Easter in the ME ... A Tale of Rising Again ...

Like all Christian holidays, Easter is just a day like any other here in the ME.  Since it always falls on a Sunday, it is always a working day (the work week runs Sunday to Thursday here, with Fridays, and for some of us, Saturdays, off).​

For this reason, we ​have taken to celebrating the holiday on the Saturday prior to Easter.  With a young child, we want her to experience the wonder of the day, so we've explained that the Easter Bunny comes a day early here so that he can have time to deliver chocolate and eggs all around the world (because apparently 24 hours is no longer enough with the World population growing by about 1.1 %* per year).

So how do we do Easter here?  Much like we would in Canada.  I wake up at 6:30 and realize that I've put off buying the chocolates about as much as I can.  Say a short prayer that kiddo will enjoy 12 hours of sleep; she went to bed at 10:00 p.m. - that should buy me enough time to make it to the store and lay out the requisite chocolate bunny poop/egg trail leading down the stairs to the magic chest that always reveals a magical hollow chocolate bunny.

8:30 a.m.:  Chocolate poop laid out, chocolate bunny purged and duly hollow, duty done, I set to work on the ham, lamb, mashed potato eggs and sweet potato carrots.  

Smilin' Vic ends up having to go upstairs to ​wake up kiddo at 10:15.  Even at age 7, she is still thrilled to see the magical poop trail.  It is proof that the Easter Bunny exists.  

She follows it down the stairs, and enjoys a breakfast of French Canadian crepes and Easter chocolate.  It doesn't get much better.  

We then discuss the true meaning of Easter, with me slightly taming the goriness of the crucifixion, yet trying to impart to her the teachings of my forefathers.  We talk about Jesus, and how he wanted to help everyone.  How he tried to take the blame for everyone.  And how he got a second chance because he was helpful.  (Simplified version I know, but this is the only way I can get it through to this expat child who simply thinks Jesus is a guy we talk to every night and who hangs out with Grandmaman because she's seen him in a picture on Grandmaman's living room wall.)

Smilin' Vic then takes kiddo away for the day to visit a local farm with some Qatari friends.  She gets to pet goats, ride a donkey and an Arabian horse, hold little birds, run with the oryx, feed fluffy chickens and camels, and chase doves.  Much like you might do at a petting zoo in the spring in Canada.

I stayed home and cooked to my heart's content.  Had a snooze on the couch.  Watched an amazing movie called "The Way" about a father's quest to finish his deceased son's journey along the Camino del Santiago (The Way of St. James).  Got inspired.  Showed Smilin' Vic the movie trailer on YouTube (see trailer below).  We've decided we're going to walk the +/- 800 km Camino del Santiago when kiddo heads off to university and we're in the throes of Empty Nest Syndrome.  We shook on it.  Solemn Easter Promise.

As is the case for every Christian celebration in the ME, we invited someone over to join us for dinner.  We rarely have our 'social' friends over on these occasions.  We usually try to invite someone Christian who might not have anywhere else to go on a 'special' day.  Sometimes it's the maintenance or security or gym staff from our compound.  Sometimes it's a Nepali or Indian contract worker from work.  Sometimes it's an Asian hairdresser who I've grown close to.  

This year, we had only our maid and her niece, who's recently arrived from the Philippines and is working for a family for whom our maid used to do part-time work.

It's always a blessing.  It's nice for me to be able to serve the people who help me every single day.  ​To send them away without getting them to do a single bit of work.  To serve them, clear their dishes, ask them if they'd like coffee or tea or anything else.  

But my maid and her niece instinctively got up to do the dishes.  It took Smilin' Vic to sit them back down, get them to enjoy, get them to relax.  It went against their nature.  But we finally managed to get them to relax around the table.  

We had a few belly laughs.  We saw a few tears.  My maid's niece is only 28.  She has left a 2-yr-old and an 8 yr-old back in the Philippines.  She spent five months sleeping on a wooden cot, no mattress, in the agency in Manila, away from her family, waiting to come to Qatar.  She arrived here to find that her husband had left her for another woman.  She did all this for her kids.  So that she can secure their future.  She misses them so.  She misses them SO.  Unfathomable agony.  We tried to make her laugh.  We let her shed a few tears.  

We tried not to feel guilty that our life in the ME allows us Easter dinner with our family.  We tried not to feel guilty that our life in the ME allows us LIFE with our family.  We tried not to feel guilty that our life in the ME is our life.  We tried not to feel guilty that sometimes we rue our life in the ME.  But in the words of Daniel, in "The Way":  "We don't choose a life Dad, we LIVE one."

These religious celebrations are my moments of redemption ... my attempt to repay those who have been so good to me.  I don't fool myself; a few days in the year don't make up for a year of servitude and sacrifice.  But they help bring clarity.  I get to enjoy just being home with friends.  I get to enjoy getting to know the people who mean the world to me.  I get to enjoy an extended family in a country where I have no family.  I get to enjoy these beautiful people who have sacrificed so much more than me to earn so much less than me.  I get to enjoy.

I get to enjoy.  I get to serve.  I get to hear others laugh.  I get to LISTEN.  I get to EMPATHIZE.  

And in the end, I get to feel GUILTY.  And a bit of guilt is good.  It feeds the soul; makes ones realize all that one should be grateful for.​

Canadians are not a society borne of class.  (Other than if you're from Toronto, Mouahahahahahaha!).  We just don't work that way.  

When you move to a foreign country where class is a factor, where class is a barrier, you have a really hard time.  But then we get these precious moments, where we get to sit around a table and just be who we are, and just enjoy who we are.  We get these precious moments where we realize more than ever that class is crap, class is a trap.  We get these precious moments where we realize that Easter is Easter, hope is hope, sadness is sadness, joy is joy.

We get these precious moments where we realize that being a mom is being a mom.  Here in the ME, in Canada, in the Philippines, in India, wherever.  Being a Mom is Being a Mom.  ​Having hope is having hope.  Being with friends is being with friends.  

Knowing that we are going to be ok.  Here in the ME, in Canada, in the Philippines, in India, wherever.  Because we are all here for a reason.  To earn more, to share more, to give more, to know more, to learn more, to live more, to grow more.  None of us came here to remain the same.  We are all here for Easter, for a resurrection of sorts, to rise again.  We are all here to rise again.

Happy Easter to you and to yours.  ​May you rise to the occasion you invite yourself to.  May you sit, and laugh, and cry and shout; may you seek the greatest moment in your life and strive to rise beyond it, strive to rise again.  May we all rise again, higher than we'd dreamed, to heights that know no bounds.  No matter what we choose, may we all LIVE.  Happy Easter.

​*According to my daily very likely erroneous Wikipedia reference.​

​Mashed potato Easter eggs and sweet potato carrots (Smilin' Vic called me an over-acheiving mom for not just making glazed carrots!).

Martin Sheen, plays Tom, an American doctor who comes to St. Jean Pied de Port, France to collect the remains of his adult son, killed in the Pyrenees in a storm while walking The Camino de Santiago, also known as The Way of Saint James.

Grocery Shopping in the ME (A Tale of Toilet Tissue) ...

Ever find yourself spending a lot more time at the grocery store than you'd anticipated?  It happens to me every time.  

I think I suffer from tunnel vision and concentration issues, and I can spend ten minutes just in front of the canned tomato display, wondering if I should opt for the bigger cheaper can, the chopped or whole, the basil-flavored American variety or the local brand, or maybe I should just buy fresh and stew up a pot myself?

It's ​one of my annoying quirks.  I have wasted many an hour comparing nutritional values, quantity vs. quality, fresh vs. vacuum sealed.  

But never have I been so stumped as a few weeks ago.  I found myself in front of the toilet tissue display.  ​Absolutely at a loss.  In the past I'd weighed the pros and cons of double vs. triple ply, white vs. patterned, environmentally friendly vs. plush, but never, never, ever had I been as flumoxed by a choice as on that day.  Scent vs. sensation?  I did the only thing I could, I bought both.  Because you just never know.

The pictures below depict my dilemma.

​Spring is in the air ... smell of flowers everywhere ...

But as you can see by the depleted stocks, this variety has proven most popular ...

Take Me Home James (Don't Drink and Drive)

It's nice to get a night out in the ME.  Nice to get a chance to go out for dinner, spend some time with friends.  Nights out with friends in the ME usually end up being a multicultural, multi-racial, multi-national, multidisciplinary, multi everything evening, filled with enjoying good food, good laughs, good drinks.​  

The good drinks are where most expats usually converge, usually find a huge sense of commonality.  The good drinks are usually where all differences fall to the wayside.  The good drinks are where we usually realize that we are all a sister from another mother, a fool from a different school.  The good drinks are often the foundation to good solid multi-friendships in the ME.

But more importantly, the drinks part is where expats, no matter culture, race, nationality or profession really need to take stock.  If you're going to have a 'good' drink, then here in the ME is as good a place as any to act responsibly and avoid driving whatsoever.

My involvement with the "Don't Drink and Drive" campaign dates way back to my high school days.  Even then, I was a firm believer that there was always a safer smarter way to get home than getting behind the wheel after ​a few 'smart pops'.  This advice coming from 'me', who's gotten so much smarter after smart pops; who loves to drink, and who loves to drive (well, not in the ME, but you've read all about that already).  

I just don't ever do the two together.

Assigning a "DD" (designated driver), calling a parent or friend, chipping in with the gang for a cab ... these were the typical answers to avoiding a potentially fatal end to a great night in Canada.  Even living in a rural area (read "isolated), for large scale events it was always possible, if not easy, to arrange for shuttles or buses to get people home as safely as possible.  The downside was that cabs, shuttles and buses could run you a fair price.  But my theory was that if I didn't have the moolah to pay for a cab, I didn't have the moolah to go out.  My cab moolah was always placed in a special pocket in my bag, my 'life line', ready for collection at the end of the night.

Here in the ME, it is doubly easy.  Most people here have a 'driver'.  This driver is not a full-time employee, but more a regular 'taxi' service that makes itself readily available to you by recognizing your name and number and making sure that you always have someone to get you to where you need to go.  Our driver comes with a network, so if he is not available he will make sure he sends along a trusted fellow.  You call or text, give your location, pick-up time and destination.  The driver in turn sends confirmation of said arrangements, and all is a go.  At most, you will have to shell out 60 riyals (about 18$ Canadian if you add on tip). 

You can call a cab, but this is usually ​as costly as a 'driver', and amazingly you have to book 4-5 hours ahead for a taxi during non-peak times!  But cabs are readily available outside hotels, so if you can catch one, this is also a viable option.

The other option outside hotels is a 'limo service'.  The 'limo' is never, in my experience, an actual 'limo', but more a high-end car (read Jag or Mercedes) provided by the hotel to shuttle home revelers.  These will likely set you back double and sometimes even triple the amount of a driver.​  Still a fair price for your head.

Because if you're stuck, a limo is still the best way to go.  Because even if you've only had a single gateway beverage, you are exceeding the ​zero tolerance legislated by the State.  No matter that the fool who rammed into you at 120 km/hr in a 60 km/hr zone was driving with his head stuck out the sunroof with his foot gunned to the pedal.  

YOU WILL BE IN THE WRONG.

 And ...  

YOU WILL LOSE EVERYTHING.

So why chance it?  

When I say lose everything, I mean if found guilty and sentenced to the max you will lose the right to live in this country.  You will lose your employment.  You will lose your housing.  You will lose your child's schooling.  Chances are your spouse will lose his/her employment.  You may well end up spending time in a ME jail.  If you injure or goodness forbid, kill someone, you will have to pay reparations.  But it gets worse.

You could lose your life.

And worst...    

You could take a life.

I fully support zero tolerance.  I believe zero tolerance can save lives.  But people have to believe it to buy into it.  If you are living in Canada, the UK, the USA, or any other first world country that allows 0.5 BAC (Blood alcohol content), or if you are living ANYWHERE, ask yourself why you would risk it?  The life of a child, if taken by your own hands, would be enough to end your life.  But if you had been drinking, what ​possible redemption could you ever find?

Don't do it.

 Simple as that.  

Don't do it.  

Don't Drink and Drive.

 Take Me Home, James.

By far the best anti DUI commercial I've ever seen. It's Australian, and I really wish the US wouldn't ban commercials like this. It's a very moving, and heart felt commercial, and anyone who's lost someone because of DUI can relate to this. Please don't drink and drive. Alcohol=FAIL

Me and the Clock that Stopped ...

There is a clock at work that stopped.  

I stare at it daily, increasingly frustrated that it refuses to keep time with all the other clocks.  ​

The time displayed on my computer is accurate.  My wrist watch is set five minutes fast, and has been for the last year, consistently, by choice.  The clocks in everyone else's offices are fine.  But the clock in my office ... well, it has stopped.​

It sits there motionless, nothing more than a distasteful reminder that a loss of purpose generates nothing but disdain.  

I looked into it about a year ago.  Tried to get it fixed.  I was told there was no maintenance contract for that particular clock.  

So I tried to get it replaced.  I was told I could not get it replaced;  it was part of a clock "network", linked to a series of clocks, all intricately connected to a central GPS receiver hidden somewhere deep in the bowels of the telecommunications room.  To replace that clock could potentially disrupt the entire system.

I was relentless.  There had to be a solution.  I begged and pleaded until I finally got a technical team to come have a look at the silent tickless instrument hanging useless on my office wall.  

Nothing was wrong with that clock they said.​

Something was obviously wrong.  The clock had stopped.  I asked them to take that clock apart.  They did.  They checked its internal workings.  

All fine.  They said that the clock on its own appeared fully functional. 

I persisted.  The clock was not broken.  But the clock had stopped.  There had to be an answer out there somewhere.

Someone sent in a telecoms team to check out the central GPS receiver.​

No problem with the receiver, they said.  

But that team seemed to get my frustration.  They sat down with me, explained that it can sometimes be hard to pinpoint the problem with these high-tech systems.  Sometimes there is simply a problem with the connection.  That connection is high maintenance, and without proper maintenance, it just fails.  This appeared to be the case.  And it appeared we were lacking the in-house expertise to resolve the obvious communications breakdown.

So I stared at that clock - the clock that stopped - for over a year.  Powerless.  Growing increasingly frustrated.  Increasingly aware that not only did that clock no longer serve a purpose, but that it was proving detrimental.  

Then one day, I had an epiphany.  I went back to basics.  Did I really need an expert to tell me what I already knew?  That it wasn't the clock's fault?  That it wasn't the system's fault?  That it was simply that the connection had irretrievably, irreparably broken down?

Simple as that.  The connection was gone.  And it was beyond my power to revive that connection.​

And it hit me ... I'd been stuck thinking that removing that clock would disrupt the entire system.  But if the connection was broken ... well there wasn't much chance removing it would create more turmoil than a minute hole in plaster, barely visible, easily repaired.​

And I knew.  Knew that the only two choices lay in ignoring the clock or removing the clock.   

I am that clock.  I am that clock that is perfectly functional but that no longer ticks.  Because the connection is gone.  

​I have sat virtually silent and motionless for over a year.  My reason for occupying my professional space is gone.  

Perhaps regular maintenance would have prevented the communications breakdown.  Perhaps an expert could revive the connection.  Perhaps another clock could revive that connection.  Perhaps I was just too high maintenance.  

But I've stopped dwelling on the why's.  I'm focusing on the how's.  I now know that that clock is me.  I am the clock that stopped.  I'm removing the clock.​  Because the clock's not broken.  And maybe, just maybe, with the right connection, the clock that stopped can learn to tick again.

An old clock that still ticks.  Tuscany, 2011

Me? I Drive a Hyundai in the ME ...

One of the things that assaulted me when I first moved to Qatar was the prevalence of high-end cars.  

Granted, the majority of vehicles we saw were Toyota Landcruisers, not necessarily luxury, but a favorite amongst the locals.  And at +/- 60,000 $ Canadian they certainly don't come cheap.

​But beyond that it seems I was surrounded by Range Rovers, BMW's, Mercedes, Porsche Cayenne's, ​Nissan Patrols, Suburbans, Lexus, Hummers, Cadillac Escalades, the occasional Ferrari or Lamborghini, and most recently, countless Rolls Royce Phantoms.

Cars are a big deal in the ME, and it's easy to get caught up in the wave of enticement that provides for interest-free car loans, 2 years no payments, and 0.33$ (CA) a liter gas prices.

Cars that your common Canadian would not dream of owning, not only because of the purchase price but also because of their gas guzzling drain on finances.  Movie cars, Hollywood cars, Joan Collins cars.  ​Not what you'd imagine as "get you to work and back driving through potholes in the desert"-type cars.

I'm not much of a car person.  But I must admit I was initially impressed by the chrome and rubber.  When we first moved here, ​I was surprised to find myself gazing longingly at the bevy of sexy rides stationed side-by-side in the parking garage of our temporary accommodation alongside our rental vehicle.  I would watch unshaven offshore workers sidle out of their Escalade, flustered moms of four drag groceries and snotty-nosed kids out of Volvo XC90's, fresh-faced 25-year-old's hightailing it in a Camaro.  Cars are a BIG thing in Qatar.

​We were driving a rental at the time.  A very discrete white Toyota Corolla.  If you are living in Qatar and not driving one of the above luxury rides, chances are you own a white Toyota Corolla.  Ours set itself apart only by the persistent smell of gasoline that pervaded every single square inch of fabric.  Obviously it had previously been driven by a refinery worker.

But otherwise it was a fine car; by Canadian standards it would be considered a perfect starter car, or a very reasonable, fairly environmentally-friendly, gas efficient city car.  But driving around in the midst of Landcruisers, Suburbans, Escalades, and Patrols, I couldn't help but feel really, really short.

Two months after we arrived, we decided it made sense to buy rather than rent.  We started looking around for the best possible buy.  After shopping around for a bit, we opted for a Hyundai Sonata.  After all, we weren't here to impress, we were here to earn a living, put away what we could, travel when the opportunity presented itself, and try as hard as possible to maintain the lifestyle that we'd enjoyed in Canada, no more, no less.  So we settled for that very reasonable, perfectly affordable, fairly environmentally-friendly Sonata.  

But I admit to occasional car envy.  I admit to feeling really short in traffic.  Try as I might, I have never managed to achieve coolness factor in that Hyundai.  I wear my shades, and turn the radio up real loud, but I have no CD player.  So at 3:00 p.m., stuck in traffic, you will hear either Edit Piaf belting it out on the QBS French hour or some Arabic rhapsody booming from my busted speakers.  

At one point I thought hanging a dice from my rear-view mirror, tinting the windows and adding some big rims and color might give me some street cred. Nothing came of it; it's still a pipe dream.  But who knows?  If I drive this car long enough, Smilin' Vic might be willing to let me paint it matte charcoal, slap on some big rims, tint those windows black as night and install a killer boom box on the rear dash in my final months in the desert.  

We've bought a second car since.  It is a decidedly cooler 4x4, but definitely not the super-butch, alpha-male, hormone-driven Ford F-150 Smilin' Vic pictures himself in.  It is a mid-sized, sedate, family-friendly, affordable 4x4.  I admit, there is some gratification in knowing that he hasn't got me totally beat on the coolness factor.

If you're thinking of moving to the ME, stay focused on your objectives.  If purchasing a super-cool, really big, or extremely expensive ride is a part of your five-year plan, you've come to the right place.  But if it's not, be wary of the temptation and desire to fit in with the big boys here.  I know more than a few expats who went out shopping for a sedan and came back home with a Hummer!  Cars are a big deal in the ME.  It's easy to get caught up in the hype.  But if you put your mind to it, it's not impossible to resist.​

Me?  I still drive a 7-year-old Hyundai in the ME!

​Pimp My Ride, Gypsy Style!

After-school run ... typical rides.  A far cry from the battered green Ford Fairmont my mom would pick me up in on the occasional days I didn't take the old yellow school bus!