Surfers Paradise: Surf Ain't Up

The telly was usually on at eight in the morning. While I wait for the electric stove to heat up for ages, I watch a show featuring a heated argument revolving around Australia's proposed carbon tax. On a commercial break, I catch an ad where women promote the Ahh Bra, which they describe as a "breakthrough body form technology".

When the stove top's finally aglow, I whip up an omelette for my family's brekkie.

Uncrowded winter day.
This was my typical morning in Gold Coast, Queensland. Familiarizing myself with the country's current affairs and pop culture via telly news and ads. It may not be the best medium, but we were cowering from July's winter temperature to be out and about.

The hubby, baby Luna and I camped out in one of my sister-in-law's bedrooms. We were to attend hubby's graduation that month, hence our trip to the "land down under" during our least favorite season.

A three-kilometer sandy playground. Didn't attempt to walk from end to end.
It took us almost a week to be acclimatized. Come t-shirt weather, I was itching to experience the outdoors. So one morning after my morning routine, we hopped in a borrowed car for a cruise along Surfers Paradise Beach.

Our drive to this well-known tourist destination took just about twenty minutes (which our GPS device accurately calculated). We parked on The Esplanade, a street adjacent and parallel to the coast, at the farthest end so we didn't have to pay for parking. We didn't mind the distance for we were in the mood for a stroll anyway after locking ourselves in for days.

Surf Life Savers patrols Surfers Paradise Beach.
I gotta admit, I gaped at the wide and seemingly never ending stretch of white beach. I've been to countless islands, coastlines and coves but I have never seen anything like this gigantic sandbox (except the desert of course). However, there's just too much concrete going on its background which in my opinion is an eyesore. Surfers Paradise to me is like a beautiful woman who's wearing too much make up.

Awesome waves, absent.
Unfortunately, surf wasn't up when we got there. On a winter weekday, there were only a handful of people sauntering on the beach. The wind was still quite chilly and after I took a photo for The Postcard Project, we stepped off the sandy shore and onto the paved walkway. Hubby led the way to nearby Cavill Mall.

Annual Surfers Paradise Festival.
Cafes, restaurants (fish and chips anyone?), pubs, and souvenir shops are aplenty at Cavill Mall. If you're a serious shopper, you could easily burn a significant amount of time hopping from one store to the other. As for me, picking a fridge magnet took five minutes, tops.

But that doesn't mean I didn't while a few more minutes window shopping, especially with the heaps of Kombi merchandise on display. Hippie culture is very much alive and kicking in various parts of the country. Surfers Paradise, which emerged as a popular getaway in the 1960s, is one of them. I got all excited imagining how bell-bottom jeans, A-line mini dresses, batik prints and go-go boots graced this strip during that decade.

After two hours of basking in the midday sun, we decided to retire and started walking back to the car. And then, I encountered a Meter Maid.


In 1965, visionary and entrepreneur Bernie Elsey Snr (who by the way married a Filipina) introduced Surfers Paradise Meter Maids clad in gold bikinis who insert coins to expired parking meters. These parking meters, which Elsey didn't approve of, were installed by the government just the year prior.

Photo Credit: www.metermaids.com



The sight of the Meter Maid gave the area a more touristy ambiance. But because of the fact that she's tasked to continue this thing which began more than 40 years ago, I felt like I just witnessed an old tradition (however I didn't really see her feed the parking meters with coins).

Luna's second Aussie beach.
Though we didn't get to watch buff surfers ride waves, I didn't leave sulking. In just a few more weeks the climate shall be a couple degrees warmer and everyone will be flocking to the inviting shores.

Oh, except us who are currently in frigorific Sydney. At least spring kicks off tomorrow... And we'll be heading to Blue Mountains for my blogversary-slash-birthday!

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Two, and totally trotting!

Pinay Travel Junkie's 2nd blogversary is happening in three days! By then the hubby, baby Luna and I will be wandering around New South Wales' Blue Mountains because the day after my blogversary's my birthday! I shall be partying like 31 is the new 21!

And by "partying" I mean running through the bush like there's no tomorrow.


Last year, on my 1st blogversary post (which I lazily wrote when I was 38 weeks pregnant) I mentioned about giving away a gift this 2011, and I just found the perfect token of appreciation which will be raffled off...

About a couple of weeks ago, I bought a coffee table book entitled 501 Must-Visit Cities. It was on sale because, erm, its hard cover's slightly coming off. But with a little bit of adhesive I managed to pull it together so now it looks as good as new!


How to join:

1. Give two cities (the two cities should be from 2 different continents) which you think are part of the book's must-visit list. Leave your answer on the comment section below this post.

2. Should there be duplicate answers, the first ones to give such answers qualify. So read the previous comments! If you got an incorrect answer, I'll let you know so you could make another guess. Only one contest entry per person.

Sorry, only Philippine residents may join.

3. Names of qualified contestants will be scribbled on bits of paper and Luna will literally pick the winner during her birthday celebration on September 18.


Ain't that easy?! Now here's the, err, catch. I'm still figuring out how to send the gigantic book from Australia (which hopefully won't cost more than the book itself) where we'll still be come draw date. Anyhoo, will definitely send it within the year. Or will bring it with us when we finally come home.

Note: Comments are moderated and unfortunately, I may not be able to publish these immediately. Hence, you won't see all posted comments right away and you might give a duplicate answer. Please revisit this page to check on 'em.

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Snapshot(s) Saturday: Postcard #3 Manly Beach, Sydney

G'day from Sydney (yes, we're still here)! We're on the 67th day of our round-the-world trip, and we'll be sticking around longer than planned because of a visa issue. Now I ain't complaining as much as I was a couple of weeks ago because Sydney's finally warming up!


Warm enough for us to do a quick stroll along Manly Beach the other day, where this next postcard for the The Postard Project was bought from (and where Luna wore her first flip flops!). Captain Arthur Phillip named the beach so after being impressed by the aborigines living there who got "confidence and manly behaviour". For some reason, the name just cracks me up.

It's not too late to join! Email your address to gaye.emami@yahoo.com. Recipients are chosen via Random.org.

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BenCab Museum

A sack of rice, boxes of groceries, and baskets of farm produce queued along the jeepney aisle. Passengers reshaped shifted every time a new one squeezed in, like tetrominoes in a Tetris game. My legs were devoid of sensation and my arms tried to position themselves comfortably but to no avail. I was, after all, holding our then four-month old Luna who was about to throw a tantrum.

BenCab Museum's facade.
At ten in the morning, it took more than half an hour to fill up that jeepney. Enough time to agitate an infant with a one-minute attention span. I heaved a sigh of relief when we finally drove out of Baguio's city center. Luna calmed down. Vehicular motion hushed her to a shuteye.

"BenCab's 32 Variations On Sabel", glaze on mariwasa tiles.
Our ride rolled toward the winding Asin Road in Barangay Tadiangan of Tuba, Benguet. Though we descended to roughly 1,200 meters above sea level (from 1,500), the nippy climate showed no variance for dark clouds hovered above this side of the mountainous Cordillera region. My husband, daughter and I alighted after about a twenty-minute drive.

Gallery Indigo. Showcases different artworks every month.
The destination for that day, National Artist BenCab's (Benedicto Reyes Cabrera) museum. This museum housed in a modern structure is a sight to behold. Perched atop a cliff just off the road, the facade's black and gray hues pop out of the nature-toned background.

A plentitude of rice granary gods, locally called bulul/bulol, seemingly suspended in air.
We passed through its huge doors, and stepped into deafening silence. The guard called out to the receptionist who was missing from her desk. His voice reverberated across the hall. We paid P100 each for admission and didn't ask for a guide. After which I browsed the merchandise at the museum shop near the entrance, and left soon after realizing I won't be able to buy anything with my measly budget.

Cordillera Gallery.
The various galleries are segmented by floors, rooms and halls. Collections of artworks made not only by BenCab, but also by other Filipino artists using different media are showcased. Among my faves are: BenCab Gallery, Cordillera Gallery and the provocative Erotica Gallery.

BenCab's "Woman with Fan". For my friend and fellow travel blogger Christine, who totally looks like her.
An hour, give or take, I reckon is enough to peruse everything. If you come by on a weekday, there's a high probability that you'll have the entire museum to yourself. Spare another hour to drink a pot of tea at Cafe Sabel and stroll around the adjacent farm which the artist and other locals tend. Well, that's what we did.

Cafe Sabel. So who is Sabel? That's for you guys to find out.
And we would have stayed longer had it not started drizzling. Though the museum could easily be the perfect refuge from an impending storm, we were not thrilled with the possibility of being stranded because Luna was with us. We drearily left as soon as the drizzle turned faint.

Gazebo, sitting in the middle of the duck pond.
After waiting for fifteen minutes in front of the museum for a jeep, we agreed to start walking toward the city center. We already expected that we'd have a difficult time going home for jeeps here are deficient. Heck, we were even mentally (not so much physically) prepared to trek walk six kilometers. But lo and behold, a jeepney emerged out of a side street, just as we passed the Wood Carver's Village and picked us up.

The mountain gods have been kind to us.

Trip's Nitty Gritty

1. How to get there: Jeeps to Kilometer 6 are stationed along Kayang Street near Baguio City's public market. Fare is P10.

To get there via car/private transport, read the directions here.

2. Museum hours 9:00 AM - 6:00 PM. Cameras are allowed, no flash however.

For more info, visit their website.

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Snapshot Saturday: Bantayan The Beautiful

Serene stretch of pearly white beach. View from Sta. Fe Beach Club, Bantayan Island (Cebu, Philippines). Today's glum weather in Sydney made us long for anything tropical. We're on the 60th day of our homelessness and currently battling a visa matter. Once we've surpassed that, we're off to our next destination!

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Tiruchirappalli To Madurai: Aboard India's Modes of Transport

It seemed barely roadworthy. Had I not lived in the Philippines I would have felt uncomfortable in that rusty, rickety bus. Shervin and I sat at the very front, the unsafest seat (think head-on collision), but the one that offers the same unobstructed view of the road as that of the driver's.

Through the window we waved farewell to Harrish and Harry, who waved back as they walked away, leaving us in the hands of the bus conductor whom they gave specific instructions to regarding our destination.

Bull on wheels. Our bus to Madurai, stationed at Trichy's Central Bus Stand,.
Such nice blokes those two. Earlier that afternoon, they picked us up from Tiruchirapalli Airport, where we met in person for the first time. Weeks prior that day, Shervin announced on his programming tutorial site about our trip in India. Though a lot of his student followers responded and offered to show us around, only Harrish and Harry actually did so because it happened to be uni exams week. We were happy nonetheless, to be welcomed by them upon arrival, rather than an overcharging cab driver.

We were warned that the ride (fare only 49 INR!) might take five hours instead of three because of terrible traffic and the gazillions of stops to pick up and drop off passengers. The trip was a bit anticlimactic, which worked out well for us since we've been traveling for 24 hours already (Philippines-Singapore-Malaysia-India).

The bus never became packed (there are heaps of buses servicing the Tiruchirappalli-Madurai route), no quirky mishaps to speak of, and the landscape parallel to the highway reminded me of the view from the Philippines' SCTEX. Nothing too uh-mazing. Well, except the occasional crossing of cows freely wandering.

After three hours and thirty minutes of uneventful ride, we parked at a major bus station where everyone disembarked. The conductor pointed to the ground and said "Madurai". Had he not mentioned the place I would have thought he was referring to his shoes.

First of only two tuktuk rides during our 6-day Tamil Nadu trip.
We bobbled our heads in understanding and stepped off the bus, relieved that we got to our destination earlier than expected. Though we had the complete address of our Couchsurfing host, we didn't have any idea on how to get there. I gave the address to the taxi driver who approached us. He slightly bobbled his head (which seemed like a half-yes, half-heck-I-don't-know-but-come-with-me-anyway) and led us to his tuktuk. Because I doubted his bleary response, I asked if there's a public phone anywhere nearby. He offered his mobile.

I called Bakri our host, and let him talk to our driver for directions. After they hung up, our driver looked more confident and turned overly jolly. We weaved through rush hour traffic disregarding pedestrians and red lights for about twenty minutes and screeched to a halt in front of a 'checkpoint'. The guardhouse made us realize that we've just entered a residential village.

The driver redialed our host's number, perhaps to say that we're already there. In just five minutes a guy on a scooter arrived. It was a friend of Bakri's. He said he went to the train station to pick up two more Couchsurfers who will be staying at their house that night.

Our tuktuk followed the scooter to the house. We paid the driver 200 INR plus a 20 INR tip as we got off. When we entered the house, we were greeted by a bunch of people playing video games. Not one is Indian. I was disconcerted. Definitely not disappointed but it made me think that I must have missed a few info on our host's profile page. They're all Africans and they were speaking Arabic (I recognized so because I used to work in the Middle East). My first guess was that our hosts could be from Sudan... and eventually I proved myself correct.

"Great, I shouldn't have bought that shot glass as present." I thought.


Thank You, India Series:

Arrival Turned Fans Day
Thank You, India
How To Apply For An India Tourist Visa In The Philippines

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Snapshot Saturday: Underground Mosque

Because we almost always map our own walking tours, getting lost is a regular occurrence for us. And getting lost is an awesome way to find underrated gems such as this underground mosque which we stumbled upon whilst searching for Taman Sari Castle in Yogyakarta. Reminds me of Tunisia, where some scenes of the Star Wars flick were shot.

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San Juan, La Union: Newborn Meets Beach

My stomach lurched as the driver-gone-kamikaze did a suicidal overtake while speeding through a sharp curve. As if the zigzagging Naguilian Road was not enough to make me woozy. Such terrible decision boarding that aircon bus from Baguio to La Union. Closed windows always make me feel suffocated.

Luna's first time to wriggle her toes in the sand.
I gasped for fresh, salty air as we stepped off the bus an hour later. Though nauseous, my body tingled in delight as my skin felt the sun's scorching rays. We've just been residing in Baguio City for a couple of weeks, and already, we were dying to head anywhere out of the Philippines' freezing mountainous region.

It was November last year, one of them 'long weekends' which I was totally unaware of and which explained the fully booked beachfront hotels. Though Urbiztondo, San Juan is a six-hour drive from Manila, it remains a fave of weekending beginner surfers and quite popular for family holidays as well.

A signage made of surfboard, almost iconic.
While my sister's surf mode was on, my hubby and I were just looking forward to a laid-back celebration of our first wedding anniversary by the beach. However, it can never really be as 'laid-back' as we wanted it to be because we were traveling with our two-month old newborn. But at least, we were with two other people who lent us a hand. My sister (who's still slightly scared of such task) and Tina, whom we were to meet at Sebay Surf Central.

Our bed's cool headboard.
Because Tina arrived earlier than us, she was able to reserve a room at that resort. We found her seated at Sebay's restaurant that has an unobstructed view of the sea. Sleepless and jaded from her lone trip, she managed to smile and offered her arms for our daughter Luna. She then led us to the reception where we picked up one of the resort's staff who ushered us to our room.

Our air-conditioned room with a rate of P1,500 didn't seem spacious since four adults plus a baby were sharing it. There was one double bed and a bunk bed, with pristine sheets. The bathroom was spotless. Wi-Fi's available, though in our room we had a weak, intermittent signal. The room had a telly too.

We left Tina who was lazing in her bed to recuperate and headed off to a carinderia (a small eatery), obviously for cheaper food. Meals served in beachfront restos start at P100 per person, an amount we still weren't willing to shell out for lunch even if we were feeling celebratory. The carinderia's just across the resort, off MacArthur Highway.

Refresher on the basics. Sister's second time to surf.
After lunch, we did not waste time idling and stripped down to our swimwear (rash guard for some of us) faster than you could say 'surf's up'. Sebay Surf Central's got its own surf instructors, my sis and Tina booked one for that day and the next. While they busied themselves with surf lessons, we were attacked by girls shrieking "Oh my gosh sooo cute the baby!"... Which pretty much went on the whole duration of our afternoon beach stroll. And until sunset.

Awesome mother and child shot! Thanks sis.
There was an event by the way that weekend, called Flow: SurfYogaSamba, which was hosted in San Juan Surf Resort just beside ours. Title's straightforward so I assume there's no need to elaborate. The samba thing took place by the shore at dusk, and everyone was free to watch and even encouraged to sway their hips to the pumping beats of the drum circle.


I myself danced too, with a camera in my right hand, and a newborn in my left arm. Time and again, I say how we are encumbered by lugging Luna to our trips, but it's definitely more darn hard to leave her behind. Celebrating our first anniversary with her made us feel complete, plus the fact that it was her first time to be on the beach made the occasion extra special.


Trip's Nitty Gritty:

How to get to La Union from Baguio: Air-conditioned buses to Ilocos from Baguio are stationed along Governor Pack Road near SM. Fare is more or less P200. If you're like me who prefers non-AC buses, the terminal for such is near the public market, along Shagem Street. Ask the conductor to drop you off Sebay.

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Snapshot Saturday: Postcard #2 Luna Park, Sydney

G'day from Sydney! We're on the 46th day of our round-the-world trip, and in a couple of weeks we might fly out of Australia to move on to the next country.

The next postcard that will be mailed for The Postard Project was bought from Luna Park, an amusement park built in 1935 on the northern shore of Sydney Harbour. That's 70+ years of existence! Printed on the postcard, the 8 distinct faces (1935, 1938, 1939, 1946, 1950, 1973, 1982, and 1994) installed at the entrance. Hope the recipient's not coulrophobic.

It's not too late to join! Email your address to gaye.emami@yahoo.com. Recipients are chosen via Random.org.

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Century-Old SanVa Hotel/Hospederia, Rua Da Felicidade

Our cab darted through the hectic streets of central Macau on a Friday night. Another cab hot on our trail careened as it tried to keep up with us. Me and my family were on a convoy, heading to Rua da Felicidade also known as Street of Happiness.

Less than an hour earlier, the guy at the airport's tourist information counter swore that such street does not exist. And although I pronounced 'Rua da Felicidade' in varied accents and all possible ways, he merely shook his head (and gave me an expression of bizarre amazement).

Rua da Felicidade, Macau's old red light district. Hence its name, you reckon?
The SAR (Special Administrative Region) was to celebrate its Labor Day over the weekend. Unlike other tourist groups who availed family holiday deals, we chose to travel independently so as we could save more money and explore at our own pace. And that meant no prearranged transfers. We were on our own. We hopped on a bus just outside the airport that took us to Macau Ferry Terminal, where two cab drivers positively nodded upon reading our hostel's name in Chinese writing.

Soon after we were cruising into the heart of Macau. I was riding with my mom, sister and my seven-month old daughter Luna. Aboard the other cab was my father and the hubby. Judging by the way my mom gawked at the glitzy highrises, I assumed she was totally mesmerized, like a kid in a theme park for the first time. It made me feel uneasy, for we were about to sleep in a century old rundown hostel.

SanVa Hospederia's facade.
I explained to everyone weeks prior the trip why I chose SanVa Hospederia. Yes, it's cheap, but I think the more appropriate term is 'practical'. You see, my idea of checking in a $100 room at ten in the evening is ridiculous. Thankfully my folks were understanding enough to see through my rationale (or more of, they sorta didn't have much choice but to agree).

My introduction of the hostel to them is that it was built in the 19th century, like what I have read from their website (but particularly omitted the part that it used to be a private club house), and is currently a historic site for its preserved interior and exterior that boasts of the 'Southern Chinese architectural style'. My dad finds these facts remarkable while my mom felt like she could already smell the moldy, crumbling walls. Guess you could say I was able to somehow mentally prepare them for what they were about to see (after reading much of the reviews, I thought it was necessary).

Hallway may look dingy, but is surprisingly monitored by a CCTV camera.
We were dropped off in front of the hostel's entrance. The reception's up two flights of creaking, uneven steps. I handed a print out of our booking confirmation to the old Chinese guy behind the counter. I half expected him to not have my name on record because man, let me tell you, their website appears kinda dodgy. I was very much impressed that their reservation system is indeed reliable and our check in was a breeze even though the guy did not speak a single word of English.

He led us to our twin rooms, located next to each other. The windowless rooms are divided by makeshift walls made from wooden boards, and does not go all the way to the ceiling for proper ventilation. The twin room's 140 MOP (Macau Pataca), however we paid a surcharge of 100 MOP per room because it was a holiday.

A lavatory sink inside the room is an element of a true-blue old school Chinese hospederia.
The room's spacious and well lit. The beds are quite big for one (Asian) person and had clean sheets. It's actually pretty decent. By the way, there's no room with a private bath. But don't fret, the common shower area and toilet aren't so bad either.

And fellow backpackers, they provide free hot and cold drinking water (which my folks were terrified to drink, and without their knowledge I used for my infant's milk formula)... Rejoice!

Creature comfort, somehow.
To my relief, my folks did not freak out when they entered their room. Or they're probably too jet-lagged to care (or they're just clinging on to that happy thought that we were transferring to a better hotel the next day). Or just famished.

Our first Macanese Restaurant.
So after dumping our luggage, off we went to find food. The entire group was lazy to explore the area for dining places so we entered the first restaurant in sight which is just a few meters from the hostel. We capped our night with unknown noodle dishes, chicken feet (which we chose from a photo menu), bottles of Vitasoy, and weary conversations.

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Modern Day Hobo: Life Lessons From The Desert

"Fi gurfa?", he asked in an impatient tone.
"Mafi.", I bit my lip feeling a bit restless.
"Lesh?!", a question I was anticipating.
"Uhm...", not sure how to explain myself. "Full. Baden."
"Okay, shukran.", and he stalked off.

I heaved a sigh of relief. I nervously glanced at my Moroccan boss who was eyeing me from afar. She nodded her head without the slightest smile, which I assumed was her way of saying 'good job'. I sat down. At least the front office staff has chairs here unlike in other hotels, I thought. A quick look at the calendar reminded me that it has just been a few days since I first stepped on the Middle East, yet there I was pretending to be fluent in Arabic. In less than a week I memorized enough words to get by, learned how to read numbers in Arabic writing, and was taught by colleagues how to stand my ground even when guests become too demanding.

Me and one of my life teachers, the desert.
The hotel that employed me was in United Arab Emirates, not in Dubai nor in central Abu Dhabi, but in Al Ain City which is located more than a hundred kilometers away from the other two. Deep into the heart of the desert, sharing a border with Oman.

Let me pause this story for a moment to share with you a flashback of a much earlier date. About three years ago I got fed up being a customer service representative for an overseas telecommunications company, stationed in a cubicle, talking to sixty different strangers a day. The job left me feeling hollow every time I logged out of the phone. However awesome I did with my tasks, I felt unimportant knowing that even if I'd be absent the next day, sure as hell someone could fill in for me.

You could call me Jill of all trades, master of none. It's pathetic to admit, but I got an inkling that there's no 'right job' for me (unless there's someone who'll pay me just for backpacking, with an emphasis on just) because I am not highly skilled on any field. So with this sad notion, I decided to apply for a job overseas. I thought, if I'm going to have another unfulfilling job, might as well live some place distant with a different environment. It would be a good opportunity to fully explore a country I have never been in.

A newspaper ad lead me to an interview by the owner of the hotel himself. Well, technically, his translator. Out of ten applicants, I was the one chosen even if I had no experience with front desk. "If I am customer, what do you do to me?", was the only question I had to answer. However vague it was, it only took me a millisecond to think. My reply (with an exaggerated American accent) must have been impressive, or it could be have been my crisp suit. Beats me.

The visa processing only took a couple of months. My immediate resignation was thankfully accepted, and with the help of a lending company I was able to pay my placement fee. Finally I was set free to a new world as an OFW (overseas Filipino worker).

And so that is how I landed there. My workplace for six months (I had a contract for two years, but I quit early to do backpacking in South East Asia). Most shifts that I covered alone, when not insanely busy, I was usually spaced out. Lost in my sentiments and realizations. Living in U.A.E. taught me a lot of things about life and about myself which I wouldn't have learned had I visited the country as a tourist.


Top: 1. Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. Sneaking food in a drawer cause we didn't have a lunch break. 2. Mo' Money, Mo' Different Problems. A group of uni students invited the whole faculty for a desert camping trip out of the blue. One of the students owned that particular part of the desert. 3. Work hard, party harder. Dancing to a Jamaican band's beats in Dubai. Bottom: 4. Unity in Diversity. In a service van with other workmates from various countries. 5. There's no place like home. Spent the New Year's eve with kabayans in Dubai whom I've never met before.


1. Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

I came to U.A.E. with the hopes of seeing architectural marvels Burj Al Arab and Burj Khalifa, a ski resort in the desert, camels, oases, and well, Emiratis. While other expatriates or migrant workers or uhm, modern day hobos, came primarily for the job. For them a weekend trip to the mall or a last minute holiday, is just an icing on the cake.

You prolly have heard about laborers pushed to work beyond their limits under harsh conditions, with ridiculously long shifts day and night (the desert in the summer is a topnotch hostile place), and sleeping in uncongenial spaces. It is a fact and I have witnessed it.

One shift in our hotel lasts eight hours (six days a week), without a lunch break. Let me clarify that we weren't encouraged to starve to death, in fact, we were allowed to eat at our station. I'm just saying a few minutes off duty is humane ( but since we didn't want an extra hour added to our shift, we didn't pursue a complaint). In consolation, we were provided with free fully furnished and spacious accommodation. Mind you, other employees who don't have such benefit and opt for cheap accommodation could only get bunk beds at rundown apartments (without even a space for a closet).

2. Mo' Money, Mo' Different Problems

My then boyfriend (the hubby now) worked as a robotics lab assistant in a uni which only accepted Emirati students. The massive (for its student population) swanky building only had one cafeteria. Beside the cafeteria, is a jewelry shop. Yep, inside a campus. My wild imagination suggests this scene on a normal school day: Student heading to another room for her next class thinking "Hmm, I should go buy a new diamond pendant for Programming 101. Totally suits the next subject".

Folks, mo' money doesn't really mean mo' problems to me. Richer people just have different issues. Because IMO, there's no bigger problem than not having money for meals.

3. Work hard. Party Harder. Fill up the Balikbayan box.

In that order. I never thought that the trait of generosity can be infectious. If you're surrounded by breadwinners, you subconsciously learn to be selfless. However in my case, I know how important it is to leave something to myself. It just keeps me sane. But yeah, I sent a Balikbayan box home. Two boxes in fact. Corned beef, chocolates, bottles of lotion, souvenir shirts and stuff.

4. Unity in Diversity

Filipina front desk officers and waitresses, Bangladeshi guards and chefs, Indian and Sri Lankan housekeepers, Omani executive assistant, Moroccan day shift manager, Egyptian night shift manager... That's how diverse the hotel's manpower is. It is amazing how people from different cultures work together to get things done.

I miss Mohammad who tips me off when arbab ('boss' in Arabic) is arriving so I could stash my manicure kit (yes I do my nails at our station sometimes), Muneer who fries fish and chips for us (though we're not allowed to eat food from the hotel kitchen), Dinesh who sneaks a can of soda out of the mini bar for me, Mr. Tamer and Ms. Rajah who cover our arses when we get in trouble for arguing with our guests.

We were all expats. All of us left our respective countries and families to pursue more decent jobs. There's no other people who would look after every one of us but each other.

5. There's no place like home.

This is one truth that I never really get to think about when I'm a tourist in a foreign land.


Al Ain's one of those places that I took for granted. I never fully appreciated its beauty when I resided there. For six months I was constantly infuriated by the fact that my passport was kept by our employer. It made me feel enslaved in some way. Still, I hope someday I get to revisit the city's buzzing streets, smell the freshly baked Arabic bread and spices sold by bulk, see the shops selling perfumes in fabulous bottles and over the top jewelry... I really hope... To meet again one of my life teachers, the dressed up desert that is U.A.E.

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