Keeping up foreign relations

I have landed myself a platonic A-rab sugar daddy.

Bear with me through the details. To cut a long, tedious story short, 2 months back I found myself having to do what I hate most in life – Admin – albeit for one of my best mates, Peggy Bundy.

The deal with Green Mambas (SA passports - useful only for jamming under a table leg to stop it wobbling) is that visitors to Dubai require the sponsorship of a resident. I soon discovered that my ability to sponsor Pegs (due to arrive on an under-cover work-seeking ‘visit’ and inhabit our long empty kennel in our back yard) was not doable as I am classified as a dependent on my biological Daddio’s resident’s visa.

Anyway, in stepped a knight in shining dish-dash. Let’s call him The Dish. I made a desperate call to the Immigration Office, and instead of issuing advice/instruction, he said he’d come and me on my work premises (warning bell?). Lengthy banter and a wink (unprompted by any hair-flicking, eye-lash fluttering or tears from my side) ensued. Before I could say “Sweet Kebab”, I was being introduced to a former colleague of Dishdash’s, Lieutenant Special K. In full army regalia.

I was frog-marched to the front of the queue at Immigration where the average length of a wait is equivalent to SA Home Affairs. In two shakes of a camel’s tail, I was being handed a double mocha choccachino and a glass of Evian followed by stamped Visit Visa. Double-take: Peggy’s new sponsor is one times A-rab trading company. Ghalas [done and dusted, paid for by Dish].

Apparently it is an embarrassing Western reaction to refuse a gift, or to bubble over with effusive thank-you’s. Both of which I did of course. My dear old mother’s eyes nearly bungeed out of their sockets. Visas ain’t cheap. Who were we to this guy anyway?

We have subsequently met the Dish for coffee and presented him with a coffee-table book of SA trivia to prepare him for his visit to Viva World Cup 2010. He wants to give us a tour of the desert and organize us a free pass into the Burj al Arab hotel to check out the marble work.

I have also in the interim received countless phone calls at ungodly hours from Special K. (Dodgy?) Now, feeling kind of guilty at the thought of using these guys for admin purposes, I had to pay a friendly visit to the guy. The two were comparing notes and K felt dissed.

A few weeks after the Dish / Special K Act of Magnanimity, I popped down for a mandatory cup of tea and a catch-up and the next thing I knew, a banquet was foisted upon me. Traditional pastries, tea and coffee – unfortunately, no shisha. Accompanying the snacks was unbridled flattery. “Oh my Cinderella, why do you never visit?” Blonde hair is the best asset a gal can have in this place.

Yesterday I had to suck it up and return to Immigration (with Peggy in tow) to renew her expiring visa. K launches into an account of our first meeting with Peggy: “My gaaaaad, the first time I saw your friend I thought, she must be cabin crew. I’m getting sick of her, visiting me three times a day, bothering me at my house, security is beginning to become an issue” / “I’m going to Hong Kong next week, what can I get you Cinderella?” He sped us to the Arabic typing office to get our extension form filled out (usually a ball-ache – but he made a call to a friend beforehand), and got us a discount.

The amazing thing about the whole scenario – and Pegs and my mother can confirm – is that not once did this all feel sleazy. In all seriousness. They are genuinely cool human beings with wives and kids and they are dying to know what us expats think of Dubai. K is cool with gooi-ing me a fast-track visa every once in a while. And that translates into me being cool with having the occasional cuppa and a bulldust with the man.