WestMeetsEast

Like any other word, respect means different things to different people. One of the things my husband and I did during our trip home, (see entry on Trippy California), was to box up our household stuff and put it on a ship headed for Dubai. The cargo finally arrived this week and we made plans to hire a truck and some laborers to help us transport the massive box from the port to our flat. Seemed like a simple proposition.

So, because all the paperwork was in my name, I was the only person allowed to collect the necessary documents, stamps, authorizations, passes, codes, permissions, inspections, greetings and salutations. We started at 8.45 am. Things were going smoothly at the first port, where the Delivery Order was to be obtained. Snag No. 1 occurred when the shipping company told me they only accepted cash. No problem, that was one snag I had predicted…run to the car, get $176 from hubby. Back at office, I pay up and receive a handful of papers. “Now do I get my box?” No, no, they say, go downstairs to Customs for your stamp.

Now, all hell breaks loose. Downstairs is one huge room with lots of counters with numbers overhead. (Think DMV with chaotic, disorganized cues.) Anyway, I am the only female and only white customer in the entire place. Immediately someone comes up to me, “Madam, let me help you.” This guy takes my paperwork and my passport and we go to one of these offices where, for a fee, they type your paperwork in Arabic. In this little office, after lots of chatter in Erdu and Arabic, an argument ensues about whether customs agents will inspect my box since the Dubai ruler died recently and the emirate is officially in mourning. Additionally the Muslim holiday of Eid Al Adha is about to begin and all government bodies will shut. Things don’t look good.

So here’s me, standing there, not understanding the myriad of languages being used, with all sorts of men helpers. Respectful or disrespectful? As a Westerner, or even more to the point, as a thirtysomething American woman born of a family of educated career-driven women, Type A, rugby and soccer player, let’s just say I was not feeling respected.

At this point, anxious hubby calls from the car and asks why it’s taking so long…While chasing one of my 'helpers' who has now run off with my passport to find someone else, I tell hubby to park, things don’t look good and I will call back.

About 10 minutes later, I realize what is going on and I am working to rectify the situation. These ‘helpers’ are simply freelance customs agents who look for the most helpless-looking people and ‘help’ them through the process, for about $40, while you relax and wait.

Hubby calls again, I relay the message and he decides I need rescuing. He comes in and very manly-like gets me out of the clutches of the helper men and I get back in the proper place for the stamp I need. Respectful or disrespectful?

I am allowed to jump the cue, get a stamp, jump another cue, get a signature, jump another cue, get one more stamp, pay $23 and now, now we are ready to go to Port No. 2 to retrieve the cargo. Why was I able to jump the cue? Because I am a woman, of course. Respectful or disrespectful?

We meet up with our hired truck and mover guys and drive to the second port, which happens to be one of the largest and most successful ports in the world, ranked in the Top 10. After being given wrong directions about three times, we get to the proper gate where only myself and one driver are allowed entrance, for about $9.50 each. We find the warehouse, sign 100 more papers, and get the cargo on the back of the truck. Just when we think we are home-free, they tell us we have to go to customs and get a pass to exit the port.

After some difficulty in finding the customs/inspection house, we stumble upon it and once inside, I am allowed quickly ahead of all brown-skinned males, pay $8, get more paperwork, and leave. All in 5 minutes.

The truck driver, Nawaz’s face was one of utter astonishment. He tells me no one has ever gotten in and out of customs so quickly. I laugh and say, ‘Well, that’s because I am a woman.’ It’s now 2 pm.

Hubby and the other hired laborers had already headed back home to meet us. Nawaz then proceeded to talk his head off during the 45-minute ride home. He explains to me, in a very sweet way, that in his country I wouldn’t be so disrespected. In his country I would be treated like a queen. In his country, I would be in charge of the home only and every desire I had would be catered to by my husband. Because, in Pakistan, “women are respected more than in the Middle East even.”

Wow, I say, so what if I wanted to work outside the home? No, no, he laughs, not a chance. What if I wanted to have male friends? No, no, not a chance, he tells me, in fact, “your brother would be required to kill any male who tried to talk to you if you were unmarried.” Because, he says, Muslim women are respected that much.

(And no, I did not ask him about the honor killings, raping and stoning of women that happen on a regular basis in his country.)

So, while my husband’s culture requires him to respect my right to deal with the hassles of customs on my own if I so choose, these sweet laborers were feeling sorry for me for being disrespected by being allowed to deal with customs at all… For being in the front seat of the truck, for being in the presence of so many uncouth men at the docks, for moving half the boxes myself, for holding a job, for being out of the house at all. All in the name of respect.