A happy misunderstanding saw British author Helena Frith Powell moving not to a nearby town in her adopted home of France, but to the United Arab Emirates.
When my husband first mentioned that he had applied for a job in Abu Dhabi I misheard him. I was busy watching Desperate Housewives and thought he was talking about a village down the road with a vaguely similar name.
“So what do you think?” he asked. “Will you mind moving over there?”
“Why do we need to move?” I asked. “Surely you can commute?”
“It’s a nine-hour flight,” he replied.
Now he had my full attention. We opened or Times Atlas of the World and he showed me where Abu Dhabi is. Close to Iran and Afghanistan. Possibly not the most attractive neighbours. I started doing some research about the city.
Abu Dhabi is the capital of the United Arab Emirates. It is a T-shaped island jutting into the Persian Gulf with a population of around 860,000. It was the description of the weather that most impressed me; sunny blue skies throughout the year. Many people don’t realise that the South of France can be wet, windy and downright freezing cold for weeks on end during the winter months.
We had a week of uncertainty while we waited to hear back from Rupert’s prospective employee. I was keen on the idea; although at this stage not totally sold on it. I love our house and our life in France, it would be tough to leave it all behind. But I was intrigued by the idea of a new life in a new exciting place.
My husband’s job offer came through, and during the same week a contact of mine was having breakfast with our (mutual) literary agent. Said agent told her that my husband was going to accept a job on the paper. She had already taken a job as editor of the magazine.
“Do you think Helena would like to work for me?” she asked her. Later that day she called me and I accepted a job as staff writer. This all happened in July. A month later we arrived at Abu Dhabi Airport at 7 in the morning full of hope and excitement.
The company had told us to get a taxi from the airport so we joined the queue with our three children and eight bags. It was already hot. We took two cars to our allocated hotel, and I am not exaggerating when I say I haven’t stayed anywhere so dreadful since I travelled around Europe on a train aged 18. It was on a hugely busy six-lane highway and had only one bed. Where were the children supposed to sleep? On a mattress on the floor we were told. Great.
After two days we convinced the company that they should move us, unless they wanted us to move back home. We moved somewhere infinitely better, but it would be another three months before we finally had a home again.
Housing is one of the major problems in Abu Dhabi. Prices have more than doubled during the last couple of years. I experienced price hikes during one day on one property. It was 250,000 dirhams in the morning and by the time I went back to get more details that afternoon it was 300,000. Everyone advised us to carry enough money for a deposit with us and just say yes to anything half decent. The problem was there weren’t many half-decent places around.
Eventually we found a lovely villa. The downside is that it was 100,000 dirham over our budget. But I would rather be poor and in a home than rootless. Making the children’s packed lunches in the hotel room every morning was just getting beyond tedious and I also saw the effect being homeless was having on them. They were increasingly difficult and whiney.
The other really hard thing about moving to Abu Dhabi is the administrative side of things. I thought that after having coped with the French system I would find it easy. Big mistake. The French are amateurs compared with the Arabs. Only yesterday I spent hours filling in a form to be told that it all has to be in blue ink. “Everyone knows that government documents have to be filled out in blue ink,” said the young bureaucrat helping me. Yep, everyone except me.
It seems you need a piece of paper for just about everything here. That and a passport photo. My advice to anyone moving here is not to have your passport photo take the day you arrive after an eight-hour flight. That picture will haunt you for your entire stay in the city, as it will be on every document from your work ID card to your healthcare card.
But there are compensations. This last weekend was a case in point. We spent Friday (the start of the weekend here) at the lovely beach club at the Shangri-la hotel just outside town. The kids frolicked in the pool, played football on the lawn and built sandcastles while Rupert and I read books on our sun-loungers.
Read the full article in our February 2009 edition.
