The Difference in the ME ... (FAQ 3)

I often get asked about how life differs from Canada in the ME (Middle East).

​There are so many differences, it's hard to even know where to start.  But a fellow blogger inspired me to lay out a few of the more obvious differences between life in Canada and life in Qatar through a mind mapping exercise.

It ended up being a lot of fun.  Before I knew it 3 hours had flown by!​

​Thanks Marianne Jeffrey.  

So here's my attempt at mind mapping the differences between life in Canada and life in Qatar:​

​Sometimes I wonder if my views of my life in Canada are enhanced by the rose-colored glasses I insist on wearing.

​Sometimes I wonder if my views of my life in Canada are enhanced by the rose-colored glasses I insist on wearing.

You can link to Marianne Jeffrey's post by clicking below: ​

Tell Me a Secret ...

A Facebook friend recently shared an article published in Psychology Today on raising kids.  While the article was slightly dated (2004), the issues it tackled still hit home for me today in 2013, and made me re-consider my parenting techniques anew (as if I don't already do so enough).  It was called ...

I was particularly struck by the following statement:​

Behold the wholly sanitized childhood, without skinned knees or the occasional C in history. "Kids need to feel badly sometimes," says child psychologist David Elkind, professor at Tufts University. "We learn through experience and we learn through bad experiences. Through failure we learn how to cope."

And it got me to thinking about my concerns with my 7-year-old's disappointment at being one of very few kids in her school here in the ME who take the school bus every morning.  

One of the biggest perks for me and for her about my resignation is definitely my ability to drive her to school every morning and pick her up every afternoon.  Gone is the guilt I felt at having to cut her loose into crazy Doha traffic every morning with a stranger.  Gone is her need to wake up 30 minutes earlier every morning to be on time for the bus.  Gone are the petty arguments on the bus ride about whether Barbies are for babies.  Gone is the 30-minute wait in the school cafeteria until the morning bell rings to signal the start of the school-day.  Gone is the need for her to walk alone to her cubby.

Reading this article made me look guiltily upon many choices I'd made to help make Kiddo's life easier, but for some reason I kept on focusing on my decision to chauffeur her to and from school.  "Maybe I'm turning her into a wimp?"  Am I overindulging her?  Should I have left her the 'bad' bus experience in an effort to help her grow as a person?

Much like the article states, Kiddo enjoys immediate gratification (unlike the children of yore, who I'm sure never stomped their feet in frustration at not getting that ice cream cone), she doesn't have a great grasp on "the big picture" (e.g. she still thinks Christmas is all about the gifts ... silly child), she still feels the need to be telling Maman and Papa about the smallest details (do we really need to know that Max made a farting noise with his armpit in class and then announced loudly that Kiddo had tooted?).

Am I raising a wimp?​

Was taking her off the bus the wrong choice?  Would she lose her 7:00 a.m. ability to interact with other snotty-nosed kids?  Would she resent me as an adult for having interrupted her public transportation developmental phase?  Would she experience anxiety later in life every time she heard school kids merrily singing the "Wheels on the bus go 'round and round'?" Should I just stick her back on the bus, tell her to move on and get over it?  "Suck it up, Princess, you're seven now.  Feel the pain, it'll do you good, help you cope."  Is that my answer to raising a competent contributing member of society?​

And at some point after reading the article, I had an epiphany.  Thought to myself "Maybe, just maybe, I'M the wimp."  

Just when exactly did I become solely reliant on the advice of a psychologist, a fellow mom blogger, a school counsellor, a teacher, a TV talk show host, etc. to tell me how best to raise my child?  ​Who exactly convinced me that they, not I, hold the secret to raising a healthy, happy, functional human being?  Why exactly have I lost the confidence to follow exactly what my parent gut tells me?  When exactly did I start thinking that maybe my mommy answer is the wrong one?

And so I drove Kiddo to school this morning.  As she sat in the back seat, she said "Maman, can I share my biggest secret with you?  Do you promise not to tell anyone?  Ever?"  

I promised, and reassurances made, she shared.​

A silly secret, not anything I'd necessarily feel the need to keep private, but for her it was monumental.  And in that moment I was just her mom, just driving her to school, and I was a safe place, and she didn't need to fear failure or figure out how to cope.  

The day will likely come in the not so distant future where Kiddo will have to get back on that school bus.  Where she will have to experience disappointment, deal with her early morning grumpiness, and cope with the naughty kids on the bus.  

But today, she shared her biggest secret with me.  And right now, right here, I know that I don't need anyone else to tell me whether or not I should be driving Kiddo to school.

Tell me a secret I don't know ...​

​Will my efforts to make her happy end up turning her into a wimp?  I don't think so ...

​Will my efforts to make her happy end up turning her into a wimp?  I don't think so ...

Who's Watching Me Now?

One thing Westerners, particularly North Americans*, just might have a hard time adapting to in the ME is the continuous tracking and CONTROL of movements and transactions that go on here during the course of an ordinary day.​

While this can be somewhat disconcerting, there are undoubtedly benefits to be had from a certain degree of vigilance.  

Entering and Exiting the Country

The initial and most traumatizing realization is probably the fact that upon entry as a resident into this part of the world, all subsequent entries to and exits from Qatar will not only be tracked, but will also be subject to approval/rejection by your sponsor (if he/she is your employer) and in all cases communicated real-time via SMS to your sponsor.  

If your sponsor is your employer, you will need an 'exit permit' to exit the country.  If you are one of the chosen few, you may be granted a 'multiple exit visa' of set duration (e.g. 1 year validity).  Let it be stated that I have yet to meet the recipient of such a prize, but it does exist.  

Your sponsor is normally your employer (if you're a man) or your spouse (if you're a woman).  While there can be exceptions to the sponsorship rule, these are rare (e.g. for women hired overseas and brought into the country on "single status").  

As such, every time my daughter or I leave or enter the country, whether with or without Smilin' Vic, he gets a magical 'Ping!' on his mobile phone.​  Whether or not I am gainfully employed in this country, my husband continues to be my sponsor, so he, and not any potential employer, will always be the receiver of the 'ping'.  His access and egress to the country are consequently monitored by 'his' sponsor (his employer).  In his case, his employer is the recipient of the ping. 

Driving

You will also be tracked as you drive.  Traffic/speed sensors have become more and more common and sophisticated in this country over the past decade.  Though road traffic stops are extremely rare (I have seen maybe 4 occasions where police had actually pulled someone over), I have yet to meet an expat who has not been the sad recipient of some type of infraction recorded by one of the above-mentioned sensors.  Whether for speeding, getting caught in the middle of an intersection at a red light, driving on the soft shoulder, even overloading a vehicle ... all manner of violation can be caught on tape.​

Once these are recorded, the recipient of the fine (person to whom the car is registered) cannot exit the country until the applicable fine (usually steep ... some running well into the four digit arena) has been paid.  ​I must say, the guy who thought this rule up was absolutely genius.

Spending

Your credit/debit purchases are also tracked and communicated real-time.  My husband and I have a joint account (when we initially requested this six years back the Qatari bank clerk stared intently at my husband from behind his ​aviator shades and, as if I were not even in the room, said:  "Are you SURE you want her to have full access to your account?")

Since the fateful day Smilin' Vic answered "Yes", every time I buy eyeliner at Shiseido or foundation at Estee Lauder he gets ... you guessed it ... a 'Ping!'  ​Since the 'Ping' is followed by details of purchase price and store name, it makes it hard to hide something like, "ahem ..., cough, cough", a Dior lipstick fetish or some equally benign interest.

You can actually ask the bank turn this feature off.  But while it might seem really irritating at first, we found it to be a blessing last year when someone started using my credit card info to make random purchases in Uzbekistan, Syria, Brazil and China.  The magical 'Ping' allowed us to immediately contact the credit card company and let them know that trouble was afoot.

Boozing

Your alcohol consumption is also monitored and tracked.​  If you are an expat non-Muslim and earn 4,000 QAR a month or more, you are eligible for an alcohol permit.  This must be supported by your employer via a letter to the distribution center, stating your title and salary.  Your monthly limit is a set percentage of your salary.  Approval on all counts gives you a little blue library-like swipe card with a REALLY bad picture that you must present to the guards outside the QDC, to the guards inside the QDC and finally to the QDC cashier who will swipe it and proceed to charge you 200% the actual import cost of your beverage of choice.  

It should be noted that the security guards and cashiers NEVER miss this opportunity to ask to see your card, and make no effort to conceal their smirks, snide snickers, and the occasional shudder at the atrocity of the snapshot found thereon.

​No worries, this does NOT dissuade expats from indulging in spirits.  But as the cashier totaled up my purchases today, I started to wonder a little about the deal with my card details.  I'm always slightly paranoid that one month the cashier will ring up my last item and strobe lights will begin to flash, bells will ring, confetti will fall from the ceiling as they announce:  "Folks, we have a winner over here at Cash Number 8 - Gypsy is our Big Spender of the Month!  Ladies and Gentlemen, please join me in a round of applause for the biggest lush in Doha!!!!"

​The infamous 'black bag'.

​The infamous 'black bag'.

Like maybe there's some guy in a room somewhere monitoring this stuff remotely, running a betting pool on who's gonna buy the most Budweiser this month?​

That's probably why I always feel the need to defend myself at the till as the chugables get loaded into black opaque bags (to be transported directly to your home and hidden from view on the journey there).  "You know, I was here last week, but I bought mostly pork ... not booze.  Oh, this case of Valpolicella?  It's not all for me, we're hosting a wine and cheese, and I use a lot of red wine in my bolognese sauce, and ... sigh ... I just like wine, ok?  Just give me the horrendously overpriced bill and consider that my contrition, ok?"​

More Boozing

Once you've exhausted your QDC budget, you can always go out for smart pops at  a local imbibery (prettied-up term for drinking hole).  ​​And yes, you will be asked to buy a membership card there as well.  "Ahhhhhh, yes, Gypsy.  Your reputation precedes you.  So you've finally depleted your QDC budget, yes?  Just stand still and smile for the camera while we take another horrendous mug shot.  And remember, bring your card with you next time so we can all have a good laugh while scanning you through."

Having to show that hideous picture card is usually enough to ward you off visiting drinking establishments for the next few months at least.

Surfing

And finally, worn out by all the tracking, you'll end up back at home, alone, blogging about nothing really.  And you'll decide you need to find a synonym for ​"sexy" to help enrich that post you've been working on.  And as you Google "sexy", you'll get a pop-up screen that says "Ooops!  This site has been blocked!"  

Sigh....​

​************************

*My favorite "whatever!" source of info, Wikipedia,  "estimates that the number of cameras in the UK is 1.85 million. The number is based on extrapolating from a comprehensive survey of public and private cameras within the Cheshire Constabulary jurisdiction."... "This works out as an average of one camera for every 32 people in the UK, although the density of cameras varies greatly from place to place. The Cheshire report also claims that the average person on a typical day would be seen by 70 CCTV cameras."

Desert Expat Kids Set Seasonal Fashion Trends in the ME

As I stood sizzling and sweating in the glaring sun outside the school gate on Monday afternoon, a fellow expat mom posted the temperature reading from her car (pictured below).  In typical haughty seasoned Doha expat fashion, I thought to myself "Nice spring weather we're having, eh?"​

Talk to me again in July when it's 50C with 90% humidity ...

Talk to me again in July when it's 50C with 90% humidity ...

Like any typical Canadian child of the seventies, I stood there in my jeans and closed toed shoes, reminding myself that nothing, but nothing, would detract me from the seasonal clothing etiquette rules that ban white footwear, gauzy dresses and spaghetti straps before Memorial Day (as a Canadian, that translates to Victoria Day, or 'May Two Four Long Weekend').​

No matter that my thinking dates back 4 decades or that I am now sat square on the equator and not at a latitude several inches south of the North Pole.  For the sake of this post, let's not let ourselves get bogged down in such minutiae.​

I gained comfort in my resolve by reminding myself that I've seen the documented proof that many Doha expat children are like-minded to me and appreciate the value of simple traditions such as wearing winter apparel in winter, despite the fact that the thermometer here rarely, if ever, dips below 15C.  

​Yes, this younger expat generation seems to find nothing strange at all about donning a Canadian snowsuit manufactured to withstand -40C temperatures simply to protect oneself from a vicious clawing 1.5 kg cat in their living room.  Really, how many chances will you actually have to get good wear from it?  Take advantage of every opportunity, says I.

"Because it just makes sense."Desert expat kids ... missing out on donning snowsuits and getting kicked outdoors to play in the snow 'til suppertime.

"Because it just makes sense."

Desert expat kids ... missing out on donning snowsuits and getting kicked outdoors to play in the snow 'til suppertime.

Even better was the picture I received today from another Doha friend of her daughter dressed for an afternoon of shopping in Doha. 

Because if I'm not going to where it in 47C weather, then "when", Mom, "when"?​

Because if I'm not going to where it in 47C weather, then "when", Mom, "when"?​

More interesting still was the accompanying text.  

​Not a single one of us commented on the 47C temperature.  Of course she would want to wear a tuque; it's not summer yet ...

​Not a single one of us commented on the 47C temperature.  Of course she would want to wear a tuque; it's not summer yet ...

Note that not a single expat mom responding to the original text found it even slightly odd that a 5-year-old would insist on wearing a tuque to the mall in 47C weather.  Of course not.  "Because it's not Memorial Day yet Mom, THAT's why!"​

As I reflect on it all, sitting here with a hot cup of tea, typing away with frozen fingers, I really wish I'd brought some mitts from Canada.  Oh well, at least my toes are toasty in my woolen socks.  They're forecasting a cool night, with temps dropping as low as 29C.  

And just in case anyone thinks I've gone completely stark raving mad, the pizza delivery boy just showed up on his moped and unravelled a wool scarf from under his helmet before handing me two steaming pepperoni pies.

How far I've come from -42C in January on the North Shore of New Brunswick.​

It's not quite summer yet, folks.​

This is Fashion Forward Gypsy, signing off 'mitt-less' in the ME.


The Irony of Ironing ...

As I sit here this morning, staring blankly at the computer screen while a load of laundry spins furiously 'round in a washer that insists on bouncing across the room at each cycle, I can't help but wonder what our maid, Tita L., is doing while on leave in the Philippines. ​

If she were here, she would likely be setting up the ironing board about now, preparing for her daily ironing session.  Have I mentioned she loves to iron?  Like, everything?  Like the rumpled but clean sheets I am about to throw on the bed?  She would make sure every last crease was nought but a memory before setting them down for us to toss in restlessly and crinkle shamelessly.​

I, on the other hand, am much more practical.  I will throw them over the mattress while they are still hot (old university trick ... you can avoid a lot of ironing by hanging clothes up while still steaming), figuring if we are going to rumple them ruthlessly within the space of 12 hours, why bother pressing?  The fact of the matter is, I hate ironing.  Hate it with a passion.  Hell for me would be to stick me in a room full of clothes that has been lying rumpled in a hamper for a week and arm me with nothing but a can of starch, an ironing board and a hot iron.​  You simply could not pay me enough.

Et voila!  Bed freshly made.  (I was going for that 'previously slept in' look.)​

Et voila!  Bed freshly made.  (I was going for that 'previously slept in' look.)​

Yet Tita L. happily spends hours ironing everything from underwear to hair ribbons every week.  For a salary that I have guiltily calculated works out to about 4% of Smilin' Vic's and my combined income.  I often gaze upon her in wonder and amazement, ​truly perplexed at how she can find such contentment in this tiresome activity, smiling to herself as the steam rises from a skillfully pressed shirt collar whilst humming Air Supply and Celine Dion tunes.

What is it about the paltry salary and tedious chores that contribute so to her happiness?​

I know it's not because this salary is going towards a month of luxuriating on a beach, getting pampered in a spa, or going on a safari expedition.  So what could possibly bring such a smile to her lips as I watch her enraptured by the 5 foot high pile of laundry that separates us?

Ahhh, yes.  I think I've got it.  Tita L. is gone home this month to whisk around town on the scooter she purchased last year for her family.  

She is flitting from store to store to choose the building supplies she needs for construction of her second house.  She is gone home to approve the floor plans, to oversee the pouring of the foundation, to supervise erection of the walls, and to make sure the wiring is being properly laid out.  

She wants to make sure the living room will accommodate the home entertainment system we gifted to her (save the applause, it was the annual gift from Smilin' Vic's work, and since we already had one it would have been silly to keep a second one even as back-up), and the flat-screen T.V. she won as a result of dutifully filling out the million raffle tickets I bring home each year from the grocery store (and am to lazy to fill out).

She is building this second abode on the plot of land she purchased three years ago in anticipation of setting up a ​small farm and house to sustain her through her old age.  

She is building it right next to her existing mortgage-less house, which she will gift to her children so they can remain close and not have to worry about a mortgage, at least not in the foreseeable future.

I make a few quick calculations and realize that Smilin' Vic and I only have to work here another 24 years at well-paying jobs to afford the equivalent back in Canada as Tita L. is securing in the Philippines.  ​

I think I'm starting to get the irony of ironing for a pittance.