Believable!

Sometime early this year, we got tired of saying “unbelievable” to all the crazy, weird, messed up head scratchers we were seeing pretty much every day.  After that we simply decided that’s just the way things are in Congo, and rather than being "unbelievable", these things stared to just become plain “believable”.  Here are a few gems we've especially enjoyed, hope you do too.

Can't get the motorcycle wet or it won't start...

Believable!

Every Friday hundreds of children litter the streets for the day to cut grass. Sounds harmless enough, until you see that each unsupervised child aged from about 10 years old down to 4 - is holding a machete the size of our dog for the days project.

Child Labour Day - Every Friday.   

Believable!

Two hours after having a beer, my hands still smell like gas...

Beleivable!

English class is held at the local University once a week.  9am – 4pm. One day it rained for under an hour at around 10am just before we were going to meet with the class at 11:00.  Everyone became “stuck” at the University.  When the rain stopped, everyone was sent home for the rest of the day because it was raining and they didn’t want to get stuck at the University...wait...whaaat?

Of course when we arrived at 11:00am the entire University had gone home for the day due to rain.

Believable!    

(we laugh about this mentality every time it rains here and think of what would happen if everyone adopted the "it's raining so I can't go to work today" policy back home in Vancouver)

Have to keep the first aid kits zap strapped shut otherwise employees will  sell all the supplies and ask for more first aid kits....again

Believable!

A line of motorcycles driving up and down the street for two days honking in celebration.  There was what looked like a wedding reception set up at a local bar for a large three day celebration.  It was the talk of the town.  The reason?  One person graduated University...

Believable!  (but in a good way...it’s nice to see such praise for higher education in a place that has very few even finishing grade school)

Jenn: “Why did they cut down the tree in front of the office? It was such a nice tree and it provided the guys working there with shade.”

Translator: “Because blacks don’t like trees.  Only whites like trees. ”

Believable!

About a hundred police officers marched the streets today.  Up, down, and back again.  They had arrived from all of the largest towns in the region, some traveling for days by foot and boat.  They came because a prominent government official was flying in from the big city to meet with them and pay them for the first time in 6 months.

He didn't show up so now there are now an extra hundred plus police stranded here because they haven’t been paid in 6 months and can’t afford to get back to their towns and villages...

Believable!

That’s all for now – stay tuned for future editions of “Believable”

Photo Essay - A Day in the Life

Many of you ask us “What is it like to live there?” with looks on your respective faces varying from wonder to disinterest to mild disgust. As with all things in life, perspective is everything and one's attitude can drastically change one's experiences. I'm certain of one thing, from the first weeks I was here in March 2012 until now, my living conditions and my daily challenges have become drastically more manageable.

At the beginning I came unprepared for anything longer than a few weeks and had a very weak understanding what social existence was around me. I ate rice and boiled catfish daily, had cold bucket showers and barely ventured out of the office. Life has improved. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so without further ado, here is a photo story of “What is it like to live there?”

Jail Part III (of III) - Let us Pray

First of all, a brief recap.

Jenn and I planned to go to Dubai for four days to attend her friends wedding, and see what all the hubbub is about regarding this strange, storied city.
The wedding was a great time in a beautiful waterfront setting looking on to the many wild buildings of downtown Dubai. After the reception, we took a taxi to our hotel, stopped on the way at a gas station ATM to take out some money to pay for the cab.  The ATM ate my bank card, and not long after that I found myself on the wrong side of a prison door, with Jenn on the other.
And now...

Let Us Pray

I’m Jolted awake from a painful slumber on the concrete. 

It was “pre-dawn”, time for “Fajr” – the first of five daily prayers for the Muslims. The others being “Dhuhr” at noon, “Asr” in the afternoon, “Maghrib” at sunset, and “Isha” in the evening.  I was told to move because people would be facing where I lay.  This was in the direction of the city of “Mecca”, home to the Kaaba – Islam’s most holy site.  It would be an insult if I continued sleeping where I was until they finished.  So I waited.  And waited...  and waited...  I could tell that I was over-tired, I was becoming agitated and impatient and all I was waiting for was to lie back down on an uncomfortable slab of concrete with my blazer as a pillow.  Maybe I was tired, or maybe I just wanted to fall asleep and wake up back home and out of this nightmare.  The prayer itself probably lasted only 10 minutes, but there were many who continued to pray after the session.  When it was down to just a handful I moved to return to my slab of concrete, and was (quietly) berated by one of the individuals who had finished praying.  I wasn’t able to go anywhere until all of them were finished.  He was on watch to make sure I didn’t make a move back to my spot.

I sourly thought to myself that these guys should maybe find one more time per day to prey - because it is certainly not working for them.

Six am.  Breakfast. 

I couldn’t quite identify what was being passed around.   One could only assume it was “food”.  Then again, I do always say “never assume”.  On that note I skipped “breakfast”.  Besides, this gave me a brief opportunity to find a blanket and try to get a bit more rest. 

In the first room – call it a foyer – the one beside the bathroom, were some free blankets.  I stole one from one of the guys who left it to get breakfast.  It turned out to be a guy’s blanket who I met the day before.  He was from Nairobi - in on larceny charges.  He had been detained about a week earlier.  Not his first rodeo.  He had been caught stealing in a few different countries and after some jail time would be deported.  He knew this, happened to a friend of his.  But he was already determined to return to Dubai as soon as he could.  Apparently it’s easy to drive across the border in any number of places.  When your country is in a desert, it’s surrounded by desert.  This makes for many potential unguarded crossing areas.  He was determined to come back to Dubai because according to him, it is the easiest place to steal credit cards.  And get away with using them.  Sure he got caught, but that’s because he got sloppy.  He went to a big box store and bought $8,000 worth of merchandise with a stolen credit card.  A few weeks later he went again and charged another $10K with the same card.  He didn’t get caught that time.  He thought if he waited another month he could go in a third time for another hit.  He honestly didn’t think anyone would recognize him or think something was amiss.  But someone did.  I’m surprised he got away with it the first, and especially the second time.  He looked early 20s and not sharply dressed.  Probably wearing what he was wearing when he was arrested. His third hit he had over $20,000 of merchandise from the store.  One of the clerks recognized him while he was being rung in – a few stereos, two big screen TV’s, stereo equipment, computers, you know, the usual for a 20something kid to be buying for the third time in just over a month. Well someone recognized him, thought something was fishy and a half hour later he was in handcuffs.  The moral of the story - don’t go back to the same place.  He’s gonna be smarter next time.  He assured me.

But now he was passively angry that I stole his blanket.  I didn’t give it back and just pretended to be asleep.  I had a private laugh about the irony of the situation. I hope he did too.

Back on the other side of the bars some hours later, Jenn continued her polite hassling of the local authorities.

One police officer was helpful. Perhaps appreciating her now calm demeanor and recognizing that the situation may be a bit overblown, agreed to follow up and see if he could track down my file. If he could intercept it before it got to the prosecutor, there was a chance I could leave the station in exchange for my passport while the file was processed. Her persistence paid off. The file hadn’t actually left the station as she had been originally told.  I was released on bail shortly thereafter.  My passport remained at the station as to ensure my not fleeing the country while I waited for a court date. But at that moment all I cared about, all we cared about, was getting the hell out of there.

Freedom...?

Women's jogging suit for sale

The blazing desert sun went unnoticed as we quietly hurried out of the police station – aptly named “Bar Dubai” to find the nearest cab.  Local customs would frown upon any public display of affection, hugging, a kiss.  We knew this from experience.  When we had earlier been in the large empty waiting room together, before I was locked up, we were sitting together. Words hadn’t been exchanged for a while, tears filled Jenn’s eyes.  My hand rested gently on her lower back.  Suddenly two police officers barged in yelling at us to stop what we were doing.  They were watching us on the camera and were quite upset with our behavior.  I looked back at them dumbfounded.  What could we possibly stop doing?  Stop quietly sitting in this big empty room? They pointed at Jenn’s torso which confused me even more – Jenn had to brush my hand off her back as she realized they were offended by any physical contact whatsoever. So when I finally walked out of Bar Dubai, we engaged in none of the appropriate celebratory “Thanks for bailing me out of jail” interactions one would expect. I suppose it makes sense.  A culture where not that long ago a woman could not even display her face in public (and often still don’t/can’t) isn’t one to condone public displays of affection.

Back at the hotel, time for a wash.  Jenn assured me of the necessity of my bathing as soon as possible when we were in the cab – I smelled and felt rotten.  The shower felt like my fist in weeks.  Shortly after refreshing and getting some food in the belly, we had to come up with a plan to get my passport back and get the hell out of dodge.  Unfortunately it was the holy day of rest (like Sunday back home) for the Arabs and most businesses and all government offices were closed.  A friend had found a website called “Detained in Dubai” (If you’re interested in more reasons not to visit Dubai, read some of the ridiculous cases they’ve dealt with).  The stories were not inspiring.  People getting stuck in jail for seemly minor or meaningless infractions.  Others who were in limbo as I was, with their passport at the police station while they waited months to hear back from the prosecutor, or unexpectedly landed themselves back in jail.  There were links to fundraising sites to help pay for these poor folks’ growing legal fees, and to help them support themselves while they waited for their case to be processed and the return of their passports.  Most had lost their jobs back home and had run out of savings (Dubai is not a cheap city to live in, and not easy to pick up casual work while waiting for a court date).

A visit to the Canadian Embassy was a journey within the city which spanned two days, with little assistance or resolution. A visit to a lawyer did not shed any positive light on the situation reiterating that I would likely have to wait there until my trial – several months later.  He offered legal services to see my case through and sought over $10,000 to start, but did not instill any confidence that this would even speed up or help my plight.  The only real advice I received was to not go back to the Police Station (obviously), and that I could get updates on the status of my case over the phone by obtaining my case number, or “Belak #” as it is known as. I phoned the Bar Dubai police to request my Belak #.  After being put on hold and passed through a few different departments, I was told they would not be able to give me my Belak number over the phone, but instead had to go back to the station and ask them face-to-face.  

Sounds suspicious...These are the same police who said I could leave after 5 more minutes of questioning and then locked me up instead.  The last place I wanted to go was to Bar Dubai. Why not give the information over the phone?  Why could no one else go in my place to ask my file number?  It had to be me and it had to be in person. Just come back to the station for 5 minutes – it’ll be okay, you can trust us...

It’s a Trap!

It was time to start considering alternatives. 

Ok – what are the other options?  There are unguarded countries bordering The United Arab Emirates that my kleptomaniac friend from inside Bar Dubai mentioned earlier.  Let’s see our options:

Saudi-Arabia  Features: High Terrorist threats, no photography allowed in public, no speaking to women, and generally frowns upon anyone in public not dressed in local attire.  Oh also they generally don’t allow tourist visas from what I understand. We’re off to a good start.  They do, however have a Canadian Embassy.

Qatar  Features:  Somewhat less restrictive than above, but no embassy.

and last on the “by land” list...

Oman....Oh man.

Some of the many boats that sail to Iran

All of those options by land sound like potentially worse places to be than a shitty jail in Dubai, especially considering the potential of getting caught going across borders without a passport, or worse, breaking down in the desert in 50 degree weather and hundreds of miles from help or water. Okay, I’m right on the ocean here in Dubai...what’s my best bet by boat? I could commandeer a vessel and set sail for the nearest country by water and claim refugee status.....in Iran?? Shit. These options are just not sounding too good. Time to suck it up and prepare to return to the Bar Dubai Police Department.

Jenn helped me prepare for a long stint in jail while we waited for the prosecutor to make a decision:

Big parting meal, lots of water - Check

T-shirt and tank-top underneath dress shirt – Check

Shorts underneath dress pants – Check

Sandals in backpack – check

3 pairs of boxers on – check

Cash in various pockets, and hidden throughout ensemble – Check

All the important telephone numbers I might need written on a piece of paper hidden in an inside pocket – Check

We arrived back at Bar Dubai on Wednesday morning and I braced for a short, or long, stint back in jail.  I was trembling.  Having read the horror stories online, and already been tricked behind bars once, it was hard to focus on “best-case scenarios”. The familiar faces were not as reassuring as in most scenarios in life.  We first skipped the initial long line at reception, only to be yelled to come back and sign in as we passed through security. Luckily the officer at the front desk was the one assisting Jenn previously, and we were allowed back into the dragon’s lair and sat in the all-to familiar questioning area. Thirty minutes later, we were escorted down the hall and told to come back the following morning at 9.

The next morning we repeated the entire checklist and anxiety process again. After waiting another half hour, we were escorted down the same long hall again. Jenn was by now very familiar with this hall having spent an unfortunate amount of time in it over the past few days. We were moving in the direction of the steel bars and my heart rate increased.  Were we just going to keep walking?  Was it absolutely stupid to return to Bar Dubai?

Luckily we were shoved into a file room and told to sit down.  Observing the police files, myself for the first time, Jenn for the second, various pictures of pop-culture icons & doodles could be seen on the filling drawers. Their filing system it would seem was based on cartoon characters. There was the drawer with a drawing of a drunk behind a wheel, another with Beavis & Butthead fighting.  My file was obtained from the “bandit with blindfold &  money bag running out of bank” drawer.  Much Arabic was spoken between officers as I was eventually allowed to approach the desk.  The ranking officer asked if I had $600 cash.  Luckily Jenn had the foresight to insist we take a large amount of money with us...20 minutes later I had signed several documents in Arabic - which yes, you should never do, but my options were dwindling, and a translator can take several days or weeks to appear – I was released! Passport in hand, no charges laid, and no further questioning!!!

Dubai Police Force: the epitome of professionalism

Victory!

There was no information given as to what happened or what the $600 fine was for, but it appeared obvious that the bank had visited the supposed site of “vandalism” and felt there was no need in further prosecution.  No charges were laid, no statements, no more questions. I was free to leave!

We quickly raced to another taxi – I had never truly understood the concept of freedom before that moment.  Things could have gone much, much worse.  A heavy sigh of relief was released and we were happy to arrive back at the hotel shortly thereafter.

We celebrated immediately after at an afternoon waterslide park, a short boat tour, drinks at “Burj Al Arab” (the famous bar on the water), and a short late night visit to the newlywed’s apartment to recap the events since we parted at the wedding. At 3am we were on our way to the airport and returned back to “normalcy” in Congo.

Goodbye Dubai...forever

Not mentioned in the story, but here is the worlds tallest building.
And in the lower right there is actually a Tim Horton's!

The Traveler

One of the plethora of learnings I have acquired in my years of travel is the difference between a tourist, a backpacker and a traveler. A tourist seeks the getaway; think Egyptian pyramids, the Las Vegas strip or Paris’s Sacre Coure. A tourist leaves for a short and defined period of time with a purpose that is most commonly a mix of fun, relaxation and culture. Backpackers however, can be defined by name; they seek “getting off the beaten track” but, generally don’t really stray far from it and they travel light, with their belongings on their back. They crave shared experiences and are always young at heart. A traveler however, is here for the journey. A traveler is a personality, an ethic, and a mode of movement. This ethic, in my opinion, can best be described by a verse in Lord Tennyson’s Ulysses,

            I am a part of all that I have met

            Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

            Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

            For ever and forever when I move.

            How dull it is to pause, to make and end,

            To rust unburnish’d not to shine in use

            As tho’ to breathe were life.

And so, it is with these perspectives that I absorb my experiences on this world and with which, walking home from work last week, I met a traveler. I heard English first, and then I spotted the sun browned skin and shoulder length dreadlocks of Inongo’s first traveler. I did a double take, but he remained. We were walking towards each other so I smiled and said “What have we here, a tourist washed up on the shores of lac Mai Ndombe?” He smiled, introduced himself as Amit and stumbled over his words explaining he hadn’t had an opportunity to communicate in English in weeks.

I have lived here in Inongo for 14 months and although there are occasionally other westerners here for projects, I have never seen or heard of one arriving for personal reasons or by any form of transport other than airplane. As the Democratic Republic of Congo goes, this province is one of the most unexplored and undeveloped in the country. Compared to the eastern provinces of Katanga and the Kivu’s with famous cities like Lubumbashi and Goma, Bandundu Province and Lac Mai Ndombe are unknown even by most Congolese. And it is for that very reason that Amit was travelling here.

We were going in separate directions, so I invited him to our Community Mapping workshop the next day if he was still around. He said he hopped he wouldn’t be as he was eager to get on the next boat heading north to Kiri, a village about 200kms north of Inongo. We parted and I walked home, later wishing I’d learned the story of this intrepid traveler in my ‘hood.

The next day he appeared at the workshop, obviously not having been able to find a boat. We walked back to my office and I explained the project and our work. Amit explained that he was on a search for Africa’s most indigenous tribes, especially those that remained in isolation from the ‘modern world. Amit hoped to find and live with the Batchwa pygmies. The Batchwa are the native people of the Congo River Basin, they still live today as they have done for 1000s of years. Hunting monkeys and forest antelope with poison arrows, naked but for a gourd or a leaf.  Native to the lands of the DRC in relation to the relative newcomers, the Bantu, the pygmies have been pushed to the edge of society.  They still live a primarily subsistence life, living off the forest and without agriculture. By many Bantu they are considered to be primitive and closer to animals than to humans and are often treated as such. They suffer greatly in the villages where I have met them, so I will be interested to hear what Amit finds on his arrival. His goal is to arrive in this area, where the are reputed to be relatively untouched, gain their trust and live with them for a few weeks learning about their world. His family and friends around the world are petrified he will be captured and eaten and he was warned time and time again not to undertake this life risking adventure into the dark corners of the Congo.

It took him two weeks on a bus, motorbike, boat and by foot to arrive here in Inongo and he still had about 200km to cover before his destination. Once he reached the waters of Lac Mai Ndombe everyone he spoke to said that Inongo was the lake’s hub and it was here that he would quickly catch a boat northwards. He spent a full week here in Inongo, to Amit this was a significant chunk of his two month visa, to the Congolese this was rather quick and to us it was a welcome visit with a fascinating and tenacious traveler.

The first two nights Amit and his guide, Timote, stayed near the port in a dirt-floored room in the hopes of catching a boat. But we told him he was welcome to stay at our house, and so he did. We were quite amused to discovered that not only did Timote speak no English and Amit speak no French, but Timote had quite a stutter. Just another challenge in an already difficult mission, but they appeared to get by just fine.  

The week pushed on, and Amit was disappointed by undeparted boat after undeparted boat, his family and friends imagined him being eaten by natives, and we sat on our veranda, talked politics and religion, drank cold beer and even played a round of golf or two. 

Amit practicing his shot

One hot afternoon we were cooling off in the tepid brown lake when a ferocious wind blasted by and got our attention. Although we basked in brilliant sunshine, we could see a heavy storm approaching from the end of Inongo bay. We stayed in the water, sipped our beers, and watched over the next minutes as dark clouds, heavy rain and wind blew in our direction. As seconds passed we watched one boulevard palm tree after another whipped into a frenzy. Lightening forked from the sky. In the opposite direction moisture heavy clouds created a prism for the sun’s rays and they bounced in fuschia and orange off the clouds.  It was a 360 degree nature show. The pelting rain arrived and massive raindrops bounce of the lake’s surface while our puppy Kitoko sought shelter while her crazy parents and friend stayed in the warm and magnificent lake.

We had many a good discussion with Amit, a worldly traveler and devoted worshiper of Israel. A true student of the world, Amit reveled in discussions with the locals of Congo. He wanted to understand how they lived and hear stories of survival, bravery, love, culture, and a way of life forgotten by many of the rest of us.  He was not limited in who he sought to learn from, and teach.  Most nights spent on the patio with him in Inongo, the discussions became in-depth and intriguing.  As a proud child of Israel, Amit was well versed in the teaching of the bible.  He spoke of the duplicity in the Christian teachings between the Old Testament and the New Testament. And during many a discussion he would present his bible, written in Hebrew, and read to us what the original text actually stated. It was a fascinating and often humorous study in the histories of religion. 

Amit finally leaving!

Another conversation about the history and negative impacts of development got Tristan and Amit quite heated. Amit quite causally claimed that mostly all the atrocities in the world in the last 2,000 years were caused by the White Man; hunger, war, slavery, disease and plastic. I was only half listening, and was surprised to see smoke coming out of Tristan’s ears.  The discussion went on for a long time and they begrudgingly agreed to disagree. We jokingly called him white man from then on.

A few days later Amit apologized to Tristan.  He said that he had learned a bit about sensitivity and would no longer refer to many of the atrocities from the past 2000 years as a fault of the “White Man”, but rather Western Culture.  Tristan now sees the merits of being a “Politically Correct” advocate.

We were both sad to see our new friend leave after one unexpected week of visit.  We learned a lot from him in a very short time.  

Safe travels friend.

Jenn & Tristan

Detained in Dubai (Part II of III)

As I heard the heavy door slam shut behind me, I found myself locked in a windowless white room with a half dozen disheveled looking men, one of whom immediately pointed out that it was going to be a lot longer than “5 minutes”.  The smell of old urine on the walls was made only more apparent by the sight of the stains confirming my sense’s initial deduction.  There were blankets on the floor (surrounded by the urine stains/smells), so one could curl up for a cozy slumber.  The metal bench already had two men fighting for space & semi-asleep, so the floor/blanket was really the only option.  The good blankets were taken by the others fortunate enough to arrive before me. 

After several hours of intermittently almost falling asleep and being called back out for questioning, myself, along with my half dozen holding cell compatriots, were led out to a hallway.  Standing in a line dazed & confused, a large police officer motioned to the first in line who was just in front of me.  The poor bastard was looking at the floor and the cop made a slight gesture for the guy to put his hands in front of him to be hand cuffed.  The fellow didn’t understand or see the motion – BAM! – punched in the chest & berated in Arabic for his insolence! Then both his hands were right about where the cop wanted...clutching his chest (but keeled over).  The cop then handcuffed my confused and battered friend to my right wrist.  He did the same down the line (minus the chest punch) and threw us all in a van.  We made various stops but got no responses to our questions, and were essentially clueless and blind. 

After a good half hour, we arrived at another police station and were swiftly escorted inside. I patiently waited on another cold metal bench, still handcuffed to my confused new friend.  One by one we were taken into a room to be administered a breathalyzer test, a blood test, and to be finger printed again (we were also finger printed and breathalyzed at the first station).  I refused a blood test – I prefer my plasma be left inside me whenever possible – but this actually wasn’t a problem.  Instead of a blood test I was “forced” to allow them to take my picture.  That was the only reasonable thing to happen so far in the whole ordeal.

Back into the hot van.  Still no information on what the hell was going on.  Was I being charged with a crime?  Were we going to be released any time soon?  Can I have some #@$%ing water??? The answer to my second question seemed to be becoming more bleak with each passing moment.  I arrived back at the first police station, and was again interrogated. 

“What is your name” he asked, while starring at a piece of paper with my name in bold/caps and a lot of writing in incomprehensible Arabic.

“Tristan Jordan”

“Uhh....Christien.....Goo...”
“No - Tristan Jordan, it’s right here on this paper that you are looking at” long pause & slow index finger typing.
“Why did you break the bank machine?”   
“I didn’t, it took my atm card.”
“This is very bad – the bank will not be happy.”
“I didn’t break it, you can’t break a bank machine.”
“Why did you break the bank machine?  You are a gentleman.  You should not steal.”
“I didn’t break it, it took my card and I tried to get my card back. We (Jenn) unplugged the machine and that didn’t work so we left.”
“You should not have broken the bank machine.”
“I didn’t, it took my atm card.”
“What is your name?” 


(*note - you can see my name in the upper right)

Believe it or not, this exchange continued for some time in this manner, and happened more than once.  My blood is boiling just typing the circular questioning.

At around the same time of this brilliant interrogation, Jenn was frantic and heartbroken back in our hotel room. The “Rescue Tristan” Command Centre had been established on the hotel room bed as phone calls were made to Canada, Australia, various embassies and even a British NGO for those detained in Dubai. By 9am Jenn’s sister had found a fellow wedding guest (Annabelle) on facebook and called the hotel to send her to be with Jenn to help her cope. At 11am Jenn and Annabelle returned to the station to demand for my release. This time in a more polite and demure, covered up way - as exposed skin of a female is frowned upon. 

 
She brought a change of clothes for me, some water, and some medication (as I had a very bad infection on my leg from an earlier burn – motorcycle related, not Dubai).  The guard would only allow me to speak with her through the barred window, did not allow the change of clothes, and almost didn’t let her give me water to take my medication!  I had to show them my festering leg to prove I needed them (picture excluded for your befit...trust me).  I was allowed to drink the water from the bottle to take the pills, but couldn’t keep it!  I was incredibly happy for the pain killers.  My leg hurt, but more importantly my head hurt.  I was quite hungry, but at least I finally got some water after about 8 hours of requesting liquids.  The guards assured me I would be released soon.
 

Jail

 

2:00pm

Wake up white man.

I had finally got a consistent couple hours or so of sleep when I was awoken to be “allowed” into general population.  Out of the holding cell and in a smaller room a guard frisked me while asking a series of questions in Arabic.  I had to remove my shoes, belt, jacket, blazer, shirt, and my pants.  Luckily he didn’t go the distance and I got to keep my dignity. I was then handed a box of food (picture airplane meal minus the frill), a cup of water, and sent through two separate, locked, and heavy prison doors.  Passing the prison rooms, two bunk beds a room, it appeared that there was room for almost 100 people.

Beyond the bedrooms I entered the “outside”.  As I stepped out to the fresh air, I was greeted by 30’ white walls topped with barbed wire. Dozens of sets of eyes pierced through me as I recalled jail fight scenes from countless movies.  I looked around and did not see one other white guy in the room.  I couldn’t read anyone’s face – whether there was any anger sent in my direction.  Was there racial tension?  Would people want to rough me up for showing up in jail in a suit?  Are there really people who would feel the need to “initiate” me?

 

I picked the one table that didn’t have anyone sitting at it to focus on my meal and keep quite.  The chicken was boiled to bland.  This marked the first time I ate rice without a utensil.  We could not be trusted with cutlery; therefore I was eating chicken and rice with my fingers...not an easy task!  After about ten minutes of solitude, I was approached by a shorter Indian fellow.  Thick beard, glasses, and luckily, a smile. 

“We are taking bets over there...where did you come from?”

“I came from a wedding”
“Ahhhhhh......now THAT makes more sense!  We were guessing you worked at a bar, or owned a bar, or just got a little too dressed up to go to the bar.  Wedding sounds about right!  What did you do?”
“Apparently I broke a bank machine, but what really happened was.....”
“Oh, that sounds complicated.  You might be here for a long time”
“No no, I should be out today”
“Haha – hmmm...yes, you may need to learn some patience.  You are in Dubai now.  Things work....differently”
“What are you here for?”

My new friend (we will call him “Archie”) was happy to tell me his story.  Archie and his companions were an aspiring comedy crew – the Kids in the Hall of the Emirates perhaps.  They had regular jobs as well, most of which were in the tech industry.  They were hoping that by making a series of internet videos they could get picked up and make a legit career in the entertainment industry.  They had made a few videos and apparently had a bit of a good following and were gaining momentum.  Their niche was spoofing popular TV shows aired in Dubai.  One of which was a show that portrayed a military training base and techniques about 100 miles from Dubai.  Archie and his pals thought it would be funny to lampoon this popular military show and staged a fake training facility.  They filmed themselves training as members of the United Arab Emirates Army, but instead of weapons used things like turbans, and sandals.  Shortly after posting the spoof, there were many positive reviews on youtube and they were happy with their latest installment.  Then one day the police showed up at each of their houses and individually brought them into the police station for “questioning”.  That was a month ago. 

Apparently someone had alerted the authorities that their video was a threat to national security, an apparent terrorist video!  Archie and pals were shocked, appalled and confused.  They have a few lawyers working on their case, but it turns out that it is the first of its kind!  Without a precedent set, they have to see it through – although no formal charges had been laid.  Their lawyers gave little advice aside from “be patient”.  Archie told me the reason his beard was getting long was that he refused to use the one communal shaver that was passed around the roughly 120 people there, and would not shave until he was released. I saw the shaver, I would have done the same.  He also let me know that he didn’t think I would be there as long as him, but it would be best that I too follow his lawyers advice and prepare for patience.

 

Luckily for me, Archie and the other inmates were mostly harmless and some were friendly.  In the month he had been here he had only witnessed one fight and it was between two men who were brought in together.  Water was scarce, but I managed to meet the guy to talk to get more.  Very, very sweet tea was available at all times.  It was the closest thing to an activity available.  Getting a cup of tea.  Cell phones were not allowed.  Magazines were not available.  Not even books really – aside from about fifty copies of the Koran, in Arabic.  I spent a good portion of the day in a cell with Archie and the guy who distributed water & the meals.  He got the job of giving out food because he had been there the longest.  7 months.  His story changed slightly each of the three times he told it.  From what I could gather, he was from Uganda, but was living in Dubai because he was a professional soccer player in Europe who made $50,000 per week (which works out to $2.6million/year!).  But he got in a street fight and went a little overboard and severely hospitalized 6 people. 

Other colourful individuals I was privy to meet were mainly drinking/driving cases who crashed and caused either commercial damage, or damage to other people, also a few people in for tax, cheque, or credit card fraud, a couple people who didn’t want to talk about it, and two rapists.  As a white person, I wasn’t allowed to talk to any of the Arabs.  I only spoke with the other foreigners, which were all either from Africa, or India – and generally stayed away from speaking with the locals.

The bathroom was the most unhappy place on earth.  I will not go into details, but rather leave a space between this paragraph and the next for your imagination to fill in the blanks.

 

 

....

 

 

 

Time for dinner.  I would say perhaps we had curry? I assume curry because it was served with a big naan like pitta bread.  The naan bread was actually fine.  The “curry” did not make one beg for more.  It was a red broth with potatoes and maybe chicken.  No real flavor, but it was warmish so that was....something.  I saw many airplane food dishes half full of the “curry” thrown to the garbage after my meal.  Ah yes, dinner - and a show! ...a re-run of a 2010 MTV’s top 10 Justin Beaver’s favorite music videos.  I shit you not.  There he was, pride of Canada.  It was like the world was slapping me in the face.

Imagine, being in jail in one of the most affluent cities in the world, on the other side of the world from Canada, and being succumbed to not just Justin Beiber, but his shitty 13 year old taste in music!  It was a fate worse than if the security guard from earlier had done a “full” frisk.  And of course one person in the crowd watching was excited not only that I was Canadian, but that Justin Beiber was Canadian too.  Then the conversation shifted to me.  And why I was not a Beiber fan.  How the hell did I end up in a room full of dozens of full grown men, from the other side of the world, who all had a profound respect for the body of work of one young Canadian by the name of Beiber? 

But I digress.

 

Night time fell.  As I mentioned earlier, there was beds for under 100 people.  However there was well over 100 people there.  And extra blankets.  I managed to get a clean-like blanket to put down on the hard floor and was able to curl up near the exit door (and unfortunately right beside the doorless bathroom).

Jenn had re-visited the police station that night and demanded my release.  They agreed to her pleas after several hours of rejecting. I was summoned for release around 1am!  The other inmates near the door cheered for me, and I received a series of high-fives, even from people who did not speak English!   I was ecstatic to be leaving!  No more horrible sleeping on incredibly hard floors, no more incomprehensible meals, no more Beiber. 

The feeling was short lived.

Unfortunately for me, they agreed to my release without telling Jenn, and about an hour after she had left, this was again the middle of the night, about 24 hours after I was first detained in Dubai.  The police only needed my passport, which I did not have, and Jenn was no longer at the police station to give it to them. 

The next morning Jenn returned to the station at 9am (as she had been instructed).  There she was informed that my case had been sent to the prosecutor for review.  He would not be able to complete his review until the bank machine was analyzed by the bank and charges were made official, or dropped. Until his review, there was nothing she, or anyone else, could do.  This could take several  weeks.  In the meantime, I was to remain in jail. 

Jenn was furious (while still trying to act demure and womanly – this time determined to be on her best behaviour) and insisted that she would be waiting right there in the station and continue demanding my release until a resolution was met. The police reiterated that until the prosecutor made his report, there was nothing she, or anyone else could do. 

 

I Hope she brought a toothbrush and a heavy book.

 

 

To be continued...

Jail (Part I of III)

Part I - Wedding

Jenn and I recently traveled to Dubai for a short 4 day trip.  It was the wedding of an old friend of Jenn’s and probably the only time in our lives where we might have a reason to visit one of the world’s most extravagant cities. 

Ah yes, Dubai.  After spending a day in the frivolous city, a stark contrast to our lives in Congo, we both agreed that Dubai is “all fashion – no function”.  From the tallest building in the world, to some of the world’s largest malls (and coming soon – The World’s Largest Mall!!), to the world’s largest indoor ski hill (that must be an oxymoron), Dubai has it all, provided you want to ignore all natural elements and cultural history. 

Many say that the US is commercialized and too materialistic. However, the people who live in Dubai make your average American look like the Amish.  It’s a constant race from air conditioned car to air conditioned mall, back to the air conditioned house.  Aside from the occasional sand dune rides for tourists, and the waterpark “Wet Wadi”, (which was awesome) I didn’t hear much in the way of outdoor activities – or activities at all.  We saw one baseball diamond in our week there, no soccer fields, or even fields for that matter.  We stayed near an outdoor jogging area surrounding a pond.  It was a man-mad hole with some water in it which I suppose one could run around, provided it got below 40 degrees at some point.  Then the avid outdoor enthusiast could enjoy jogging around the concrete water hole and take in the beautiful sights of the skytrain station on one side and, you guessed it, a mall on the other*.  (*note: This is where Jenn’s idea of a “sarcasm font” would be most useful).

The buildings are gaudy and impressive , but altogether unnecessary.  Most buildings are well below capacity, or have simply been abandoned.  I would wager a bet that there are enough vacant hotel rooms in Dubai to house the entire city’s population.  Many remain an empty shell.  The Emirate (mayor/ruler) of Dubai, rich from oil money, has decreed that all building constructions continue, regardless of high vacancy rates and a not so bright future.  One local told us the Emirate (each city has one in the Emirates) are essentially in a pissing contest for which one can build the “best” city (read: most obnoxious/flamboyant). It seems like Dubai is “winning” right now.  I give it about 10 years (at best) before the realization that this empty concrete monstrosity has been a huge waste of money and resources and the city collapses onto itself. 

Their primary focus is on tourism.  “If you build it...they will come” is the mantra of the Emirate of Dubai.  It seems that 90% of their “tourist attractions” are meant to hide you from the location itself with air conditioning or fake snow. Jenn and I call it mall tourism.  I don’t think it will require many trips to Dubai before one realizes there are plenty of shopping malls where they are from and no need to fight customs to get into this Muslim country (it cost us 3 hours and $500 each for our travelers visas!).  To top it all off, because it is a Muslim country, they do not allow anyone to purchase alcohol without a license.  One cannot obtain a license unless they are a resident.  The best you can do is having a drink at a hotel – but you are then not allowed to leave that hotel if there is any alcohol in your system. Not that there is much reason to leave your hotel.  There didn’t seem to be much in the way of things to do (although Justin Beiber happened to play his first concert in a Muslim country while we were there..but more on him (unfortunately) later). I did hear there are some great night clubs.  I’m not sure if they are allowed to drink there or not.  Travel all the way to a foreign country to stay indoors at all times. At one point in our trip we agreed that “Dubai – It’s Vegas, but without the fun!”. No gambling.  No drinking.  No real sightseeing. No culture. No entertainment.  For a better (and even longer) description of Dubai, a must-read is from a Vanity Fair Magazine article we came across:  (http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2011/04/dubai-201104)  

At least read the first page, it’s priceless (and he almost says “Dubai is like Vegas, but without the fun” verbatim!)

 

But I digress.  Now to the point of our little excursion. 

The nuptials of Jenn’s friend Holly, a beautiful Australian flight attendant, and Oliver, a tall suave German pilot who she met only 6 months prior.  There were 43 guests, who traveled from 14 different countries to be there!  The setting was on the famous “Palm Island” at an amazing hotel on the water called “The One and Only”* with a view looking back across the water to the impressive skyline of the city.  The vows were exchanged outside under a bright blue sky and everyone was looking international and fabulous. The reception featured no shortage of amazing cuisine – much to the delight of Jenn and I after so many nights of fried Congo fish & boiled plantains.  The bar was open and the dance floor was lively (I only dropped Jenn once...oops!). 

(*A humourous aside – it turns out that there are two hotels in Dubai called “The One and Only”.  Of the 43 guests only one person went to the wrong “One and Only” and it turned out to be one of the few guests who was actually born and raised in Dubai!)

 

As the night wound down, people began to retire into the desert night.  Jenn and I hailed a cab back to our hotel.  Realizing that we didn’t have enough “Durhams” for the cab, we asked that the driver stop at a gas station so we could get cash at the machine there.   I put my card in, and entered the appropriate numbers.  A screen asked me to be patient while they processed my request.  And remained....and remained...  After some time, I started button mashing, and hitting the screen.   The patrons of the gas station asked what was wrong, and I informed them that it appeared that the machine had frozen with my card inside.  Some heated words were exchanged between the gas jockeys, myself, and Jenn – and we were accused of breaking the ATM and told to leave.  Jenn & I were adamant that this wasn’t about to happen without my bank card (I didn’t really have any access to money without it since the Dubai machines weren’t recognizing my 2 credit cards).

After unplugging/re-plugging the machine to no avail, and becoming genuinely disgruntled at the situation, Jenn and I decided to leave the gas station, without any money or my card.  The taxi had left once it was apparent I couldn’t get money with my card, and Jenn couldn’t either since the machine was frozen.  We then started walking in direction of our hotel, many km’s away, in hopes to come across an ATM Jenn could use.  Suddenly, after a few blocks of walking, we were chased down by three or four Police cars – full lights & sirens blazing!  At first I thought they were driving by, but when they got to us (the two best dressed folks wandering the streets of semi-rural Dubai), slammed on the breaks, and accosted us, it was apparent that we were the target of their pursuit! 

It took a while, and some threats, for the police to convince me to get in the car, and few more threats by the police to get Jenn in.  We were told we had to come to the police station for questioning regarding breaking a bank machine – I mean physically breaking it... Ridiculous!  How the hell do you break a bank machine??  Maybe with a sledge hammer & a pickup truck – but bare hands in a suit?  I tried to explain that the machine froze, but the police were adamant (although they refused to visit the “crime scene” to verify the vandalism).

Upon entering the Police station, Jenn and I engaged in both joint and separate “verbal exchanges” with the authorities.  There is a reasonable chance that we were not entirely level headed or polite with them at this time (around 2-3am).  I do recall at one point referring to Dubai as being in a “piece of $#!% third world country!!!” ...while at the same time my lovely Jennifer in the adjacent room saying something along the lines of “I can’t wait to get out of this god forsaken country!”  Upon later reflection, it is probably not wise in a police station of a Muslim country - who thinks of itself as the greatest Nation on earth - to simultaneously malign both their god and country...

Jenn phoned the Canadian Embassy around 3am who advised we do not separate, no matter what.  After 2 hours or so in detention, the Dubai police informed us that they needed one last 5 minute interview with me, but Jenn couldn’t attend.  We argued with the police for a good 15-20 minutes, and eventually caved. We agreed that I would go into the interrogation room for the 5 minutes while Jenn waited outside, then we could both leave. 

That was stupid...

To be continued