We visited Salalah in Oman for a few days over the Christmas break. Since I am feeling too lazy to write a proper account of our travels, here is a lightweight substitute in form of random collected facts:
December may be the peak tourist season for pretty much every place in the northern hemisphere. But it is off season for Salalah. Go figure.
Reason is something called 'Khareef'- the monsoon season (surprise, surprise) which graces Salalah with rainfall from July-September, turning Salalah green. If you've lived in this part of the world long enough, you'll know what a big deal natural green is over here.
The headdress of Omani men is different from the head dress of Emirati Arabs. Instead of being long and flowing, it is short and tightly wrapped around the head.
The traditional dress of Omani women is different from the unicolour/black of Emirati Arab women. It is coloured, patterned and flowing, reminiscent of African traditional dresses.
Salalah has fancy lamp posts in some parts- made of black metal with Arabic designs, very art deco in look, reminiscent of Paris.
All buildings and structures in Salalah are white in colour, or off-white or beige in colour. No other colours. The architecture is Islamic. All houses have multiple identical, symmetric windows.
Salalah resembles Goa a lot- has a similar laid-back, old world feel to it, minus the Portugese architecture and influence (and alcohol).
The hills around Salalah are green is season, brown in off-season and at places, have swathes of underlying white rock (limestone) exposed, as if a giant hand with sharp claws has ripped away the brown cover.
The caves are natural formations, formed at the base of hill, where the sea has hollowed out the earth. Think of a giant ice cream scoop scooping out the earth to leave a concave space.
The famous blowholes ( holes in the rocky seashore from which water rushes up, like a fountain or geyser) are active only in Khareef season.
The contrast of the emerald green waters against the brown or white hills is what makes Salalah so captivating.
One of the prophets from old Testament of Bible, namely Job, is buried in Salalah. He goes by the name Nabi in this region. He was apparently twelve feet tall, so his tomb is extra large in size.
Camels graze on the countryside, even on the hill slopes, much the way cow or sheep would graze in other parts of the world.
The camels are of different shades of colour- some very dark brown, some medium brown, some very light brown. How does that work out, I wonder?
The camels look wild, but are actually owned by the people who live in the hills- the Jebelis.
For all its talk of being a tourist trap in season, the infrastructure for tourism is poorly developed. The beaches have no restaurants or beach beds. Water sports are done only by hotels.
There are a few potholes on the roads. Makes Indians feel comfortable immediately.
There are scarecrows on the road where construction is going on. These are dressed as construction workers and put there to warn people of the construction going on. Definitely a first for me.
Some portions of the beach town of Mirbat are absolutely deserted. It looks like a ghost town but there are cars parked in front of some of the houses!
The souk is full of frankincense and little else. Some clothes and knick knacks. But mainly frankincense. No spices.
Our bill for the taxi hired for four days was more than our return airfare from Dubai- Salalah.
While it was pretty and relaxing, we doubt we will want to come back again.
Saturday 31 December 2016
Sunday 25 September 2016
Visit home
It is true. Absence makes the heart fonder. How beautiful Mumbai looked to me on my short visit home. Even ten minutes before landing, I kept staring out of the plane window, looking at the green hills, a meandering stream and the low clouds and remarking how different it all looked from Dubai- with its flat landscape and sand and torny bushes. Even the sight of the slums could not mar the scene for me. On landing, the cool, rainy weather, which was such a marked contrast from the 40 degree desert heat, felt so pleasant and bracing.
Even on the drive home, the trees lining the roads, looked green, inviting and somehow real, unlike the trees in Dubai, which, because of the lack of breeze to blow the leaves, or maybe because they are so clean, look somehow artificial. The reality of heavy traffic and bumpy roads soon set in, but did not diminish the love I felt for the city. Truly, if any place is home to me, it is Mumbai.
It was such a nice change to be able to step out of the house and get it into an auto to go anywhere, so nice to be able to walk down to the stationery and grocery stores. True, there is shit on the roads to be avoided and when it rains, it is not pleasant to think about the shit mixed with the floodwater that you are wading through. But love, love, love the mobility.
Also love the fact that culture is so accessible. I booked tickets for a play the very next day after my arrival. I would have normally booked the cheapest ones, at Rs 750, but now, with the comparison of the Dubai theatre ticket prices in my mind, I decided I could splurge and bought Rs 1000 tickets. I could buy four of these tickets for all the oldies I had come to visit, and still spend only as much as I would have for just one ticket in Dubai. Joy!
It was quiet and relaxing without the kids, but after a couple of days, the rain got to me. It did restrict my mobility to an extent, so I couldn't go out as much as I would have liked to and thus, got bored. I was more than ready to leave when my departure time came, in short three days. It sounded strange to think of going to Dubai as going 'home' but of course that's exactly the case now.
On coming back, I stopped to watch an episode of the News Hour on Times Now and was a bit taken aback to see that Indo-Pak relations had gone all sour following the Uri attack. The most patriotic Indian in the world, Arnab Goswami (who else?), had invited several Pakistani fellows for 'debate' and was tearing into them. The voices were shrill, loud and tempers were high. Clearly this was an attempt to whip up emotions. It seemed that Arab wanted war between India and Pakistan desperately and the only way he would quieten down would be if war was declared.
Ofcourse there was the usual hysteria by Shiv Sena and MNS in Mumbai about making Pakistani artistes leave India and about not having any cultural or social relations with Pakistan. After watching a lot of coverage to this tune, I started to worry a bit about my driver, Akhtar. He comes in side the house to sit, to avoid the hot sun. and the TV is usually on when he is around. I wonder how he would feel when he listens to all this venom. For that matter, I wonder, how do the people making these strident noises want all the Indian diaspora around the world to react? Would the MNS expect me, for example, to fire my Pakistani driver, as proof of being a patriotic Indian?
It's really ironic how India and Pakistan have poor diplomatic relations back home, while the world over, for most part, the Indian and Pakistani expats enjoy camaraderie on basis of shared culture and language. Maybe it's just me, but I've always felt so much more comfortable with people from Pakistan and Bangladesh while abroad, than with people of other nationalities. They look similar, talk the same language, eat the same food and love the same films and film stars. I remember back in Canada, when a Pakistani boy called me 'didi', I felt so happy. It was so nice to be called 'older sister' instead of by my name all the time. It is not a feeling a white person would understand, this facile creation of relations or bonds, where none exist, merely by addressing someone as a relative. the feeling of 'apnapan' can be so precious when you are in a strange land.
I would think that troubled times require more diplomacy and more track two diplomacy, rather than calls for blood, but maybe I am wrong. I always was politically naive. My naive take on shrill Indian jingoism is this: I have never understood the point of blood being shed and lives being lost, just to defend borders which men created, arbitrarily. I wonder if this would happen if women were in charge instead of men. Not because women are more peaceable creatures. But because, having gestated life for nine months, maybe they better appreciate the value of life, knowing how difficult it is to create and nurture it and therefore would be more discriminating of causes to expend it on.
I totally understand that not treating borders as sacred, makes sense only if everyone in the world thinks the same way. It is a utopian school of thought. and perhaps futile. But I can not change the way I feel. No matter how much I love my country. and I do love it. see the outpouring of love for Mumbai above.
I remember the lyrics written by Javed Akhtar for the song of the film refugee, which I think are so pertinent at this point- 'panchi, nadian, pavan ke jhoke, koi sarhad na inhe roke. Sarhad insaanon ke liye hai, socho tim ne aur maine, kya paaya, insaan ho ke?' Loosely translated- birds, rivers, breeze- no border stops these. Borders are for human beings. Just think, what did you and I gain by being human?'
Even on the drive home, the trees lining the roads, looked green, inviting and somehow real, unlike the trees in Dubai, which, because of the lack of breeze to blow the leaves, or maybe because they are so clean, look somehow artificial. The reality of heavy traffic and bumpy roads soon set in, but did not diminish the love I felt for the city. Truly, if any place is home to me, it is Mumbai.
It was such a nice change to be able to step out of the house and get it into an auto to go anywhere, so nice to be able to walk down to the stationery and grocery stores. True, there is shit on the roads to be avoided and when it rains, it is not pleasant to think about the shit mixed with the floodwater that you are wading through. But love, love, love the mobility.
Also love the fact that culture is so accessible. I booked tickets for a play the very next day after my arrival. I would have normally booked the cheapest ones, at Rs 750, but now, with the comparison of the Dubai theatre ticket prices in my mind, I decided I could splurge and bought Rs 1000 tickets. I could buy four of these tickets for all the oldies I had come to visit, and still spend only as much as I would have for just one ticket in Dubai. Joy!
It was quiet and relaxing without the kids, but after a couple of days, the rain got to me. It did restrict my mobility to an extent, so I couldn't go out as much as I would have liked to and thus, got bored. I was more than ready to leave when my departure time came, in short three days. It sounded strange to think of going to Dubai as going 'home' but of course that's exactly the case now.
On coming back, I stopped to watch an episode of the News Hour on Times Now and was a bit taken aback to see that Indo-Pak relations had gone all sour following the Uri attack. The most patriotic Indian in the world, Arnab Goswami (who else?), had invited several Pakistani fellows for 'debate' and was tearing into them. The voices were shrill, loud and tempers were high. Clearly this was an attempt to whip up emotions. It seemed that Arab wanted war between India and Pakistan desperately and the only way he would quieten down would be if war was declared.
Ofcourse there was the usual hysteria by Shiv Sena and MNS in Mumbai about making Pakistani artistes leave India and about not having any cultural or social relations with Pakistan. After watching a lot of coverage to this tune, I started to worry a bit about my driver, Akhtar. He comes in side the house to sit, to avoid the hot sun. and the TV is usually on when he is around. I wonder how he would feel when he listens to all this venom. For that matter, I wonder, how do the people making these strident noises want all the Indian diaspora around the world to react? Would the MNS expect me, for example, to fire my Pakistani driver, as proof of being a patriotic Indian?
It's really ironic how India and Pakistan have poor diplomatic relations back home, while the world over, for most part, the Indian and Pakistani expats enjoy camaraderie on basis of shared culture and language. Maybe it's just me, but I've always felt so much more comfortable with people from Pakistan and Bangladesh while abroad, than with people of other nationalities. They look similar, talk the same language, eat the same food and love the same films and film stars. I remember back in Canada, when a Pakistani boy called me 'didi', I felt so happy. It was so nice to be called 'older sister' instead of by my name all the time. It is not a feeling a white person would understand, this facile creation of relations or bonds, where none exist, merely by addressing someone as a relative. the feeling of 'apnapan' can be so precious when you are in a strange land.
I would think that troubled times require more diplomacy and more track two diplomacy, rather than calls for blood, but maybe I am wrong. I always was politically naive. My naive take on shrill Indian jingoism is this: I have never understood the point of blood being shed and lives being lost, just to defend borders which men created, arbitrarily. I wonder if this would happen if women were in charge instead of men. Not because women are more peaceable creatures. But because, having gestated life for nine months, maybe they better appreciate the value of life, knowing how difficult it is to create and nurture it and therefore would be more discriminating of causes to expend it on.
I totally understand that not treating borders as sacred, makes sense only if everyone in the world thinks the same way. It is a utopian school of thought. and perhaps futile. But I can not change the way I feel. No matter how much I love my country. and I do love it. see the outpouring of love for Mumbai above.
I remember the lyrics written by Javed Akhtar for the song of the film refugee, which I think are so pertinent at this point- 'panchi, nadian, pavan ke jhoke, koi sarhad na inhe roke. Sarhad insaanon ke liye hai, socho tim ne aur maine, kya paaya, insaan ho ke?' Loosely translated- birds, rivers, breeze- no border stops these. Borders are for human beings. Just think, what did you and I gain by being human?'
Wednesday 7 September 2016
From Mumbai to Dubai
So it's been more than three weeks that we're here in Dubai. I guess that means we are staying. One would normally expect to stay more than three weeks when you move countries. But you don't know my husband. This is our third trial of trying to shift to Dubai. Third time's the lucky one, I guess. Not once has he talked about going back. So maybe we will stay, at least for a year.
Since we are going to stay, I may as well get to like it. What's not to like, anyway? The villa is beautiful, bright, sunny and spacious. It has just enough space so as to look nice and uncluttered and not feel huge or unmanageable. The area or the gated community is lovely as well from inside. One would forget that one is living in a desert, looking at the artificial lakes and the green, manicured lawns. Why do they call lawn 'manicured' anyway?
But ofcourse, the moment you are outside the gate, you do remember. The desert, that is. To the right side of the main road which leads up to the gates of the Lakes community, there is sand. A lot of it. With thorny bushes dotting the mini dunes. And the sun beating down mercilessly, the moment you are exposed outside, would not let you forget that you are living in a desert.
Not that I have not lived in extremely hot places before. Much of my childhood was spent in Vidarbha, Marathwada and such areas, where the temperature regularly shoots above 45 degree celsius in summer. But 50 degrees? I haven't experience that yet, nor am in a hurry to do so. Fortunately for me, the weather is cooler this year than normal. But decades of living in Mumbai has softened me, made me unaccustomed to anything beyond 35 degrees. So no, right now, the weather is not making me happy. But it's a matter of a couple of months before Dubai will be all cool and pleasant, is what I am told. I am really looking forward to it.
Ofcourse, I miss Mumbai. It is home to me, in as much as any place can be home. I miss my lovely home in the green, shady lane of Khar. Most of all, I miss the easy access to the shops and services which I need almost daily. I could just walk out of building and be at a stationery shop (you need to buy lots of stationery when you have young kids) in 5-8 minutes, at the salon where I get my hair cut and nails done in the same time and the grocery shop where I can get all the food i desire in ten minutes. And for anything that is more than ten minutes walk, there are autos. For even longer distances, there are Olas. Movie theatres are a ten minute auto ride away or less. Prithvi theatre, where I can get my fix of plays, is only twenty minutes. And my parents home is just half an hour drive away. All these things seem so precious now, now when I no longer have them.
Here I am completely dependent on the car and the driver. I could call a cab as well, but there's the practical problem of most apps needing a location not working on my phone. This is a problem that should be solved urgently, because without this, I will not be able to order groceries online and we're almost out of milk! If I had good sense, I would get off the computer now and try to attend to that. But then probably I have to wait till the husband comes home and hope that he, at least will be able to fix it.
So I am a lady of leisure here, well, I was that in Mumbai too. The difference was that there I had a staff of four and here I have only one helper. But she is hard working and takes care of everything, so it is all good. She is Sri Lankan. But speaks Hindi. which is the reason I hired her. Communication with her is difficult but not impossible. That is important. I am sometimes amused at how 'bambaiyya' her Hindi is- she has either worked at some one's house who lived in Mumbai and speaks that unique language or she has learnt her Hindi entirely from watching Hindi films with a lot of 'tapori' language. I never expected a Sri Lankan to use words like 'khallas' and 'mangta hai'.
The driver on the other hand, speaks courteous Urdu. He is Pakistani. Kids can't follow his brand of Hindi. they have never heard the word 'mizaz' in their lives. Like most other Mumbai kids. I love hearing the Urdu, it sounds so very polite and elegant. I have often felt that even swear words like 'mc, bc' will sound very refined when spoken by Pakistanis. Can't very well put it to the test though!
So there's my multi-cultural household. Kids have a very multi-cultural environment at school too. Their teacher is Irish and class mates are from all over. I hope they make friends soon.
Its all very posh around here. There is no traffic, there are no crowds. A community swimming pool and play area is just outside the villa. The club house where I go for my yoga classes is a five minute drive. There are the French hypermarkets about five minutes drive from the gate of the community- Geant and Carrefour and further on near al Barsha is Lulu, the Indian owned hypermarket which is the cheapest place to buy the monthly groceries. Much to my frustration, they don't allow you to try on undergarments before you buy them and they don't exchange them either. How prudish is that?
Let me think of all the ways in which Dubai is different from Mumbai. Not the obvious ones, like good roads, big shopping malls and weather. More subtle ones- like the above. Even the small stores in Mumbai will let you try on undergarments. The first thing I noticed when we moved in to our villa was, the toilet paper was thicker and softer than India. Cars stop for pedestrians and kids or women riding on bikes. Taxi drivers help with getting your stuff out of the car.
Maids get weekly off. Even the live-in ones work only during fixed hours and are not on beck and call.
It is a weird feeling being a foreigner. Even in a land where most everyone is a foreigner.
I hate grocery shopping here. I really do. It is so time consuming and requires so much effort to find things. Too much choice is a bad thing. It seems to be that I spend much more time on shopping here than I did back in India. I miss being able to call the neighbouring shop and rattle off my list and have everything delivered. I really, really need to fix that phone of mine and start ordering groceries online.
Anyway of you get tired of the sparkling and sprawling malls, you can head to Deira fish market. I went yesterday and predictably saw only two or three white people shopping there. It is very much like an Indian fish and vegetable market, not air conditioned. The only differences were that it was more spacious, cleaner and had people offering to carry your goods in a trolley for a price, like a coolie. That last was deifnitely different. But rest was the same. Same calling out of the shop keepers urging you to buy from them, same bargaining. I even saw a cat wandering about the fish stalls. I was so happy at this familiar sight, inspite of the ferocious heat, the sweat that was bathing me and the weights of my bags. I saw one white person filming the market with a video camera and smiled- it was definitely exotic, documentary-worthy material- the Deira fish market.
Well, its lunch time now, so more desert musings for another day.
Since we are going to stay, I may as well get to like it. What's not to like, anyway? The villa is beautiful, bright, sunny and spacious. It has just enough space so as to look nice and uncluttered and not feel huge or unmanageable. The area or the gated community is lovely as well from inside. One would forget that one is living in a desert, looking at the artificial lakes and the green, manicured lawns. Why do they call lawn 'manicured' anyway?
But ofcourse, the moment you are outside the gate, you do remember. The desert, that is. To the right side of the main road which leads up to the gates of the Lakes community, there is sand. A lot of it. With thorny bushes dotting the mini dunes. And the sun beating down mercilessly, the moment you are exposed outside, would not let you forget that you are living in a desert.
Not that I have not lived in extremely hot places before. Much of my childhood was spent in Vidarbha, Marathwada and such areas, where the temperature regularly shoots above 45 degree celsius in summer. But 50 degrees? I haven't experience that yet, nor am in a hurry to do so. Fortunately for me, the weather is cooler this year than normal. But decades of living in Mumbai has softened me, made me unaccustomed to anything beyond 35 degrees. So no, right now, the weather is not making me happy. But it's a matter of a couple of months before Dubai will be all cool and pleasant, is what I am told. I am really looking forward to it.
Ofcourse, I miss Mumbai. It is home to me, in as much as any place can be home. I miss my lovely home in the green, shady lane of Khar. Most of all, I miss the easy access to the shops and services which I need almost daily. I could just walk out of building and be at a stationery shop (you need to buy lots of stationery when you have young kids) in 5-8 minutes, at the salon where I get my hair cut and nails done in the same time and the grocery shop where I can get all the food i desire in ten minutes. And for anything that is more than ten minutes walk, there are autos. For even longer distances, there are Olas. Movie theatres are a ten minute auto ride away or less. Prithvi theatre, where I can get my fix of plays, is only twenty minutes. And my parents home is just half an hour drive away. All these things seem so precious now, now when I no longer have them.
Here I am completely dependent on the car and the driver. I could call a cab as well, but there's the practical problem of most apps needing a location not working on my phone. This is a problem that should be solved urgently, because without this, I will not be able to order groceries online and we're almost out of milk! If I had good sense, I would get off the computer now and try to attend to that. But then probably I have to wait till the husband comes home and hope that he, at least will be able to fix it.
So I am a lady of leisure here, well, I was that in Mumbai too. The difference was that there I had a staff of four and here I have only one helper. But she is hard working and takes care of everything, so it is all good. She is Sri Lankan. But speaks Hindi. which is the reason I hired her. Communication with her is difficult but not impossible. That is important. I am sometimes amused at how 'bambaiyya' her Hindi is- she has either worked at some one's house who lived in Mumbai and speaks that unique language or she has learnt her Hindi entirely from watching Hindi films with a lot of 'tapori' language. I never expected a Sri Lankan to use words like 'khallas' and 'mangta hai'.
The driver on the other hand, speaks courteous Urdu. He is Pakistani. Kids can't follow his brand of Hindi. they have never heard the word 'mizaz' in their lives. Like most other Mumbai kids. I love hearing the Urdu, it sounds so very polite and elegant. I have often felt that even swear words like 'mc, bc' will sound very refined when spoken by Pakistanis. Can't very well put it to the test though!
So there's my multi-cultural household. Kids have a very multi-cultural environment at school too. Their teacher is Irish and class mates are from all over. I hope they make friends soon.
Its all very posh around here. There is no traffic, there are no crowds. A community swimming pool and play area is just outside the villa. The club house where I go for my yoga classes is a five minute drive. There are the French hypermarkets about five minutes drive from the gate of the community- Geant and Carrefour and further on near al Barsha is Lulu, the Indian owned hypermarket which is the cheapest place to buy the monthly groceries. Much to my frustration, they don't allow you to try on undergarments before you buy them and they don't exchange them either. How prudish is that?
Let me think of all the ways in which Dubai is different from Mumbai. Not the obvious ones, like good roads, big shopping malls and weather. More subtle ones- like the above. Even the small stores in Mumbai will let you try on undergarments. The first thing I noticed when we moved in to our villa was, the toilet paper was thicker and softer than India. Cars stop for pedestrians and kids or women riding on bikes. Taxi drivers help with getting your stuff out of the car.
Maids get weekly off. Even the live-in ones work only during fixed hours and are not on beck and call.
It is a weird feeling being a foreigner. Even in a land where most everyone is a foreigner.
I hate grocery shopping here. I really do. It is so time consuming and requires so much effort to find things. Too much choice is a bad thing. It seems to be that I spend much more time on shopping here than I did back in India. I miss being able to call the neighbouring shop and rattle off my list and have everything delivered. I really, really need to fix that phone of mine and start ordering groceries online.
Anyway of you get tired of the sparkling and sprawling malls, you can head to Deira fish market. I went yesterday and predictably saw only two or three white people shopping there. It is very much like an Indian fish and vegetable market, not air conditioned. The only differences were that it was more spacious, cleaner and had people offering to carry your goods in a trolley for a price, like a coolie. That last was deifnitely different. But rest was the same. Same calling out of the shop keepers urging you to buy from them, same bargaining. I even saw a cat wandering about the fish stalls. I was so happy at this familiar sight, inspite of the ferocious heat, the sweat that was bathing me and the weights of my bags. I saw one white person filming the market with a video camera and smiled- it was definitely exotic, documentary-worthy material- the Deira fish market.
Well, its lunch time now, so more desert musings for another day.
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