A Rather Long and Winding Road

A couple or a few thousand years ago, some say, a man marched out to the desert with his son and prepared to kill him. Disturbingly, as the years wore on, this became less notable of an event. It almost seems as though these days it takes some sort of mass suicide or ritual killing in the desert to garner any noteworthy attention, but I, once again, digress. Either way, thousands of years ago, this was a rather singular event. Fortunately his son, Isma'il or Ismail (depending on your persuasion), was spared at the last possible moment from being slaughtered by his father, Ibrahim or Abraham (depending on you persuasion), by the voice of Allah or God (once again, depending...) which told him to sacrifice a sheep and have a feast instead. A rather practical substitute.

Why is this worth mentioning in a blog that regularly touts all things most distant from any religious or vaguely moral code? Well, aside from living in a world that easily forgets random homicides carried out in barren landscapes, we also live in a world where a large number of people celebrate Eid al-Adha (Festival of Sacrifice) every year. This results in almost all government workers in the UAE receiving an additional week off during early November. I say almost all because one group of workers was not so inconspicuously left out and only received three days off. That group, of course, was the hard-working educators of Abu Dhabi. Either way, full week of or not, I took my opportunity to celebrate sacrifice by flying as quickly as possible to the diminutive island nation of Sri Lanka to do nothing in particular besides relax on the beach and...do beach things.

It was my first time flying out of the UAE, and my group of four wasted no time in jumping on the first Sri Lankan Airlines flight out of Dubai. Our plane left around 11:00 PM and the first leg of our journey began. One uneventful plane flight and four hours later, bleary-eyed and exhausted, we found our luggage and (amazingly) our taxi driver who would drive us the measly 100 kilometers down the coast to a sleepy little town by the name of Hikkaduwa. On most highways I am familiar with, 100 kilometers is a rather leisurely one hour jaunt. It soon became apparent that this highway was not one that I was even remotely familiar with. Galle Road runs the length of Sri Lanka from Colombo down to Galle. It is the ONLY road that connects Colombo and Galle. It is also, only a two lane highway, that is, supposedly one lane that goes in each direction. So basically, if you want to get anywhere in the southwestern quarter of Sri Lanka, you need to drive on this road. Our taxi driver was impressively adept at swerving into oncoming traffic, gunning the engine, and making it back into the correct lane with milliseconds to spare. In fact, most drivers there seemed to pull this off without a hitch. Even with tempting death every 30 seconds, it was still a four hour drive to Hikkaduwa. Ever the good host, our driver tried stopping at the very few western-looking restaurants in Colombo for us to have breakfast, but alas, it was only 5:00 AM and nothing was open yet. About halfway into our journey, he did find one establishment that was open. As luck would have it, it was an open air breakfast buffet of assorted fruits, curries, and breads. My less than adventurous companions decided to pass, but I marched up to the trough, swatted the flies away, and loaded up with what was probably fresh food the day before. As I sat down, the proprietor of this fine restaurant served me something that was a fried egg in only the strictest of definitions. I did not order it, because if I did, it would not have been nauseatingly undercooked, but I ate most of it anyway. When in doubt, I always follow the rule of eating the spiciest thing they have to offer last. I have been told that this kills bacteria. Maybe it is just an old wives tale, but either way, I probably should have been hanging my head out the car window and throwing up into oncoming traffic within the hour and, magically, I never did.

We eventually made it down to Hikkaduwa to settle in for a few days of serious relaxation. We certainly achieved our goal, but unfortunately this leads to very few exciting stories. I wandered up and down the one and only road. I wandered up and down the beach. As with anywhere I go, I was propositioned many times for a "massage," but as usual, I turned it down over, and over, and over again. I don't know if I should take it personally that instead of offering me the snorkeling package or elephant orphanage visit (which all of these gentlemen also deal in), they always start with the "massage." There must be something about me that says, "There is no way that this man will win a woman over with his charm and/or good looks. Certainly he will jump at the chance to pay for a rural Sri Lankan girl for an hour." In retrospect, I should have probably seen what he had to offer just for the story. I shan't make that mistake again. Now, I am only left to wonder exactly how depressing it would have been to slowly climb the stairs up to a dank room lit only by a single hanging light bulb that was slowing swinging with the ocean breeze which brought with it the only fresh air in a room populated by half a dozen sad women, well past their prime, who were still trying to make money off tourists the only way they knew how. Surely there would have been no privacy, just a dirty mattress on the ground in one corner hidden only by two bed sheets hung carelessly from an old, worn rope tied from one barred window to the next. Yes, surely I will not make the same mistake again.

So after our few days on the pristine beaches, meeting new people, eating strange fish, and drinking lots of ginger beer, we saddled up in another taxi and strapped in for the first leg of our journey back. We all had to be at work the next morning, and we were certainly not looking forward to a four hour drive from hell, a three hour wait in the airport, and a four hour flight followed by no sleep because we needed to be at school even though there would be no students (but that is another story). It was an exhausting, grueling 12 hours. During the first leg, I grew to loathe Galle Road, with all its twisting and turning, the headlights growing larger as each vehicle that barreled toward us seemed to be the one that would deliver our doom. All in all though, Sri Lanka was great, but as we boarded the plane, I found myself looking forward to getting back to Abu Dhabi. My familiar confines there would be a welcome reprieve from the changes inherent in any vacation. It was my first time flying back into Abu Dhabi International Airport. It isn't a very big place. Much of it, I was familiar with from my initial flight in. I slowly made it to school and, eventually, back to my apartment. I hesitate to say that it was good to be "home" because home will always be some undisclosed location in the Midwest. There is an unspoken rule among some of us teachers here that we will never refer to where we live right now as "home." None of us will be here forever, and it will always be foreign to us in some ways. So I didn't get to come back home (that will be in about a month), but I did get to come back to what is home for now, and it could not have been a more welcome place.

Like they use in Singapore?

In any new area that you move to, there are certain things that must be learned. Where is closest grocery store? Gas station? Seedy bar where I can make bad decisions in a dimly lit environment? Which restaurants are good? What areas should I avoid? Do the locals use any odd vocabulary (like "bubbler" in Milwaukee, or "Coke" in the deep and dark South)?

When your move is more substantial, there is substantially more to learn. How do I say "thank you"? How do I ask where the bathroom is? Should I avoid flashing peace and/or gang signs? Should I agree or disagree with current/past U.S. foreign policy? It also never hurts to learn the local cultural values and ways to carry yourself. I hope I am exaggerating, but sometimes I get the feeling that during the occasional week, I pick up more Arabic than my students do English. Either way, I am a consummate student of regional cultures, and I always do my best to assimilate as much as a smart-mouthed, jaded Mid-westerner who shares most of his vocabulary with the sailors of yore can.

It is with this mind-set that I entered into what I hope will be the first of many fascinating parent/teacher conferences. It took place last week on a fine Shamkha evening. There is always something disconcerting about returning to school once the sun has set. It gives the feeling that you can only be there for illicit purposes. Breaking in. Vandalizing. Stealing the camel that is kept as a mascot to rally the football team before the big game with the crosstown rivals, the Bani Yas...camels (it's about all they got out here). As luck would have it, we were there for what is normally a rather pedestrian affair. If a parent is involved (which generally results in what some would call a "good" student), they show up. If a parent is uninvolved (which generally means that I genuinely need to talk with them) they don't show up.

The first big shock of the night came when I began to quickly realize that we really do work in a bedouin community. These were rough desert men that arrived to speak with me about their sons (women don't generally come to an all boys school). Some of them reminded me of your stereotypical Hell's Angel (but substitute a kandora for the leather jacket). They looked as if they had spent many evenings asleep under the stars in the middle of an endless sea of sand. A few had full sets of teeth. Many had just a few. All of which were in varying degrees of yellowing and jutted out of their mouths at haphazard angles. Refreshingly, my students' fathers almost unanimously agreed about the value of education and that their students need to work as hard as possible. I offered the usual praise for my "good" students. "Your son is the hardest working student in my class." "He is always respectful and helpful." "I wish I had 29 more just like him."

Shockingly, one of my students with little to no foresight showed up with his father. This boy is hands-down my worst student. He wanders around the classroom aimlessly, absolutely does not do work, and has been gradually increasing the frequency with which he kisses another student against his will. Academic and administrative punishments do not register with him. On a good day, I let him sleep undisturbed. On parents' night, I had my third meeting with his father, but it was just my first with a translator. I explained his son's behavior and the fact that he was going to fail. In frustration, I threw up my hands and said, "I just don't know what to do with him." At this, his father paused and thought for a moment, then spoke to my translator. What he said was, "He is giving you permission to beat his son." I tried to hide the the mixture of shock, disgust, and excitement that was on my face and replied simply, "OK." He stated that he would bring me a stick to use for the beatings and explained that it was okay to hit him on the torso and about the head. Still, I nodded and said, "OK." My translator then explained that if I accidentally beat him to death, I would only have to pay one million dihrams (about $275,000). As we all laughed at what was (obviously?) a joke, I thought, "This is seriously f-ed up."

I don't have the stick yet, but, inshallah, I will have it soon. Will I beat a student as an example to the rest of the class? I would like to say no. However, in my mission to understand the new culture I am surrounded by it may not be the best idea to retreat to my traditional Western values. Don't get me wrong, I am not advocating child beatings, but "when in Rome" as they say. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion at some point. Will Rich compromise his morals in the pursuit of classroom management? Only time will tell.

*As a side-note: I am spending November making a great push at getting my greatest of American novels written. If you are interested in reading something different on this blog, let me know. It won't be timely, but it will be Mid-western, and beautifully scandalous. I shall always concede to the demands of my adoring public.

A Tramp Abroad

Yes, it has been too long since my last post. This has not been due to lack of things to say. Many times, I was close to writing an extensive rant about how terrible my new students are and how literally and metaphorically foreign the working conditions are. Not being one to give in to wanton, knee-jerk reactions, I thought the wisdom and experience of time would provide with a more humane assessment. This is my attempt at that.

I won't bore you with details of my pedagogy, but I think some details about my work situation (kinda the reason I came here in the first place) are rather overdue. I'd give you information about my school, but that is rather frowned upon. I can give you a little bit though. I have three sections of 10th grade boys. Even though they have technically had English classes for the past 10 years, I am still working on teaching many of them to write their names. Some students are great. Some students are terrible. That is the truth in any country though. Regardless, they do all like to talk...a freaking lot. This is one of the biggest challenges, aside from yelling, wandering away, fighting, spitting, sleeping, and other assorted awesome behaviors. Everyday, my classroom management includes several techniques that would get me fired instantly in many U.S. schools. Unlike many of the Arabic teachers (great guys from countries such as Egypt and Jordan), I refuse to punch my students. However, I have no problem with pushing, pulling, lifting, grabbing, or otherwise physically intimidating them. For example, today a student refused to listen to what I was saying after I requested he stopped talking several times. I then made the decision (important because it's kind of bad form to do things out of anger) to walk over to his desk, look him in the eye, and then pick his desk up and throw it into an empty area half-way across the class. This had the desired effect. Anyone who has seen me teach will realize that this is not my normal behavior, but sometimes you just need to change to fit the situation. I also have used extra class time to have my students line up to arm wrestle me. This has the dual benefit of demonstrating that I am stronger than all of them thus, increasing my intimidation factor and also making me feel good about myself for having bested a dozen or so spindly Middle-Eastern children.

As you can imagine, the intense work demands result in equally intense play demands. Wasting very little time, I have taken up my usual hobby of finding the seediest places in a given city to visit. I don't know why, but I find it surprisingly life-affirming to visit life-negating locales. In the span of one weekend, I visited two uniquely different establishments filled with miserable, soulless creatures. The first was a "night club" that has a grand reputation for being a house of ill-repute. Well, here in a Muslim country at least partially governed by Sharia law, this was something I just had to see. Without going into detail, it did not disappoint, or maybe it disappointed a lot. I'm not quite sure about this one. Long story short, the world's oldest profession is absolutely miserable and pathetic when it is genuinely staring you in the face. This is intentionally vague, and I'm sure there will be more details in my second book, "Yet to Be Titled," which I will start on right after I am done with the first one. For the time being, this is a relatively PG blog.

The following day, I went on a tour of the local pet souk (a souk is essentially a market, for lack of a better domestic term, it's like a bazaar). As I wandered through shop after shop, inhaling a stench that was vaguely reminiscent of feces, newspaper, and death, I thought, "those Sarah McLachlan commercials ain't got nothin' on this place." I was a bit disappointed by the lack of exotic animals. Sure, there were your standard puppies, kittens, birds, and fish, but only rarely was there a pair of peacocks. And never was there a cage of squirrels, as I was promised. "Anthropomorphize" is generally a curse word for me, surpassing many 4-letters words in offensiveness, but these animals all looked at me and seemed to communicate. Unanimously, they said the same thing: "Put me out of my misery." This was the second time in as many days that I had seen this look. The first time, it was not from anything as harmless and cuddly as a small animal though.

I'm not so sure how I feel about my foray into the darker corners of a country better known for its innovative architecture and palm tree-shaped islands. It does shed light on reasons why a nation would retreat into its ancient culture and values while it expands its modern, global presence. Even with a strong emphasis on traditional moral values, the exploitation of humans finds a way to seep in. I guess wherever there is a buck to be made, someone will try to be making it. And where there are millions to be made, many people will be trying to make it. I guess in the end, that is what really brought us all to this crazy desert metropolis, the animal peddlers, the ladies of the night, and lets certainly not forget, the teachers.

The End of Ramadan

I realize that a post about Ramadan drawing to a conclusion is about as timely right now as a job stimulus plan in the U.S. (please click here and push the red button to complete this joke), but I have a lot to catch you folks up on. Since I last checked in, Ramadan has indeed ended. Stores have opened back up. Once again, we could all indulge in the pleasures of eating and drinking in public. Eid also came and went. After a month of fasting, Eid is the week-long celebration in the Muslim world (and parts of Michigan) that occurs at the end of Ramadan. During Eid, I moved to my permanent residence, Yaqut Tower #1106, which is located behind the Holiday Inn Hotel on Airport Road. This is basically what amounts to my address. Many have been confused by the seemingly purposeful exclusion of addresses in what is an otherwise very purposely planned out metropolis. I can only surmise that since there is no centralized mail service, addresses are not that important. However, it can get a bit frustrating when trying to give directions to one of the multitudes of Bengladeshi delivery drivers. The extent of my local geographic guidance consists basically of saying, "Behind the Holiday Inn on Airport Road. It is the tall white building with green windows," followed closely by, "BEHIND. HOLIDAY INN HOTEL. AIRPORT ROAD. TALL BUILDING. GREEN WINDOWS." For the full effect, please try to roll those r's and lengthen those o's while you imagine said conversation in your head. Also, repeat that last part about four or five times and hang up your imaginary phone in exasperation.

View of Sheikh Zayed Mosque from my balcony

After having a portion of my furniture delivered, my appliances delivered, and my appliances repaired, I finally began to settle into my new place (sometimes yelling directions slower and louder does, indeed, work). It is a 21 story building occupied mostly by new teachers. This makes carpooling rather convenient. I did my best early on to win over the largely South Asian staff that keeps this place going. My fondness for cricket was clearly advertised in hopes of bridging this gulf. I learned that the maintenance man's name was Ramadan, which was a rather presumptuous choice by his parents. I talked with him quite a bit in broken English about cricket and securing "illegal" cable. Who knew that "illegal cable installer" was such an international profession? I eagerly awaited the arranged day for Ramadan to bestow me with about 500 channels for 250 dirhams (about 68 dollars). The setup took a lot longer than both of us anticipated. After several hours of signal searching, Ramadan was happy to show me all 571 of my channels. Unfortunately for me, all but about 8 or 10 were Arabic, Lebanese, Syrian, Sudanese, Eritrian, Bahraini, or Qatari channels. But let me tell you though, that Syrian dramatic programing is...well...about as riveting as you would imagine.

Once that disappointment of an evening was concluded, I sent Ramadan on his way and got ready to set out for the local grocery store. The evening had already extended longer than I had planned, and I was just hoping to get some late night food in my stomach. On my way out of the building, I ran into Ramadan again, who mentioned that he forgot his mobile phone in my apartment. I quickly went to retrieve it, and then almost as quickly realized that my apartment would not open. Immediately, I realized that this was because I had put a key in the deadbolt on the inside (not locked), which kept the key on the outside from inserting all the way (don’t think about it too hard, just go with the story). I returned to give Ramadan the bad news. "This is very, very bad," was his refrain. How to break into an 11th story apartment with a solid wood door became the question of the evening. The obvious choice (to one of us) was the balcony. All we had to do was go to my neighbor's apartment and climb over. Well, if you know me, you know there is absolutely no way that I was going to climb out on an 11^th floor balcony, hang over the edge, reach over, and climb onto another balcony. So I watched as Ramadan found an old plastic chair, sat on the railing, and attempted to use his hands (pressing flat-palmed on the glass dividing our balconies) to keep him from falling 11 stories to his death because I left a key in my lock. The irony was not lost on me during this moment. While I was celebrating Eid that week and the end of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan, I was anticipating viewing the end of another Ramadan. This one was an under-payed Bangladeshi maintenance man who installed illegal cable.

As my neighbor (who I barely knew outside of saying "hi" while passing in the corridor) and I watched, Ramadan carefully, but not too carefully, made his way to my balcony, only to find the balcony door locked. I thought we were lucky that he had made it to my balcony without falling to his death. Surely we were pushing our luck. Being the responsible party, I envisioned having to travel back to his village hometown and share the bad news with his family. As the barefoot, dirty, children ran up to me, all I could do would be to offer the remnants of this, once, marginally successful man. His kin would then break into sobs around me.

Fortunately, this did not happen, and Ramadan made it back to safety. We could assessed what we both agreed was a very, very bad situation. The only remaining option was to drill out the existing lock and replace it with a new one. I shoved some dihrams into Ramadan’s hand and sent him on a late night search for a locksmith shop. I waited about a half hour before I became too restless to remain useless. I knew the key was on the inside of my lock. It just had to be coerced out somehow. Seeing as mechanical concepts are not my strong point, I decided to violently thrust my key into the keyhole, repeatedly, in the hopes that the key on the inside would somehow wiggle out. Well, wouldn’t you know it, that arguably inane idea actually worked. I happily re-inhabited my apartment and waited for Ramadan to return so that I could say, “Thanks for nearly killing yourself, but I managed to get into my apartment with a little thing we like to call good ole’ fashioned American ingenuity.” When he did return, he seemed to accept the events with resignation, confusion, or a combination of both, and then, with little more than a wink and a nod, he disappeared into the night.

I hope that story was marginally entertaining for some of you and a giant waste of your employer’s time for others. I know you all want to hear about my school and my students, but you will have to wait…about three days or so. I am finishing my first week with students, and then I will be more than happy to spin you a yarn or two. Check back soon. Check back often. I will do my best to barely meet your needs and expectations.

A Socialist in Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan’s Court

First, the obligatory information:

I made it to Abu Dhabi just fine, I don’t know where I will be teaching yet, I will be living in the city, it is hot, people are nice, things are clean, food is good, and sand is endless. Overall, it seems to be a very livable country and surprisingly Western. It is cheap and easy to get around. The taxi drivers are polite, and (just like in the rest of the world) smell like death. The stores have everything you could need in terms of food, furnishings, and entertainment.  This has contributed to what has been a fairly smooth transition for me thus far. I am sure it is no surprise to anyone that I am fast making friends. In a banquet hall full of uncertain and frightened individuals, the man believes he is God’s/Allah’s gift to the world is king. As expected, there is a wide range of teachers here. Some, I can learn from and will be privileged to call my colleagues. Others make me wonder how they manage to feed and cloth themselves with any sort of semi-regular success. This is to be expected though. There is a core group of four of us that hang out pretty regularly. We quickly realized that since taxis will not take more than four passengers, we would cap our group at that, much to a couple of people’s chagrin. The people I hang out with regularly (in order of appearance) are: Betsy, a first-year teacher from Michigan who will be teaching cycle 1 (1^st-4^th grade); Kristina, a veteran teacher from Northern California who will also be teaching cycle 1; and Bijhan (“Beej”), a fellow Midwesterner (from Iowa), who will be teaching cycle 3 (9^th-12^th grades).

How about a little background info? As always, I am going to try to sneak a little learning in. Deal with it or skip ahead. If your knowledge of this area dates back to 1950 or so, then you would be under the impression that the area I now reside in is rather barren and inhabited by only sparse groups of nomads and pearl divers. This used to be correct. However in the last 50 years, it has become a boomtown (more accurately boom metropolis). Each day, Abu Dhabi (the city, not the emirate [think New York City, New York]) grows. Construction is constant, but done at a pace that results in quality buildings, not the rushed, patchwork structures I have seen in other cities with almost unrestrained growth (not in the U.S., because we don’t have growth, unrestrained or otherwise, so this concept may be both literally and metaphorically foreign to some of you). Imagine if you had a blank canvass of land, as much money as you could possibly imagine, and an interest in planning a sustainable city that would be the leader in basically every social and economic aspect. That is what they are hoping to achieve in Abu Dhabi (for additional info, just google Abu Dhabi 2030 or click here).

The first week that I was here was largely filled with paperwork, visits to the hospital for medical screenings, visits to the police station for fingerprints, and other such tasks. During the second week, we finally started with what is essentially any teacher’s least favorite part of the year: in-service. I shan’t bore you with too many details about what went on there besides covertly completing crossword puzzles and listening to borderline paranoid schizophrenic speakers. Needless to say, there was much discussion about how we will each teach our students, interact with faculty members, and conduct our classrooms.

What is of marginally more paramount importance (and oft overlooked) is how we will conduct ourselves when we are not in the classroom. If you have never moved a great distance, you may be unfamiliar with what exactly I am referring to. If, for example, you were taken away from all the people and places that you knew and placed in a strange land among relative strangers, you would be, in effect, offered the chance to create a new you. No longer would you be saddled with the baggage of preconceived notions. Those embarrassing stories that you seemingly could not escape from would be forgotten (and we all know that I have a disproportionately large amount of those). The bad choices you have made (a slightly more disproportional amount) would be unknown to all. It would be in your hands to expose such anecdotes. Just think, if you could wipe everything terrible you have ever done from memory, wouldn’t you?

Alas, this is but a double-edged sword. Along with being unaware of all the regrettable elements of your past, your new co-workers and friends would lack knowledge of the great achievements in your life (although, certainly you would be willing to share these triumphs). Goals accomplished, degrees attained, children birthed, mountains climbed, adversaries conquered, and other such accomplishments are eagerly touted, but the most astute among us do so only in small doses. Nobody wants to hear endless accounts of how great any person is (unless, of course, that person is themselves).

So here we all are, everyone filtering their self-images through the most discriminating of lenses. Those who share all are either condemned for their poor judgment or praised for their honesty. Everyone else is hiding something, good or bad. As Abu Dhabi creates itself out of a relatively unknown past, so do all the expatriates who arrive here. Everyday, Abu Dhabi takes another step forward in development and necessarily leaves behind a portion of its history. Everyone that comes here becomes a microcosm of that macrocosm. Re-creation happens every day. Will Abu Dhabi be successful in its efforts? Will each of us be successful in ours? Only time will tell, but you can be sure that I will be highlighting the triumphs, failures, and everything in between right here on what I hope to be a weekly basis. Check back, leave some comments, and pass it along to your less literate friends.