Of Holidays Fragility and Visa Issues

Kia ora people and Welcome to the middle of February 2016.  Hasn't the New Year marched on already.  It's been a while since I posted, largely, I have to admit, because of a slump on my mojo.  That can happen to you here every now and then.  But a lengthy planned holiday home to New Zealand, where the Hubster came to understand my less than optimal, somewhat fragile mental state, and an unplanned stay in Dubai have perked me up somewhat.  So, I guess you can call this a long catch up post.  It's full of arguments, celebrations, family photos and drama!

So, here we go....

On December 16th 2015, I was out of here, and I was looking forward to it.  This was the first holiday that the entire family would be back in NZ at the same time.  The first stop once on home turf was our sons place to catch up with his growing and gorgeous flock....

In my mind I had planned taking the kids to parks, playgrounds, movies and maybe a couple of shopping trips to buy them a few 'spoilt by the grandparents' things and had been mentioning such for quite some time before our trip.  Hubby had different ideas.  In his mind we were going to renovate the house and he had been emailing such to builders and painters and our son and not mentioning these plans at all to me.  Needless to say quite early in our holiday we came to loggerheads on our different perceptions of what we would be doing during this trip home.  I'm not very good at loggerheads.  I cry and shout a lot.  I cried and shouted a lot during this 'discussion'.  What came out of it, in a nutshell, was this....I have issues.  Here, briefly, is a summary of my tiny expat wife meltdown early on our holiday.  (Feel free to add extra expletives where you think they fit nicely - lord knows I did!  There were quite a few in the original of this post, but I was asked to remove a few terms - specifically those that related to my view of absolutely anything to do with Hubsters work!)

Hubby thought that my living the past six years in Saudi was a testament to how fabulously I was coping with being away from family while he works constantly, all the time.   

The fact that he is working constantly all the time, even when on supposed holidays, even on this holiday,  means we don't talk much.  In fact, his daily routine in Riyadh of 'go to work, come home, eat, sit on computer working till all hours, go to bed, repeat', has meant that, for quite some time, I've been living with a sense of being, not exactly ignored but, pointless.   

What did you bring me to Saudi for, I wonder?  Am I just the tax break? (If you are a kiwi or ozzie planning to move here, check out how our tax laws will affect you).  Am I here just to make soup that you can eat at your computer?   (He eats at his computer).   

I have asked these questions before when being ignored gets on my goat.  I was asking similar questions again because I could see the holiday routine was going to be 'work at renovations all day, come home, eat, sit on computer working till all hours at night, go to bed, repeat'.   

It is a gripe of mine that all our holidays of late are simply a continuation of the pattern in Saudi and I can't say I particularly approve and tend to let Hubster know because, basically, I'm not very good at keeping quiet.

Of course, he thinks I'm over-reacting and that I'm being silly.  The next day any issues I may have are apparently forgiven and forgotten.  They aren't really.  They're just packed away under a face that says, 'Fine.  Whatever'.   

What I'd really appreciate is if he'd put down the f'n computer so we can talk to each other. We don't, I have concluded, talk much anymore.   

It irks me that he'll put down the computer when his work colleagues, who also live on the compound, drop by.  And they'll typically rabbit on about repetitive stuff like work. work, more work and more crappy work, and less than optimal support from head office, blah, blah blah... 

But he won't talk to me.  Nope . His head goes straight into the computer sending emails and doing whatever it is he does. 

Him grunting in response to my attempts at conversation is, quite frankly, annoying.  But if I push the 'why don't you talk to me' issue or if I suggest 'why don't log off your computer early cos I'm sure your clients don't have to hear from you at midnight' or, should I get really peed off and say something like, 'If you die tomorrow your clients wouldn't give a shit', I get, 'You don't understand my job', 'you don't understand the demands, the stress', you have no idea'...

Really?  Is that what you think?

I might actually have some idea.  I'm not exactly thick. I've got ears...I hear you talking with your mates about the same thing all the bloody time.   And I live in Riyadh too, you know!    

And maybe if you talked to me we could discuss how difficult your work life is.  (Or how difficult you like to make it which, I think, is part of his problem).

And maybe, just maybe, I'd like to tell you how being eye raped while doing something normal like walking to the shop is disturbing, how being dismissed from a major telecom retail shop with the wave of the hand and shouted 'No Woman' is flaming irritating, how getting into a taxi and have the driver lock the doors brought out the nasty in me.  Maybe I'd like to exchange my everyday shitty news with you.  Or maybe I'd like to talk about the photo's I take in the morning when I go out on my bike rides, alone, without you.  Or pass on news from our daughter who called.   

Maybe, no definitely, I'd like you to close the computer because your work gets to have you since 8.30am every morning.... at 10 pm at night, I'd like a little us time.

It is one thing to feel like a second class citizen due to local attitudes, it is another to feel irrelevant to your spouse because that's how his current work demands and his own insistence on being so damn good at what he does, make me feel.  Why can't you be like the locals and chill, relax, cruise, don't give a hoot....?

Although I have met some lovely ladies in Riyadh who have become good friends, they are not the best friend I married but who seems to have wandered off into 'Home But Never Here Land' in the short space of time we have been in Saudi.  And I am extremely upset that on this holiday, this return home holiday, you are going to continue to put me on the back burner because you have decided you have more important things to think about.  I am important!  And I refuse to be brushed off by you any more!

It turns out that he thinks that working all the time while in Saudi is what I expect from him so we can pay off our mortgage and go home.  He also insists that we both agreed to renovating this house ourselves.  

He has this habit of having imaginary conversations with me in his head.  He does it all the time.  It pisses me off because he'll come out with these grand statements of 'we talked about this' when we didn't.  I know we didn't.  That, after all, would require a conversation.  (In fact, one night in Saudi at the coffee shop with friends I asked everybody's orders and duly went to place the order.  When the drinks came he says "Where's my diet coke".  "You didn't order anything, I say."  "Yes I did", he insists.  "I'm sorry habibtii", says our friend who is sitting at the table with us, "you might have imagined ordering, but you didn't actually say anything."  "Thank, thank you, thank you", I said, because that, right there, is what he does all the time.)

And why he thinks I like him working constantly is a joke.  Many is the time I've begged with him to stop working!!!  I actually intensely dislike him working all the time. Totally, intensely, can't stand it!

In fact, I wish that once out of the office, and especially on weekends, he would stuff work and tell his overly demanding clients to go to hell.  It's the weekend.  Rack off!  Your work is not 'Urgent, Urgent', but he answers the emails anyway.

And I couldn't give a rats arse if we sold the bloody house if we had to. (In case you hadn't noticed, as well as crying, I swear a lot in loggerhead type interactions). 

As emotional, potty-mouthed female meltdowns do little more than distract him temporarily from his work,  I do try not to have them all the time (though sometimes they can't be helped) and, while in Saudi I have worked out a strategy for coping with his hours of head down bum up, give everything to the office, work ethic.  I surf the internet.   

It's purely a distraction strategy and not the least bit fulfilling, though I'm sure he tends to think I'm having a blast, mainly, presumably, because I'm quiet and not interrupting him. 

Admittedly internet surfing does provide the opportunity to  learn lots of unnecessary stuff  like 'What are vulture funds?', recipes for Paleo bread or avocado chocolate mousse, 'The complexities of bank lending and Corporate Social Responsibility',' how to take apart your vacuum cleaner, how to cope with a workaholic husband (completely useless strategies I have to say) and who won the latest BGT or X-factor.   What surfing the internet cannot do is take away the feeling of loneliness.  And that, it turns out after all the frustrated crying in the converted shed behind our sons house, is what I really feel. 

Lonely.
And fragile. 

I don't know how much longer I can go on in this unreal life in Saudi with its ridiculous demands on both of us. 

I miss talking with him about life, living, kids, home, family, future plans, sport teams, motorbikes, planning our weekend bike rides, playing cards, playing scrabble, watching movies together, learning Spanish and figuring out how to raise bees and grow vanilla beans.  I'm tired of having to cajole him out of the house to do things together.

I might have coffee mornings I can go to every day of the week, but they do not fill the void of loneliness.  He might be right there in the house with his computer, but I miss my man. 

And he had no idea.
He thought I had simply adjusted fabulously to life in Saudi.  I think he was trying to talk himself into believing that because how can you think such a thing after one of my expat wife meltdowns?

This little discussion did clear the air of a lot of my built up issues.
He has attempted to be more present lately and actually closes his computer.
I agreed we could spend the first week doing up the house.

(And what better way to do it than as a family working bee!)

It is safe to say that the rest of our time was spent happily, together, at (or near) a beach surrounded by the whanau.

Over the next few days the rest of the family arrived from distant shores (namely Ozzie and the UK) and it was so nice to have everyone in the same place for Christmas and New Year.  A good reason to be dancing I reckon.  (This is the kids latest cool song - Note the adults quite liked it too)

Naturally, being Christmas, the kids scored big time at each of the whanau gatherings for feasting and present giving.  First up was Christmas Eve morning at home.  I love watching kids reactions to getting long awaited for, hoped for, fingers crossed for, and just glad to get, gifts.

Then we headed down to my brothers place at the beach near the Coromandel for Christmas Day.  The pile of presents placed under the tree grew and grew after the kids went to bed, ready for them to receive the next morning...

There were gifts for the young and the slightly more mature.  There were fun gifts, homemade gifts and special gifts.

Everyone seemed quite happy with the gifts that they got.

The whole morning was a bit much for the old boy who needed a nap midway through proceedings.

And there was the food.  Loads and loads of food.  And laughs.  And general good times.

As all the family were together it seemed a good idea to take a few family group photo's with my parents as the center pieces.

There was the grandchildren photo...

... the great-grandchildren photo...

...and the all in photo.

We even attempted a recreation photo.  From this over twenty years ago...

To this...

Christmas Day was a great day, and so were the days that followed.  The beach was spectacular and we enjoyed it, even on the days it rained.

We eventually left the coast and headed up North, to visit the farm.  The kids got to run around the bush and paddocks, to visit the old homestead where their great-grandfather grew up, (now in need of major TLC), and to swim in the river.

Our next stop was the Manukau Heads, just outside of Auckland, to a beach house with its glorious views over the bay from a deck perfect for a New Years Eve party.

Of course, it wasn't all fun and games at the house.  The gardens needed a trim and the deck needed a spot of paint.  (The husband actually discussed both of these in real time, out loud).

But really, mostly, it was time to chill'ax.
We went to the beach every day.  Hubby took the truck over the hill and we walked around the point. The kids dressed in rubbish bags the day we went over to the coast to go sliding down sand dunes. We basically had a great family time.

Then it was time to say our farewells and head back to Saudi.  We landed in Riyadh and said hello to the nice bloke at the customs counter.  He said hello back and then said to me, 'You can go'.  But to Hubster he said, 'Your visa expired.'

What?
Your visa expired
It can't be.
It expired.
How?  It should be the same as my wife's!
(Shrug). (Tense silence)
What do I do now?, Hubster said.
Go to office.
What do I do now?, I said.
You can go in, [to baggage collection] your husband go to office.
How long will this take?, Hubster said.
Maybe one hour.

So it was decided I would pick up the suitcases and wait in the taxi.  What happens next is how Hubster described it to me later...

...Hubster went to the office where the men were drinking qahwa.  After an introduction and description of the issue, they offered him qahwah and then one of the blokes went to check the visa on the computer.  Expired by 15 days it said which is not what was printed on the piece of paper in Hubsters hand.

Sorry, they said.
The computer says expired.  It's expired.
What now?, says husband.
Where you come from?, they said.
Dubai.
You go back Dubai.
What if I don't want to go back to Dubai?, he asks.
The blokes looked rather perplexed at that statement and said, 'Why not?'
Hubster was thinking he might do a stint in the airport cells.  (When he told me this my first thought was, what awesome blog fodder.  Bad wifey, I know).
You have credit card?, they ask
Yes.
You go Dubai.

Given that he not only had a credit card but also cash and his computer, all of which he thought may go missing while he was in the cells, he opted for a return trip to Dubai.

So he calls me and says he's being put back on the plane.
OK, I say, how long will this take.
Hopefully a day or so he says.
So I go home.  He goes to Dubai.

Apparently he was considered a deportee so had to be escorted to the plane and handed over to the flight staff.  Once in Dubai he had to wait to alight until someone from Foreign Affairs came to collect him. He wasn't allowed to simply walk out through Dubai customs because there is quite a bit of process and paperwork that goes with being deported.  The Foreign Affairs Ministry (FAM) needs forms filled and the Dubai CID (aka Police) need to give him clearance.  The FAM guy told him it is up to the discretion of the CID whether or not they would let him leave.  Not to mention he had to pay for his return ticket to Dubai.  Once the fare had been paid, the forms filled and the CID were happy his deportation was for fairly innocent reasons, he was escorted to the CID passport area and released.

All quite painless really, though time consuming, and the everyone he dealt with was very pleasant.

This all happened on a Saturday.
On Tuesday we decided that if he didn't have his visa in the next couple of days I would go over to Dubai for the weekend and to take him some clothes - (Remember I had all the suitcases, he had his computer bag.  He needed a change of clothes).

I got to spend 10 days in Dubai before he got his visa extension.
He wasn't particularly happy with this delay as he had to cancel meetings.
Personally, I thought the extra holiday was ace.

In order to get his visa his office had to write a letter to the Saudi Ministry of Interior explaining the situation and asking for a visa.  The MOI, after getting the office to send a few extra bits and pieces to prove they are a properly registered company, then sent a form back to the office that had to go to the Saudi Consulate in Dubai.  Once Hubby had that form he had to engage an agent to liaise with the consulate.  (You can't just rock up at the consulate with your form - something he discovered after he rocked up).  It took a while to get the visa to the consulate because the systems were down, but once the visa extension was issued, it was only valid for seven days.  Given we were told late on a Thursday that it was ready, and the agency is shut on weekends, by the time we got it three days had already expired.

So we had to head back to Riyadh.  However, once back at Riyadh customs we find that a visa extension requires a different type of processing.  So, once again, I was told I could go through while Hubby was directed toward the office to get his visa photocopied.  Then he had to wait for the only guy who could process his visa to come back from lunch.  Once said man was back at his desk I could see he and the Hubster both through the perspex class having a good old laugh.  Obviously now that the whole process was coming to an end Hubster appeared quite relaxed.

And that folks, was my holiday and eventual return to Riyadh.
Stunning stuff, don't you think?

I'm just hoping his new found ability to close his laptop at night doesn't hit a rocky patch.





Ka Kite,
Kiwi

That Passport Is Mine, Thanks

Travelling to other countries in the northern hemisphere is one of the perks of living in Saudi Arabia, especially for we antipodeans from New Zealand who were bought up so far from the rest of the world.  When we expat friends get together chatter often turns to places we have been and places we are planning to go.  If nurses are in the group discussion invariably turns to the added difficulties of planning trips because as part of the vacation application process, they have to ask to be given back their passports.  In Saudi, employers, aka sponsors, keep employee passports.

Apparently there is no Saudi law that says employees have to hand over their passports to their sponsors, which makes the practice not only a human rights violation but also illegal.  Yet it is accepted common practice.

Protecting Investments
The sponsors claim they keep passports to protect their 'investment'.  They somehow believe that holding passports will prevent their employees from running away.  One has to wonder why an employee would want to run away from his work place?  And where the heck would they run too?  Certainly they can't go home.  Saudi is the only country I know of that you can't get into without an entry visa, nor can you leave it without an exit visa, both of which your sponsor has to agree to have issued.

In reality, the keeping of passports by most sponsors is little more than a way for them to maintain control over employees.  Usually control is via unscrupulous means - largely bribery, both monetary and mental or emotional, and sometimes through physical abuse.

The Saudi rational is a stupid and baseless claim because a worker can go to his embassy and get a new passport issued without needing any other documentation.  All the embassies here are well aware  how badly treated many workers are in this country.  It's a pity they don't, or can't, do more about it.  The Saudi sponsor is simply hoping workers are not au fait with their working, human or civil rights - and many of them aren't when they first arrive - that's why they still demand the keeping of passports.

If Saudi sponsors really wanted to protect their 'investments', they'd be nicer to them.

Good Sponsors and A'holes
In my mind there are two types of sponsors - Real and Fake.  There are also three sub-categories of sponsor - Good, Bad and Downright A'hole.  Every sponsor relies on an agent located in the workers home countries to find, and sign up, the employees.  From what I've heard, agents have two classes - Greedy and Greedy A'hole.

Real Sponsors and Key Holding Henchmen
Real sponsors actually do need workers and go through the legal process to obtain them, which along the way does require them to pay fees and things to have their workers bought over here.  The Real Good sponsors will treat their employees well - paying them on time, not extorting money out of them, not flogging them with unreasonable demands re: work hours, and adhering to contract terms regarding benefits and vacations and and so on.  Why they keep the passports in this case is beyond me.  Perhaps they think it will make them work harder?  (Quite frankly, if I knew a boss was going to make it ultra-hard for me to go home and see the fams on a regular basis, I'd slow my work rate to the bare minimum.  Wouldn't you?)

Often times, especially for larger companies, once the worker lands, it is not the sponsors themselves who deal directly with the workers but administrators employed by the sponsor.  Suffice to say, their role can really go to their heads and quite often it is this over-inflated ego sitting at an office desk that can stuff up a workers life.

For example, nurses have told us that if they have a holiday planned getting their passport back isn't usually a problem provided the man holding the key to the cupboard storing all passports isn't away sick or on holiday himself the day a nurse is allowed to collect it.  (It seems worker's passports are held in such low regard by companies they aren't even kept in a metal safe for safe keeping.  Just a cupboard that can be burnt to the ground with all its contents if there ever was a fire.)

Yes, the employers and their Key Holding sidekicks are such control freaks that they like to make employees wait till the very last minute before giving them their passport.  (At least the Key Holders at the hospitals our nurse friends work at are like that).   Of course, nurses aren't just given their passport.  No, to get it they have to hand over their iqama, or residency card.  (The iqama states who you are, who your sponsor is and is required identification for expats residing in the country that you are expected to carry on your person at all times).  On your return from holiday, the nurse goes back to Mr Key Holder, hands over the passport and he gives back the iqama.

If Mr Key Holder is away the day the nurse is permitted to collect her passport (and yes, they can be away the day that's been organised to go see them) the nurse can find herself in a bit of a pickle.  Being Key Holder is a powerful position.  Arabs don't really like sharing their power with anyone else so, generally speaking, there really is only one key holder.   And according to the peeps we know, their Key Holders don't give a rats bottom if they bugger up someone else's vacation plans by not handing The Key to a proxy Key Holder when he (or she) is going to be absent from the work place for a while.   We've had more than one nurse friend panicking about what to do if Mr Key Holder doesn't get back into the office on time for them to make it to their booked flight.

Bad To The Core Sponsors
The Real Bad sponsors can really be bad to the core.  These type may not give a shit what lies the agents say to trick workers over here. They don't care that A'hole agents are preying on the sad and desperate situation of the disadvantaged, lying about absolutely everything and charging unsuspecting, naive families a fortune for the mistake of dealing with them.  I've heard workers say things like, 'I finished my hospitality study and was told by the agent I'd be working in hotel management, but instead I'm working as a waiter and have another five years before I will have paid back the sponsor what he says I owe him so I can get out of here!'

This type of sponsor feels he is owed by the employee.  He wants to squeeze as many hours work out of his worker as possible or else he doesn't think he's getting value for money.  From the accounts of workers who are stuck in this situation, (and if you talk to enough workers they don't hold back telling you), these sponsors tend not to pay on time (if at all), they expect you to work unreasonably long hours day and night doing things you never signed up for, they certainly don't think you deserve to go home for any reason and they do believe they own you.  Stories abound from this group of employee who hail largely from the Indian subcontinent, parts of Africa or Philipines, about not getting home for two to three years or more, partly because the wages suck and it takes that long to save up any cash, but also because the sponsor holds on to their passport and won't give it back.

Take our taxi driver for example.  He wanted to go home for his wedding and had given his sponsor plenty of advance notice about his upcoming nuptials but he had to keep putting the date off for weeks because the sponsor would not give him back his passport.  And one of our security guys has been here for five years and still hasn't been home to visit his family in Sudan.  Even after being told on one occasion "Book your ticket you can go, we'll give you your visa and passport", the company reneged and, as these guys don't get paid enough to buy the flash airline tickets where you can get refunds or change your flight dates, he lost his money and was very upset - but what could he do?

Fake Sponsors
Fake sponsors are those who are selling the 'Free Visa', a name that is completely contrary to the actual process of getting one because it can cost workers on average about 15,000 SAR to get.  As I understand it, to sell Free Visa's the sponsor first has to defraud the Ministry responsible for issuing visas by overstating the number of worker visa's his company requires.  Heck, I've heard some sponsors lie about actually having a company at all.  Once they get the visa's they engage a middle man to sell the visa's.

Many workers, those who have been around the traps a while, prefer the Free Visa.  It means when they get here they are pretty much their own boss.  All they have to do after buying the visa is find a job and ensure they pay their sponsor the regular monthly stipend he demands for getting them into the country.  To make sure they pay, he keeps their passports.  The Fake Good Sponsor (if there is such a thing) and his Middle Man agent are completely up front with the Fake Employee about the whole process and everybody is happy.

In the above case, once the worker finds a job even the Eventual Employer is happy because, one, he didn't have to pay to bring the employee in and, two, he can pay him less because he's here illegally and is happy to take what work he can get.  Loads of construction companies hire Free Visa workers because the blokes need the work and will do the hard labor jobs.  (It's common knowledge round here that you won't find a Saudi doing hard yakka work on a construction site these days.  That type of work is too far below them, though I think they're afraid of breaking a real sweat or getting blisters).

Keep Your Passport
When fellow expats contact me saying they are coming over I make a point of telling them, 'Keep your passport.  Don't let the employer take it.  It's not a legal requirement of your employment to have to part with your passport.'  Granted, most people who contact me via the blog are western blue collar types who wouldn't think twice about standing up for their rights.  I get the impression the laboring and service staff fraternity would be given utter shit for refusing to hand over their passport when asked.

Hubster has never handed over his passport to the employer.  Someone did ask once.  He said no.  When he says no he does it with this 'You want to mess with me, go ahead, make my day' kind of look.  The first time we did have to hand over passports to the admin guy to get our iqama's and exit visa's, we were a little nervous they may not come back.  Thankfully they did.   But no-one as ever asked for him to relinquish his passport to his employer for 'safe keeping' again.





Ka Kite,
Kiwi

Execution of a Maid

There is no nice way to say beheading - execution, executed, beheaded.

Sri Lankan maid, Rizana Nafeek, 24 years old, was beheaded a few days ago.  Her crime - killing a child left in her care.  At the time she was 17.  She had been in Saudi Arabia for one week.

Apparently her documents had been falsified by the agents who sent her here, stating she was older than she actually was.  She went to work as a maid and nanny in a Saudi home, having never worked in either role before.

Since her imprisonment there have been calls for clemency, proof of Rizana's true age has been presented and Saudi was reminded of the International Conventions it is a part of, particularly the Rights of the Child which states that no child will be subjected to torture and no participating country can impose capital punishment or life imprisonment without the possibility of release for anyone under 18 years of age.

But all of that was for naught because in 2005 a mother lost her baby and, as is her right according to Saudi law and based on a date printed for all to see in a legal Sri Lankan passport document, she refused to pardon Rizana and accept blood money.  So a young woman was sentenced to death and now another mother, in another country, is feeling the anguish of a lost child.

If I was walking in the Saudi mother's shoes, would I have made the same choice?
I'm glad I've never had to know.
I hope I never have to find out.

A Memorial to Rizana is a thoughtful piece that looks at all parties involved in the execution of a maid in Saudi, from the culture and laws of Saudi Arabia through the politics of poverty and corruption in Sri Lanka and beyond.


Ka Kite,
Kiwi