Dubai: Ahab the Arab Meets George Jetson

Both Tom and I were eager to see Dubai, the largest port in the United Arab Emirates. It’s got quite a reputation to uphold. It’s home (or at least second home) to a bunch of Hollywood types (in fact Michael Jackson lived here for years, sheltering his kids from the fallout from his “little boys” trial); and it’s notorious for crazy stuff like an indoor ski slope that rivals St. Moritz (in fact the slopes were modeled after St. Moritz). We didn’t know where to start when we landed here so we booked the “Big Bus Tour” of Dubai, a five-hour (yep, you read it right—FIVE hours) hop-on, hop off double decker bus tour complete with non-stop tourist recordings which you listen to on headphones they give you when you board the bus.
Remember how I mentioned in an earlier blog post that every city has a word? Well, the word for Dubai (the city and the emirates state have the same name) is ASTONISHING. It’s hard to begin to describe everything here. First of all, it’s a devoutly Islamic country, so all the crazy stuff that goes with that—the women in burquas, the guys with the abayas (those flowing headdresses that I associate with Yassar Arafat), and the long list of “forbidden” behaviors. One such behavior is any type of what high schoolers refer to as “PDA”—Public Displays of Affection. We were warned by our ship’s captain that a married couple was jailed for 28 days for inadvertently kissing each other goodbye at the airport. Now, that’s just nuts. Anyway, we were given a long list of stuff to avoid. Seems to me that one should pretty much adopt the demeanor we’ve all learned to take when going through security at the airport—no jokes, no shoes, no backtalk, and be ready to hand over everything when they ask to see it. They treat you as if they’re pretty sure you must be guilty of something, so act like a grateful wretch when they wave you on your way.
But once you get beyond all the Muslim no-nos the place becomes a wonderland of sorts. It’s literally a sand dune on a waterfront. Even coming from the Arizona desert, like we do, we were stunned at what they’ve done with sand, water, and money. Heavy on the money.
They have green parks, and golf courses, and spectacular architecture, and clean, wide streets for all the Bentleys and Lamborghinis. The amount of greenery in this dry, sandy soil is jaw-dropping until you learn that tiny Dubai, which is just one of seven “states” or emirates, of the UAE uses some 250 million (yes, you read that correctly—MILLION) gallons of fresh water a DAY. Where do they get all that water in the shifting sands of the desert? From desalinization plants. They literally make 90% of all the water they use from sea water. Expensive? You bet, but here money is no problem (until recently, of course).
The city is essentially broken into two distinct areas—the Bur Dubai, or new area, and the Deira, or old city. In our long, long bus ride (in all we were riding, hoofing, or sailing for all of nine hours) we saw it all. The new area is astounding with its man-made islands (some in the shape of a world, some in the shape of a giant palm tree) and its skyscrapers. We drove right up to the tallest building in the world (the one that got them in financial trouble lately because they couldn’t pay the loan). It looks like something out of an old Buck Rogers flick. It really looks fake it’s so tall, so blue, so startlingly modern. Some of the people on our ship went up to the 124th floor but it took hours to wait in line so we opted for a “worm’s eye view” of the place. Even from dirt level, it was astounding.
We also drove around the iconic Burj Al Arab Hotel, the one that looks like a sail boat. Supposedly Tiger Woods drove a golf ball off the helipad at the top. I wouldn’t doubt it. These guys are really hot on “really big.” I think this place is probably a publicist’s dream—everything is bigger, better, faster, richer. Making the news here requires deep pockets and lots of chutzpah.
We stopped at “the largest mall in the world” (here we go again with the “largest” theme). The Mall of the Emirates. It’s the one with indoor skiing. We went to the ski place and looked inside. It’s huge and it’s frozen. They keep the snow at 1 degree C. Their little slogan is, “It’s more fun at 1” meaning one degree. Pretty cute, huh? Anyway, it was beyond weird to see people in full snow garb, including goggles, ski pants, parkas and ski boots stomping around a “chalet” with a fire snapping in the stone fireplace (until we realized the “fire” was a video screen!). We ate lunch at the Emirates Mall and were surprised to see people in traditional Arabic dress (especially the women) chowing down on KFC, Papa John’s Pizza, and Teriyaki chicken. We were there when the “call to prayer” came over the loud speakers throughout the mall. Really LOUD warbling sing-song Arabic that we figured probably meant, “Get your asses into the prayer rooms before you get too corrupted by all the offerings of the Great Satan.” Speaking of that, American enterprise was well-represented by the stores in the mall. But we’re not talking just The Gap and Old Navy. No-sirree. We’re talking Tiffany’s, Victoria’s Secret (lingerie is big business here—makes you wonder what’s under those burquas), and Calvin Klein. There were also plenty of high-end European brands. The bus tour recording advised us that things were “affordable” because there are no taxes of any kind in Dubai—no sales tax, no income tax, no property tax—but trust me, taxes were not the issue. The stuff was all ridiculously expensive, and we saw plenty of black-robed women and guys in white dresses and abayas pushing shopping cars LOADED with goods. Did I mention how money is the life-blood of this place?
We wove in and out of traffic, switching from the top of the bus (windy and hot but with a better view) to the A/C of the bottom level. We drove by mosque after mosque (in tiny Dubai there are over 500 mosques; about one every three blocks) but we never went into one. The only one open to “infidels” (I swear they call us that—they make no bones about our place in the pecking order) was the Jumeirah Mosque, and even that one had only two hours a day (an hour in mid-morning and an hour in mid-afternoon when the temp hits over 100) when the “infi’s” could visit.
The old city and the new are separated by the Dubai Creek, which is a busy waterway that anyone from our side of the world would call a canal or a river. We went under the creek in a modern tunnel and came up the other side into a world right out of the Arabian Nights. It was a close, teeming place of stucco buildings that look like they were built to withstand the ages (and they have) and narrow, crooked streets that caused the poor bus driver to really earn his keep. We went in the Gold Souk (their name for the gold market) and were hustled by guys trying to sell us hapless tourists “copy watches, handbags” and in the windows of the tiny shops we saw the gaudiest gold jewelry you can imagine. The only thing that caught my eye was a bright green belly-dancer’s outfit with little fake gold coins all over the bodice (all the better to tinkle when you shake your “thang”) and puffy veiled pants that looked like something MC Hammer had to pawn to pay the rent. Tom was all for me giving the belly dancing thing a go, but the bus pulled up just in time.
We went on an hour-long dhow (boat) ride up the “creek.” The original dhows were largely used to haul spices, and even now we saw huge sacks of saffron, cinnamon, cardamom and so on being transported by the method they’ve used since the days of Marco Polo. We also saw the huge buildings for Rolex, American Express, the World Trade Center (which looks eerily like the ghost of those in NYC) and Citi Bank (in fact, all the major banks are here. It’s weird because Dubai practices “sharia law” with regard to banking which means they can’t charge interest on loans. I have no idea how that works, but knowing these guys they’ve probably found a way around it).
The odd thing about Dubai is that we spent over nine hours gawking and I was never bored. It’s a place where, if you have enough money, you could never be bored. You name it, it’s here. And, you can bet whatever it is, it’s the biggest.

If You Loved “Slumdog Millionaire,” You’ll Love Mumbai

Everyone tried to prepare us for Mumbai (Bombay). “It will change you.” “You’ll see stuff you’ll never forget.” “It’s beyond pity.” But, like childbirth, they swear it’s something you need to personally experience. Poverty in Mumbai is like the weather—it surrounds you, envelopes you. There’s no place to look that you don’t get a whiff of the wretchedness. And it’s not just a couple of beggar kids whose eyes have been gouged out by their pimp. Oh no. Here, poverty is big-time. The Super Bowl of poverty. It’s like the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard; a stiff breeze and a hurricane. But, amazingly, the horror of the poverty is nearly completely offset by the friendliness and good cheer of the people. It was a lot like the Slumdog movie, where the guy had endured a totally miserable childhood, yet he kept his hope alive and in the end, he triumphed. Okay, I’ll forgo more “English major” description of the place and instead, I’ll tell you about our day in Mumbai.
We cruised into a crowded port (ships of all sizes everywhere) about 7am. The temperature was already hovering at 32 degrees C. (that’s around 90F.) And humid. Of course humid. Mumbai is gearing up for their monsoon, so the days drip by, threatening rain but the rain won’t come until mid-May. We had to go through immigration. A bunch of Indian guys in uniform came onto the ship and we trudged past them, passports in hand, so they could give us the stink eye and stamp our passports, and our visas and then our entry cards, and then give a good look at our passport copies, and on and on. These guys were ostensibly there because of the events of “26/11.” At first, I thought they’d gotten the date wrong: 26? Nope, it’s 9/11, isn’t it? But then I realized in India they are referring to their “day of terror” which happened on November 26 when the Taj Hotel and a bunch of other places were bombed by extremists who arrived by boat (not cruise ship, however). Anyway, we endured lots of what the Australian Sydney Herald (newspaper) referred to as “protracted security activity masquerading as effectiveness” before we could even get off our ship.
We went on the Princess-sponsored “Mumbai City Highlights” tour. We usually forego the ship’s excursions because it’s just as easy to snag a cab and go to all the places the bus goes for half the money. But as Mumbai novices we decided we needed the extra layer of support (kind of like wearing a Spanx instead of mere pantyhose) that the bus provides. The bus wound its way out of the port area, through stacks and stacks of ship containers and everywhere I saw groups of young men sleeping on the ground. Right on the ground, at 8:30 in the morning. They looked too healthy to be druggies, but there they were, fast asleep as the sun baked them like so many cookies on a sheet.
Once into the city proper I noticed all the old colonial buildings (the British built a ton of “London-style” buildings here—the train station, the library, the university, and so on) were in pretty sad shape. They are streaked and stained by hundreds of years of overuse, monsoon and pollution. There were people out and about, but not that many. The guide told us since it was Saturday (we’re still a day ahead of back home) most of the businesses are closed, thus fewer people in the central city. As the day wore on, many more people came out. What I did notice was that people on the street smiled and waved as our bus went by. They seemed genuinely pleased to see us.
First, we went to the “laundry.” This is an outdoor laundry where men (and only men) wash clothes for pennies an hour in vast tubs and then hang the clothes on lines to dry in the sun. It’s immense. It’s also in a poor area of town (not the slums, exactly, but sort of a semi-slum). Once we got off the bus to take a picture, the beggars pounced on us like flies on a carcass. There were three kinds of beggars at this stop: women in saris holding babies and toddlers (usually naked) who were outright begging or asking for money to take their photo; men selling stuff you didn’t want or need (roll-up maps of India or peacock feather fans); or little kids, a la Slumdog Millionaire, selling stuff you didn’t want or need (ratty-looking beaded bags, for instance). The guide told us if we wanted to buy anything to wait until we were near the bus door because the others would crowd around us making it impossible to move. (She was right).
Next, we went to Ghandi’s home in Bombay (the guide called it Bombay, so I’ll call it Bombay. It’s easier to say and I think it’s a more melodic word). We trudged up six flights of marble stairs in the heat (nothing, except the bus, has A/C in Bombay). At the top, there was a little museum showing the life and times of Mahatma Ghandi. He was an amazing man, and he was pretty much solely responsible for driving the British out of India. That’s probably why his face is on their money.
Then we went to a Jain Temple. Now, this is the India I was waiting for. The Jains are a religious sect who practices what the guide referred to as “extreme penance.” They are into long fasts, self-flagellation and denial, all kinds of self-deprivation while believing it is evil to kill or harm anything else (they don’t kill insects and they are strict vegans). The temple was one of those “overly adorned” places with every single inch of wall and ceiling brightly painted with people, elephants, tigers, and so on. Inside, it was prayer time so the Jains were there making offerings and doing their thing. We had to remove any leather (no belts, no purses) and take off our shoes before entering the temple. Ironically, the Jains are also the diamond brokers and gold and silver commodity brokers in India. They are the go-to guys for millions of dollars worth of stuff, yet they believe in a strictly ascetic way of life. I’m not sure how that all works out.
Next, we went to the Hanging Gardens. They aren’t hanging at all, simply a garden that was built on top of a huge water reservoir. (Oh, and in the interest of space and time, I’m not mentioning the beggars at every stop—but rest assured, they were front and center everywhere, even the temple.) The interesting thing about the gardens is that they were built as a buffer for the Place of Silence, the beyond-weird spot right next to the reservoir where the Farsis take their dead. Okay, here’s where it really gets strange: the Farsis don’t bury their dead; they don’t cremate them; and they don’t throw them in the sea. What they do is lay them out for the birds to eat. That’s right, folks, Grandma becomes bird food. So, since the Place of Silence was so near to the reservoir the Indian Government (or perhaps it was the British Colonial Government) came up with the good idea of planting a garden over the reservoir to keep any contamination out of the water supply. Well, turns out that was a great idea because the primary “body removal” bird was the vulture and there are no vultures anymore since an antibiotic or hormone or some such thing (I wasn’t completely sure what the guide said here) was introduced into the food supply and it killed all the vultures. It used to take 2 days for a body to be essentially “gone”. Now it takes 2 to 3 WEEKS—in really hot weather. I can only imagine…
On to the Prince of Wales Museum (actually, all these places have new, Indian names. But everyone still calls them by their “colonial” names). The museum was a beautiful, domed building (actually many buildings) and was about the best-preserved building we saw all day. We went inside for a while and looked at all kinds of Indian deities (they have statues and paintings and so on of their gods like the Louvre has statues and paintings of Mary and Jesus.) In other words, a LOT of them.
Then we finally made our way to the Gateway of India (a huge arch built to commemorate the visit of King George V of England in 1911) and the Taj Hotel. The old hotel is still closed from the terrorist attacks, but the new “tower” is open for business. The Gateway stands in a beautiful square near the harbor, but it’s “Beggar Central.” It’s hard to stick around long because of the constant harassment. Every time we’d try to snap a photo, some stick-skinny woman with an eerily quiet child in her arms would swoop into the shot and, with a big smile, ask for money to “take picture with the baby.”
There is a whole blog-post of stuff I could write about male/female relations in India. Maybe another time. Our guide was very forthcoming about her arranged marriage and about the changing landscape of women’s rights in India. But, as I said, I’ll spare you the details for now.
Bombay was everything we were expecting; yet nothing we expected. The pundits are right: you have to see it for yourself. But all in all, I thought it was fantastic.

Life On the Edge

Today we were in Male, the capital of the Republic of the Maldives. If you’re scratching your head over that one, rest assured I’d never heard of it either. It’s a long chain of tiny islands and atolls just to the south-southwest of India. There are many weird things about the Maldives, but the first weird thing you notice is that it is the flattest country on the planet. Each of the islands (and there are about 1,200 or so) are right at sea level. The topographical highpoint for the entire nation is only 2.3 meters (see, I’m getting with the program on the metrics thing) or 7 ft. 7 in. above sea level. So, when you look out on this string of tiny islands, it looks like the trees and beaches and so on are simply floating like cornflakes in a bowl. Way weird. To say that these folks have “issues” with global warming (even a 6 in. rise in the sea level here would wipe out many of the islands) would be an understatement.
The capital city, Male, which we docked near (the sea is so shallow here we had to tender in) is a compact town of twisty streets and mid-rise buildings. It’s nothing spectacular. It’s hot as hell. The streets are filled with motor bikes and guys hustling tourists to go into their souvenir shops. We went into a couple of them, but the prices are ridiculous. Everything must be brought in here (there are absolutely no resources except gorgeous beaches and world-class diving and fishing) so the little Maldive knick-knacks and tee-shirts are all made in India or China and then sold here for ten times the price. We bought a few postcards and Tom bought a shirt that will probably shrink up to my size the first time we wash it (ha! I never get anything new; I just wait for his stuff to shrink).
Another weird thing about The Republic of the Maldives is that it’s a strictly Islamic nation, so I got some disparaging looks in town even though I wore khaki shorts that came to my knees and a very modest top that had a high neckline but was sleeveless. To see these women scurrying down the streets wrapped from head to toe in this stifling heat (about 100 F.) is enough to make me offer up yet another prayer of gratitude for being born on my side of the world. There was a word of warning from the ship’s cruise director that two-piece swim suits are strictly forbidden in this tightly-controlled Muslim nation. In a previous cruise I guess some young women chose to test the “bikini law” and they ended up in jail! Sheesh. Get me outta here.
Tom is becoming less and less tolerant of the goofy Muslim do’s and don’ts. We’ve heard travel is supposed to open your mind, but after seeing and experiencing the many bizarre, and sometimes downright inhumane, restrictions placed on people (read that as “women”—as the men seem to have it pretty jake) in these strict Islamic countries, we’ve decided we’re less tolerant of the idiocy than we were before. We heard from other passengers that those holding Israeli passports were denied entry to Brunei (one of the previous Islamic countries we visited) and had to stay on the ship. And we’re not talking about cocky, muscled-up young bucks who may be Mossad or Jewish settler-types—we’re talking about kindly old ladies with walkers and a guy who’s got osteoporosis so bad he looks like a question mark.
I brought along all the “accoutrements” to allow a lowly woman like me to visit a mosque—the long skirt, the blouse with sleeves and high neckline, the headscarf, the shut mouth and downcast eyes—the whole bit. But the more I see of these places, the less I care to demean myself by going along with the program. I’ll snap a few pics of the outside but I’ll pass on gawking at the interior. I guess it’s just my nature to not give them the satisfaction of looking me up and down (that’s what they do) to see if I meet their approval. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Fit to Be Thai'd

We just left Phuket (which is pronounced “Poo-ket”) Thailand and wow! did we ever have a good time there. It’s a small island off the southern coast of Thailand and it’s well-known for two things: great beaches and the horrible tsunami that came through here a few years ago. Everything’s been pretty much restored, and they don’t like to talk about it much since tourism (and rubber-tree plantations) are about the only source of revenue here.
As far as tourism goes, these guys have it covered. There are posh and not-so-posh resorts, animal “safaris” (their word for animal parks), all kinds of temples and shopping (especially what they refer to as “copy brands”—in other words, knock-offs) and so on.
We went to Island Safari, an animal park with all sorts of jungle animals. It was the proverbial “lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” But of course there were no lions, tigers or bears. Instead, they had elephants, monkeys, gibbons, water buffalo, and oxen. It was a nicely-run place with the animals doing a bit of work for a LOT of food. It’s one of those places where they manage to get the tourists (ourselves included) to buy the food so we can feed the animals (saves them a lot on food costs, and provides the tourists with many photo ops)—in other words, a win-win arrangement.
We started off with a bang—riding an elephant. I was glad we started with the “big guns” activity because as the day wore on, the temperature shot up to something like 97 degrees F. and about the same number for humidity. Unbelievable hot, especially in the jungle, and the animal “aroma” was pretty intense.
Next we went to a monkey show where the monkeys seemed to be willing to do whatever was asked of them (pose with the tourists, shoot a little basketball into a hoop, do the Thai greeting—palms pressed together in front of the face and then a little bow—ride a tricycle) whatever it took to get the food. The look on each of their faces was priceless—the equivalent of a bored teenager saying, “WHATEVER.”
Then we went to the “Baby Elephant Show.” The babies were between the ages of 4 and 10 years old. They weren’t as large as the elephants we rode, but pretty darn close. They did little tricks (stand on two legs, do a headstand, shoot a soccer ball into a goal, and so on) and then it was time for the “Elephant Massage.” We thought the trainers would come in and massage the elephants. Oh no. We got it wrong. The elephants were going to massage US. So, one by one we laid down on a little mat on the ground (in the dirt) while the elephant put its foot on our back and patted us. I can’t even imagine what might happen if one of these many thousands of pounds elephants decided they didn’t like you. “Squish” would be the operative word.
The funniest part of the elephant massage was that the elephant took the opportunity of having you in a totally vulnerable position to “lick” your face and neck with its trunk. Really gross. Those trunks are wet. You stand up afterward feeling like you’ve just had a“snot facial.” But, it was all in good fun.
We did some other stuff there—Thai cooking demo, ox cart ride, photo op atop a water buffalo, and seeing how they tap the rubber trees for latex. It was a full morning—especially in the insufferable heat.
Then it was back to the ship. But first—the ubiquitous shopping experience. No tour is complete without a stop at a local “souvenir shop” to unload you of some of those dollars burning a hole in your shorts. This one was mammoth. I’ve never seen such a huge souvenir store. Two floors of jewelry, house wares, purses, clothing, food, you name it. We bought some cool chopsticks and called it good.
We really enjoyed our short visit here. The people seemed truly nice and it’s a Buddhist country so everyone seems pretty calm and laid back. We agreed we’d definitely come back for a longer visit if the opportunity ever presents itself.

On The Road to Singapore

We arrived in beautiful Singapore expecting a tightly-controlled, pristine city that boggled the mind and we weren’t disappointed. The headline in the Singapore newspaper boasted that the city-state’s first quarter (not annual, but quarterly) financial growth was a staggering 13% this year. And looking around you can see why: everywhere you look you see high-quality construction projects nearly completed. The city is extremely crowded yet everything seems to work. It’s like Disneyland in the summertime: lots of people, but it’s so well-run that things move quickly and the place is clean and comfortable. We did some of the usual things—went to the renowned Raffles Hotel to see where the original Singapore Sling drink was invented (but at $25 US a pop, we decided we didn’t need a sickly sweet cocktail at 11am), then we wandered around and found the new casino hotel they’re building on the waterfront (a casino in straight-laced Singapore? Amazing, but money’s money and they are tired of tourists and convention-goers not coming to Singapore because there’s no gambling). We saw the war monument and the incredible opera house (which is dubbed “The Giant Durian” because of its shape. That’s a dig, because the durian is that powerfully stinky fruit that smells like a corpse rotting and is unlawful to carry on public transportation). Actually, there’s a ton of stuff that’s illegal here. You’ve probably heard it’s illegal to litter, chew gum or not flush the toilet. All true. In fact, I used a washroom in a local upscale mall which had self-flushing toilets, but still, when I came out of the stall (there were about 10 stalls) a washroom attendant rushed in to check and make sure everything was copasetic. I stood at the sink sweating bullets that maybe I’d be busted for a wayward slip of toilet paper or an inefficient flush. Luckily, I passed.
Anyway, we ate lunch at an unbelievably packed food court in one of the dozens of upscale malls (people here, as in all of Asia, are big on mall shopping). The people are so polite that they save their place for a table (while they go get their food) by placing tiny packets of Kleenex at the spot. The weird thing is no one disturbs the little tissue packets. Everyone plays along. I guess maybe that’s my word for Singapore is CONFORMITY.
This word was underscored by our afternoon adventure. We spent two hours on the metro (subway and rapid transit) going completely around the small island country. At the outer reaches of the journey we were the only Western faces in the crowd. We got some looks, especially when the PA system advised riders to report “Any suspicious-looking riders.” They even play a video showing a nefarious-looking guy leaving a backpack on the train and other passengers confronting him about it. I can’t even imagine what they’d do to a terrorist here since they’ll flog you 20 lashes for chewing gum or spitting.
The ride was amazing and gave us a quick glimpse into life in Singapore. For starters, we went over 40 miles and didn’t see even one single-family dwelling. Not one. There are literally thousands of high-rise apartment (condo) buildings, but not we didn’t lay eyes on even one house. I’m sure the President and some other high-ranking and wealthy people live in houses, but it’s certain that at least 90% of the population lives in some type of high rise. They are nice high-rises, though. Well maintained, with lots of windows and parking. As a contrast to this glut of high-rises is the amount of green space. Tons of it. Every high-rise compound (and the high-rises tend to be in groups of a dozen to 50 or more) is surrounded by acres and acres of trees, lawns, sports complexes and so on. The oddity is the conformity. Every stop along the train (and we went about 30 stops) looked pretty much the same: a bunch of residential high-rises, a few acres of trees, a sports complex and wide lawns. There are some three to four million people living on this tiny island in a kind of lock-step life of work hard, live in a high-rise, go to the park on your days off and don’t break the law. Works for them.
I must say one thing about all the no-no’s they have here: they make sense. You can’t cram this many people in a small area and expect it to work without some pretty stiff agreements. You want clean streets and subways? Make it illegal to litter or eat in public, and enforce it with a vengeance. You want 13% growth in a single quarter? Make it a cultural norm to work your ass off and invest in your country. You want a crime-free city? Inflict the death penalty on drug smugglers. You want to offer free medical care for your citizens? Make a healthy lifestyle the law. No smoking in public, and sports complexes are everywhere, along with green spaces and nearly free public transport (to keep the number of cars to a minimum and reduce pollution).
Yep, this isn’t paradise—it’s got way too many people. But it’s one way to deal with limited resources. And, from an outsider’s viewpoint, it seems to work.
Oh, and one more thing: On this tax day in America, it’s amusing to note the locals pay no taxes in Singapore. That’s one more good reason to just shut up and flush the toilet.

Yes, Virginia, There IS a Sultan of Brunei

Yesterday we were in Kuta Kumbala, (called “KK” by the locals) Malaysia on the island of Borneo and today we are in Brunei, the ridiculously rich country just to the south (still on Borneo). It’s all about the oil, Baby. The country of Brunei, which has been ruled by the same sultanate family since the 15th century, decided not to join the federated states of Malaysia but remain a separate country. I guess it was a good move, because soon after Malaysia was formed huge oil and gas deposits were found in Brunei and now the country boasts one of the highest per capita earnings in the world. It is a strictly Islamic country, and everything is written in the squiggly letters you see in the Middle East, but the official language is Malay (same as Malaysia) and the people all resemble their Malaysian and SE Asian neighbors. The sultan has complete power here—no mamby-pamby constitutional monarchy for Brunei—oh no. It’s from the sultan’s mouth to God’s ear. But since the sultan’s family has been in power for centuries and centuries there seems to be no major corruption or greed. I mean, if you’ve been raised in the largest palace in the world (true—largest residential palace for one of Earth’s smallest countries) and you’ve had everything at your beck and call for your entire life, why steal? You may become the proverbial “dirty old man” (and the sultan’s escapades with airline flight attendants, models and actresses are well-documented—no Tiger Woods blow-back for the sultan!) but you will probably be generous and considerate with your people. Why not? So, here in the sultanate of Brunei, you will see nice houses, nice cars, beautiful schools and hospitals, wonderful roads and well-manicured parks. And the mosques? Don’t even get me started about the mosques. The “Big Mosque” as they call it in Bandar City (the capital—which simply means “where the sultan lives”) is jaw dropping. The stained glass dome in the central prayer area (which is in the men’s mosque—the women’s mosque is a drab little affair by comparison) is staggeringly beautiful. It’s huge, covering nearly the entire roof area of the mosque and the prayer area can hold a thousand men so you get the picture. The exterior of the mosque is covered in gold—the real stuff. The grounds are immaculate (as are all the highway medians and parks) and everywhere you look there are people working on the gardens or cleaning something. They even have a “river cleaner” which is a large vacuum cleaner on a boat which cruises the “sultan’s river” picking up any stray debris.
We went to two museums, both devoted to the sultan and his life and times. One was the “Regalia Museum” which I’m sure had more gold than Fort Knox. It was almost laughable how much gold “paraphernalia” is necessary to crown a sultan. The second museum was mostly displays of the sultan’s Islamic art, and then a zillion priceless artifacts from ancient Islamic civilizations. It’s weird how Islamic practice, life and beliefs permeate every aspect of life here. The women do not wear the complete burqua outfit (the black tent with the eye slits) but they are completely covered from head to foot, with only their faces showing. When we went into the mosque, I was wearing a very dowdy beige skirt that extended a foot beyond my knees and I had a white shawl that covered me from neck to waist (no arms, shoulders or skin showing) but still that wasn’t enough for the brothers of Islam. Nope, I was handed a very heavy black gown that covered pretty much what was already covered (from neck to mid-calf) to put on. You have to take off your shoes and wash your arms (they want you to wash your feet too, but I said “enough is enough”) before entering. Meanwhile, Tom is wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants and that’s fine and dandy with the boys guarding the mosque. To say that Islam has “attitude” about women would be an understatement. Even tourist women are held to a stricter standard! Oh well.
As long as the oil holds out, I’m pretty sure this place will remain one of the most peaceful and comfortable countries in this neck of the world. Goes to show you that money may not be the root of all evil. It may be just what it takes to carve a paradise out of the jungles of Borneo.

Peace in Our Time

April 8
This was a poignant day for me. We sailed into Cai Lan, North Vietnam and I felt overcome with emotion. It’s only about a three hour drive to Hanoi, but a million miles away from the war I grew up with. There’s a tour to Hanoi to see Ho Chi Minh’s tomb and the infamous “Hanoi Hilton” where John McCain was imprisoned and tortured for years and years during the “American War” as they call it over here, but I’m not going on it. I’m already in a kind of stunned reverie as I look around and see this beautiful place and remember what happened here. What a waste. The Vietnamese people have moved on, and although the country isn’t prosperous or especially modern (although we’ve heard Ho Chi Minh City—formerly Saigon—is much more well-to-do than these northern provinces) everyone seems to be doing okay. There are “boat people” with rickety craft that came up to the ship with their kids in tow and seemed to be either curious or begging—we’re not sure—but the overall sense of this place is “we get by.”
We took a “junk boat” ride this morning which drifted through the gorgeous monolithic rocks of Hai Long Bay (Vinh Ha Long as they call it) for three hours. The area is a UNESCO World Heritage site for the miles and miles of tranquil bay punctuated by hundreds of sheer-sided rocks with jungle vegetation on the upper sides and the tops. Supposedly there were monkeys (monos or chacos, as we call them in Southern Arizona) but the jungle area was too far away to see much except the occasional large bird. The people here are fisherman, and from the looks of things they’ve been living on their boats, rarely coming to shore, for generations. I wondered out loud how the generations meet and marry and carry on family life under such seemingly isolated conditions.
Our three-hour float in the junk boat was surreal—a nearly silent engine, the flat bay water, and the towering rocks lulled us all into a kind of waking stupor so that by the time we got back to the dock I’m sure our collective blood pressure had dropped twenty points.
But leave it to the harbor vendors to jack that blood pressure back up. Within minutes we were swarmed by four-foot high ladies draped in yards and yards of freshwater pearls. There was no getting away from these wild-eyed capitalists. Their English was incomprehensible but their sales skills were impressive. We figured we should buy something (there seems to be an unspoken agreement that the least the Americans can do to make amends for Agent Orange is to BUY SOMETHING, damn it). So, we bought some dainty little necklaces. It was like blood in the water—a dozen ladies with identical wares swooped in. No amount of “No, thanks” or “See, I already bought some things” worked. They were relentless. I gripped my purse, put my head down and speed-walked back to the dock.
Yes, peace in our time. It’s wonderful to see. What’s sad is that there are over 58,000 Americans who came over here in the 1960’s and 70’s but will never be able to return to see how life goes on after the shooting stops.