Catching Up

It’s been seven and a half months since I moved to Dubai, and it’s only now that I am starting to feel there is some hope for me to strike a balance in my somewhat hectic life. Part of my efforts to do so involve committing to this blog. I’ve been seeing a fair bit of new in these past months but have always been “too busy” to write about it. But today, I say, no such thing! It’s a question of priorities. So I, on April 16th 2012, hereby decide that documenting these moments and experiences – and sharing my life, to the small extent I can, with you – is a priority.

Let me try to sum up the past six months:

Moved to Dubai. Hated it. Complained about everything (see previous blog posts): the roads, the people, the lack of cultural exchange, and so on. But told myself I was here for work – and the work looked to be great. And the rest of the time, I could spend on “self-development”: my lofty vision of quiet nights reading; Arabic lessons, and... well, actually, I think that was the whole list.

The work did turn out to be great.

First trip was to Libya, in November, one month after the war officially ended. Stopped over on the way from the airport to the much talked about Bab al-Azzizzeya compound. By this point, waves of rubble were all that remained of the layers of metres-high walls that had kept Qaddafi feeling like a king among his subjects; and kids played among the spray-painted tanks.



The biggest shock upon my arrival to Tripoli was the conditions under which the UN was working. I was accustomed to the desert refugee camps of Chad, where torn plastic sheeting with UNHCR splashed across the top, was the kind of place you’d find aid workers. In Tripoli, the UN had parked itself in a 5-star resort along the beach in beautiful apartment-suites, with balconies and kitchens and maid service. Qaddafi’s family had apparently stayed there for several days during the unrest.



Libya had a good vibe in those days – with some major exceptions I’ll mention later. Many Arabs have this impression of Libyans as very rough people – and the images during the war didn’t help. But I actually enjoyed Libya more than any country I’ve visited so far. I found the people very real, very emotional and very willing to engage.

My first day there, I left the armoured vehicles at the compound and – in typical Heba fashion – hopped into a car with someone I had just met but had a good feeling about. He drove me around in my desperate search for a sim card, until we found what might well have been the last sim card in the city – used for $100.

Of course, those were the days of post-revolutionary bliss – when much of the population was still living off the high you get from accomplishing something unimaginable in unprecedented acts of togetherness. It was similar to the feeling I experienced in Cairo on Feb. 12, 2011, when I watched my 30-something female cousin sweep the streets of downtown with a 14-year-old boy she just met.



The level of self-organization (the protesters erected and respected security checks, set up mobile pharmacies, had people deliver food, etc) with which Tahrir Square wowed the world was multiplied to the nth degree in Libya. Entire cities were self-run, with no functioning government. Militias set up security checkpoints, each governing a different area, but coordinating with each other through an impressive system of communicating and structure. Regular Libyans got together trucks of aid supplies and drove through gunfire to reach people affected by fighting. I met people who had been “volunteering” for months – they basically signed up to work with LibAid, and spent days running from one city to anther to deliver aid, without ever asking for a salary. With a population of just 6 million, nearly everyone was affected by the war in some way, so this feeling of engagement was very tangible.

There were clear segments of the population that did not have access to this tight community that had formed. Many people I spoke to believed that Libyans were bordering on all-out racism in the way they treated the black-skinned Libyan minority called the Tawergha (who fought alongside Qaddafi and were accused of committing atrocious crimes, especially mass rape) as well as migrants from sub-Saharan Africa who had been working in Libya when hostilities broke out. The stories I heard about entire communities being chased out of their homes were horrible. The hatred was pervasive – even open-minded, educated people admitted they just didn’t see a place for all Tawergha – even women and children – and that they should just go “somewhere else”. Continued revenge attacks raised a lot of questions about the direction in which the new Libya would head. National reconciliation seemed incomprehensible to some on both sides. On this front, Libya hasn’t come very far since.

I also believe that a lot of Libyans have not really dealt with the tsunami of emotions that surely hit regular 20-somethings – engineers, doctors, businessmen – who picked up guns for the first time in their lives and watched in flipflops and jean jackets as their friends died before them. Post-traumatic stress disorder isn’t really a recognized phrase in these parts, and I think there will need to be a proper grieving process at some point in the future.

I watched one Libyan cry as he told me about his two brothers. One fought during the revolution and died. This one Mahmoud spoke of with pride. His brother was happy to meet this fate and a certain satisfaction accompanied Mahmoud’s words. But the other brother died years ago, after being tortured in prison where he was held on accusations of links to terrorism. His brother was afraid in the days before his death, Mahmoud told me with shame. He didn’t want to die. And watching him experience that fear was more painful than watching his other brother die in battle.

Libya proved to be a fascinating country, because of its overlapping and competing identity frameworks. That too has come at great risk. I remember Anna Maria Tremonti raging at someone during an interview before I left, chastising “the West” for insisting in its rhetoric that Libya was a “tribal society” – as if that was a horrible insult. In fact, Libya is – or at least was – a tribal society. That is a fact, and a fascinating, though potentially fractious, one. The revolution was not tribal in nature. Militias grew out of neighbourhoods (streets even), not tribal structures, and rather, the revolution was dangerous in how it created local identities out of the “Misrata brigades” and the “Benghazi boys”. With every day that the central government fails to grab a bit more legitimacy, those identities become more of a threat. But tribal dynamics were certainly at play in the decades before the revolution and continue to hold sway, especially in the south – a desert collection of oasis towns with little government control and strong tribal autonomy – where I have vowed to go on my next trip to Libya.

I met a very special soul in Libya – a Mohammed swept up in the revolutionary fervour, who at 31, had given up his life, left his parents, and trekked across the country under the guidance of a man he barely knew to try to find his role in all of this. You could call it the Arab-Spring version of youth adventure. What Khaled Ben Ali, now head of LibAid, created out of young people like Mohammed, was a committed, open-hearted group of Libyans who have tried to fight against the tides of racism, hatred, division. Mohammed literally gave himself to the cause – spent days out of contact as he criss-crossed from the mountains of Zintan to the destroyed buildings of Misrata delivering aid. He eventually took charge of the camps for displaced people... I watched him, one day, as he held a young Tawergha girl and begged her not to cry when she spoke of what happened to her father at the hands of former rebels. In Libya in those days, it was hard to find anyone sympathetic to the Tawergha, but Mohammed saw humans as humans. Full stop.

I left Libya feeling it was a country I wanted to come back to and spend time in – to understand the people and history, and to watch those who had invested so much in changing it find their way in the path that lay ahead.

Next came Egypt, a sober reality check on the honeymoon period, where (see my previous post) the lead-up to the first parliamentary elections was characterized by extremely low morale by activists, who felt they were being played, and a completely different Tahrir Square than the one I had seen in February: drunk and homeless people, the smell of urine, but also, positively, a hub for public political discussion I hadn’t witnessed before.

Then it was off to Afghanistan in the midst of winter, fleece underwear and down jacket in check.



Afghanistan was unpleasant, to put it bluntly. Not because of the country’s geography – which was spectacular – or people – I didn’t have a chance to know them – but because of its ‘zuroof’ as we would say in Arabic – or its circumstances.

If it wasn’t at war, Afghanistan would be a leading country for tourism, with its magnificent snow-covered mountains and rugged terrain. But its people are rough and tired. They’ve been through 30 years of occupation and have come to believe that living in war is simply their destiny. I met many who seemed to have given up.



“When I was young,” one of our Afghan colleagues told us, “they said ‘when you grow up, hopefully, there will be peace.’ Now I am 26 year old and I have seen nothing.”

He planned to leave Afghanistan as soon as he could.

The modus operandi in Afghanistan is another nightmare – armoured vehicles, convoys, checkpoints, and blast walls. It’s a horrible way to try to know a people and deliver aid.

There is good reason to fear. The 2011 attack on the northern town of Mazar-i-Sherif was well publicized in the news. But the details are horribly painful: A protest against Pastor Jones’ burning of Qu’rans turned violent and an angry mob looking for the US embassy found a UN compound along its way instead. The five staff inside ran for the bomb shelter. When the armed mob started banging on the door of the shelter, the head of the UN mission at the time, a Russian, told his team he would face the mob. He would tell them he was the only one inside and sacrifice himself for the other four.

The Russian knew a few words of Arabic and recited the Qu’ran as he stepped out of the bomb shelter. The mob, miraculously, let him go. They then turned and killed the other four – some reportedly had their throats slit. The Russian resigned and left Afghanistan.

So I do not belittle the need for security measures. But why operate in a place if you are so unwelcome? Or rather – why not find a way of operating that makes you welcome and decreases the risk? Anyway, a rant for another day. But all this to say, Afghanistan – in the way that I experienced it – wasn’t my cup of tea.

I did, however, spend a few wonderful days in small villages of the north – a relatively more peaceful part of the country (save the event described above), where villagers complained that because there were no problems in the north, they also didn’t benefit from the mountains of development aid that poured into the south. Given the way that aid was implemented, their neglect could have been a good thing. But Mullah Najibullah, photographed here, didn’t seem to think so. He would have been happy to see more of a role for the international community in the north... and maybe a second wife too :)



After Afghanistan, Jordan was a relief – I could hop into taxis as I pleased, stroll around the market for za’atar and olive oil, and do real journalism. Covering the Syrian refugee crisis was very different than anything I had done in the months before. I’m not a war reporter – I don’t brave bullets to see the action first hand and so I am often analyzing events that I was not a witness to.



In Jordan, I felt as though I was really living the Syrian crisis with those affected by it. I met family from Homs, who had fled to Amman – a woman, her husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law and four kids, who were living in a three-bedroom rental home with leaking ceilings and barely any running water. The woman was so grateful – she refused to complain or list off her needs. “Alhamdullilah,” she kept saying. “Alhamdullilah.”

I met another family, in the Jordanian border town of Remtha, hours after they had crossed illegally into Jordan. The mother had climbed a dirt wall, crawled under a fence, and dropped to the ground amid gunfire – all while carrying her months-old baby, whom she had fed a pill to ensure she didn’t cry and arouse attention. Once in Jordan, they were living in a transit facility until they could find more permanent accommodation. She showed me the bathrooms in the top floor of the building – fresh feces lay in every stall, surrounded by flies, and used women’s sanitary pads were piled up in the corner.

When she said, “We’ve got a good life here,” I assumed she was being sarcastic. She wasn’t.

When I came back from Jordan, I met up with a Syrian friend from Homs in Dubai, whose family had finally made the call to pack up and leave their home because it had simply become too dangerous. They had become “displaced”. He had a hard time coming to terms with the idea, and a harder time physically uttering the word “plastic”, which described some of the tents that displaced people were living in. “Plastic!” he kept repeating, shaking his head. The Syrians are a proud people with a strong attachment to their country. Among the death and the divisions, displacement, too, has not been easy on them.

So it’s been a humbling experience. I feel blessed and lucky to get to see this part of the world at this time in its history. But at the beginning, I also spoke of “self-development”... the quiet nights of reading, and the silver lining of isolation in Dubai.

That never really materialized.

In 7 months, I have made it to page 98 of my book on the history of the Arab world. My apartment is nearly always covered in my hair. I regularly have to throw on rotten food in the fridge. I haven’t started Arabic lessons and I still don’t call my mother enough.

Part of the reason for that is www.circuitfactory.ae which takes up about 4 nights of the week. The rest of it is the wonderful people I have found here (and those who visit!), who have enriched my life tremendously, and the fact that Heba will always be Heba – and thus find ways – like crashing into a column in a parking lot – of doing things that take up her time.



There you have it – I think you’re up to speed.

Promise you’ll get a posting every trip from now on. Iraq is next up.
(Just read my last post – dated Nov. 27 – which read: “I promise I’ll blog more consistently when I get back. Oops.)

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

On the eve of the elections

So Egypt the night before the elections...

Can't say I'm very optimistic - though I've mostly been hanging out with revolutionaries from January who are run down and depressed and think the country is going to hell.

There is talk of liberal candidates having been stabbed by remnants of the old regime. People won't let their mothers go vote alone, because they are afraid of violence. Most activists think the elections are irrelevant, because they won't change anything. The military council will stay in power despite the elected parliament, and the parliament will have no power to do much of anything. Some of the activists are voting anyway because they fought so hard for these elections. Others don't see the point or don't think it's appropriate to be campaigning and voting when people were dying on the streets a few days ago.

Almost everyone I've spoken to is gearing up for a long fight against the military council, long past these elections.

"I'll go vote and then come back to Tahrir," I heard several times.

Then there's the fact that no one has any idea how the voting will work logistically. Nobody knows the rules, who's running, where they have to go to vote, or which party belongs to which block. The system is unnecessarily complicated - perhaps because of the militay's incompetence in election planning, perhaps because they meant for it to be.

I hung out with one activist who spends his time walking around the streets trying to inform people about the elections. We'll be at a felafel shop and he'll start up a conversation.

"You planning to vote tomorrow?"

He gives them his analysis of which candidates really represent the protest movement, counters their conspiracy theories about the revolutionaries, and tries to help convince them that Baradie did not cause the invasion of Iraq.

"Just tell me who to vote for and I'll do it," one shoemaker pleaded with him once.

Because of the lack of knowledge, the insecurity, and the political context, these elections - as a friend of mine told me - are a disaster.... or worse, a trap. Many activists see them as a ploy to push them into a corner. They will lose legitimmacy on the street because the military council will be able to say "You wanted elections - we gave you elections. Now go home." And yet those elections will not represent the change they were meant to.

Morale seems lower. Tahrir has lost its class. People say the tear gas has had a lingering effect on them - that they're drained - physically and mentally.

"I ran on empty for months," my friend Mona told me of the initial revolution. She lost 20 pounds and devoted every waking minute to the struggle. "I’m not the same anymore. Nobody is, in this country."

But this second revolution has re-invigorated people, and I have never seen Egyptians engaging in such healthy political discussions. When you walk through Tahrir, you find groups of people huddled together debating the way forward.

"We cannot vote under these circumstances! How can we hold elections in a country that can't even secure a soccer pitch!"

"No, we have to vote! If we don't vote, the Islamists will take power!"

"What we need is to abandon all ideology and come together!"

Hold on to your horses. This is going to a bumpy ride...

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***



People gathered at Tahrir

A couple months in

I have been horribly absent - I know. A sign, I suppose, that Dubai really isn't that bad.

It's clean. It's functional. It's ... fine. It's not a place I'll ever fall in love with, but it's manageable. In fact, people always complain that it's easy to lose time here. The days go by quickly and you don't ever know quite how you spent them.

I complain a lot that the place has no soul, but it would be unfair to say it isn't interesting... Where else in the world can you find a woman in a niqab next to a woman in a bikini? Anything goes here, and everyone accepts everyone else as they are. And it is very cosmopolitan. You can find people and food from around the world - though the different cultures are not engrained and appreciated the way they are in, say, Toronto. It's also unique in how quickly it has grown. Many of the places we hang out in were desert just thirty - or in some cases five! - years ago.

We spend long hours here debating Egyptian politics, Syria's uprising, Qaddafi's death. I fear the elections in Egypt will be a disaster, given how complicated the election rules are and how little anyone knows about the different party platforms - including the parties themselves! In Syria, I spend a lot of time arguing with friends that things are not as black and white as they seem on TV... that there are weapons and interests at play within the opposition and that a significant proportion of the population still supports Bashar. Qaddafi's death? Even my friend's 65-year-old mother couldn't stop herself from watching the gruesome videos...

All this to say, it's been interesting.

I'm off to Libya in the coming days, to get a sense of how things are progressing on the ground in what is likely to be the hardest part of the revolution; and then to Egypt for the elections.

I promise I'll blog more consistently when I get back.

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Some photos

I got another hilarious email from Sami yesterday that read:

We need picture in ur blog
That is not acceptable

Can't say no to the Old Man!





Dubai in all its glory












Karim and Tamer at a Lebanese restaurant.










Karim's daily activity











The living room of my new apartment - please excuse the furniture.









Look carefully: it's a stuffed camel wearing a traditional galabeya and head dress. Bought it at "The Camel Company".










Local Emiratis at the mall






*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Clash(es) of Culture

Ok, so two weeks in and ... things are not so bad after all. Yes, I know you all said it would be so.

I should be moved into my new apartment next week. Furnishing an apartment from scratch again is not only expensive, annoying and frustrating (I have exactly what I need sititng in Canada!), but also a constant reminder that I have made myself home-less. Still, I go on trying to make one wherever I go. And this one should be nice. Arched windows. Big patio. Huge kitchen. And literally two minutes to the beach.

I cannot understate how wonderful it has been to have a little community here. Karim, my cousin, has introduced me to some of his Egyptian friends, and they've become family overnight. They take such good care of me. They're always checking on what I need, negotiating prices for me, picking me up, dropping me off. We all see each other nearly everyday. It's been about four years since I've had such a tight-knit group that is so involved in one another's lives. And I love it.

The staff at the office are wonderful, and I'm truly enjoying the work I'm doing. I've been very slow to get started, but have a number of articles lined up that should get out soon.

Best news is I'm planning on trying out for a soccer team tomorrow!

The roads are still terrible. Seriously, terrible. The thing I miss most about Canada right now is the good highway layout and the signage. In Dubai, you miss one exit, and you've automatically just lost 30 minutes of your day and added 20 km to your ride.

And the language barrier is still a problem. Today, we spent twenty minutes trying to understand whether the bedsheet an Asian man was selling was meant to go on top of the mattress or below it. It's like traveling to a foreign country and not knowing the language, only in reverse.

But the thing I've been struggling most with actually, is culture shock. On various levels.

Do you know how much the casual workers here make? The ones who leave their families back home and come here in droves for the sole purpose of making money? One Pakistani security guard at my office asked me the other day whether I could spare some money for his friend who broke his arm, but couldn't afford to go to a hospital here and needed to fly back to Pakistan where healthcare is cheaper. The guard makes 900 dirham a month, or about 235 Canadian dollars. When I offered to speak to the head of the office about it and see if we could help, he pleaded with me not to because he didn't want to get in trouble for having asked for money.

In my new neighbourhood, Jumeira Beach Residence, where Russians, Brits and Americans saunter around in beach clothes and sit at shi shi cafes, Pakistanis and Indians in blue uniforms crowd around the bus stops waiting for the public transit that no one else in the country uses. When a bus approaches, they make a huge scene, by jumping over each other in herds to get a seat on the bus, which will probably take them 45 minutes away to lower-class neighbourhoods like Deira or Sharja, where they live 10 to a room.

But the real culture shock is personal. I'm realizing just how Canadian I am.
My Western attitude has also gotten me into some trouble at work (not in my office, but with people I call for interviews, etc). There's a system in Middle East... largely based in relationship-building. It's slow, and sometimes a bit fake, but it's their system. And when you barge in trying to get everything done at once, without having built those relationships, people consider you too forward and too pushy and are less willing to help. So I'm learning to play the game.

Hanging out with Egyptians day in and day out has also been a bit exhausting. Here's how I break it down. Canadians function based on practicality and logic. Egyptians function based on duty. When I am with my cousin, it is his duty to take care of me. Thus, he has a self-imposed obligation to carry any heavy bags I may have, pay for my lunches, and drive me across the city. I have had a hard time with this, but sincerely feel I have made an effort to let go and accept people's generosity. But there comes a point where you just want to take control of your own life!

The other day, we were out at one end of town, near the home of some friends of ours, Mohamed and Maha. Karim had picked me up and Mohamed and Maha had come together in one car. Karim and Mohamed wanted to go out to a place nearby, but I was tired and wanted to go home, to the other side of town. The logical thing to do would have been for me to take a cab home and for them to go out. But that, of course, was unacceptable. So instead, Karim and Mohamed drove to Mohamed's house, picked up Maha's car, came back to meet Maha and I, where we transfered cars, and Maha drove me across town, only to drive all the way back again to get home. Not only did it not make any sense, but it also took 45 minutes for them to go get the car and come back, by which time I could have been in my bed happily sleeping.

I keep hearing "This is how it is here", and need to remind myself that just as I adjusted to cultures in Africa, I should adjust to this culture too. But when it's people you know, you feel, somehow, that they should be more willing to compromise. They're not. They're stubborn as hell and I'm tired of fighting.

What I do like is that, despite all the foreigners, this place does have a distinctly Muslim/Middle Eastern flavour. And there is something so beautiful about the uniform white galabeya (they call it dishdash here, I think) the men wear and the black abaya the women wear. The azhan rings throughout malls when it's time to pray. The majority of people here - including the Pakistanis! - greet you with Salamu Alaikum. And while you don't meet that many Emiratis, there is certainly a lot of Arabic around. Dubai is a very accepting place. But beyond all the skyscrapers, it has not forgotten, it seems to me, who/what it is. And it's not ashamed of it either. Being in the Middle East always makes me feel as though the rest of the world is a bit irrelevant. People live their lives their way here, even if, as one Emerati told me, "the West doesn't understand us."

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Dubai

The initial prognosis is... as bad as we expected. I wake up to a view of skyscrapers sprouting out of the sand. I am staying at a hotel where the internet has a mood of its own; the staff barely speak English and definitely don't speak Arabic; and a mini-can of coke costs nearly $5. The roads here are crazy and confusing. You need a cab to get to work, get from work, and if you want to try to be environmentally friendly, you need to take a cab to get to the metro and get from the metro. If you want to be really really environmentally friendly and walk, you will make it about five yards before the heat clogs your lungs and drenches your skin. So far, you might say, that's not so bad. So I'll go on.

I work in what is called "Dubai Humanitarian City". Dubai's government came up with this brilliant idea of creating little cities: Dubai Media City, Dubai Internet City, Dubai Green City, etc. -- meant to be global hubs for certain industries. The vision for the humanitarian city was actually quite unique. A place where UN agencies and NGOs from around the world could set up offices, warehouses, etc in a location that could conveniently and quickly provide for many parts of the Middle East, Africa and Asia in the case of an emergency. The UAE gave free office space to these agencies and IRIN set up shop in the early days of the project. Sadly, the execution fell a bit short of the dream, and the whole thing sort of fizzled out, leaving WFP, UNICEF, a few NGOS... and us, in what is essentially an abandoned collection of half-completed buildings in a patch of desert lost in a web of highways. The humanitarian city is, shall we say, lacking in amenities. At noon, when the sandwich stand opens up in the bottom of building 3, people rush to line up, because the shanghai noodles and tuna salad sandwiches are all the food you'll find in the "city" for the rest of the day. Still, not so bad.

Say the sandwich stand runs out of its goodies, or you have a meeting outside of the "city". You must, as previously explained, order a cab. Like the hotel staff, the cabbies mostly don't speak English. That, I can deal with. But they also have no clue where the blessed humanitarian city is. And there is really no way I can explain it. Take Al-Khail road, but when it splits into two, take the business bay exit... but not the business bay extension... the other exit, you know. keep to the right. But not too far right. And then when you pass the bridge - which bridge? - but before you get to the other bridge - ??? - you'll see a little turnoff... well actually at night you won't see it, because it's written on a tiny little sign that you wouldn't find even if you knew it existed. When you find yourself on the wrong side of the highway, do the 10-minute u-turn and try again.

So generally, leaving the office is a two-hour procedure. And of course, if it's 8pm and you're hungry, this is slightly uncomfortable. So when the cab finally finds the last place on earth, you ask him to stop along the way for some food (because the hotel, as previously explained, charges exorbitant prices). Your office is on the side of the highway. Your hotel is on the side of the same highway. The only thing between your office and your hotel is a gas station, where you buy some potato chips - well, "yummy flakes" - and a funny-tasting sandwich, before going back to the hotel to fight the internet connection fight.

And after a day of frustrating taxis and disappointing food, you've spent at least $50. As Karim puts it, in Dubai, you piss money. I thought I'd be the last person to say it, but you need a car. And once you have a car, you need a GPS. The upside, I guess, is that the gas might as well be free.

Enough ranting? Here are the saving graces.

If you can actually get past the Pakistanis calling everyone ma'am, on very rare occasions, you might actually meet a real Emirati - and they are actually very interesting! I really enjoyed Kuwait for the same reason. The Gulf culture is actually quite lovely. It's very important for them that you feel welcome and at home.

The tradition of hospitality often expresses itself in cardamom-infused coffee served in single-sip portions in tiny little cups, while your host stands before you, carafe in hand, refilling your cup until you are fully satisfied. They wear the crispest, whitest robes and when I'm around them, I find myself constantly staring at the fabric, wondering just how they keep it so perfect all day. Apparently they have closets (and stores) full of these identical white robes and rotate through them quite frequently.

I experienced the coffee exercise at the VIP lounge at the Kuwaiti airport. I stopped over in Kuwait on the way to Dubai for a conference on Monday. An Egyptian (half the people in Kuwait are Egyptian, the way half the people in Dubai are Pakistani) met me and my colleagues as soon as we stepped into the airport and whisked us away through some glass doors and into what seemed like another universe. We sat on couches being served tea while someone took our passports, got us visas, and took care of all the arrangements. I didn't speak to a single airport official, before we were again whisked into a private car and driven to the hotel. (This has nothing to do with UN - it was the conference organizers who were over the top. And I should acknowledge the racial profiling that put a bit of a damper on the night. We spent two hours waiting while my American-Somali colleague - could you ask for a better combination? - had his passport sent to national security for extra screening. Thankfully, there was the tea).

Saving grace number two are my cousins Karim and Tamer who live in Sharja (a suburb of Dubai) and Abu Dhabi respectively. Their two-man airport welcome committee saved me from myself. Until I met them, the airport's shiny floors and flashy ads about Dubai Mall (the biggest in the world, apparently) had me lost in thoughts, after my third flight in 30 hours: 'This is my new life: airports, conveyor belts, suitcases, grumpy customs officers, taxis, loneliness.' Karim and Tamer changed that - and the lovely dinner of kebab and tabbouleh Tamer invited us to didn't hurt either!

And the last saving grace: McDonald's ice cream cones cost thirty cents here. Yes, Camille, that's what excites me about Dubai. This is my new life.

*** The views expressed in this blog are my own and do not reflect the opinions or positions of the United Nations or IRIN ***

Home Sweet Home

I used to think the place Africa held in my heart was based in a romanticized notion of an exotic land far from home. But I’m tired of discrediting how I feel about the continent. The truth of the matter is I have felt more at home in Nairobi in my first 24 hours here than I did in the past year and a half in Canada. There’s no reason not to love being in a place where people smile regularly; where your view on the world matters more than what you wear; where you can eat non-processed food and where most foreigners are here out of some desire – well-placed or not – to create positive change.

Everything has been super smooth so far - I taught the official at the visa counter at the airport a few words of Arabic; all four of my bags arrived unscathed; the immigration officer believed me when I assured him that all the contents were destined for Dubai and he need not worry what I was bringing into Kenya; and the guest house envoy was waiting for me with my name scribbled onto a piece of cardbaord in what looked like kid’s writing.

The guest house staff greet me with "Good morning! I am fine" every day, before I sit down to an eggs and beef sausage breakfast, along with the best instant coffee I've ever had. (as you well know, I've drank my fair share of instant coffee).

I walk to work in less than half an hour. The UN Complex is not quite what I expected. Much more human actually, with trees, and green space, and little pools of water with lilypads. (The buildings, though, are as ugly as you might imagine - grey concrete block labelled, creatively, "A", "B", etc... I'm in "Block X"). In the evening -- not that I work long hours or anything -- the place becomes an auditorium of birds and insects who chirp so loud it's overpowering, even from inside the office.

The training has been very informal. More than anything, it's a chance for me to meet with all my bosses and get a sense of direction before heading for the desert - where I will be working in a small office, mostly independently. My bosses (yes, very plural) and colleagues have been very welcoming - to the point, surprise, surprise - that I wish I was posted in Nairobi instead.

I've already run into a bit of UN bureaucracy though. When I asked how I was to be paid – I’ve so far spent hundreds of dollars for which I need to be re-imbursed and am supposed to be receiving a daily stipend to cover my accomodation here - my supervisor looked surprised.

“Didn’t they give you some money?"

“No, I haven’t been given anything.”

The finance officer's response was worse: “I have no idea! Isn’t she supposed to get the money from Geneva? Ask Geneva!”

Otherwise, the first couple days have been really good. People are super nice. The job looks super interesting. (God, Diaz, I keep saying "super this" and "super that" - you're rubbing off!) I've got tons of reading to do to get up to speed on the region, and to understand the ins and outs of humanitarian technicalities (acute malnutrition vs. chronic malnutrition) but I’m excited to get to really throw myself into something. And the people here seem really eager to make me feel like part of a team, and -- equally importantly -- to make me feel needed.

I got to enjoy a bit of Nairobi over the weekend - had some githeri (a stew of beans, maize, carrots and potatos), chapatti and nyama choma (roasted meat); bought some soap-stone plates at the market; watched the Kenya-Guinea Bissau CON qualifer; and spent time with old acquaintances and new colleagues.

It's nice to be home.