Ratatouille not on strike...

The character from the American blockbuster Ratatouille has suddenly entered my life, not in the cinema but on one very real evening this week. There I was, going for my second glass of beaujolais nouveau, a type of french wine that is snubbed by wine connaisseurs but generally adored by the wider pubic to the point that its release on the third Thursday of November, becomes the reason for a nationwide party. Falling prey to the inability to really distinguish between the good wines and their less sophisticated brothers, I happen to love Beaujolais, for its uncomplicated taste and lack of the acidic aftertaste of the bordeau and other known french wines. So it's at this critical point where my head was getting comfortably fuzzy grace à the second glass of this substance, which almost made me forget the prospect of having walk across Paris to get to the office the following day, that I saw Ratatouille.

But before I tell you more about my personal encounter with Ratatouille, I can't resist the opportunity to weigh in with a few cents on the french transport strike - I think it might also help put this episode in the context. And in case you are not the unlucky parisien or parisienne having to put on your walking shoes or try to sneak out of your bed to chain one of the public bikes so no bastard neighbour contemplates to snab away your only means of getting to the office - we the unlucky parisians, have been faced with a general strike of all the transport workers. The interesting feature of this strike, I must note, is not that there are no minimum service requirements on the subway, nor the sight of people virtually falling onto the rail tracks while a much awaited 45 min late train finally emerges out of the abyss, but its very unpredictability.

We simply do not know whether there is a general paralysis or just a cardiac arrest. As one subway worker explained to me when I dared to inquire in the morning about my prospects of getting home at night, "mais, ce sont des grevists, madame, bien sûr on ne sait pas s'ils viennent ou pas!" which translates into something close to "of course those who want to strike don't tell us about it in advance!". Ah oui? I guess I should have figured out the perverted logic there. It's not enough to strike, for maximum effect, lets keep it a secret from all those stupid people who will insist on perpetuating the mean capitalistic structure of our society. Voila! The next blow to capitalism in France is that the general strike of french transport workers has now turned into something of a national complaint campaign, with every organised labour group protesting against some perceived injustice and even the non-labour movements such as students finding related reasons to smash windows and walk around the streets of Paris, screaming populist slogans.

It is in this general context and I as was comfortably starting to forget the episode of having to high jack a cab to get back from the office and the less-than-comforting prospective of having to do the same on the following day, that my friend says 'est-ce une souris?'. for a moment there, I misunderstood the question, but when I turned around I saw a little grey mouse not any less daring than in Ratatouille.

As I am writing this, I am not sure what is more embarrassing, the fact that I still go to see children's cartoons or the fact that I go to bars which puts to shame Darrell's 'My family and other animals'. So, in all my naivete, I get up and summon our waiter to explain himself. Result: no one moves and I am starting to raise my tone. Finally, the neighbouring table, who, I might add, is having dinner and not just drinking wine like us, explains: 'ils savent, mais ils s'en foutent', which translates to something like 'they know, but they dont really give a !)%£!!'. Ok, clearly. Finally, the waiter slowly moves towards our table, realising that this wierd one (me), is not about to shut it, and explains in what must be one of the most 'convincing' explanations in the world: He comes here from time when it's cold outside, he is not dangerous, it's ok. oh really? HE does?!!!! So this is it, apparently, the general closure of the subway is having an impact on the local mice population, who are cold, figure it, and are coming over to have some Beaujolais as well. I think this will become my benchmark for all the illogical explanations to come...

from the land of petrodollars

'There are no poor people in Bahrain', tells me my Bahraini colleague, as we drive through Manama in her huge 4x4 SUV that reminds me of the hummers and the like which help the fellow canadians back out of their unshovelled driveways. In Bahrain, almost everyone drives a huge truck, but certainly not for a fear of being snow stuck, but for the simple fact that petrol is .25 cents a liter, so why not? The fuzzy and cute ecological considerations are non-considerations in the Gulf where oil is cheap and not about to run out, at least in the near future, and where 'there are no poor people'. As such, the air conditioning becomes a threat to health as it forces the temperatures to drop below any level of comfort and where SUVs are more the rule than the exception. Al Gore would be turning in his grave, if not for the fact that he is not yet dead.

Almost every developing country, and most certainly those that find themselves in the Middle East, can be described in terms of disparities of wealth. In the Gulf, it is not really the disparity of wealth but the abundance of it that is so striking. The diamond jewellery that makes an eye disturbing contrast with the black obayas, the SUV convoys of the 'royal family' right of Kingdom (a recent movie on bombing of a foreigners compound in Riyad), the hotels and restaurants of the Gulf are a whole different story compared to their poor Middle Eastern neighbours, and frankly speaking, compared to 'industrialised' European countries as well.

All in all, it is not the difference between the 'have' and 'have nots' that's striking, but the extent of the 'haves'. The trendy Parisians from the 6th or the 16th arrondissement or the upper east side New Yorkers pale in comparison with the wealth of the Gulf, in part because they just do not have enough of it, in part because they do not possess the skill of showing it. Perhaps only the nouveaux riches Russians can compare with their taste for bling bling and luxury. Having money in the Gulf is not something that one hides, and while in the Western world, one can only make inferrences about one's financial situation by the presence of the latest Vitton or Prada bag (and even there is always a suspicion it was made in Turkey), in the countries of the oil rich Arabian peninsula, no guessing is required.

In a business conference, the royal family and its advisers are allocated very VIP looking rows, which I, as a speaker in this event, for one instant pondered whether I should dare occupy, only to quickly realise I am not quite there yet. No conference proceedings start until every scheduled royal family member arrives and until all their perfume and coffee boys are ready to make their non stop rounds to make this event bearable for the royal family. No one dares to say a word until the local sheikh addresses the common folk with a pre-written speech on something having to do with improving the standards of living for the people of his nation.

The celebrity-like treatments of the 'haves', i.e. the royal families of the Gulf, is a fundamental feature of this region. From their personal coffee and perfume boy, to the VIP table, to the VIP car, to the special falkan shipped for His of Her Excellency from some impoverished African country, no mistakes can be made. According to the latest Forbes ranking of the world's richest individuals, there are 'only' 31 Arab billionaires who carry a combined wealth of $126.6 billion, or $4.1 billion per individual. That seems rather modest compared to the number of millionnaires and billionaires globally, but considering that the Middle East represents only something like 5% of world's population and that the wealth is so tightly controlled, make no mistake about the implications of these figures.

Children are often asked what they would like to become when they grow up, and I think I have now finally found my answer; a sheikh in a Gulf country! Please note that sheikh is a gender sensitive term, and I am not sure whether I would want to be a Sheikha. Let's face it, women in the Gulf, even if they can drive and interact with their professors not only through a screen as is the case in Saudi, and even those lucky few born in royal families, are not in the same league. But this has not stopped the trend adopted by a few tricky parents in this part of the world to name their daughters 'Sheikha'.