducated, low-skilled workers, alongside the roads to their jobs at the cement factory, construction sites, grocers, souks, or small industrial automotive shops that cover the neighborhood. I’m guessing the majorities are from Pakistan or Yemen but all wear what’s called a Salwar Kameez, or to best describe it, a long pajama shirt and pajama bottoms. Various colors but mostly white or shades of white. All wear sandals, and that’s what I began to think about at the stop light. I’d like to wear sandals to work every day. The whole dress shoe thing is so over rated. I mean if you have to work on a construction site and need steel-toed boots, that’s one thing, but to have to tie up your feet every day because that’s how real business people do it is just ridiculous. How nice to have my feet free of laces and socks. Socks? Socks! No one in the Middle East wears socks, only sandals. Think of how much money they save in not having to buy socks. The population of the Middle East is something around 500 million. Now, if they had to buy socks (including women’s hose and children’s’ foot coverings), and using a very conservative estimate of a dozen pairs a year, and again using a very conservative price of $1 per pair or $12 per year, that would be six billion dollars a year. Six billion dollars a year to spend on things other than socks. Holy crap! How much does the U.S. spend on socks that we could be curing diseases or building homes for the poor (an ever increasing number). Think how much money I could have saved over my 50 years of life on socks. I could have been retired by now and fishing in an actual boat instead of from the shore, all from sock money. I hate socks. Then the light turned green and I resumed my very expensive sock-wearing trip to work.