Sodding Summer

Upon awakening this morning, I could not see out my windows. Lion asked me if it had been raining - the condensation was thick and punctuated with large rivulets that revealed the jungle our garden has become. But if I look out the windows on the second storey, I can see nothing but beige. The light is dull, the sun shrouded in mother earth's pollution - dust and humidity.

The streets are silent, but for a man in orange sweeping the curb and a gardener in grubby shalwar qameez dragging a rusty lawn mower behind his bike. The joggers and dog walkers are nowhere to be seen. Even bus children wait in the air conditioned zone on their front doorsteps until the last moment when the school bus toots. Outside has become the wild frontier - only the strong, mad or unfortunate will brave it.


My day revolves around thirty second walks between my car and cooled venues. I leave early and ensure I arrive in time to secure a good carpark at my destination. Others flout the rules and double park wherever they please, knowing the parking ticket is worth it to avoid the long walk in the heat. Not that there are many parking inspectors on the job anyway.


On the radio, the news reader reminds us to check our tyres for tread and inflation. Bitumen can get to 70ºC on days like this, hot enough to cause a second degree burn in 1 second, and of course cause tyre blowouts. I am also careful not to leave my purse in the car when I lock it - not because of theft, which is a rare occurance here, but because my credit cards could melt.

Today I brave Karama. The folks back home want a collection of good cheap knock-offs. Even the polo shirts hanging outside on racks are hot to the touch. Inside they have the AC set to max. A haze of humidity gathers at the door where the temperatures clash, and no matter which way you are walking, you end up damp on the other side. My handbag man gives me a cuddle upon sealing the deal, and he recoils in soggy horror after accidentally touching my sweaty shirt-back.

At pick-up, all the parents run from car to school foyer, where we wait illegally till the last moment. We have been instructed not to clutter the public areas, but the thought of waiting outside is sickening. Small talk with other mothers has all but ceased. Our sedentary indoor lifestyle provides little in the way of news and anecdotes. Besides, the heat makes us tired.

Everyone is tired. We get no sunshine and are all vitamin D deficient. We are lethargic, moody, and our viruses keep circulating in the perpetual air-conditioning, so we are all sick.

There are those who work outside, and they are sicker, with heatstroke, never-ending headaches, urinary tract infections, high blood pressure, and other effects of extreme heat and dehydration. Heat-related deaths are not unheard of. Outdoor labour is banned between the hours of 12:30 and 3:30, but this is often ignored. I see them in their blue overalls, wet from the shoulders to the waist, faces stained with dust and salt. They wrap scarves on their heads in meager protection - I wonder if it actually makes them hotter. At the traffic lights, from my air conditioned car, I see them peering through my windows, and I wonder how they can keep the malice from their tired stares. After all, I may not be their boss, but my life in Dubai supports this employment and everything that comes with it. Sometimes they even smile, and it makes me want to cry.

At home, I put on a new DVD for the kids, and we break the Lego construction from yesterday so we can start again. We play foozball, UNO, build cubby houses with chairs and blankets. I bake, and blog, and then blog about baking, and eventually, in our boredom we slump on the couch and eat cupcakes.

On the weekend we go to malls. We shop, walk, ski, skate, abseil, play pinball, take rollercoaster rides, and terrify tots in playcentres, all in malls. We eat in the malls. We buy things we don't need. We stop for coffee we don't want. It's all expensive, and every moment we look forward to the day we can get back in our pool. For it remains in the central yard of our compound, a tempting yet deceitful cool blue colour, but hotter than a bath.

This week we have visitors - friends of my parents. We were supposed to go out Tuesday, but Margot was struck down by the suffocating air and spent the first 36 hours doubling and tripling her asthma medication so she could breathe. We finally make it out on late on Thursday evening, relatively cool at 36 degrees, and are actually able to have a drink outside at Madinat Jumeirah when a freak sea breeze wafts in.

I wonder why people visit Dubai at this time. And I wonder why the UAE tourism board promotes visits. Everyone who comes at this time of year hates it. All they see is the malls and the haze. They boil, and then seethe at the money they have wasted on such a ridiculous stopover. There are some that don't seem bothered - the crazies of course, loons I can see sitting outside on the "Big Bus Tour', or the die-hard shoppers, just here for the festival. And then the naive, who let the tour companies take them out for a simmering desert experience. Even a stroll around the gold souq is enough to topple the unseasoned. They miss out on so much - the beaches and crystal clear water (which is now about 40ºC), the souks and Bastakiya, strolling around the waterway under the Burj Khalifa, the JBR Walk, the Marina, dhow trips, desert camping and the mountains and wadis, and just ambling around the back streets of Deira around the Naif souq. They go home and tell their friends what a hole Dubai is, poisoning it's reputation.

If only they came in March....But it is a stopover, isn't it. They're all on their way to Europe for the summer, joining up with cruise ships, escaping the monsoons to the east.

The lucky leave this season behind, migrating north to milder climates, or south to a winter we never see here. Those who remain may tell you that summer is not so bad. The seasoned laugh at us newcomers. We are weak and intolerant. And it's true, Dubai's Summer does put one more in touch with the soul of this amazing place. We do live in a desert after all. And for some reason, while swinging in my hammock outside in the evening, sweating out the toxins of my man-made, interior-spent day, in Dubai's free daily sauna, I do feel that the Muezzins always sound better at this time of year. I really DO live in the Middle East.

Apple Tea Cakes

Sometimes I like to tell myself that the junk I eat is good for me. This recipe, for example. It is good for me, because I halved the suggested amount of sugar (although I added a little maple syrup for flavour), I included apple (hence helping on the old 5 and 2 a day that often falls by the wayside), and I iced it sparingly. 

So it is true, that these are healthy, but only when you compare them to other cakes and desserts. Well some of them at least. Fortunately, they are also very, very easy to make. Just don't eat them for dinner, because then they should be classified as decidedly unhealthy.

Ingredients 

• 125g butter, softened
• 125g (1/2 cup) caster sugar
• 2 tblsp maple syrup
• 2 eggs
• 200ml buttermilk (or plain milk with a dash of lemon juice)
• 250g (2 cups) plain flour
• 3 tsp baking powder
• pinch salt (can leave out if you use salted butter)
• 1 apple, grated coarsely

• ground cinnamon mixed with caster sugar or fine brown sugar for dusting

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 180ºC (350ºF), then cream butter, sugar and maple syrup with a beater.
2. add eggs one by one, and then the sifted dry ingredients and buttermilk alternately
3. Finally stir in grated apple, then spoon 3/4 full into cupcake moulds and cook for 20 minutes or until golden.

These cakes taste beautiful just with a light dusting of cinnamon sugar, but I also made a thin icing mix out of icing sugar and boiling water and drizzled it over the top, then dusted quickly with the cinnamon so it adhered nicely. This is quite heavily adapted from Bill Granger's Buttermilk Cake in his 'Bill's Food' book of 2002.

Going home

Home

As an expat, one only seems to return home for an event or a catch up. If it's for an event, you catch up with as many people as you can while you're there, and if you come back purely for a catch up, you try and schedule it to coincide with an event, or instead organize and event to make the whole catching up exercise more efficient. Either way, it's going to be hectic.



I remember a friend once telling me that since she moved to Sydney, she had associated a visit to Melbourne with no sleep and people fighting over her attention. She said it was a sapper of vacations, and she had not had some lazy time in the sun since she moved. I had initially thought her a little egotistical, and this resulted in a sour grapes behaviour involving thoughts like "Well if you're so important, I don't want to be the one monopolising your time - go spend it with someone who cares". Now I realize she was right. It doesn't matter how many or how few friends and family one has as an expat, there is guaranteed to be someone who believes they have been shortchanged of your attendance. And "me time"? Forget it. That's just selfish. Not much of a "holiday" is it?

So my recent trip to Melbourne, although for a horrible reason, allowed me a Melbourne experience I haven't had in years. I had a couple of afternoons as a tourist. You see, nobody except the immediate family knew I was there, at least until later. Not only that, I was traveling without children, so found myself in a position of irresponsibility that entirely suited my mood.

I potatoed myself on the couch of my dilapidated 100 year old house, with new episodes of Masterchef and drank way too much red wine. I enjoyed Melbourne winter in the best possible way - an open fire, stodgy comfort food, and a snuggling chocolate Labrador for extra warmth. I relished the shock of a cold cheek as my sister in law came home and kissed me in greeting. I shut the door and the world out, and laughed with her over bowl-shaped glasses of magenta magic and pretended nothing was wrong.

I drove down to Acland St, usually a walk, but the rain provided a lazy excuse. I entered my old haunt - Cicciolina, the duchess of St Kilda bistros. I sat myself at a table close enough to graze elbows with some hefty builders, who played with their iPhones and swilled Pyranees Shiraz as an accompaniment to their Angus T-bones with truffled mash - a far cry from what the Dubai labourer and his lunch. I gorged on perfect pasta with ham hock ragu and drank boutique Pinot Noir from Central Otago. It warmed me like a blanket on the inside, and made me realize I do actually miss Melbourne itself, not just the people I know who inhabit it.

I ambled past the famous cake shops of the strip, every store touting the "state's best vanilla slice", "Melbourne's favourite meringues" and "Rygor delight" which is a brick of chocolate and cholesterol that I believe has been named so because it causes death and therefore rigor mortis. No need to buy - just looking at them filled me satisfyingly. Instead, I turned the corner into the cheap end of Acland St and had soy chai at the Galleon. Another institution of St Kilda - perfect in its rustic simplicity, and it's unfailing offering of superb tea and coffee. The chai was so good, I wondered how on earth it could be made by a non-Indian. Melbourne might not be as multicultural as Dubai, but the food and drink is.

The next day after my morning ritual with Mum, I headed to the South Melbourne market. Dubai, with all it's 'world's best', cannot provide me with a complete market such as this. Butchers, bakers, fishmongers, delicatessans, florists, second hand traders, variety stores, market gardeners, and greengrocers sold their wares loudly and brashly or silently and prettily.

Pork - not hidden behind the curtain...

I purchased local organic chicken, freshly caught ocean trout and home-smoked organic kassler. Flowers for my sister in law - Christmas lillies in June, because here it's the start of winter. Fruit and veggies - sparse in variety compared to Dubai - but all fresh, in season, and comparatively local. I visited the 'Jeans Man' for a pair of Lee Rider Bootcuts - the best jeans in the world (for me), and the only man that bargains in the market. He dropped the price when I surrendered to winter and bought some moleskins that seem to make me look like a size 10. Or so he says.

And then I went home, to my old house (which my brother now lives in), to cook. The kitchen is a 1970s colonial-inspired tragedy with coffee coloured tiles complete with baskets of onions printed on one in every ten. The laminate is peeling and stained. The blind doesn't go up all the way, and the single light globe only emits an energy-saving 8 watts behind its paper Ikea shade. It's not quite the maid-cleaned marble-benched  and stainless-steel applianced spacious kitchen of Dubai. But the veggies were squeaky fresh and totally inspiring. I made trout and asparagus risotto, ratatouille, gnocchi all'amatriciana and a mild coconut chicken curry, and boxed it all up in freezer containers to take to my dad in the afternoon. It felt so good to do something little to help after all my parents have done for me, and in my favourite vein of assistance - cooking.

Friends who bring me peace

That evening, I finally confessed to some very close friends that I was in town, and dropping everything, they rushed over. I wondered why I had refrained from telling them I was here earlier. I saw their beautiful children, who have grown a foot in 12 months, they were polite and welcoming, just like their parents. Then they whisked me off to the Carlisle Wine Bar, thrust me back into the Melbourne so familiar to me and make me forget all my troubles. And for some reason, they didn't care that I selfishly enjoyed time on my own. Ahh. I'm glad I've got some more time to see them in July. 

Just in case you're wondering where I've been...

I've loved being an expat. Apart from Dubai's double-sided sticky red tape, the ridiculous season they tamely term "summer" and those few crazy drivers that are always trying to kill me, I've been very happy here. To be honest, I haven't missed Melbourne much - all the things I have missed have been made up for in other ways. But you can't replace your family and your very best friends. And when their health fails, you do to. I'm back briefly in Dubai, after getting a first hand look at the worst part about being far, far from home.

-----------------------------

"hey Dan! How are you?"
"ahhh. Hi Sep. Ahhh... Not too good actually, Ma's in hospital."
"....        "
"you there?"
"what?"
"Ma's in hospital"
"what?"
"she can't open her eye. They think she's got swelling in her brain. She's in Frankston hospital, but they don't seem to be able to help her."
"what?"
"Sarah... Dad doesn't know what to do. We think she needs a specialist. He said maybe you could call Tony for us?"
"what?"
"Sarah?"
"what?"
"can I speak to Hambone?"




Hope
Maybe it's not as bad as it sounds. Hambone's dad was hospitalized for a subcranial bleed a couple of years ago. The cavity between the brain and the skull filled with blood, caused swelling and then it had to be drained. He was ok after a couple of days. I google like a crazy woman, and find at least three diagnoses that fit her symptoms and go some way towards easing my state of mind. It could be a subcranial bleed, or a random swelling pressing on the pituitary gland which would refer swelling to the right optic nerve. That could be with or without tumor. Of course it would be without.


Impotence
I'm stuck. I'm her daughter, her eldest. We're very close - we email every couple of days, skype frequently. Each year either I go home or she comes over. Mum and dad were due in Dubai on July 21. We were going to have 5 1/2 glorious weeks in Europe. My brother, although he lives in Melbourne, does that non-committed drifty thing that all sons seem to do. He's there, but more on a NEED basis rather than a want one. I regard myself as the important one. But with my move to Dubai I lost that vital 'R' and became impotent. I can do nothing. I can't tell her I love her, or that everything is going to be ok. I can't make sure dad's coping. I can't help in any way whatsoever. I can't even seem to hold myself together enough to talk on the phone. Hambone plays phone tag with My brother and his own (Tony, our savior in all serious health issues, who is a highly respected and well connected Melbourne surgeon and all round incredibly nice and helpful bloke), sorting out hospital beds, which seem to be very difficult to find despite my parents' private health insurance and the urgency of the situation. Dan rises up and does all the important things, and the only thing I can do is book a plane ticket.

Denial
"Don't get on a plane straight away. We don't know how bad it is." They keep on telling me.
My mother had a knee replacement 6 weeks ago. Besides that, she's always been the tough one. Her own mother is 92, and they share similar constitutions. I had noticed mum had been a little off-form the last few weeks. I'd even questioned Dad about it, but it all got hidden because of the operation she had just been through. Mum has never reacted well to anesthetic, and her headaches, nervousness around a computer, sudden impatience and baffling frailty in stressful situations had been put down to post operative trauma.

She even told herself that this was normal. When she had fallen out of bed and couldn't get up, she had refused to let Dad call the ambulance. She was fine. She was always fine. Dad, who takes a cocktail of candy-colored pills each day for cholesterol, blood pressure, arthritis, blood thinning, pain and all kinds of other things was the one who got sick. Mum was always the strong one. So now, when she is lying in Frankston hospital unable to talk, with a morphine drip for the blinding headache and an oxygen mask to keep her breathing, dad tells himself it's going to be something simple. Mum's going to be fine. She's always fine.


Shock
Dan calls again at 5am.
"she's still in Frankston. They haven't moved her. They're not doing anything here, but I cant get Epworth hospital to come get her. Tony says to call his secretary but I can't get onto her. Sarah.... They've got the scans back.... It's a tumor."
"I'm coming."
"We don't know if it's cancer. Dad says don't race off thinking crazy stuff."
"Dan, she's got something growing in her brain. I'm coming home."
"Why don't you wait till she sees a neurosurgeon?"
"Dan, if you were 14 hours away by plane and you got this news, you would come, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah."
"Ok. Speak to hambone. I'll see you soon"

I put the phone down. I go to the computer. I buy my ticket for the ten am flight, come back to the bedroom and stand in the middle of the floor, shaking and wringing my hands. I know I have to pack a bag, but I can't make my feet move. Then I can move them, but only to pace the rug, turn around and pace it again, and say "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck"

Hambone makes me tea.

I finally pack my bag. Once I arrived in Melbourne in the midst of winter I would find 15 pairs of underpants, one bra, no socks, three pairs of high heeled boots, one jumper, jeans, and 6 summer shirts and 6 pairs of dangly earrings to match them. No toothbrush, toothpaste or comb.


Guilt
It's my fault. If I had been there I would have known earlier. I left Melbourne thinking this was the best time for my family to be expats, forgetting the older generation of my family. I'm selfish. Then I chastised myself for being so self centered. I'm not so all important as I like to think sometimes. Dan could obviously handle things in my absence. I rethought - maybe I wouldn't have noticed. My ego gets a guilt trip. Then I feel guilty for leaving my children behind. It will be difficult for my husband. They should see their grandmother. But I don't want them there, and then I feel guilty for not wanting the work of dealing with my own offspring while monitoring my own misery. Then I am guilty of being miserable, when I am not the one with the tumor. It's a wash cycle of acid and doubt and it makes me want to vomit.


Worry
I approach the airport a different Sarah than usual. I've never flown for a reason other than holiday or work. I don't want to be here. I hate flying, it scares me. The only thing that usually makes me get on a plane is the thought of the wonderful experience waiting at my destination. Airports are horrible. They're full of fluorescent lights, queues, women feeling you up and making you take your boots off, grumpy looking men with guns and walkie talkies. Shiny floors that mirror my grimace, bouncing my unhappiness back at me in cold grey marble. Nobody else is looking at the floor. They're smiling at each other, laughing, practicing French, talking about what they're first going to do when the arrive. I want to curl up in a corner with a huge motorcycle helmet on and block all the buggers out. How dare they be so jovial?

It gets worse when I'm on the plane. They put me between a chattery melbourne woman on her way back from a holiday in Dubai, and a surly Italian who sleeps with the blanket over her head and freaks me out. One I want to punch because she is so happy, and the other I want to run away from because she is dark and scary.

I put on my headphones and tune into the trashiest movies I can find. Then I spend 14 hours saying "oh God please help her, oh God please help her". And nobody brings me enough wine.



Fear

And then, as though from a dream, I step off a plane and find myself in Melbourne. Home. But I'm here for all the wrong reasons, and I just want to curse at everybody. I want to cry, there is water sitting behind my eyes, but my body seems to have released some hormone, and I'm oddly numb. All I can do is plod, plod, plod to the slow tock, tock, tock of that damnable clock, and do the things that by rote I know need to be done. It's so unreal - a TV soap-drama issue, not an everyday normal family problem. And it can stay unreal until I see her, so I almost want to put it off. It's wrong to have been so far from family for so long, then fly back just to hold yourself off the reunion. But now the guilt, worry, denial, impotence, all flood through simultaneously in anticipation of the shock that is coming. This is not a good day.

---------

You will be happy to know mum is ok. She could be better, and she has had pretty horrible week or so. Most of the tumor is gone, and she is set on a more optimistic path than the one laying before her this time last week, but she still feels pretty awful, and like me, is scared stiff about what the future holds. Please send any brain tumor recovery stories, they would be much appreciated.

And I'm sorry about the mood. I thought maybe writing it down would help. It didn't.