Waves crash and roll, a soothing, distant thunder. My lungs rejoice in the freshness, the coolness of the air, tentatively daring to breathe deeply, to believe that the oppressive heat of summer has left the air. Sun sparkles on the water rushing over the flat sand of the shallows, shifting the sand into darker ridges – an underwater desert, populated by the occasional shell, a starfish, a crab creeping along – though he’s small, I give his claws a wide berth. Behind me, joggers plod through the sand, sari-clad women talk in flowing silk, fathers call to their children, who are screaming with glee as they dodge, dive, splash, splutter in the waves.
The sun descends, casting soft magenta hues on sea and sand. It slowly sinks, not behind the horizon, but behind the construction cranes of the Palm. Straight ahead, wet sand flies from dredgers, arcing through the air to form an island where before only water existed. I wonder if there will come a time when the sun won’t find an open slip of gulf to set on. To my left, past the Burj, the Marina towers soar. The aircraft warning lights start to flash in the twilight - first one, out of sync, then the others in rapid-fire succession – like a heartbeat: blip-thud.
Call to prayer sounds, the first flat and harsh, but then overlapped by another, sweeter, deeper… and another… they weave over and under, rising and falling…
*************************************************************
Florescent lights glow on the orange surface, surprisingly smooth and clear in the dark. Traffic whizzes along Sheik Zayed, headlights glare. Full moon rising, ferris wheel pulsing but still. Feet pound in unison, circling the park – at last, finding joy in the rhythm, the challenge, the breathing, the night air enveloping me…
***************************************************************
Vivaldi’s “Seasons” cycle as the signs circle us, buildings swallow us, roundabouts return us yet again… how hard can it be to find building 14, with the red façade??
Harder than I thought.
Yet the quest for internet can not be denied – so we cycle, circle, return; peer, point, sigh.
*******************************************************************
Flying along, slowing to exit, curve through the tunnel, emerge to the sight of home - and brake lights, blinkers, horns. Slowing, crawling, steeling myself. So close I can almost see in my living room window, but yet so far – a curve, 3 lanes becoming one, cars angling for position, holding steady, ceding only when necessary. Creeping, leaving the building behind, for first I must turn, turn again, bump through dirt, loop through the development – circling back, finally arriving.
***************************************************************
Afternoon. The light takes on a peculiar quality, one I feel I must know from another life….
The skylight reveals a strange phenomenon – clouds. Gray, sky-concealing clouds. The first time I have seen them here.
As the bell rings, students buzz with talk of rain. I step out to see for myself – indeed. Small drops, intermittent – but rain. The first I have felt in over 3 months… a welcome respite? No. More of a curiosity.
**********************************************************
Thursday night, opening race night at Nad el Sheba. Track in a white-light glow, dressed-up patrons pay to watch from behind glass, eat and drink and socialize, while we lean our forearms on the scratchy hedge, awaiting the thunderous finish only meters from us, envying the photographers with their telephoto lenses and places even closer. Friends and families relax, chat, eat, smoke on blankets behind us – our skin is several shades paler than most, I get more than a few glances as I move to the walking ring before the races to check out the horses. Going off nothing more than horse names, jockey names, owners, and the occasional derby winner in the pedigree, we attempt to pick the winners and try to decipher the abbreviations on the racing program. Betting is illegal in Dubai, but one can “predict” the winner of all 6 races to win a car… a long shot at best. It all makes me want to go horseback riding, preferably fast…
***********************************************************************
Friday afternoon, feel the need to leave the apartment... do something, anything. Jen and I head towards Sharjah, taking advantage of one day of lighter traffic. Under the Creek in a tunnel, out of the old city center, along the coast, we catch glimpses of the Gulf between villas. Sharjah off to our right. We find a piece of shoreline, rocky, with a concrete wall above it. We sit, soaking up the sunshine, reveling in the breeze, the relative quiet except waves, watching trucks drive out onto the Palm Deira, speculating about the ability to create artificial land, wondering how long it will be before it sinks back into the water. We're not there for long, just long enough to be dazzled by the sunshine, find a spot to escape to....
*************************************************************************
ASD had a gala fundraiser put on by the Parent Association. It was a wonderful reason to get dressed up, see everyone else dressed up; and eat, drink and be merry. There was an exciting live auction, a raffle drawing for a Hummer (alas, I did not win... ), and a silent auction with some pretty random things (ie, FedEx shipments). I didn't bid, but I had fun seeing my table-mates bid for and win some of the previously mentioned random-ness...
*************************************************************************
The hot weather has broken. The other morning, I actually felt chilled driving to work and had to close my car window! It's absolutely beautiful - warm afternoons, cool evenings.... The thought of a whole winter of weather this beautiful makes me very, very happy!
The thought of Minnesota in December already has me shivering....
**********************************************************************
Thanksgiving in Dubai: I got to do the thing where I make my contribution to Thanksgiving dinner (green bean casserole), wrap it up in a towel and take it with me, in a bag with a bottle of wine, the extra crunchies, and my camera. Feels like I'm a real adult now :)
Allison did good her first Thanksgiving, the turkey was great, the gravy was delicious.... we had quite a spread, and although Green Bean casserole has to be the easiest thing ever, I was proud of the fact that everyone loved it and there was none left over (the exception was Juliette, our token 5-year old, who announced loudly that she did NOT like the beans. But I probably didn't either, when I was 5, so I'm not offended).
We were a diverse group, being inclusive of some Canadians and an Aussie, and from all over the US, and I realized that although I miss my family, it was a fabulous evening, becuase all that matters on Thanksgiving is that we're with people we care about - and I was.
It also didn't hurt that a few of us stopped off at the beach on the way home for an impromptu wade, as a white-robed fisherman rowed his white boat out to check his white-buoyed fishing nets that were bobbing right in front of us, stars actually visible overhead, water lapping our toes as we rolled up our pants and stepped gingerly in the dark....
*************************************
http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=145dg9h8.a98s14hg&x=0&y=fp34i5
A few pics....
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
India Part 2
Jaipur – the pink city. Pleasing to the eye, cool in the hot summer months, a practical choice made by an emperor. The streets are starting to stir as the sun beats down, promising a hot day…
We are told, as we have been before, not to give out of compassion, for begging is a trade that kidnaps, maims, and mistreats. The reality makes me shudder, but I also feel a small measure of relief at this - my absolution, my release from the guilt born out of my inaction.
Imposing, daunting, deserted; power conveyed in the Amber fort’s commanding perch atop the hill. Elephants lumber up the steep path, painted flowers on their faces belying power – I remember the unfortunate Belgian tourist… The handlers palm curving, pointed iron with which they prod. I double-take at a turbaned head bent into a cell phone.
Dusty stones where rich carpets, sparkling mirrors, and multi-colored jewels once cushioned life for the ruling few. Years of history – victories, defeats, jealousy, intrigue…. Towers, tunnels, balconies, steep stairways…. 12 rooms for 12 wives, not allowed contact within their own quarters for fear of assassination attempts…. Intricate pillars covered in limestone for decades to avoid a jealous fit of destruction… watchtowers on the hills to announce an invasion, a homecoming…. A honeycombed window behind which the queen awaited her husband’s return – I curve my fingers in the cool marble openings and try to imagine her hope, for his death would have meant hers as well – tradition dictated she burn herself on his funeral pyre… a victory on the battlefield, the banner of the defeated thrown high in celebration, when it was supposed to be a sign of defeat; the jubilant army returned to barred gates, which when broken open revealed fires burning and all perished in a fiery death, in accordance to the custom of suicide before being taken. Etchings; black ink deface smooth walls – stirring tributes to everlasting love marring in their audacity.
Ping of metal on concrete, thwack of a wooden stick, jingle of coins, the young boy’s patter : “one rupee, look sir, one rupee, now two rupee, now gone,” as coins appear with a tug on my pant leg, a flutter of fingers behind my ear; rocks vanish from overturned bowls….
Wrinkled, tanned skin, white beard, electric orange robe, a shepherds crook – crossing traffic and gone, but not before he caught my eye.
Ancient stone structures find the North Star, discern the future, tell time to the nearest second; a sundial so massive no-one dares climb to the top…
Trying our hand at block printing… rudimentary stamps become beautiful fabric…
A museum full of ancient clothing; it’s easy to see why the queens couldn’t walk for the weight of their jewel-encrusted gowns. Master craftsmen work, the walls covered with their accolades, visits from princes and presidents; we buy new paintings on old paper – stories on top of stories. A boy, an apprentice, shows how he painstakingly hammers intricate brass patterns into polished wood – he is learning from his father, whose work he proudly shows us…
A rust-red courtyard under a fading sky, a cool breeze, lilting music, a surprising peace.
Silent in the dark backseat, I tune out talk of castes and gaze out the window – glittering Diwali decorations cross over-head, neon lights blaze, food steams in huge cast-iron pots, side streets wind away in the dark, light spills from doorways.
Swimming in the dark, bats swoop to the rippling surface, mere shadows flitting away as quickly as they came…
The second leg of the triangle – Jaipur to Agra. I settle in, headphones providing my personal soundtrack, and simply watch… or try to. Swerve, brake, surge, swerve… who needs lanes? The folded-in side-view mirrors suddenly make sense.
Think of chaos – cars, trucks, cars, bikes, motorcycles, people… Then add cows. Unconcerned, hump-backed, wandering, grazing, lounging cows. And garbage. Piled, strewn, trodden, stinky garbage.
A goat perches precariously on a corrugated tin roof. Low stone walls separate furrowed fields. A turbaned, white-garbed man plows, two oxen trudging before him – a National Geographic picture I am now seeing with my own eyes. Livestock grazes. Women work the fields, bent over rows of some struggling crop. Men lounge in groups at roadside cafes, under scrawny shade. (I can see who’s doing all the work around here!). A girl and a woman, bent in a field - the older helps the younger steady a basket on her head, she rises and floats away. Two children walk, hand in hand, down the dusty road, faded clothes flapping in the breeze. Stones with white paint slapped over them serve as construction barriers. Flat disks of drying cow dung look like shingles in the sun. Markets in small towns – bananas in various stages of ripeness, peanuts, piles of orange flowers to offer to the gods. Spigots gush cool water, a boy in blue shorts pours a glistening bucket over his head. Tall chimneys of brick ovens rise, their finished products in haphazard piles. Tall sprays of Indian Paintbrush sway.
Another deserted city, splendor to only be imagined. A lofty throne, from which prisoners heard their sentences, in a day when death by elephant stomping was quite an effective deterrent for murder. A giant game-board, from whose center the king commanded his color-coded concubines, swirling skirts as playing pieces.
Agra – crowded, down-and-dirty… I nap in the backseat.
A bumpy drive for a Taj-Mahal sneak peak, crescent moon slivered in the twilight sky, stray dogs poke their noses in burning trash, white domes beckon from across the shallow river…
Dinner with a bus of senior citizens – we marvel at their courage, their determination to see the world even as they walk with canes, squint blue-shadowed eyes at menus, and speak way too loudly in each other’s good ears.
Up before dawn, coffee cravings pushed aside, anticipation in the cool darkness. The sky begins to soften, the city starting to stir. Shadows gather in lighted doorways, cooking, eating; metal shop doors still tightly rolled down.
Parking lot, battery-operated bus, walk – we take turns eying the horizon, willing the sun to take its time this morning, and quicken the pace. Red sandstone gate, inlaid with marble slabs, in turn inlaid with semi-precious stones. Through the arch, and there it is – the Taj Mahal – wonder of the world, testament to undying love – pearly-white in the pre-dawn light, mist floating gray behind, and it feels like we’re at the edge of the world. We hear of the years, the hours, the care that went into making this monument - this tomb - for the king’s departed wife, how he sat every day, gazing upon it. White marble soars above me. Semi-precious stones – jade, coral, lapis-lazuli – swirl in flowers, onyx curves in Arabic letters, carved figures curl. Inside, a surprising darkness. Marble glows under a small flashlight, lapis shimmers. The whole complex is perfectly symmetrical from gates to minarets. Fountains sit dormant, trees branch gracefully, flowers bloom. Golden sun breaking the horizon, then the wall, adding a golden sheen to the domes.
Passion emanates from every stone.
Agra fort – more deserted beauty, more views to gaze at, more spaces for light and shadow to play, for breezes to blow, for mysteries to call….
Young Indian men trying to take my picture; I feel too blonde in the sunshine.
Eyes exhausted, I don’t see much on the way back to Delhi. Our last day we are stuck in limbo before flying. Along comes Sunny, tuk-tuk driver and unofficial tour guide. He plays us songs from Bollywood films, singing along, hands waving in the air, stops the track to explain what the singer is saying. He tries to acquire Sean’s Twins hat, takes us to a cheap, good (and hopefully not sketchy) place for lunch, takes us to good shopping, a museum, back to the hotel. In our nearest miss, a car almost backs right into us – we are saved by a quick swerve. We write down our email addresses, promise to contact Sunny if we are ever coming back to India, and say goodbye to this bright person we’ve met so randomly.
After waiting at the airport for too long, I feel ready to go home. Winging through the dark, I have to marvel at the things I’ve seen, even as I try to absorb it all. I’ve said it before, but it’s true – I wish my eyes were cameras, that I could capture everything I’ve seen, to be able to replay, remember all my experiences. In lieu of that ability, my words will just have to do.
We are told, as we have been before, not to give out of compassion, for begging is a trade that kidnaps, maims, and mistreats. The reality makes me shudder, but I also feel a small measure of relief at this - my absolution, my release from the guilt born out of my inaction.
Imposing, daunting, deserted; power conveyed in the Amber fort’s commanding perch atop the hill. Elephants lumber up the steep path, painted flowers on their faces belying power – I remember the unfortunate Belgian tourist… The handlers palm curving, pointed iron with which they prod. I double-take at a turbaned head bent into a cell phone.
Dusty stones where rich carpets, sparkling mirrors, and multi-colored jewels once cushioned life for the ruling few. Years of history – victories, defeats, jealousy, intrigue…. Towers, tunnels, balconies, steep stairways…. 12 rooms for 12 wives, not allowed contact within their own quarters for fear of assassination attempts…. Intricate pillars covered in limestone for decades to avoid a jealous fit of destruction… watchtowers on the hills to announce an invasion, a homecoming…. A honeycombed window behind which the queen awaited her husband’s return – I curve my fingers in the cool marble openings and try to imagine her hope, for his death would have meant hers as well – tradition dictated she burn herself on his funeral pyre… a victory on the battlefield, the banner of the defeated thrown high in celebration, when it was supposed to be a sign of defeat; the jubilant army returned to barred gates, which when broken open revealed fires burning and all perished in a fiery death, in accordance to the custom of suicide before being taken. Etchings; black ink deface smooth walls – stirring tributes to everlasting love marring in their audacity.
Ping of metal on concrete, thwack of a wooden stick, jingle of coins, the young boy’s patter : “one rupee, look sir, one rupee, now two rupee, now gone,” as coins appear with a tug on my pant leg, a flutter of fingers behind my ear; rocks vanish from overturned bowls….
Wrinkled, tanned skin, white beard, electric orange robe, a shepherds crook – crossing traffic and gone, but not before he caught my eye.
Ancient stone structures find the North Star, discern the future, tell time to the nearest second; a sundial so massive no-one dares climb to the top…
Trying our hand at block printing… rudimentary stamps become beautiful fabric…
A museum full of ancient clothing; it’s easy to see why the queens couldn’t walk for the weight of their jewel-encrusted gowns. Master craftsmen work, the walls covered with their accolades, visits from princes and presidents; we buy new paintings on old paper – stories on top of stories. A boy, an apprentice, shows how he painstakingly hammers intricate brass patterns into polished wood – he is learning from his father, whose work he proudly shows us…
A rust-red courtyard under a fading sky, a cool breeze, lilting music, a surprising peace.
Silent in the dark backseat, I tune out talk of castes and gaze out the window – glittering Diwali decorations cross over-head, neon lights blaze, food steams in huge cast-iron pots, side streets wind away in the dark, light spills from doorways.
Swimming in the dark, bats swoop to the rippling surface, mere shadows flitting away as quickly as they came…
The second leg of the triangle – Jaipur to Agra. I settle in, headphones providing my personal soundtrack, and simply watch… or try to. Swerve, brake, surge, swerve… who needs lanes? The folded-in side-view mirrors suddenly make sense.
Think of chaos – cars, trucks, cars, bikes, motorcycles, people… Then add cows. Unconcerned, hump-backed, wandering, grazing, lounging cows. And garbage. Piled, strewn, trodden, stinky garbage.
A goat perches precariously on a corrugated tin roof. Low stone walls separate furrowed fields. A turbaned, white-garbed man plows, two oxen trudging before him – a National Geographic picture I am now seeing with my own eyes. Livestock grazes. Women work the fields, bent over rows of some struggling crop. Men lounge in groups at roadside cafes, under scrawny shade. (I can see who’s doing all the work around here!). A girl and a woman, bent in a field - the older helps the younger steady a basket on her head, she rises and floats away. Two children walk, hand in hand, down the dusty road, faded clothes flapping in the breeze. Stones with white paint slapped over them serve as construction barriers. Flat disks of drying cow dung look like shingles in the sun. Markets in small towns – bananas in various stages of ripeness, peanuts, piles of orange flowers to offer to the gods. Spigots gush cool water, a boy in blue shorts pours a glistening bucket over his head. Tall chimneys of brick ovens rise, their finished products in haphazard piles. Tall sprays of Indian Paintbrush sway.
Another deserted city, splendor to only be imagined. A lofty throne, from which prisoners heard their sentences, in a day when death by elephant stomping was quite an effective deterrent for murder. A giant game-board, from whose center the king commanded his color-coded concubines, swirling skirts as playing pieces.
Agra – crowded, down-and-dirty… I nap in the backseat.
A bumpy drive for a Taj-Mahal sneak peak, crescent moon slivered in the twilight sky, stray dogs poke their noses in burning trash, white domes beckon from across the shallow river…
Dinner with a bus of senior citizens – we marvel at their courage, their determination to see the world even as they walk with canes, squint blue-shadowed eyes at menus, and speak way too loudly in each other’s good ears.
Up before dawn, coffee cravings pushed aside, anticipation in the cool darkness. The sky begins to soften, the city starting to stir. Shadows gather in lighted doorways, cooking, eating; metal shop doors still tightly rolled down.
Parking lot, battery-operated bus, walk – we take turns eying the horizon, willing the sun to take its time this morning, and quicken the pace. Red sandstone gate, inlaid with marble slabs, in turn inlaid with semi-precious stones. Through the arch, and there it is – the Taj Mahal – wonder of the world, testament to undying love – pearly-white in the pre-dawn light, mist floating gray behind, and it feels like we’re at the edge of the world. We hear of the years, the hours, the care that went into making this monument - this tomb - for the king’s departed wife, how he sat every day, gazing upon it. White marble soars above me. Semi-precious stones – jade, coral, lapis-lazuli – swirl in flowers, onyx curves in Arabic letters, carved figures curl. Inside, a surprising darkness. Marble glows under a small flashlight, lapis shimmers. The whole complex is perfectly symmetrical from gates to minarets. Fountains sit dormant, trees branch gracefully, flowers bloom. Golden sun breaking the horizon, then the wall, adding a golden sheen to the domes.
Passion emanates from every stone.
Agra fort – more deserted beauty, more views to gaze at, more spaces for light and shadow to play, for breezes to blow, for mysteries to call….
Young Indian men trying to take my picture; I feel too blonde in the sunshine.
Eyes exhausted, I don’t see much on the way back to Delhi. Our last day we are stuck in limbo before flying. Along comes Sunny, tuk-tuk driver and unofficial tour guide. He plays us songs from Bollywood films, singing along, hands waving in the air, stops the track to explain what the singer is saying. He tries to acquire Sean’s Twins hat, takes us to a cheap, good (and hopefully not sketchy) place for lunch, takes us to good shopping, a museum, back to the hotel. In our nearest miss, a car almost backs right into us – we are saved by a quick swerve. We write down our email addresses, promise to contact Sunny if we are ever coming back to India, and say goodbye to this bright person we’ve met so randomly.
After waiting at the airport for too long, I feel ready to go home. Winging through the dark, I have to marvel at the things I’ve seen, even as I try to absorb it all. I’ve said it before, but it’s true – I wish my eyes were cameras, that I could capture everything I’ve seen, to be able to replay, remember all my experiences. In lieu of that ability, my words will just have to do.
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