spencegreen.com |
Stuff |
spencegreen.com |
Stuff |
I’ve just uploaded new photographs of the Mussafah Labor Camps, Doha, and Abu Dhabi. Also, I added a few more photos to the Al Ain directory. My camera should arrive in the next week, so then I won’t suffer from such awful image quality.
I posted a few new writeups; they’re a bit more narrative than the previous few. I tired quickly of writing, “I did this…I did that…blah.” Also, Kenneth B. Franklin, Esq. encouraged me to…uh…spread my wings a bit. If you find the tone too affected, write me a flame and then blame him. Anyway, let me know if I should demonstrate more restraint. Also, I’ve tried to proofread, but haven’t been too attentive in the interest of making timely posts. Excuse the occassional misspelling, change in tenses, incorrect word, or general desecration of the King’s English.
I apologize for the infrequent posts over the last month. I’m not slacking off! Here’s my weekly schedule as proof:
Saturday:
Work
Sunday:
6:30AM — Bible Study
Work
3:45PM — Arabic Class
Monday:
Work
7:30PM — Scuba course
Tuesday:
Work
Wednesday:
Work
3:45PM — Arabic Class
6:15PM — Abu Dhabi Striders Predictor Run
Thursday:
7:30AM — Swimming
9:45AM — Arabic Class
Friday:
10:15AM — Church @ ECC
12ish — Lunch with church crowd.
I essentially live at the British Club. I’m training six days a week for the Dubai Marathon. Also, I have a goal of taking one UAE/Peninsula excursion and one “big” trip per month. In December, I intend to climb Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, so I’m now planning that little activity.
Oh yeah, I have a few friends too.
This afternoon I visited the labor camps in Mussafah, a suburb of Abu Dhabi. These compounds demonstrate the horrific wage gap in this country. The government has not set a minimum wage, nor does it regulate working conditions for lower-income workers. As a result, companies import men from Bangladesh, Nepal, Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, the Phillipines, and Indonesia for undesirable tasks such as cleaning, maintenance, and the peculiar occupation known as “office boy.” Such a person spends each day making coffee, copies, and small talk. During Ramadan, public consumption of any beverage is forbidden, thus reducing his workload further.
Belaji, our guide, holds the latter post at one of the local media companies. A young Indian with a convivial disposition, he came to the UAE last December and worked for a few months in the Abu Dhabi Mall. His company then reassigned him to the media company where he met Andy, one of my good friends here. He currently makes about 500 Dirhams (about $150) per month, most of which he sends home to his mother and grandmother. His father came here about nine years ago and performs janitorial work for an oil company. A prudent businessman, his father immediately invested his salary in land. Now the family owns rice paddies in India, which they lease to a tenant. The fields yield about 5000 Dirhams worth of rice per year, of which the family receives 3000 Dirhams. His wages here, though appalling by Western standards, have thus significantly advanced his position in India. Several weeks ago, Belaji’s brother arrived here; a cleaning company employs him. The two younger men meet daily; the father joins them about every ten months. They each receive home leave once a year.
Last week, Andy asked to visit Belaji’s camp and invited me along for the trip. Together with Rahim, Andy’s colleague, we left Abu Dhabi for Mussafah. The trip lasted only 20 minutes. We exited the highway and Belaji indicated rows of ramshackle buildings just beyond the exit ramp. Now I have traveled along this highway daily for the last two months and never suspected that people lived in these buildings: I thought that they were warehouses or livestock pens. We proceeded past the main section of the camp and then followed a road that bordered the rear. Rows of trucks—cement mixers, water tankers, container trucks—lined the roadway; the drivers had parked them for the evening. After weaving around these vehicles, we parked in an ill-kept lot just beyond Belaji’s building. He sprung from the car and with great enthusiasm motioned for us to follow. I characteristically took stock of my surroundings, shifted uncomfortably, and then attached myself to the rear of the party.
This particular facility was laid out in a rectangular fashion. The dormitories enclosed a central area that consisted of bathing stalls and a large trough, much like those in baseball stadiums, for general use. Buckets full of soiled clothes ringed the bath house. Acres of shoes and sandals also covered this area, for most people in this culture remove their footwear before going inside. Belaji took us immediately to his room. It measured about 10’x15’; eight men occupied this space. A few of his mates were fast asleep in the rear of the room and, waking, gave us irritated glances as we observed the accommodations. Returning to the hallway, several other men had gathered for the sideshow. They eagerly shook our hands, took pictures with us, and asked about our countries. At the end of hall, a group of Bangledeshis pointed and giggled amongst themselves. Although cramped, the conditions here far exceeded those in the next few stops on our tour.
Having acquired another companion, we drove across the camp to meet some of Belaji’s friends. A wave of foul odor, emanating from either rotten food or sewage (or both), greeted us as we entered this enclave. In addition to the assortment of shoes, a collection of wheeled contraptions cluttered the common area. Every manner of bicycle, carriage, and trolley—in various states of disrepair—furnished the majority of the space. Passing down a long corridor, we came to room stuffed with Indians. In this camp, that same 10’x15’ room housed twelve people. The occupants had lined the walls with Bollywood stars, Indian athletes, and a battered plastic doll. This little reprobate, arrayed in the mangiest ensemble, gaped at us from her perch. All of the men we encountered spoke English remarkably well. They talked of their families and jobs and mentioned that we should go to the kitchen. We bade them goodbye, and they returned to the Indian dance videos flashing on their television. Outside, a Muslim dressed in punjabi pajama and skullcap peered at us inquisitively.
One kitchen, operated by twenty to thirty cooks, services the whole complex. Belaji did not know anyone here, so he told us to walk briskly through the building. The kitchen stands in the CleanCo section. This company provides cleaning services for the malls, office buildings, and restaurants throughout the city. It employs thousands of workers who are recognizable by the maroon jumpsuits that they wear. Working seven days a week with no vacation, they earn 300 Dirhams ($80 US) per month. By accepting an additional five hours per day, they may earn 500 Dirhams monthly. Although we did not enter the CleanCo dorms, their external appearance provided sufficient insight into the living conditions. American cattle certainly enjoy a higher standard of living than this wretched lot.
The kitchen presented the most regrettable scene of the whole day. We navigated a dank corridor, avoiding men that struggled with large pots of rice. The employees gazed at us passively. While Belaji and his companions exuded enthusiasm, the kitchen staff were beaten people. To consume this food would be demoralizing enough. To prepare it daily under these lamentable conditions, with no vacation or leisure time, seems more than a person could bear. One room had vats of rice arranged in a haphazard fashion. The floor was covered in crud. The worst of it seemed towards the rear, but we passed along before exploring that space. Only in this section did Andy note discomfort while snapping photos. We spent less than five minutes in the building and I was so overwhelmed that I cannot now remember many of the finer details.
The remainder of the trip was spent at another cleaning camp. Belaji introduced us to his brother there, a handsome guy clad in a blue jumpsuit. He could not speak English, looking on with the most innocent expression as Belaji ushered us around. Andy performed his trademark card trick before a group of Sri Lankans and Bangladeshis. After shuffling the deck, prompting various onlookers to select cards, and various other absurdities, he then presents the incorrect cards and absolves himself of the deed. The crowd, which had grown to about 25 during his demonstration, collapsed into paroxysms of laughter. Several retrieved their friends and demanded an encore. Andy graciously obliged them. Despite the language barriers and the staggering contrast in our respective social stations, we were, for a fleeting moment, companions.
Outrage, followed shortly by a trip to the beach, is the most obvious response to such conditions. Capitalism serves as the usual punching bag. Consider, though, that these paltry salaries represent significant premiums over the going wages in Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and other Southeast Asian countries. Belaji’s family, for example, has significantly enhanced their position by purchasing land. Aside from the kitchen staff, I would not describe these men as despondent. They have not left their wives and children for a vacation in the Arabian desert, but for the promise of a better life at some future date. Blame the corporations, blame the government, blame the consumer. Don’t forget George Bush (tongue-in-cheek; the international media blames everything on him, from avian flu to the earthquake in Pakistan). This argument is not entirely sufficient. For substantive reform to occur, the culture here must change. Immigrants here are viewed by many locals as chattel. I’ve heard scores of horrendous stories about mistreatment of low-income laborers. Since I’ve received this information through hearsay, I don’t know whether any of it is true. Closing the labor camps would eliminate jobs and shift the problem to another country. Allowing them to remain in operation is obviously unjustifiable. What, then, is the solution? Comments…
From 10/3/05
I arrived last evening after a short flight from Abu Dhabi. Qatar is an hour behind the UAE, so I arrived at the same time as I departed. The plane had no vacant seats on it; Pakistani and Indian men were almost sitting on one another. I occupied the aft-most row which, for most of the boarding process, remained otherwise vacant. Just as the steward closed the door, two Pakistanis scambled by and made their way toward the rear. Please let them have taken a bath, I thought, as they motioned towards me. They hadn’t. After piling over me into the two adjacent, one immediately opened his phone and began yammering away. This airline prohibited usage of any electronic devices after entering the plane, so a stewardess came running down the aisle waving her arms. “Sir. Excuse me. Sir. Please. I call the security.” He waved her off, nodding and grinning like bobblehead doll, and continued on. Just down the aisle, several more phones erupted, their owners responding with staccato emissions in Hindi and Farsi. More stewardesses appeared, motioning as if to suppress a fire. Several more rows down, two men engaged in an argument over the location of their leather manpurse/handbag things. A steward tried to arbitrate between them. Meanwhile, the stewardess next to me had finally succeeded in communicating her intent with my travel partner. I was relieved of the gymnastics, but not of the body odor. I looked to my right and discovered an Emirati man, recognizable by his immaculate dish-dasha. He lounged in his chair as a king holding court, chuckling at the scene. I offered a knowing glance and he responded with the semblance of a smile, the corners of his mouth moving slightly from their reposed state. The plane had not departed and I was already depleted.
At the instant the plane landed in Doha, the men were up. We rolled down the runway while they reached for their leather manpurse/handbag things. When the plane reached a nominal speed on the taxiway, the stewardesses came rushing down the aisle again. They would have fared better shouting at the wind. When the plane finally stopped, I exited from the rear quickly and proceeded to immigration.
In the passport line, I observed an Iraqi soccer team. They were well-dressed and immaculately groomed, which surprised me. The only Iraqis that I’ve seen (in the paper and at work) have been rather lorn. These people, though, were quite striking. They had skin that looked as burnished bronze, darker than the Gulf Arabs in the UAE but lighter than the mahogany shade of the Persians. I found them almost regal in appearance. I wanted to speak with them, but didn’t know what to say. A tall, slender guy of about my age slid in just behind me. I looked at him and thought, we know much about each other yet we’ve never met. I should have said something, but I was quite arrested at the time.
A Keralite drove me to the Landmark mall, taking the Corniche Road around crescent-shaped Doha Bay. The skyline was stunning, especially around the diplomatic district. The Qatar government has, like the other Gulf states, embarked on a massive building project. Cranes thus outnumbered the extant buildings. We passed the Shaikh’s residence, a shanty of about five million square feet. Unlike Abu Dhabi, Doha has not pushed the desert back too far. Heading away from downtown, I saw sand after only five minutes. Jay collected me from Landmark and we drove to City Center, the largest mall in the Middle East. We fought the Ramadan crown at Carrefour and bought schwarmas at a Turkish shop. Then we returned to his villa, located in a compound not far from Doha University, his employer.
On Thursday morning I went for a run and found the climate several degrees warmer than the UAE. Qatar takes Friday and Saturday off (the UAE’s weekend falls on Thursday and Friday), so Jay had to work. I rode to the downtown area, Lonely Planet book in hand and stopped at Doha Fort. The book said this was a cool sight, but I found it securely shut amidst a construction area. Awesome. Next, I walked toward the Grand Mosque, then retraced my steps to the Heritage House. The latter is one of the oldest structures in town and now houses a municipal agency. I walked inside and climbed a narrow staircase leading to the Wind Tower. I think everyone was napping during the fast. From there, I walked toward the shoe souq. A Ferrari dealership appeared on my right (such opulence is common in this region) and I immediately made a detour. Inside, I discovered a 925,000 ($300,000) riyal machine. Transfixed, I dropped my guide book. I’m trying to develop my patience here, so when I discovered my error several hours later, I had to calm myself down. Hey, you habitually do absent-minded stuff like that, I told myself. Get over it and go have a sandwich.
During Ramadan, though, one cannot just go have a sandwich. I flagged a Sudanese cab driver, who was flummoxed when I pronounced his country and city in Arabic (I had just done geography that week in class). He dropped me by the dhows and I paid 15 riyals for a trip to Palm Tree Island in the center of Doha Bay. Parched and famished, I quickly sequestered myself on a corner of the island and had my lunch. I felt like an alcoholic or something. After walking for a half hour, I returned to the Corniche, where Jay picked me up.
He had not brought any food, so we drove around looking for something to eat. Finally, we found some Indian street vendors selling samosas (Muslims eat these at Iftar). I asked for ten of the little snacks and to my suprise, the man started filling a sack with them. My “Oks” and “That’s enoughs” and “thanks, my family has a of history cardiac problems” quickly turned to laughter as he proceeded. He then asked for ten riyals. What could I do?
We drove to the “limestone escarpments” at Bir Zekreet extolled by the guide book. Along the way, we saw camels lumbering about in groups of three or four. The desert is quite flat in this part of the country and we saw few dunes. On the horizan, we could see oil fields, recognizable by their flaming masts, in the industrial city of Dukhan on the western coast. It took only an hour to cross the country!
The escarpments were lackluster at best. They were no more than fifteen feet high. We drove down a deteriorated road to an encampment, where Jay offered the remainder of the samosas to a Pakistani man. His face swelled with gratitude. Disappointed with the excursion, we returned to Doha for the evening. As the sun set behind us, the sand glowed a deep hue of red.
On Friday we attended church and then drove south toward Al Wakrah. We drove along the beach there and were amazed by the filth on the shore. Plastic water bottles almost outnumbered the shells at the water’s edge. Further, rotten food, paper refuse, and delightful sundries rolled in on the waves. Despite these conditions, a group of Filipinos dragged fishing nets through the waist-deep water. A jetty lined with dhows extended at an acute angle to our left, creating a small bay. We found the road that ran along the jetty and parked the car. Toward one end we saw the rotting carcasses of several abandoned vessels, while the seaworthy boats were moored farther out. We came upon two Sri Lankans fishing for hammour. Their tackle consisted of balls of twine, hooks, and sinkers; they baited the hooks with wet bread. They could catch nothing, for the hook’s impact with the water consistently dislodged the bread. Several yards down the way we encountered another man who could not haul in the fish fast enough. He had the same tackle, but the fish swam in such a thick school that I could imagine them supporting a rather hefty man. Aside from some small hammour, he caught some reed-then fish that looked like small Barracuda. After removing the hook, he broke their spines and tossed them into a bucket. Jay returned to the two unsuccessful Sri Lankans and indicated in broken English/Arabic/pidgen that they should move further down. They nodded amiably and shrugged, as if to say, we cannot go there. Prosperity sometimes results from circumstance alone, it seems.
In the late afternoon, we drove another 20km south to Messaid and visited the Sealine Resort. The wind deposits sand blown from Saudi Arabia here, attracting hordes of off-road enthusiasts. They roared up and down the dunes on four-wheelers, dune buggies, and jeeps, gainfully employed in the practice known as “dune bashing.” We watched them for a period and then returned to Al Wakrah. On the beach, we lit the grill and prepared steak, chicken, hummus, and mangoes. When the call to prayer sounded, signaling Iftar, we enjoyed the fine meal. Jay left me at the airport around 7PM and prepared for the antics I would surely observe on the ride back to Abu Dhabi.
I’ve just added a page with some photos from my recent Al Ain roadtrip. When I receive my new Nikon camera in a few weeks, I’ll post more photos.
I think this is funny…
Have you ever seen a more photogenic character?
First Week of Work
Dave has taken me to work each morning during this first week. I’m thankful, for the drivers here are either crazy, stupid, or both. It’s difficult to generalize about a whole group, but in this case, my observation seems valid. In the city, the cab drivers drive offensively, so one must accomodate them. We travel down Salam street to the Maqta Bridge, one of the two bridges connecting the island to the mainland (streets and landmarks are named after members of the royal family). The Al Ain road takes us past the Grand Mosque, out of the city, and into the desert. Several kilometers past the bridge, we turn onto the Musaffah Truck Road, an industrial highway that leads toward the Saudi border. That border has no checkpoint and the road continues into the Deserted Quarter, a vacant area of land near the center of the Peninsula. The base is in this direction, so you can imagine the stunning scenery. Steve calls it “The Ashtray.” “Another day in the tray,” he remarks on particularly stimulating days. No dunes punctuate this landscape. For miles, you can see only sand and scrub brush. The sand doesn’t even impress; it’s dirty, as if someone sprayed mud everywhere. On the truck road, people scream past us on either side, driving at over 180kph. Moreover, Pakistani and Indian laborers *cross* this road on foot. They stand by the roadside and time the traffic. When they see a break, they amble across (I wouldn’t call it running), dish-dash flying behind them. In some cases, they lose a sandal and stop in the road. The odd daredevil will mis-time traffic and pause midway across, straddling the lane line as cars blow past him. The burden is on the driver, though, to avoid these hazards. According to Emirati law, vehicular homicide carries a jail sentence and a blood money penalty payable to the victim’s family. The amount varies according to the victim’s nationality. Killing an Indian isn’t so bad; kill and Emirati and you’d better flee the country. Every morning brings new thrills!
Eventually we turn off toward the base. The American encampment is next door at Al Dhafra. About 20 KC-135s line the runway at any given time. They fly refueling missions over Iraq. The U-2s take off in the morning and F-16s fly throughout the day. The UAE owns several French Mirages, which they fly almost daily. Our lab resides in a bunker close to this area. We don’t have any windows and the ambient temperature stays around 60F. I need a jacket indoors even though its 110 outside. Work has been enjoyable so far and I’ve learned some new skills. This is the largest system that I’ve worked on, so the scale alone will present a significant challenge.
Powered by WordPress
Entries and comments feeds.
Valid XHTML and CSS.
