It does not take two months; more like two hours, for a camel to cure depression

Okay, maybe "cure" is a strong word. But ease? Definitely. I giggled this week when a camel farmer from Oman told one of The National's reporters that a French psychologist had found that spending 60 days with a camel can cure depression. Not being able to locate the study in question, we are just left with so many more questions than answers. Why a psychologist from France, where there are no camels? How did he come to study this - by accident? And was it that after 60 days he, or his subjects, ended up just so happy to be back among people he/they could talk to that any signs of melancholy magically lifted? It is one of my New Year's Resolutions to track down this study; any hints or leads would be greatly appreciated.



So the Al Dhafra Camel Festival wraps up today; a friend and I headed down there on the weekend to see what was what. We concluded that for us, driving two hours to the camel festival was not really worth it, but we were conflicted. Because you can't really know that the camel festival is not going to be worth it without first seeing the camel festival for yourself. And since we laughed ourselves silly at all the camels (see headline) and ate some yummy, tasty local treats we bought at the souq - some sort of salty and spicy rice/pasta mixture and the most incredible zaatars that we pretended had not been thrown on the floor, even though we could clearly see that they had been as we waited for them - maybe it really was worth it in the end. We've also concluded that when we feel this way about things we do in the UAE, we will simply say "it's like the camel festival" and then will know exactly what the other is talking about.



We missed the turnoff, initially, and with the Western Region's distinct lack of overpasses, spent a half-hour looking for a place to turn around, then another half-hour coming back (or so it felt) we were too late for the Mazayina, or beauty contests everyone has been talking about. But we did get to check out Million Street, seen below, where people basically just walk or, hysterically, drive their camels, like a dog on a leash, but not really, in a sort of car-heavy parade aimed at attracting the highest bidder.





Organisers say 24,000 camels have participated at the event, at an estimated value of US$2 billion, whatever that means. The camels were all of the one-humped (dromedary) variety common to this region; I am not sure which ones I like better: the dark ones or those with a lighter hue. Thank goodness I don't have to choose.




Among the highlights: we spotted two rogue camels running down Million Street, attached to no one. A giant SUV careened away from us, the driver yelling hello. We realised he could not have been older than 10 or 11. A momma camel "talking" to her three babies; and looking out over the desert and realising that, yes, we were at a camel festival. Also, on the way back, my friend told me a story about when she and her mom were visiting Rajasthan, India, and they saw two camels kissing - actually kissing - their owners struggling in vain to pull them apart.

Hokey end-of-year blog post: starting now

This time last year, I was about to celebrate in the back woods of Quebec, in a couple of small chalets with a bunch of my closest friends. We drank champagne, and had a very good time. I was also, and I mean this in a more general sense, trying to stay content while being increasingly unable to silence the voice in my head that kept asking "is this all there is?" Funny, that, as I had just days before shipped off an email asking about a job over here, and was soon to hear back from my now-boss.

Anyhoo, flash forward a year, and here I am. Missing my family and friends, yes, always, but unable to imagine if I stayed put. I guess that's the thing about going, isn't it? You never know until you get there. It's been far from perfect: I felt I might die, many nights, from homesickness. I've been aggravated and defeated and annoyed and upset more times than I can count. And during my first weeks and months here I couldn't imagine a time when I would not use any excuse as a chance to leave. Getting over that, alone, not to sound smug, I think, has been one of the most important experiences of my life thus far. To quote Oprah, just to annoy my British friends, I was a-scared. And now I am not.

I thought to celebrate, I might write a list of what I like about living here, aside from the wickedly funny and accepting people, and the expanded world view, and the reminder that there is so, so much I will do not know, and a lot of time (hopefully!) left to try and get at it.

Here it is:

1) Ethiopia. Greek Islands. Czech Republic. In eight months.

2) Perspective.

3) Adapting to the ready supply of whole wheat pita bread, and the dodgy supply of other kinds. Grilled cheese in a pita, peanut-butter-and-banana in a pita, eggs in a pita, beans in a pita, vegetables... etc.

4) Realising that the sarcastic, elitist, liberal-leaning, screwy sense of humour I've relied on as part of my charm does not translate with those who speak English as a second language. And having to work harder.

5) Pomegranate seeds, by the bowlful. Ever try to get them out yourself? Let alone extracting enough to fill generously portioned plastic tubs? Exactly.

6) Taking my clothes to the laundry, and getting them back with everything - and I do mean everything - ironed.

7) The call to prayer, five times a day. Okay, I am exaggerating slightly. I mean, they've boosted the volume significantly since Ramadan, and you could already hear it everywhere. The part I love, though, is seeing all the men streaming to mosques, sometimes with their little boys, to pray. It's devotion, pure and simple.

8) Living in a hotel. Stockholm Sydrome has overtaken me, and I never want to leave.

9) Hanging around British people, who are hilarious, and also do not care about self help, North American movies, television, celebrities or pop culture. Or Oprah.

10) Getting a whole new life, without losing my old one.

Mark Twain:
Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

From the August issue of Esquire magazine's The Life List: 175 Things A Man Should Do Before He Dies:

No. 27: Live outside the homeland.

If you never live in another country - that is, rent a flat, get a car, buy groceries, greet the same people every day, struggle with the intricacies of the native language for a period of more than a few weeks - then you don’t really have a right to comment on much except the price of gas. It used to be men joined the Navy to see the world; people went to college to study abroad. Now we huddle and cringe at the price of the euro. Grow a set and get out of the country for a while.


Happy New Year

My wallet came back to me, just as everyone said it would

I lost my wallet on Christmas night, somewhere between work and home - there were four stops that evening, all offering some form of Christmas cheer - and absolutely panicked the next day when it was not in my purse. I have not lost my wallet since university, when I used to throw my purse under a table for the evening, while I danced and mingled the night away. I consider myself a lot more responsible since then, and I have to say, might have been a tad judgemental of others who let their wallets get away.

Losing one's wallet is a bit of an epidemic here, actually. I have a friend who lost his twice, and for a brief time, carried a man purse in an attempt to keep his belongings safe. That passed. Anyway, the uniting factor is that everyone I have talked to who lost their wallet has found it. Someone in Dubai, a little worse for the wear, who could not remember where he got into a cab or even, roughly, what time, got his back. Another colleague, also in Dubai, had his returned. A woman who works here lost her passport, and happened to be at the embassy at the exact moment the cab driver turned it in. It was a good thing, too, because she was due to go home for Christmas and the embassy destroys passports after one hour.

She practised The Secret, which I did for my camera (Ref: George Michael concert, Czech Republic trip, bitterness) and it obviously did not work. Oh, and the one-time man-purse carrier, he also found his wallet. One of them I know of.

I cancelled my credit cards and bank cards - no mean feat here in the UAE, the process of replacing them involves painful phone calls to HSBC head office, multiple DHL shipments, not to mention a half-dozen phone calls and as many text messages - and hoped. (Also considered wearing my passport on a little carrier around my neck; if I were to lose that it might be game over for me.) There were things in that wallet that I needed, including my Canadian driver's license, so I can get one here. And lo and behold, a sticky note on my desk from a colleague on Sunday, saying my "pocket" was at security. He found it outside, minus $200 bucks or so, where I think someone had tossed it.

My new credit cards arrived today. And ain't the world great?

Not just a late-night fast food binge, apparently

McDonald's may very well be 100% halal, or permitted under Islamic law (those things that are forbidden are haram) but I don't think anyone would argue that it is healthy, which is why these adverts make me giggle. They just make the ingredients look so wholesome. There is another set running on television, with a gentle man's voiceover saying "come, inspect my kitchen" as a McDonald's employee stands beside a spotless deep-fryer and sweeps his hand to the side in a welcome manner.

I wonder what they would say if I just stopped to check it out?

Christmas: 24 hours in Abu Dhabi

So I have survived my first Christmas away from home. (Actually, that might be premature - I am heading to a party now, and like all of our get-togethers, I predict debauchery)

Last night I set out with a friend from work after we wrapped our shift on the revise desk. We headed to the Sheraton Tavern pub, where there were loads of British people already acting badly, a painfully loud and average band, lots of Santa hats and, as there always is, a cougar-ish woman wearing one of those trampy Santa dresses. Quite a few pints and lots of interesting conversation I can't really recall later, we meandered over to the Howard Johnson's last resort, The Cellar, which was like a drunken scene out of Ally McBeal (in that it was full of my colleagues, and they were all singing along with the band, and dancing dramatically). There were more Santa hats. It got a bit blurry after that. My friend tells me slept in his glasses and hiking boots, which is odd, because he was wearing shoes last I saw him. I spent a few minutes listening to George Michael on my iPod before retiring, and am still not sure which one of us had the more embarrassing end to their night.

I woke early this morning, making my way down to the Gulf Diagnostic Centre and the annual appointment I have already WAY overshared about. The doctor said "I did not expect anyone to turn up today". I stopped at Al Wahda Mall for breakfast, and since I couldn't decide what to get, I ordered french toast, fruit salad AND a side of bacon. Turkey, of course. It was Christmas morning, after all. I wanted to get the power breakfast, but the waitress at Dome pointed out I never eat the muffin that comes with it, so it would be a waste. Then I stopped in at Nail Art for my favourite combination, a pedicure/neck, head and shoulder massage. Headed back home for a nap, then came into work, where a delish turkey dinner - albeit with different trimmings - was laid out on the conference table. At one point a woman I work with drank a cup of gravy, after someone bet her she wouldn't for 100 dirham. (About 33 bucks) As you can imagine, she said it was totally gross.

I am not exaggerating about this: every single person I encountered - people on the street, those in the elevator at my hotel, cab drivers, hospital staff, the guys in the Eiffel corner store that has nothing to do with Paris, Muslim and Christians alike - wished me a happy or merry Christmas. It was one of the most respectful things I have ever experienced, and made me resolve to do better with my Eid Mubaraks next time around. I have been getting loads of messages from back home, with jokes about how I am probably not allowed to celebrate Christmas or even say it here. I probably would have made those kinds of jokes myself, before moving across the world and finding out for myself – among many, many other things – that it's not like that at all.

Christmas in Abu Dhabi: Can you see the difference?

A couple of weeks ago I caught a screening of the Vince Vaughn/Reese Witherspoon comedy Four Christmases - I loved, hilarious - but curiously the name had been de-Christmasized for this region. I say curiously because, well, even though this is a Muslim country, the signs of Christmas are everywhere. People clearly love this stuff.

Also curiously, because you can change the title, remove the red bow from the movie poster and change the presents she's standing on to suitcases, but the plot remains the same, as does the major Jesus-and-Mary Christmas pageant scene. Wouldn't you rather tell people what the movie is about than have them find out in the theatre? Just asking.

Christmas in Abu Dhabi: Santa?

Who the heck is that scaling the roof of Finz at the Beach Rotana?



No, not that man in a Speedo.



Bingo!