Life in Dubai for Foreigners- Money, Crime, and Prejudice

I want to give you guys a flavor if what life is like for the largely imported work force in the UAE. Our cast for this episode consists of:
Jerome- a Bangladeshi working in one of Dubai’s malls
Ali- An Iraqi venture capitalist now living in Dubai and the UAE.
Me: Swashbuckling explorer extraordinaire who spends most of his time in front of his computer writing of late it seems. Now onto the show …

Me: Gentlemen, thank you for joining me.
Ali: It is my pleasure.
Jerome: Mine as well, though I do have one request before we begin.
Me: Fire away.
Jerome: I would prefer you not mention my real name if you are going to record this for security reasons. There is still a lot of speculation as to what happened to three local bloggers who wrote some articles regarding the U.A.E. and its sheikhs. As temporary workers/ guests in Dubai, it is considered "wise" to respect the host country, or at minimum, not criticize.
Me: You got it 'Jerome.' You too 'Ali.'

Heads nod around the table, we all sip some tea.

Me: Okay, you guys are both living and working in this foreign land for a reason, Dubai must have some draw for you, let’s start with that.
Jerome: Well, the number one reason most people come to Dubai are the superior work opportunities and salaries offered here compared to Bangladesh.
Ali: The money attracts many highly-skilled workers, and thus there’s far more professionalism than I would find back in Iraq. I also often discover myself learning a great deal from living and working in a multi-cultural arena, everything from languages, to customs, to outlook on life.
Me: How much more do you earn in Dubai as compared to what you might if you had stayed home?
Jerome: I earn four times as much here. $900 a month versus like $230.
Ali: Richard, they don’t even know what venture capitalists are back in Baghdad. The concentration of money in the UAE and the stability, which as you know is very much lacking in Iraq today, allows the money to be invested in companies with new and novel products. A job such as mine is unavailable back home.
Jerome: Dubai is also a super safe place to live, with very very low crime rates.
Ali: The country is one of the safest in the world, any major theft or criminal incident is almost certainly tied to and carried out by the Russian mafia, or those from former Soviet states.
Me: I’ve been to Russia. That country accounts for about 70% of the world’s unhappiness. Good luck finding a smile in Moscow … So, continuing, why do you think there’s so little crime here, and why would anyone let a Russian into their country to begin with?
Jerome: Crime rates are so low in part because no one need steal. There are enough jobs and money to go around. Also, most of the population consists of expats and laws here are fairly rigid, and austerely enforced.
Me: How does it compare to the Bangladesh?
Jerome: There's a higher crime rate in the Bangladesh due to lack of employment, government corruption, and laws that are neither strictly, nor uniformly enforced. For example, if you're a son of a government official or influential person, and you commit a crime, and even with direct evidence against you, you will not be prosecuted easily. People with any influence just aren’t afraid of the law. Take me for example. My Bangladeshi driver’s license expired five years ago, but I still can drive all around in my hometown without any fear because if the police catch me, I will just contact some of our family connections and that's it. *Poof,* all problems disappear. That's how things work in Bangladesh. I couldn’t get away with that in the UAE.
Me: What else makes Dubai a good place to live?
Jerome: There are a lot of cool and unique places here, generally built to attract tourists, which also gives locals more options and things to do.
Ali: Public transportation here is very convenient.
Jerome: Yes it is. Hold on, let me get my Android phone, I want to show you a picture. Check this out!

The Sheikh of Dubai riding public transport alone

Jerome (cont): That's the Sheikh of Dubai, riding alone. Multi-trillionaire ruler. Told you Dubai was safe!
Me: Wow! Cool shot. Maybe it's a PR stunt. That's not everyday is it?
Jerome: No, definitely not everyday. A lot of times it can be challenging to ride, because it stinks inside; a lot of body odor and poor hygiene.

Ali looks over Jerome a little surprised. 

Ali: You’re in a pool of Pakistani, Indians,  Filipinos, and Bangladeshi, what do you expect?
Jerome: Shut-up.
Me: Especially the Bangladeshis right? So, just how much discrimination goes on in Dubai?
Jerome: A lot, especially when hailing a taxi. When taxi drivers are choosing their customer, Bangladeshis rank at the bottom of who they want to pick-up since few us can afford to tip.
Me: If that’s as bad as it gets, that’s pretty good.
Jerome: That’s just a symptom of the underlying racism that exists. In restaurants, we are often treated as second class compared to other nationalities. One afternoon when I was walking down the street, and out of the window of a passing school bus flies a piece of wood which hit my feet and the boys are laughing and one shouting, "Go back to your country!"
Ali: Racism is expressed more easily by the young, it exists, but isn't as blatant among adults.
Jerome : Really, like the giant signs that were hanging on apartments a couple years ago that read, “NO ASIANS?”
A beat. Ali doesn’t reply.
Jerome: Another incident, at a bus stop, as I'm waiting with some passengers a school bus passes again loaded with noisy students, and one of the students spit on the face of the man beside me, while another threw an empty water bottle which hit him right in the forehead. Another one is in the basketball court, as we are playing, two local teens riding a motorcycle came onto the court and kept repeatedly coming through, knowing we were trying to play.
Ali drops his head, shaking it slightly.
Ali: It is unfortunate hear of such incidents, and though they do exist, they are limited.
Me: Okay guys, we got off track for a second. What else is good about Dubai?
Jerome: Well, in line with what Ali said earlier, you meet a lot of different nationalities. I also find myself learning a lot from them.
Ali: Dubai is a cosmopolitan city with more than 150 nationalities living and working in it.
Jerome: And although it’s a Muslim country, there are clubs and bars to hang-out every night except during Ramadan.
Ali: Not in all the emirates, but in Dubai and Abu Dhabi this is certainly true. Also, all emirates ban alcohol in Ramadan to respect Muslim’s feelings.
Me: Wow, money, the beach, a certain progressiveness in what is generally a conservative Middle Eastern culture, this seems like a pretty good place to live.
Ali: Well, look, every place has its good and bad sides.

Click here for Part II of this discussion!

Dubai- Big Money, No Soul - Oil, High Priced Shopping + a Premium on Women

The Emirates Past
The year 1958--
Dubai- A sleepy pearl diving and gold trading outpost.
Abu Dhabi- 46,000 residents, four doctors, and five schools. The rich people lived in mud houses; poorer families built with reeds.
That’s the year oil was discovered in this former British protectorate.

United Arab Emirates- Present Day 

The seven formerly disparate emirates have joined forces to a create the United Arab Emirates (UAE), a nation size of the state of Maine, each emirate with its with own land and mineral rights, specifically regarding oil.

Abu Dhabi-
The capital of the UAE, it sits atop a vast amount of oil. How much? 10% of the world’s known supply (and nearly 90% of the nation’s reserves.) It’s the richest city on earth, in fact, there’s not even a close second. In 2007, the emirate's 420,000 citizens, had $1 trillion invested abroad, and were estimated to be worth $17 million apiece, the price of oil having only increased since. 

To think myself lucky to have been born an American.

Dubai-

Also graced with oil, though its reserves are estimated to be exhausted in twenty years. The emirate’s forward thinking rulers have used the initial capital betrothed to them by the dinosaurs, likely in a deal made with the devil, to turn their city into the business capital of the Middle East. Everything from the gold trade, to money laundering, to shipping, and the region’s dominant airline have expanded their base of wealth.

Dubai's giant, architecturally intriguing skyscrapers, often spaced at great distances to one another, seem as incongruous amidst the desert landscape as the green palms that line their exteriors. Dubai reminds me of Las Vegas, a city sprung up in the middle of nowhere, artificially built from massive infusions of money. 

Dubai skyscraper- nothing near it

Walking around on this blistering summer day during Ramadan, you’re as likely to spot a female as win the lottery. Almost everyone on the streets is of Indian descent, the work force imported to serve the ruling class, the wealthy Emiratis, who comprise less than 20% of the emirate’s population.

Dubai’s like a game of Monopoly, money the only goal. While the Emiratis are born into Park Place and Boardwalk, and its ultra-luxury seven star hotels, the unskilled labor force of Pakistani, Indians, and Filipinos scramble to pay the rent on Baltic Ave., and are grateful for the opportunity to do so. Even in low level positions, workers earn four times the amount in Dubai as they would in their homelands. Of course, living here comes with much higher expenses, and many cram together into apartments on Baltic and Mediterranean to save on rent.

The work force, aside of the prostitutes here from Eastern Europe and Africa,  is almost entirely comprised of men. In fact, in what is nearly an unbelievable but true statistic, 74% of Dubai's overall population is male. Women, thus, are in great demand, and prostitution, while technically illegal in this conservative Kingdom, is rarely, if ever, prosecuted simply because the men would revolt. The emirs enjoy their lives.

The Mall of Dubai

Dubai is by far the cleanest Middle Eastern city I have seen, and its public transportation system cheap, modern, and punctual. And thank God for public transport, otherwise I’d have to splurge on a 40 minute cab, passing through largely un-tillable land to reach the Dubai Mall, one of the few places there’s anything at all to do during the day.
The Dubai Mall is a magnificent and gigantic building, the interior spotlessly clean, amazingly decorated, and the displays of goods so beautifully and artistically arranged, the Japanese who so highly value presentation, are left to a distant silver medal.

It shouldn’t then surprise you that the stores in the Dubai Mall have prices ranging everywhere from truly exorbitant, to beyond ludicrous. $100 for a kilogram of chocolate, $4,500 for a bust of Dubai’s Sheik, and $15,000 for an odd looking lamp.

You can’t purchase any food until sundown, Ramadan strictly followed. Everyone but me has stayed inside to beat the heat, I seem to be the only customer in this billion dollar shopping center, but I’m not a good consumer, I don’t even find the chocolate tempting.

Inside a ritzy Chocolate store, check out what "normal price" means

Customers and Oil Money

So who does spend money here? The uber-rich, generally Saudis and locals connected in some way with the royal family.
About three weeks ago I am told the traffic into one of the stores started to dry up as the price of oil sank. “We are heavily dependent on the Sheiks and royalty of the Arab World,” the storekeeper tells me. I wonder whether it being Ramadan has also contributed to the lack of business.

“No,” comes the response, “Even at night we have fewer customers than before.”

When the sun sets, the mall begins to fill, people crowding into the food court to receive their first meal since sunrise, then meandering over to the state of the art cineplex to see the latest Hollywood blockbuster .
Outside, I finally see some actual Emiratis dressed in their traditional floor length, and for them, nearly ubiquitous white tunics.

Stone cold white tunics in the desert (Dubai Mall)

Everyone awaits the fountain show, the idea and technology originating unsurprisingly in Las Vegas, at the Bellagio.

The Dubai Fountains-- cool show

As I return to my hotel on Baltic Ave., and hear the buzz of the South Asians swarming around me, male honey bee drones with no queen in sight, I can't shake the feeling that Dubai seems more like a mirage in the desert, the bees attracted here solely by the flower known to science as "cash."
Everything about the city just seems unnatural and out of balance, from the ludicrously priced goods, to the overly masculine energy that pervades the city from such an unholy imbalance of men to women.
I'm not saying when the oil runs out, Dubai will disappear back into the sand, the buildings are too well constructed.
Until then I wish the Emiratis luck in setting out their flowers and harvesting their honey. It certainly is a sweet life. Maybe one day they'll have enough money to buy their city back its soul.

The Golden Hell of Dubai (United Arab Emirates)

Searing heat of 110 degrees (44 C), coupled with the syrupy like stickiness of 100% humidity makes the city a virtual steam room, and walking around it next to impossible. The signs read- “Welcome to Dubai.”

Welcome to what?

All restaurants are closed during the day, and as it is Ramadan, if you are seen drinking or eating in public you can be arrested. I literally hide in an alley, pressed up against a wall, my back to the street, uncapping a bottle of water and taking a swig to replenish my body’s fluids which are dripping all over the pavement.

To replace my electrolytes, I very carefully reach into my pocket, remove a couple salty cashews inside a tight fist, and without exposing them to air or sight, place them in my mouth, chewing slowly, as I furtively glance around to see who might be spying on me. “Pssst, buddy, want some cashews? How about some water?” I feel like a criminal.

There are literally one hundred men per woman walking around, it takes me two hours of searching the streets before I spot my first female. I feel proud at the sighting, like a tracker for National Geographic having spotted an endangered species in a foreboding land.

Of the men, 80% are of SE Asian descent. In confusion I ask someone if I’ve landed in India.

cool architecture in Dubai

The Souqs

The word, Souq” refers to a marketplace, in Dubai generally a geographical collection of stores, selling nearly identical products/ type of commodity. The competition obviously, is intense.

To escape the heat, I dive inside a shop in the Spice Souq run by a couple Iranians. The interior is meticulously arranged, and neatly labeled transparent drawers contain every spice I could name, as well many I had no idea existed, everything from saffron, which costs $1,000 a pound (no joke), to peppers, cassia, and cinnamon.

Like most shop keepers in Arabia, they greet me with cheer, and invite me to sample some of their wares (not saffron though.) I speak with them for upwards of an hour, guiltily sipping my water as they look on jealously. (I did ask permission)

Like many, they've chosen to set-up shop in Dubai because the economic prospects here are far superior to their homelands. There is money in Dubai- oil money; that draws people from all over the world. They inquire whether there are spice stores like this in America.

“Not like here,” I remark, imagining the interior of Walmart as I glance around comparatively and notice the prominently displayed photographs of Iranian Revolutionary Figures.

“What do Iranians think of Americans?”

“We like them,” states my new friend, perhaps trying to cajole a purchase out of me.

Unlike the majority of Persians I’ve met abroad, who don’t like any part of their government, they are actually big fans of the Ayatollah, though they don’t like their reactionary and holocaust denying President, Ahmadinejad. All told, they’d love to visit America, and dream of the freedoms and opportunity it offers. 

The Dubai skyline

Gold Strike

Machine gun toting security guards stand at attention in every store, thwarting any dreams I had of robbery. The Gold Souq is a glittering plethora of yellow shiny metal, Arabs and Indians alike working behind the counters, hoping to earn a nice commission from selling a pretty piece of jewelry. The attractiveness of the lustrous gold, even for someone who cares little for such things as myself, is undeniable.

The world’s biggest ring, containing nearly 64 kg of gold, sits on display in a protected chamber. It’s too big to fit around an elephant, and the reason for this utterly useless creation lies beside it- a Guiness Book of World Records Certificate. Does it really make you feel that much more important?
(also I suppose it helps draw people like me into the store)

The world's largest gold ring

I enter, and speak with a minority owner of one of the shops, a Yemeni named Ali. His English is poor, but he tries his best. We discuss gold, and its rapid ascent in price. Considering most of his net worth sits in front of him, he does his best to convince me that the metal will continue to rise, and would make an excellent investment, and I should hold onto it and sell under no circumstances, but if I'd like to purchase some of his gold, he'd be happy to part with it.

“What would happen if it went up to $4,000 an ounce,” I ask him?

“Then I would sell all the gold I own, even at a discount, and retire,” he replies, his eyes glassy at prospect.

For my analysis of gold and its price, when it was $1,800 an ounce, click here 

Night Falls
Ramadan, coupled with the day's oppressive heat, makes Dubai feel and look like a ghost town.
When the sun finally sets, and the restaurants, mostly Indian- catering to Dubai’s majority population and imported workforce, open, the establishments are quickly flooded and the day's fast and silence, broken.

I ask what there is to do this evening, and discover that all night clubs and bars are shut down by law for the duration of Ramadan. I'm a little disappointed but I guess it's okay; I’m exhausted from spending the afternoon walking around the steam room anyways.

Small Child and the Remnants of the Lost Ark- Istanbul, Turkey

Bosphorus Bridge, Istanbul

The door opens and I’m greeted by bubbles of warmth, wide eyes, and an excited hug from Birgu, who is no doubt wondering who this strange foreigner her daughter has brought home is. I am welcomed so graciously, and with such excitement, it almost catches me off-guard.

I’m continually amazed by the hospitality and kindness Middle Easterners extend towards their guests. I used to think I was meeting the exception, but I'm starting to believe it’s the rule.

Birgu joyfully helps me with my luggage, her only seeming desire to make me comfortable. As we open my suitcase, which was hurriedly packed and stuffed to the brim, clothes and objects fly in every direction. I'd tell you that it was as if we had released a couple jack in the boxes, but the truth is it was more like "Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark" when the Germans finally opened their "treasure," and the evil spirits locked inside flew around and turned everyone to dust.

Birgu can't help herself, she starts laughing and pointing at the remnants of the Lost Ark, in utter disbelief that someone could live in such a manner.
Having finished laughing. (an hour later) she gathers all my laundry, and sets about to wash it. That evening my clothes are neatly stacked, ironed, and folded. I'm amazed, I didn't know such things were possible.

Praise be to Allah! Clean clothes!!

The atmosphere in the house is very warm. It is clear how much Mother and daughter love each other. They tease, cajole, and just plain have fun. Laughter is the house's primary sound, and being in the midst of it warms the heart.
As I have my messy tendencies, I am referred to as "The Small Child."
"You pack like Small Child," or "You eat like Small Child," are perhaps the only phrases Birgu knows in English. But we have fun with it.
A morsel of food from my fork drops onto the table, leaving a reddish stain on the cloth right in front of me. Birgu looks at me, trying to contain a laugh while pretending to look angry.

I point at the girl to my left,“It was Gamze,” I state, one hand over the Bible the other raised, “She eats like Small Child.”

And Birgu whacks Gamze with her cloth napkin, and we erupt with laughter. I blamed Gamze for everything, and seemingly got away with it every time. The only downside of this was the one time it actually was Gamze’s fault, she successfully convinced Birgu I was the culpable party. 

Me, Gamze, Birgu

Asian Istanbul
Though Istanbul is far cleaner than other Middle Eastern cities, it still lags far behind the West. The air is often dense with pollution, and trash and plastics lie strewn about. The cars and trucks here are generally old, and  spew particles visible to the naked eye. I cough a little walking around.

Little girls playing near Gamze's house

The Asian side of Istanbul is less wealthy than the European, and the poorer the family, the more likely they are to be religious. On this hot Ramadan afternoon, in the lower class neighborhood at the base of the hill, you'll find ten times the number of women wearing full burkahs than you will open restaurants. We walk twenty minutes down the road before we find a place to eat, with only 25% of the menu available.

A view downhill of the Istanbul neighborhood

Gamze is a secularist, and not a fan of the new Turkish President who is moving her country more towards Islam on a daily basis. He receives much of his support from the neighborhood we walk through.

There are no tourists here, only me walking with Gamze, drawing the usual odd look or stare. However, I never feel threatened.
Every few hours, the loud calls for prayer ring from the mosques, including 5 AM, which is far too early for my taste. At night, the minatrets are lit with pale green light to celebrate Ramadan.

Mosque lit in green for Ramadan

I spend a few days with them. Gamze and Birgu are sad to see me go, but it's time. While Istanbul is not my favorite city, the people are great. They'll treat you well no matter who you are, whether senior citizen, or just Small Child.

Gamze, The Small Child, and her cousin with his new girlfriend

Istanbul Nightclub DJ's get no First Amendment Protections

We spend the night partying at a famous Istanbul disco, whose best feature, in my opinion, was the seven story winding staircase one need ascend to gain entry. This is of course serves a warning, meant to give unwitting customers a chance to turn back before being exposed to DJ’s that are intermixing Ray Charles, with Middle Eastern music that might satisfy only the most rhythmically impaired- the songs had no beat whatsoever.
I had heard good things about Istanbul night life, and this place was packed, but authorities in New York City would have closed down the place and fined the owners hundreds of thousands of dollars on music selection alone, First Amendment be damned. (And they’d be right to)

The next morning we start by investigating the touristy part of the city.  We stop by the Grand Bazaar, a gigantic complex of small shops selling everything from trinkets, to T-shirts, to antiques, to masses of gold.
Gamze is proud of the fact that Turkey both sells and produces some of the best counterfeit name brand clothing in the world. “We’re #1,” she brags, “It’s almost indistinguishable from the real thing. "Gucci" is of course on full display.

 I see an antique dagger with a scabbard decorated in heaven, prominently displayed in a shop window. It turns out it is 80 years old, and the owner wants $2,000 for it, a price I visibly recoil at.

“Can I just film the dagger?” 

            “Sure,” he answers disappointedly, without moving to get it for me.

             “Could I hold it while I film, please?”

             “Just film it through the window.”

             Obviously we’ve all experienced this before, storekeepers whose only interest is how much money they can extract from you. I have to say, in my two visits to Istanbul, it’s more pronounced here than elsewhere.

                “You know what, you’ll never be a great salesman until you can greet all your customers with love. You’re just concerned about numbers, I assure you when you become interested in the heart first, and making that connection with someone, your numbers will follow.”

A quick look at the Grand Bazaar

                We take a ferry to the Asian side, then bus after bus after bus, til two plus hours later, we finally arrive in Gamze’s neighborhood. Public transport here is ridiculously packed, the vehicles ancient and dirty;  often smelly.
                The jammed streets and highways create awful amounts of pollution; at times it can be hard to breathe, as air regulations that we have in America, which Republicans rail against as bad for business, are non-existent in Istanbul.


A crowded Turkish bus- almost entirely male

                We get to the last leg of journey, a small bus that waits until it’s completely packed with sardines before leaving. It costs about eighty cents to climb the steep hill, Gamze’s house at its pinnacle. This middle class neighborhood is at Istanbul’s highest point. My view of the city is far reaching.

                Wanting to show up with a gift for Gamze's mother, we stop by a roadside stand selling baklava. 20 something pieces fit into the 5 lira box, quite a contrast to an earlier offer when we had stopped in one of the numerous sweet shops in town, and I had asked to purchase one piece of baklava to try.
                “No no, minimum order four pieces, 10 Lira.” (almost $6)

                Just another rip-off attempt. The shopkeeper saw a tourist and immediately tried to take advantage. It's in mankind’s greedy nature to extract as much from any situation as they can, rather than act fairly and plan for the long term. It’s symptomatic of how we treat, not only our business dealings, but our environment, politics, and relationships. I've even heard of people so shortsighted they would trade humanity's universal freedom of speech, which people have paid for with their lives, for which wars have fought, just to shut down an Istanbul nightclub because of their horrendous music. But he'd be right.

Me, Gamze, and her awesome Mom, Birgu

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The Beatles/Michael Jackson Ramadan concert - Istanbul, Turkey

I’m absolutely elated that someone's waiting for me at the airport besides the FBI (which is usually the case.) Gamze tells me the fastest, and cheapest way into town is the metro, which rolls right into the airport. Wish we had one in LAX! I drag my bags through the barriers, and onto the trains, changing twice before arriving in Taksim Square, which is one of the two big tourist areas of Istanbul.

“So, we can stay here, or we can go to my house,” Gamze offers.

“Where do you live?”

“On the Asian side, two to two and a half hours away, depending on traffic.” Wow! She came two and a half hours for me.

“Well, I’ve done enough travelling for today, let’s stay here."

“Okay, let me call my Mom and make sure it’s okay with her.”

“Umm … wow. How old are you?” 

“19.”

“Okay … call away.”

Checks out. We check in. Immediately venture out. Gamze starts her tour. She’s done research! She’s written down history of the Istanbul sights to see! She’s taking her role as tour guide very seriously! I must have a reputation as a demanding tourist.

Gamze's cheat sheet notepad with Turkish touristy info

This sweet girl is also a brain. Turns out she's going to the University and majoring in mechanical engineering, one of only 5 girls versus 100 guys entering the program.
"Is that why you chose the major?" I ask.

"No," she giggles, "I really love math, and physics, I'm really good at them."

I look at her dubiously. "Come on ..."

"Really!"

"You realize," I remark, "All the boys are going to be waiting on the school steps for you, and when you arrive will surround you like a Disney Princess, and you can laugh at the sky, accepting their apples, then point to a few of them individually and say, 'Today you get to carry my books; you can walk my dog; and you, you lucky guy, get to buy me lunch.'"

A quick visual of Taksim Square

The only transportation inside the mile and half long stretch called Taksim are public trolleys. It's loud enough to make their approach difficult to hear, which forces me to yank Gamze out of the oncoming path of one at the last moment. "You saved my life! How can I repay you my hero?" she dutifully asks.
She's already agreed to go skydiving tomorrow so I respond, "Sorry to tell you this, but I'm likely to fall back to even tomorrow."

Going to Church
Taksim Square, even during Ramadan, is crowded. Taking a break from surfing the waves of people, we step into a stunning Byzantine Catholic Church.

Byzantine Church ceiling

I think to myself of a girl in the Czech Republic who told me that cathedrals are built so gigantic, in an intentional effort to make you feel small and worthless.
Sitting amidst the majesty of the heavenly ceilings, towering above my physical form, my breath taken by beauty, my mind ceases as beingness remembers its infinite nature within.
Quite the opposite of small and worthless, I feel the vast expanse that simply is, that I am. I feel on fire.

Ramadan Beatles
We continue to the Bosporus, a narrow waterway separating the European side of Istanbul from the Asian. (It's the only city to span two continents) The sun is starting to descend. A giant tent by the water has a longer line around it than there would be if all the Beatles were to be re-united, and playing a free a concert at this exact location, with Michael Jackson as their opening act.
"The government provides free meals during the evenings of Ramadan, which are served inside the tent," Gamze explains.
"You mean thousands of people are willing to wait in line for hours, just for a free meal?"
"Well, it's not so much for the free meal, it's for community and Ramadan camaraderie as well."
So of course, we get into line- by which I mean, we cut; deep, close to the front. Looking around, I'm surprised. Am I really the only white person who likes the Beatles and Michael Jackson.
Should I feel uneasy waiting for free food with all these people so different than I? Maybe I should choose to feel like a fish out of water. Fox News has taught me how warlike and short fused these Middle Easterners are. I shouldn't like these people.
Just thinking about it gets me mad. Now I'm almost hoping someone confronts me, maybe I can do my gay street tough Seinfeld impersonation to really infuriate them. (If you don't get the "gay street tough" Seinfeld reference click here for a brief video.)

Turkish guy: "Wait. What are you two doing?"
Me: "What does it like we're doing? We're cutting the line."
Turkish guy: "You can't cut the line. I've been standing here for hours."
Me: "Look, you want to get hurt? I don't think you want to get hurt, cause if you want to get hurt, I can hurt you. So just, back off, okay."
I turn around and pat Gamze on the head.
Turkish Guy: "What is this? This is outrageous!"
I whip around in disbelief.
Me: "What is it your not understanding. We're cutting the line, and that all there is to it! Okay?!"

Unfortunately, the Turks reacted just the opposite, they welcomed us. There I am, chatting it up in barely understandable English with people incredibly happy to make my acquaintance. No doubt having a white boy in line with them was an oddity, but they were so warm and friendly; this is just wrong, isn't it?.
This is the Middle East baby. I'm cutting the line. According to Fox News, Al Qaeda is sure to kill me on the spot, maybe turn it into a video. I'm exposing my throat here.
But these people are so warm, they want to laugh, meet me, enjoy themselves. I'm dancing around, playing with kids, several Turkish girls asking if they could take their picture with me, exchanging stories, laughing at almost everything. I didn't have a good time in line, I had a great time.
The majority of people in this world, as I've said before, just want to the chance to lead a good life, be loved, and love others. You come with that energy, people almost always reciprocate in kind.

When the sun finally sets, water is guzzled in unison by all. It must have looked like we were shooting a commercial for Evian. It's their first sip of liquid of this hot summer day.
Morsels of food are shared by all. I myself offering my bag of figs I purchased a couple hours earlier. Within a minute, they are gone.
The line starts to move, people pouring into the tent. Despite our incredible talent at cutting, (90% of the line) it still takes a half hour to get inside.
The meal is simple and cheap, with hungry Turks digging in, concentrating on their food. I don't feel like eating, I won't remember the meal. I don't even think I'll remember Michael Jackson moon-walking on stage right now.
I had way more fun simply waiting in line.


Check out a brief vignette of our waiting in line and our meal

"Ramadan Blessing" 

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Mental Patient Escapes to Istanbul

Kazantip, Ukraine

“Are you crazy?!” It’s not so much a question as a statement you’d make to someone who’s wearing his Bellview Mental Hospital sweat suit, while you listen to a radio report about an escaped mental patient, while watching him use a Chihuahua as a towel to dry himself from the fierce rainstorm he's hallucinating. I mean, for Christ's sake, at least use a bigger dog man!  

“Booked a ticket to Istanbul yesterday. All accommodations here sold out from tomorrow night on.”

“Well Jesus, stay with us already. Making the trek all the way out here, and leaving right before opening night would be like wining and dining a super-model for a month, and getting up to leave during foreplay,” comes his response.

Since he puts it that way ... I certainly don't want the derisive scorn from my mates associated with making a such an unmanly mistake! That plus the fact that he’s already on the phone with Bellview authorities trying to return them their rightful property ... I readily agree to his offer.

I had met a Turkish girl in Odessa who seemed quite excited to show me around Istanbul, but right now I am seriously considering missing my flight, something I’ve never done. It's unlikely I’ll ever be out all this way to experience this party again.

I return late from my meet-up with the Russian Models and receive a text telling me the offer of accommodations is void, that they are truly unable to fit any more people into their overstuffed room here in Kazantip.

Internet has been down all day, not an uncommon occurrence out here, and I have no place to stay tomorrow, and I have nothing prepared for Istanbul, and no way to book. 

I wake-up a few hours later. Still no Internet. I have little choice, I get in a cab, drive two hours to the airport. Convince the VIP Lounge to let me use their Internet. I log on and there’s a Facebook message from Gamze (Turkish girl) stating that she’ll pick me up from the airport, “write me back to confirm you’ll be here,” I excitedly start to reply, when my lap-top crashes.

Since May the hard drive has told me it was planning to self-destruct. Every time I have logged on I get the warning, “Hard Drive Failure Imminent,” and now apparently was as good a time as any to follow through on the threat.

My computer won’t come back to life. Great, now I am going to show up in Istanbul with no computer, no place to stay, and Gamze refreshing her Facebook page, thinking me a rude, monstrous putz for not even bothering to reply.

I tinker with my computer as long as I can, zero success, race downstairs to my plane, becoming the last passenger to board. 

Bye-bye Kazantip

Istanbul
I'm flying by the seat of my pants yet again, an hour and a half later landing at Atta-Turk Airport. I think to myself I leave too much to fate, that a little preparation would go a long way. Now I have wasted all this time, energy, and money getting to a city I wasn’t inordinately fond of last time I was here, and the reason that I came likely won’t even want to speak to me. Stupid Internet. Stupid computer. Stupid me. Maybe I do belong in Bellview.

With all these thoughts circulating my mind, I take a few conscious deep breaths, hoping to delay my own imminent hard drive failure. I have weaved my way through the long passport control line, and walk out into Big Bad Istanbul, trying to predict which scam the taxi driver is going to try to pull on me ---

“Richard!!!” comes the voice.

I turn to my right and look. There’s Gamze! Oh my God, she came to the airport! What if I hadn’t come?! Now I'm excited. Who cares about organization. Who cares about preparation. Everything works out for me. I live charmed life. I give her a big hug and dance around for a second. Happy feet!
As we walk away together, a commotion ensues behind us. I turn around and see some burly authorities with "Bellview" stenciled on the back of their uniforms affixing a straight jacket onto a struggling male they've pinned to the ground who's yelling, "You've got the wrong guy! You've got the wrong guy!!"


It's a near certainty he's right.    

Mental patient rides lion in Istanbul

Russian Models Like American Eyes (Kazantip, Ukraine)

The sun takes a bow and disappears over the horizon as the citizens of Kazantip Nation applaud. As we approach the end of the week long lull between the Sports Games, and "opening night," things have started to pick-up, with more and more people arriving daily, including a perfectly formed golden haired being who's decided to descend from Mount Olympus and join us.

Aphrodite

I see Aphrodite and her cute friend at a bar on the way out. I walk up and say hello. The Goddess of beauty speaks some English, her mortal name Vera. She introduces me to Svetlana, half Russian, half Korean, both models journeying here from Moscow for the festivities. Svetlana understands some English, but speaks almost none. I get to know them as much as I can, but the conversation is stilted, the language barrier making communication difficult as it has for me the entire week.  

Svetlana

The next night, my last in the Z, I am dancing in the Marlboro Lounge (yes, smoking is alive and well in Europe.) A pretty Gypsy dances by, casting her spell on me, my eyes following her, enjoying watching her groove -- 
"AYE! AY! What the fuck are you looking at?!" her boyfriend yells at me in Russian, understandable in any language.
"Allright dude, chill, it's Kazantip."
But he doesn't chill, he goes on yelling, posturing. I open my palms to the ground and press down, trying to to calm him, but this volcano keeps erupting, spewing fatal amounts of egoic possessiveness all around him.
I know if it was me I would have smiled, possibly said, "I'm glad you appreciate."
Now it's his fourth breath, and he's still erupting, screaming, threatening. The volcano is attracting attention over the loud music. I'm in awe of the massive size of this guy's frail ego. So this is where the Hitlers of the world come from. He finally pipes down, and I scoot a little away, trying to continue dancing, but I'm looking over my shoulder to see if he's going to come and try sucker punch me or something. It's time to go.

I walk down the beach, watching people dance, kiss, and enjoy themselves, yet I'm letting my thoughts and fears about some idiot take me out of the present moment. Is this really how I want to leave Kazantip?

I climb atop a dome shaped bar, enjoying the laser light show while I look out at the sea, the unceasing luminosity of the stars once again washing away my sense of self, my self-importance. I meditate there for a good half-hour, before a group of four joins me, toasting the night in celebration. They pour me a glass of champagne.
My thoughts have shifted from worried and disturbed, to silence, and the radiant love and appreciation of the moment that comes with it. Now I am ready to leave.

As I walk towards the exit I see Vera and Svetlana in the same bar as yesterday. Unhesitatingly I approach, smile, and say hello. I'm just there, present, enjoying their company.
Fifteen minutes pass, Vera looks at me, and speaks to Svetlana in English for my benefit. "He has American Eyes, doesn't he?"
"I do?" My eyes have been called green, shiny, cat, bright, but this is the first time I've heard a nationality ascribed to them. "What are American Eyes?"

American Eyes?

"Look at you," answers Aphrodite, "You're always smiling, your eyes are shiny, it's like you have no problems, how do you it? Are you always like this?"
"I'm in Kazantip, talking to two beautiful girls, on a warm night, under a starlit sky. How could there be any problems Now?"
"Are you always this happy?"
"I was being threatened a half hour ago, I wasn't all that happy ... but that was then, this is Now. Why should I let that affect me and poison my interactions with you?"
"Do you have such a great family or something?"
"My family is very small, I rarely see them."
"Maybe it's that you don't have to see your family that makes you so happy."
"No, I feel joy, cause I am here, now, speaking to you. It's been a process for me, and I'm not always like this, but what problems exist for you right now? Not in your mind. When you let all the problems that exist in your mind go, there's nothing left but the beauty of this moment."
"Eckhart Tolle," she says, quantifying it so the mind can understand, make sense of it, make it less threatening to the ego, "I'm reading that book in Russian."
"Great, and the power comes in being able to apply it. It's still work in progress for me."

Vera, writer, Svetlana

I sit there in silence, I have little else to say. My heart is open, and I realize that despite being from Mount Olympus, she's human, with her own doubts and insecurities. She believes herself to be mortal. Her body, yes, her soul, her consciousness, no.
I think about my ex-girlfriend Maria, from the same heights of gorgeous, yet how much anguish still existed inside her. People would see her, and be struck by her outward appearance, yet never take the time to find out how she felt inside, and how her own ego would convince her that her past affected the now, and how often the present moment would be poisoned by her fears and judgements.
She's no longer with us, by her own hand. I think it about it and feel sadness well through me. I allow that to pass, breathe in deeply, look at Vera and Svetlana, and feel into the beauty all around me, the same that is inside.
They smile at me. When anyone allows themselves to be fully present, when our bodies and hearts vibrate with the same frequency of the Universal Love, people and beings around you unconsciously recognize this, and it help awakens, if only for a moment, the same vibratory frequency inside of them.
American Eyes are just a symptom of this energy. Describe it as you like, divine love, God, even Eyes Americano, those words are just a sign post pointing to the ultimate truth. The Buddhists have a saying, "The finger pointing to the moon, is not the moon."
One day mankind might reach the moon. I'm glad to be able to reach it, if only on occasion. Anybody that wishes to join, is more than welcome.