Desperately Seeking Souks

Today, I went searching for the spice souk ("Souk" means: open air market).  This is what it's supposed to look like:

A wonderful market where everyone says "Hail Fellow, Well Met!" or some such nonsense.  A place that you can smell 5 kilometers away:

At least, that's what I thought it would be like.  Because I believed the literature:  brilliant colors, intoxicating smells, to describe it as "unique" would be an insult.  I believed that I couldn't miss it.
The Souk is located in Deira, which is where I'm staying and is only a couple of kilometers away, so naturally I figured I would walk there.  Who can get lost in a place like this?  Where English is a recognized, if secondary, language, and this souk is apparently immediately recognizable by odor alone.

Let me tell you, friends, that nothing is as easy at it seems.  The walk along Dubai creek was wonderful, and although I was pouring out gallons of sweat while drinking mere quarts of water, after about 1/2 hour I figured I was pretty close to the souk.  I smelled something, and while I wouldn't have called the odor "intoxicating," it was definitely something different.  So, I followed my nose.

Was I ever wrong.

I found the Gold Souk (same idea as the Spice Souk, only with...you know...gold.)

 

I wasn't greeted with any of the niceties I expected (Welcome, Friend et. al.).  I got plenty of offers for necklaces, for imitation Rolex watches, a couple of "marry my daughter"s, and a nasty realization that sometimes it doesn't hurt to ask where I'm trying to go.  However, ever the explorer, and refusing to give way to some silly sense of "Uhhhhhh...where am I again?" I headed back onto the streets.

I saw this hotel, while still trying to find my souk, and finally realized why green and blue are such prevalent colors here.  Green is the color of heaven (and just in case anyone is counting, it has a wavelength of 520-570 nanometers): 

If one only knows the desert, which has a dearth of vegetation, obviously green will mean a haven/heaven.  The lush bounty reflected from the leaves of trees surrounding the blue water in the midst of such a terrible and heartless landscape would symbolize an escape from a constant struggle life is.  Green is rest, green signifies water, green is peace.  Thus, heaven.
If only peace were as easy to find as an oasis in the desert.
Anyhoo, I was still wandering, still trying to find my spice souk.  And I was getting further and further away.  I only know this because I've got a directional gift:  I almost always know where started from, but I never know where I'm going, nor do I know how to get there.  If only I had those green blocks to show me the way.

قد تجد دائما أخضر
(May You Always Find Green)

This sand is a grit worth tasting

sometimes

  i wish i could trap the words i hear

and change them into calico kittens

  that chase purple balloons into a dark alley.

sometimes
  the way people look at me reminds me
of a carnival ride i can never disembark nor forget.

sometimes

all i can see are neon lights

but what i want to see is in the shadows.

sometimes

  the symbols we use to write mean more than the message
we are trying to convey,

and if i could somehow taste those...letters...i could understand more.

more about mothers, more about sacrifice,

more about sorrow.

sometimes

i believe i shouldn't think these things,

because thoughts which have no solution,

no answer, and no reason

are best left unthought.

but more often,
i am reassured about how fortunate
i am that i think this way.

water never tastes better

than when it washes away the sand

between my teeth.

and my teeth are gritty.

The End of Ramadan, and a broke-ass m*****f*****.

Tonight, September 19th, 2009, marks the end of Ramadan, and tomorrow is the beginning of Eid, so everyone greets each other with Eid Mubarak, which means "blessed festival."

To us non-muslims, this means that the rest of the year opens up...we can drink water on the streets, we can eat during the day, we can smoke, and if called upon, we can have sexy-time during the day.  The funny thing about Eid, Ramadan, and the rest of the Islamic calendar is that the entire edifice is based on the lunar cycle. 

 

The Middle East (or at least this part of it) has been a repository for astronomic knowledge for centuries, but the end of Ramadan depends, not on the calculations of men but, on the eye-witness event of the actual crescent moon (called hilal).  In Dubai, the only official "expert moon-watchers" reside in Saudi Arabia, which means that if I spotted the crescent moon two days ago, it wouldn't count, because I am not A.) expert, nor 2.) in Saudi Arabia. 

Obviously, this follows a grand tradition of moon based religious festivals:  Easter, Chinese New Year.  But, what is the point of this? I don't know.  Today is today, regardless of if you call it September 20th or Shawwal 1st.  Don't we all have the same date in our bones, the same sun on our skins, the same night for our dreams?  Ramadan is the month the Prophet received the Word from Jibrail (Gabriel), so why is there a fast?  Lent marks the 47 days before Easter, and it also contains an element of fasting.  Why?  Where is the joy?  I think that's what is missing from the religions of the sun:  the joy in a revelation, the joy in a resurrection, the joy in the freedom.  

Broke Ass:
After my 11 hour day of GMAT and SAT work, I went to Champs bar to have a beer in celebration of Eid.  My own personal celebration of Eid.  There I was, enjoying a haraam beverage

(and yes, Dorito's are haraam...there is pork fat in there...sorry vegetarians), sitting in the darkened room, when I accidentally made eye-contact with a prostitute who was sitting at the bar.  She smiled, I smiled, and she started to get up.  I made the universal sign of "Don't come over here," which involved me grabbing my throat and falling to the floor, convulsing.  She understood, so she stayed at her seat.  After a few more beers (it's Eid, people...don't judge me), I made eye contact again, and she obviously smiled at me.  I had no idea what to do, so I wrote something on a napkin and made a paper rose out of it (Thanks, Brian Chapman!).

On the napkin, I had written that I couldn't enjoy her company, because 1) I would fall in love too easily, and B) I was a Broke Ass M*****F*****.  I watched her open the rose, I watched her read it, and I watched her drop my rose and follow me to the elevator.  She caught up with me, and started talking about love and such, so I had to ask her if she knew what "broke ass" meant.  She said "You like broke?"  I just started laughing and said I could afford to get her a taxi to take her home, but nothing else.  She was aghast, slapped me, and said "don't ever take me away from my bar seat unless you afford sexy."  Hahaha.  Brilliant.  I love making those kinds of mistakes.

Night Exploration

Tonight, I went walking.  The area I live in is called Deira, and there are just so many amazing things, I can't even begin to describe them.

This is a statue that is next to the Reef Mall.  The water is desalinated, and is from the Gulf.  There is such a disconnect here between what is and what was.  Even if I wanted to I couldn't catch this type of fish here, and no one has ever been able to.

This is the clocktower, and if you are ever here in Dubai and want to get to the "old town," just tell the taxi driver to take you to the clocktower.  North of this are more malls, but west of here are the wonderful spice markets, rug merchants, and a significant portion of people who don't speak English.

Just north of the clocktower is this wonderful mosque.  It's not as fancy as some of the others here, but it is really beautiful.

 

This is the sign on the street side of the mosque.

This is what was at the Ladie's prayer entrance.  After I took this picture, a couple of women in burkas (also known as burqa) left, and I almost took a picture of them.  But, respecting the culture and the beliefs here, I decided I wouldn't.  But here's what they look like:

They are Darth Vader type masks, but for women who lack the Force.  (As an aside, I've heard 2 pro-burka speeches since I've been here:  The burka protects the modesty of the woman, and allows her to focus on the Prophet's word.  Or, the burka allows a young woman to dance at a club without the fear of being recognized, because no one other than her father and brothers have ever seen her face.  I'm pretty sure that the latter is more true.)  The less radical type of covering is the hijab (which can also mean "Modest Dress"), and is seen more often.  This is what it looks like:

While talking to women wearing hijabs, it is easy to estimate their reactions.  Those who are in the burkas are much more hidden, and obviously that's on purpose.  I've spoken to a couple of burka-bound women, who told me that they choose the covering.  I asked them if they did it because they were scared or fearful of something, and they said they weren't...they did it because it was the wish of their husband (or father).  Then I told them that it just looked "damn hot."  They laughed and said that I looked "damn hot" because I was sweating like a maniac.  They were right.  I was damn hot.  The people here are so wonderful.

Dubai is not the "Las Vegas" of the Middle East

I tutored two Muhammeds  (Muhammed Essmat and Muhammed Athilbini) in the GMAT tonight.  M. Althilbini underwent back surgery, so I had to teach at his house.  Essmat drove me there, and during our drive I happened to mention the prevailing US belief that Dubai was the Las Vegas of the middle east.  Essmat laughed and said: "Dubai is not Las, and it has no Vegas."  That sums it up.  Both Muhammeds work in the financial sector of Dubai, and know that it is an empty city.  A wonderful infrastructure, but that infrastructure is only supporting sand.  As in, literal sand.

There are so many bricks that don't fit here, you can actually see the sand underneath them.  And the sand is voracious.


When I arrived, I was greeted by a Lon Chaney type...only more Arabic and less talkative.

 

His name is Sharif, and after a twenty minute ride (in complete silence), he pulled in front of Falcon Towers, next to Al Maktoum Road.  We stepped into the elevator (meanwhile, I'm sweating like my body no longer cared about water...and every instinct of mine said "Now's the time...run...run") and then it opened onto the 16th floor.  He unlocked the door, threw a key at me, and said "3 tomorrow."  I had no idea what he meant.  When I scoped out the joint, this is what I saw:

Downtown Dubai, from a vantage point rarely seen.  On the left is the tallest building in the world, Burj Dubai.  On the right is where the "soon to be" tallest building in the world will be.   Dubai is fighting itself.  Las Vegas would never do that (unless you watched "The Cooler").

Sharif meant that I had an appointment at the office at 3pm.  But he wasn't really that good with English, and I wasn't that good at understanding his accent.  My appointment was essentially an introduction to Ramadan:  Don't drink water in public; don't eat in public; stop wearing shorts...for god's sake, don't you have better clothes?

No, Sir, I don't have better clothes.

When I think of things I should have said.

 

I can't think of anything more.  We shared a beer or two, and we left each other:  Stay safe, stay clean, stay real.  I'm pretty sure I'm staying real, Eliseo.  Pretty sure.This is the last poem he sent me:

Fragments of Your Broken Mirror

a lion-like yawn

               ghost surface of water

moonlight on rows

   of unkept tombstones

                                 a glass full of white wine

     exhaled smoke

  the fragile arc of your smile

the shape of

  your touch

               any morning in spring

     a small bird singing

in your heart

                      the last and brightest light

                       of a dying star

         being afraid to move

   hidden pictures

in the ceiling

                                 make-up in the

                            orange light

   another curse, old and

familiar.

gently, I help you pick up the pieces

and only manage to cut myself

twice

the last shard grins

through a mouthful of blood

but mirrors only know the taste

of reflected light

I put my cut fingers into

my mouth

and taste the pulse, the music

of my heart, tongue sliding across

the song of

   a small bird

  

all the reflected moments of your life

and mine

scattered across the floor

like crazy laughter

made of glass

and in the enormous silence

that follows

your hand slips into mine

and we reflect

one another:

pure sky seeing itself in the surface of

the open sea

where nothing ends

anymore.

The Blog's Name

One week ago, I was sitting through an interminable training.  TOEFL training, to be specific.  During one of our breaks Erica, a lovely older woman from New Zealand who lives in Ras Al Khaimah, mentioned some of the things about R.A.K. (that's what the natives call it) she wasn't particularly fond of.  The other trainees (not me, as I'd only been in country 1.5 weeks) tried to counter her arguments with positives about RAK, such as the wonderful ocean view.  With a look of both disdain and sadness, Erica said "There are no flowers in Ras Al Khaimah."  What a sad thought, right?  No flowers?  It turns out she was exaggerating, as I travel to RAK 3 times a week, and have definitely seen flowers there.  Not a lot of them, but there are flowers there.  There are most likely flowers wherever we look.  Perhaps we just have to look closer.