Category Archives: Expat

WANTED: 12 metres long, yellow eyes

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I can safely say we’re in the middle of a dinosaur phase in our household. It started with the movie Jurassic World, which the boys saw three times at the cinema; we now have plastic dinosaurs all over the house; and there’s really no knowing when it will all end now that Son1 goes by the name of Raptor.

For little boys, it all makes perfect sense – dinosaurs are huge and powerful; they’re monsters, but dead monsters, so not scary; and when my boys get into character they can growl and fight and chase each other.

The fact that dinosaurs are MILLIONS of years old (yes, older than mummy and daddy) fascinates my kids. And, really, what’s not to dig? It’s an entire alien world that actually existed, with endless weird information that they can rattle off and long complicated words grownups can’t pronounce.

Of course, every time we go through these phases, it influences how we spend our time as a family – which would explain why a trip to the UK’s Isle of Wight this summer turned into DH and I spinning a yarn about visiting Dinosaur Isle (actually not far from the truth – they’ve found tonnes of fossils there). While on the island, we braved rain and fog (in July!) to attend a dinosaur night at a theme park. When T-rex glances down from a height of 20 feet in swirling mist and flicks his tail it’s surprisingly effective.

But all this was trumped last weekend in our very own neighbourhood when the dinosaurs were delivered to a 1.5 million square ft indoor theme park being built not far from us. Traffic was brought to a halt as a convoy of ferocious dinosaurs made their way to their new home in IMG Worlds of Adventure (opening early 2016). “They were moving around in their cages and roaring at passing cars … well it was either that or our Xanax,” my friend, who saw them coming down the 311, told me.

Roaring through the roads: Thankfully avoiding causing a tyrannosaurus wreck

Roaring through the roads: Thankfully avoiding causing a tyrannosaurus wreck

And then, despite being escorted by police, one went missing, and a hunt to capture the fugitive dinosaur exploded on social media using the hashtag #SpotTheDino. Those clever marketing people … kudos!

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Has anyone ever just popped into Ikea?

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“I’m feeling really sick!” DH even put his hand to his chest. My eyes widened – he couldn’t be having a heart attack. Not on the road. Not turning off the highway into Festival Centre. Not when he has stringent medicals every six months with EKGs and all sorts of tests.

“I think I’ve got …” He coughed. A hand rose to wipe his brow. “… Ikea-itis.”

“Ah-ha,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. I should add that I was feeling a little guilty as I’d sort-of tricked him into coming. A casual, “Well since we’re over this side of town, we might as well pop into Ikea for those curtains.” I said it brightly as though I’d suggested a trip to the pub. We’d locked eyes. He drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly through his cheeks. Let’s just say, I promised him I’d make it worth his while.

As the cheery blue-and-yellow logo came into sight, I ran through my list in my mind.

“Just curtains,” said DH.

“Sure,” I replied.

I grabbed a bright yellow bag from the smiling man standing by the entrance. DH raised an eyebrow: “You really need that?” He sounded worried.

“Just in case,” I shrugged.

We agreed DH would wait in the food court while I looked at bookcases. Then we’d meet by the curtains. Well, I took a bit longer than I meant to – but that always happens in Ikea, doesn’t it? It has a way of sucking you in so that 45 minutes later you’re still lapping bedrooms and office furniture.

My phone rang. DH.

“Where are you?” He knew a short-cut, he said. He’s worked out all the short-cuts in Ikea – doors that look like fire-escapes; doors barricaded with trolleys piled high with boxes. He’s been through them all. I sighed. “Okay, straight to curtains. No looking round.”

The haberdashery section was relatively quiet – just an Emirati woman buying drapes for a 10-bedroom villa, and a harassed mum with a stroller, who gave up when her child started screaming. I told DH he didn’t have to stay. I could handle this. How difficult could it be? (and, anyway, as he pulled out a twill-weave curtain in battleship grey – a colour I saw too much of staring out of my bedroom window in London – I realised we’d never agree.).

I spent a happy 15 minutes browsing. Wool-blends, chiffon, cotton duck, velveteen, non-sheer silk (with “great drapability”) – I was spoilt for choice. Until it came time to order. At least four times, Sanjay shook his head: “No Maam, not in stock.” “Ran out yesterday, sorry!” “Maybe in two weeks.” I began to think they didn’t actually sell curtains – maybe the pretty fabrics were just decoration.

On the way out: Noooooo – it's August!

On the way out: Noooooo – it’s August!

Finally I settled on two designs they actually had material for. I gave Sanjay my measurements (the windows, not mine). I nervously pointed out a scribbled number that could easily have resulted in drapes 60cm too short (who knew curtain assistants have handwriting that’s as indecipherable as doctors’?) They were going to get it right first time. I wasn’t coming back, other than to pick them up.

Sanjay did something on his computer and told me he’d get me a trolley. Odd, I thought. I’d naively assumed he’d keep the material to turn it into curtains. “Oh no, Maam. After check out, you take it to customer services, aisle 5.” By now, my phone was ringing again.

After making it through the check-out queue, I pushed the trolley to customer services. DH looked longingly at the exit and glanced at his watch. Of course, there was nobody manning aisle 5.

It was a funny old corner: cardboard boxes in all shapes and sizes, Ikea workers scuttling in an out of a warehouse like ants, customers languishing on seats. And, of course, to hand my would-be-curtains in for tailoring I had to take a ticket from the machine and wait for my number to flash up on the screen.

Nearly three hours after walking into the store, ‘just to buy curtains’, we made it out … still speaking!

Welcome to budget travel kiddos

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We’re on a little getaway right now, and so this post is coming from sunny England – and I’m not joking, it’s so sunny that the whole country and his dog appeared to be out walking in the forest today.

We took a bit of a winding route to get here, spending a few days with the in-laws in Cyprus first – which gave me the opportunity to introduce the children to something they’ve escaped until now: the delights of budget travel.

Spring has definitely sprung in Cyprus

Spring flowers: Cyprus was in bloom

Yes, it’s no secret that the children of airline pilots are rather spoilt when it comes to air travel. It was high time they went on easyJet, an airline I remember fondly for its mysterious delays and the strangest noise on arrival at Gatwick, like someone’s sawing off a wing. (Happy to report that both these things still apply.) I even managed to throw in a flight on Ryan Air too, out of Athens. What could possibly go wrong?

I always knew the lack of TVs would come as a shock to the boys – and sure enough, to my amusement, Son2 starts looking everywhere for his screen. In the arm rest, under the seat. “It’s got to be somewhere,” he’s thinking. He even tries tapping the safety picture nailed to the back of the seat to see if that would make it change channel. “No really, there’s no TV,” I say.

What I hadn’t bargained on was the rapturous applause and loud cheer that erupted spontaneously, like a Mexican wave, when we landed in Cyprus; it was a stormy, low cloud sort of evening, and the rain was spitting meanly against the windows. It was a good touch down in bad conditions, following what I can only describe as a mile-high shopping experience (scratch cards, drinks, microwave meals, duty free). But someone told me the passengers always clap on landing, whatever the weather. Very funny.

The thing I’ll remember most about our travels, though, was coming through immigration at Gatwick, and meeting Mr Nice Passport Man (a rare creature indeed). I’m dragging the children behind me, and he starts tapping away at his computer. “Let’s just see if you’re on the Easter Bunny’s naughty or nice list,” he tells my younger son. Son2’s eyes widen like saucers – he’s REALLY worried! “It’s ok – you’re on the good list,” says the official and in we skip.

A welcome like that really does put the spring in your step.

A note on school remember lists

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It could be because it’s the last week of term, but I feel like I have a mild form of dementia this week. I’m forgetting all sorts of school-related things. And, boy, do the kids let me know about this!

“Mum, you forgot everything today!” my oldest told me, as he burst through the door yesterday afternoon, the indignance chipping away at the edges of his voice. “My reading book … the zumbathon … money for Tanzania Day.” Never mind the equally long list of things I did remember.

“Well, you are nine now, big boy. It might be time you started remembering some of these things for yourself?” I suggested hopefully. He looked at me aghast, as though I’d proposed chopping him into little bits for dinner. DH glanced up from his chair in the corner, enjoying the distraction from his airplane manuals, and raised an amused eyebrow.

Last week of term and nothing is sticking in my memory

Last week of term and nothing is sticking in my memory

The thing is, there’s just so much to remember, isn’t there? Your child will need: an iPad for Arabic; an oversized white shirt for science; a costume for Book Character Day; a 3D model of the Ruler’s Court (okay, I made the last one up, but I know any mums reading this will relate!).

My friend A, who is frantically busy setting up her own company at the moment, told me she had a chicken bone soaking in vinegar in the kitchen for a science experiment on calcium deficiency, and had just bought plastic juice bottles to make lungs. “Tomorrow he needs recyclable materials to create artwork for the theme ‘a sustainable and happy society’ … and that’s just for the little one. Don’t get me started on the older brother.”

I gave her a wobbly, sympathetic smile, knowing that this is what I’m in for next year.

In our household, having two completely different schools makes the remember list even longer. I’d go so far as to say it adds a bi-polar element to our school situation (the result of a waiting list as long as your arm) – and this morning I found myself cursing my inability to stay on top of things.

Raising money for children with genetic disorders

Raising money for children with genetic disorders

It was Jeans for Genes Day at Son2’s school, necessitating the wearing of denim and a 10dhs donation (which had to be in 10 dirham coins, not a note, as they were going to use the coins to fill the outline of a pair of jeans). A great cause, and I was all for it. We picked out his coolest jeans. He pulled them on, and buttoned up his blue and white stripy school shirt at 7am this morning.

Big mistake – when we get to school, all the other kids are wearing T-shirts with their jeans.

Son2 bursts into noisy, guffawing sobs and runs away. I’m feeling mildy annoyed that he’s having such a dramatic reaction. But then, the teacher goes off to see if there’s a spare T-shirt, and half the class pours out the door like flood water, to stare at my son, who’s hiding round the corner. “A-ha, you’re not meant to be wearing that,” trills one classmate, pointing.

My words, “It doesn’t matter!” fall like rocks in the morning air.

And I feel so bad – so horribly bad – that I go straight home, pick up a T-shirt (his brother’s, another brain freeze) and drive it back to school.

Bring on the Easter holidays! (Now, if someone could just tell me where I put my car keys … )

The school lockdown drill

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“Mummy! There’s going to be actors playing terrorists in school tomorrow!” said my older son, the excitement chipping away at the edges of his voice.

Goodness, I said, my brows knitting together. I knew there was a travelling theatre coming to school soon (I’d sent the money in), but this sounded far too dramatic for a class of imaginative eight and nine year olds.

Further questioning revealed that the school had planned a lockdown drill – something all UAE schools are doing this year, most for the first time. Kind of like a fire drill in reverse: the warning sounds and everyone stays inside.

Today on the curriculum: Hiding practice

Today on the curriculum: Hiding practice

Explaining this to children can be tricky, and you end up mumbling something like, “It’s safest to be outside a building if it’s on fire, and sometimes it’s safest to be inside the building instead.” Pushed into it … “If we were in America there might be a man with a gun.” [their eyes expand like saucers] “But not here …” (lest they suddenly decide they never want to go to school again).

Well, it turned out there were no play-terrorists (over-enthusiastic primary school kids really know how to spin it, don’t they?). And, to be honest, it sounded more like hiding practice as it’s not like they were allowed to pile tables and chairs up against the door or anything. But the novelty factor certainly meant Son1 told me far more about his school day than he usually does – and went to town on the sound effects.

The alarm sounded, he said, demonstrating it loudly with siren-like wailing. And all the children had to huddle in the corner of their classroom, with the lights off. “The head then came round banging on all the doors, kind of pretending he was trying to get in.”

I’m trying to imagine all the children and teachers hunkering silently in darkened classrooms away from closed blinds and locked doors, while the headmaster prowled through the hallways decorated with student art and jiggled doorhandles.

“We made two mistakes,” said Son1. “Ms B forgot to turn the smart board off, and left her phone on her desk.”

“But Ms T’s class made the worst mistake,” he added, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“What was that?” I asked.

“They forgot to lock the door.”

The job ad that will leave you speechless!

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Here’s one for all the pilot’s wives out there … in fact, for all wives in the Middle East who have carved a career for themselves out here, or are currently working hard at the coal-face at home. It seems we’ve got our priorities all wrong! This is an actual job ad …

Bhahahaha! In case the type is too small to read: “Fly the world’s 5-star airline and give your wife even more to be proud of, like an exciting lifestyle with a choice of accommodation, shopping, dining and adventure in up-and-coming Doha …”

Bhahahaha! In case the type is too small to read: “Fly the world’s 5-star airline and give your wife even more to be proud of, like an exciting lifestyle with a choice of accommodation, shopping, dining and adventure in up-and-coming Doha …”

Dust storm leaves sand all over the furniture

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My parents are visiting at the moment, mainly to see the grandchildren, but also because it’s cold in the UK and they fancied a week of sunshine.

Okay, no laughing at the back!

We ventured out at the weekend, into the giant dust-ball that’s engulfed the country – otherwise known as a sandstorm. It billowed and swirled for two days straight, chucking sand everywhere, and filling the sky with a thick, fog-like dust; all weekend the daylight was tinged with yellow and stretched long and thin.

Hitting the UAE from Saudi Arabia, the sandstorm settled in like slow blindness, sucking the colour from the sky, the sun (you could even look straight at it) and the cars on the road. Driving became hazardous as the visibility dropped, and stepping outside meant sand blowing into your hair, mouth, eyes and ears – the blustery conditions really did give a new meaning to the term ‘yukky weather’, with more sand yet to come.

I was having visions of being swallowed up by the desert, while innocently on our way to watch Shaun the Sheep, and could see the headline in my mind: ‘Expats vanish in Barsha triangle’.

And, it’s when these sandstorms hit that you realise just how poorly sealed our houses are. This photo was taken by my lovely neighbour B, inside her villa! Good luck with the clean-up everyone. 🙂

My desk where I blog is by the window and was also covered in a thin layer of sand!

My desk where I blog is by the window and was also covered in a thin layer of sand … clogged up sinuses, anyone?

So You Want to Write a Blog?

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“First, if you could ask the person next to you what they’d never blog about, what they’d love to blog about, and what they hope to learn today – then we’ll go round the room and everyone can introduce their neighbour.”

A ripple of nervousness spread from the overhead projector and all the way round the tables. “Now you know how we feel,” said a smiling Kirsty Rice, co-founder of Blogging ME, the first blogging agency of its kind in the Middle East.

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Kirsty shares her blogging wisdom

I was attending Blogging ME’s inaugural conference in Doha, Qatar, and found myself among a receptive audience of writers, bloggers and wannabe bloggers, gathered at the city’s fabulous Four Seasons hotel.

As we introduced ourselves, little did we know that later that afternoon we’d all don personalised, white dressing gowns – gifted to us by the hotel – and jump into bed together. Not just any old bed, but the very bed that David Beckham recently slept in when he stayed at the Four Seasons, in one of their regally furnished, villa-sized state suites.

Kirsty, the writer behind the spectacularly successful expat blog 4 Kids, 20 Suitcases and a Beagle, and co-host Sarah Derrig, the author of the lovely Lady Sadie’s Emporium, needn’t have felt nervous. Everyone was keen to hear what they had to say, and the rest was taken care of by the Four Seasons, which laid on an amazing spread of food, followed by a sundown reception with champagne and chefs at live cooking stations. Bubbles and bloggers, it turns out, are a great combination.

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The Four Seasons had thought of everything

“A new blog is started every minute,” Kirsty told us. “From the online diaries of the 90s to the political blogs of the 2000s and the launch of wordpress in 2003, people have been sharing online for two-and-a-half decades.

“Now, there are personal blogs, business blogs and blogs covering fashion, food and photography, to name just a few. There are also niches within niches, such as children fleeing the nest. After about two years, I found that expat life was my niche.”

Informative sessions on all aspects of blogging followed, from choosing a platform (wordpress, Blogger or Squarespace?) to blog stats and widgets. “From Google Analytics, I know that there’s a lady in Russia who reads my blog every single day,” said Sarah.

Blogging ME: Coming soon to Dubai, Kuwait and Oman!

Blogging ME: Coming soon to Dubai, Kuwait and Oman!

We learnt about logos, fonts and colours (choose wisely: red is aggressive; orange less so; blue denotes authority; and green is associated with wellness). It hadn’t occurred to me before, but the wrong font is apparently a buzz-kill. Sarah then revealed her photography tricks, including how to do pretty – while we all got busy instagraming under the table. The prize for the best picture – a weekend at the Four Seasons!

There was tonnes more I could write about, but I don’t want to give too much away about the wonderful afternoon – as the exciting news for any Middle East bloggers reading this is that Blogging ME has plans to expand into Dubai, Oman and Kuwait. I highly recommend subscribing here to receive Blogging ME’s regular updates!

Over to Kirsty for the last word: “Just 20 minutes of creative writing a day is wonderfully therapeutic. As I told my teen, if you get it out on the page, how you feel becomes much clearer.”

ACBON Day (and a hot-under-the collar mum)

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Yesterday was ACBON Day. Not my favourite day in Dubai: Air conditioning back on day. And it seems to have arrived earlier this year.

It also coincided with what must surely be the best day in the school year: International Day, the day when everyone is proud to share their culture and traditions with their friends, and mums turn up in bosom-revealing costumes (the European ones, at least).

The children go to school wearing the national colours or traditional dress of their home country, then in the afternoon there’s a huge and colourful, cosmopolitan fair on the playing field.

Hello world!

Hello world!

Some 50 countries were represented out of the 85+ nationalities at the school, and browsing the stalls is always a culinary adventure: yesterday you could nibble on kimchi (from South Korea), Brazilian BBQ meat, a Victoria sponge cake (British), German Halal beer, Spanish paella and so much more, while admiring the Kiwi Haka dance and other performances from all around the world. There was a parade too, and the children had all painted flags that were strung up as décor.

It’s a wonderful afternoon – and you’d think all the parents would agree.

Apparently not so.

She was the first woman I met at the start of my stint selling coupons, for drinks and rides (and by rides, I mean the bouncy castle and slide. The amazing food was all provided by the mums, and was free).

“I want a dirham back,” she demanded. A shadow darkened her face. I couldn’t quite understand why she was so annoyed. Her forehead furrowed, and her eyebrows had hooded over eyes that blazed with anger.

Then her friend came over and wanted 20dhs back (the exchange rate, for those not in the UAE, makes a dirham worth about 18p and 20dhs about £3.50).

Ladies, let it go, I’m thinking. A dirham, really? The whole point of the fair is it’s a fund-raiser for the school, which presumably your children attend.

I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt (in Dubai, if you don’t understand someone’s behaviour, it’s always worth reminding yourself that their background is probably very different from your own – ie, they could be from war-torn Syria, or, if it’s a workman botching something in your home, he’s probably from a poverty-stricken village in rural Bangladesh).

But, no, it didn’t work. Their bling suggested otherwise, and they weren’t polite at all.

I’m looking around at all the hard, hard work so many parents had put into the afternoon – the cooking, baking, decorating, signage, assembling stalls, manning stalls for four hours.

While my co-coupon seller disappeared to ask if we could give refunds, I found myself bristling, then saying, “You know, everyone’s just volunteering here – the money all goes to the school.”

YOUR CHILD … YOUR CHILDREN … WILL BENEFIT, from things like iPads in the classrooms, and playground equipment. Except I didn’t actually say that.

“Aha,” she snapped back. “It goes to the parents.”

And I presume she meant the parents’ committee who’d organised everything – and I wondered, what on earth does she think they’re going to do with the funds?

Spend it all on gin?

Roll up! Roll up! To the Grand Tombola

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“You don’t know what a tombola is, do you?” I was perhaps being a little unfair when I told DH about the crazily popular stall I’d been assigned to for the school’s Spring Fair. DH is American, and a tombola is a type of raffle well known in the UK.

“A Stromboli?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow back. His computer screen was reflected in the window behind him and I could see he was googling it.

“Ah, a tombola!” he said, cracking an even wider smile as he stopped thinking about pizza turnovers and started imagining glamour girls drawing tickets from a revolving drum. Even the boys were suddenly interested, if only because it dawned on them that if mummy was helping on the stall, they might actually win something.

Our stall reminded me of the conveyor belt of prizes in The Generation Game

Our stall reminded me of the conveyor belt of prizes in The Generation Game

As it turned out, everyone who bought a ticket won a prize. Not that I can remember exactly what the gifts were – they were literally flying from the shelves behind us, into the braying crowd of parents and kids waving cash at us and literally clamouring for a turn.

And it’s amazing how funny people can be when there are decent prizes like power tools, cameras and household goods up for grabs. Among the sea of expectant faces was the woman who looked me in the eye and said in a hushed tone, “I really don’t want that prize – can I draw again?” And the boy who asked for a refund when I handed him a Costa Coffee mug (poor kid, his face did drop; it was his fourth go and there were some great toys).

My frenetic but fun stint on the Grand Tombola was passing, quite literally, in a blur of money and prize exchanges, when suddenly I looked up and my own sons were eagerly proffering 20 dirham notes DH had given them. I feared they’d win the pink pencil case. Or cry if they didn’t get the helicopter, robot, or bow and arrow set.

First go … a voucher for a cup of coffee.

Second go … another white envelope. I gave it to DH to open. I knew there was a voucher of some kind inside.

I could feel the suspense mounting.

“Vitamins!” announced DH. “A hundred dirhams of vitamins!”

Better luck next time, boys! All for a good cause.