"Know safety, no injury. No safety, know injury." ~Author Unknown
After I first arrived in Dubai and had my stove installed, I was a little wary of cooking. I had bought a gas stove, and at the time, I was not aware that that required having a gas canister installed in my apartment - but it did, so that’s what I got. Although there is a safety on the stove, a button to turn on the stove and a button to turn on the gas, I still had a fear of lighting that stove.
As a child, I had a fear of fire, and the thought of an actual gas canister in my kitchen was a little unsettling. The first time I used my oven, one which must be lit each use, I invited Lee and Caira over to show me how they did it, and to watch and make sure I didn’t blow anything up. Eventually, I got used to using the stove and the oven. I always got a little nervous, but I had the knack of it and I was quite convinced that the whole procedure must be safe.
On the day of my flight, I awoke and turned on the space heaters. There was a bit of a chill that winter morning, and as I prepared to pack and eat breakfast, I put on some pants. Attempting to multi-task, while dressing, I began to look for my phone in order to call Erika to discuss a mundane errand I needed to complete before leaving.
As I began walking from the study to my bedroom, I heard what sounded like an explosion in the building. I decided to wait and see if I heard an alarm. I called Erika, and as I was speaking with Fely, a member of her household, I heard the alarm.
By the time I got off the phone, the alarm was no longer sounding.
I went ahead and put a shirt a what-not on, just in case the alarm came on again. There are two alarm systems in our building, and neither one has proven thus far to be reliable. The first is the general smoke or fire alarm that sounds throughout the hallways, and it took my co-workers and I a good two times to figure out what it was when we first heard it. The second is the individual gas alarm found in each kitchen, in each individual flat. Because of several false alarms on the main system, each of which was unfounded, most of us have gotten in the habit of “waiting” (inside our flats) to find out if anything was really happening or essentially ignoring them. But there was a single time in which all of the individual kitchen gas alarms went off at once, and that did send us from our weekend morning laziness downstairs to find out if we were safe and to find out how to disarm the darned things. We have discussed how scary that is, but it is unfathomable for us to go outside every time an alarm goes off, for they go off so often.
I stepped out into the hallway. There was an acrid smell.
There are several sets of empty, open air “caverns” behind glass doors in our buildings. After careful exploration, we had determined they were there for water pipes, air conditioning piping and other rudimentary framework. As I went into the hallway, I noticed all of these glass doors were open, and one of the little men in the yellow jackets who work in our building, performing maintenance and janitorial tasks, was climbing down a ladder from a ceiling panel. He did not say anything to me, so I assumed they had it all under control. I went back inside.
The alarm sounded again. I heard my neighbor open his door, so I did so as well. We stepped out into the hallway. He told me there had been a gas explosion on the first floor, and the fire department and ambulance were here. He said I could “catch” the action from my front windows. I nodded and said “OK” and went back inside.
I turned off my space heaters, and double-checked the kitchen. All of my cooker and gas buttons were in the “off” position. I sent a text to Erika, my lone neighbor and friend in the building since all others had previously left for holiday, and told her no need to worry, but there had been a small explosion. I heard a knock on my door. It was my neighbor.
“My brother just called me, and the police are asking everyone to evacuate the building,” he told me. I smiled politely.
“OK,” I said calmly. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I went back into the study and stared at my unpacked items. I grabbed my wallet, well, my whole purse, and then my computer, and I set off.
I had never seen as many of my neighbors at once, although I’d say it was a poor representation of all the inhabited flats in our building. It was a holiday, so I hoped that most of the residents were on one. Although the area outside was not packed, it was quite the scene. Indeed there were ambulances, a fire truck, various civil servants and other government folks, as well as families from the building.
After a number of texts and phone calls to Erika, I found Fely on the other side of the building. As she was giving me a brief summary of what happened – from what I gathered the explosion included a man and two children who were propelled by the explosion – Erika called. Everyone was safe. I decided to find out the story, so I kept walking around the building until I could find someone to give it to me. I walked around the building and through the parking garage several times.
Eventually, some people began going inside, and I noticed there were fewer emergency vehicles around the building. I found a woman who was getting the scoop from a security guard. The woman was Indian, probably northern, and so was the security guard, and I could only assume they were speaking Hindi. Either way it wasn’t English. A Middle Eastern woman and her daughter stopped and I decided to as well. She asked what happened, and the first woman began telling us in English.
We talked about the explosion and we talked about the building in general. We discussed how the day before, in our brand new building, some plaster fell from the roof of the parking garage, right through the windshield of a Range Rover, as well as the windshield of another SUV. The second woman said previously she had always lived in a villa, and that this her first time living in an apartment. She pays more to live here as opposed to other apartments because this is one of the government’s buildings – it is supposed to be sturdier, safer, nicer. I knew from experience it clearly was not. The first woman agreed. As we spoke, one of the pipes above us began to shake. The first woman’s son, pointed up and we moved over a little. Someone it said it was fine – an air-conditioning pipe. We just looked at one another.
Here’s what happened that morning:
The man who lived in the flat on the first floor is a doctor, specifically a pediatrician. He had been having some problems with his gas for a few days. He called the gas company. They sent out a "repairman" on Tuesday, Eid-al-Adha. The doctor explained the situation and told the repairman not to try to light the gas, for it was dangerous, and he emphasized this. Apparently, the resident’s mother called, long distance, to wish him Eid Mubarak and what-not, so he briefly stepped out. At that point, the “repairman” lit the gas – and it exploded. Two children were propelled from their location due to the blasts, although supposedly they were not injured - neither was the doctor. The gas repairman went to the hospital with second-degree burns.
The second woman began discussing the reality of Dubai. This is what happens, we all nodded, when “they” pay people to come to the UAE to complete these engineering and construction jobs, and the people are under-trained or unqualified. We were pretty lucky though. Our building was well designed. It was an open design that was centered around the swimming pool, and it had all of those open-airways – the ones behind the gas doors. No chemicals would get “caught” in the building, and there are plenty of places to allow gases to escape. That, was a good. But the swimming pool that leaks into the parking garage, the water heaters that explode, the light fixtures that fall into living rooms, the bathtubs that direct water onto the floor…and gas canisters that explode when the “repairman” comes…these are all the results of living in our brand-new government building in our 21st century desert oasis. What perks.
We were told we could go back inside, but that the gas had been turned off for the day – we would not be able to cook. I walked with the first woman and her son, and we briefly got off the elevator on our floor. She then decided to go down to the first floor and check out the scene. I decided to go with her.
We walked down the hallway and turned the corner. The glass doors had been blown off the wall there. They were lying on the floor to our left. We looked to the right, to the empty space that those glass doors previously hid, and there was the blackened kitchen, with its misshapen kitchen sink, the broken glass and the missing window. Across from that kitchen – an identical one, also missing a window and clearly affected. We were shocked. Thank goodness there was no fire to go with that explosion.
We walked back upstairs and chatted – small talk. We formally introduced ourselves, and discussed India, where I was headed that evening. The woman - Sabina(sp), was from Delhi, and did have plans to go over the holidays, but after the attacks in Mumbai, her husband had second thoughts about the safety of traveling to the subcontinent. We showed one another our addresses, only a few doors apart, and agreed that I would stop by after my return. Although it was under such dubious circumstances, it was surprisingly nice to get to meet one of my neighbors.
I turned and went inside, and triple-checked the space heaters, the stove and the gas, to make sure everything was off. I was hungry. I quickly thought and realized everything I planned to eat that day – real oatmeal with fresh apples and cinnamon, tomato soup – required me to cook using my gas stove. That was a no-go. I had a brief spell of a little disappointment that I would not get to use my gas stove that day. It was quickly replaced by a healthy dose of skepticism and reassurance, and the necessity to pack. That gas canister crisis – at least for now – was over.
After I first arrived in Dubai and had my stove installed, I was a little wary of cooking. I had bought a gas stove, and at the time, I was not aware that that required having a gas canister installed in my apartment - but it did, so that’s what I got. Although there is a safety on the stove, a button to turn on the stove and a button to turn on the gas, I still had a fear of lighting that stove.
As a child, I had a fear of fire, and the thought of an actual gas canister in my kitchen was a little unsettling. The first time I used my oven, one which must be lit each use, I invited Lee and Caira over to show me how they did it, and to watch and make sure I didn’t blow anything up. Eventually, I got used to using the stove and the oven. I always got a little nervous, but I had the knack of it and I was quite convinced that the whole procedure must be safe.
On the day of my flight, I awoke and turned on the space heaters. There was a bit of a chill that winter morning, and as I prepared to pack and eat breakfast, I put on some pants. Attempting to multi-task, while dressing, I began to look for my phone in order to call Erika to discuss a mundane errand I needed to complete before leaving.
As I began walking from the study to my bedroom, I heard what sounded like an explosion in the building. I decided to wait and see if I heard an alarm. I called Erika, and as I was speaking with Fely, a member of her household, I heard the alarm.
By the time I got off the phone, the alarm was no longer sounding.
I went ahead and put a shirt a what-not on, just in case the alarm came on again. There are two alarm systems in our building, and neither one has proven thus far to be reliable. The first is the general smoke or fire alarm that sounds throughout the hallways, and it took my co-workers and I a good two times to figure out what it was when we first heard it. The second is the individual gas alarm found in each kitchen, in each individual flat. Because of several false alarms on the main system, each of which was unfounded, most of us have gotten in the habit of “waiting” (inside our flats) to find out if anything was really happening or essentially ignoring them. But there was a single time in which all of the individual kitchen gas alarms went off at once, and that did send us from our weekend morning laziness downstairs to find out if we were safe and to find out how to disarm the darned things. We have discussed how scary that is, but it is unfathomable for us to go outside every time an alarm goes off, for they go off so often.
I stepped out into the hallway. There was an acrid smell.
There are several sets of empty, open air “caverns” behind glass doors in our buildings. After careful exploration, we had determined they were there for water pipes, air conditioning piping and other rudimentary framework. As I went into the hallway, I noticed all of these glass doors were open, and one of the little men in the yellow jackets who work in our building, performing maintenance and janitorial tasks, was climbing down a ladder from a ceiling panel. He did not say anything to me, so I assumed they had it all under control. I went back inside.
The alarm sounded again. I heard my neighbor open his door, so I did so as well. We stepped out into the hallway. He told me there had been a gas explosion on the first floor, and the fire department and ambulance were here. He said I could “catch” the action from my front windows. I nodded and said “OK” and went back inside.
I turned off my space heaters, and double-checked the kitchen. All of my cooker and gas buttons were in the “off” position. I sent a text to Erika, my lone neighbor and friend in the building since all others had previously left for holiday, and told her no need to worry, but there had been a small explosion. I heard a knock on my door. It was my neighbor.
“My brother just called me, and the police are asking everyone to evacuate the building,” he told me. I smiled politely.
“OK,” I said calmly. “Thank you for letting me know.”
I went back into the study and stared at my unpacked items. I grabbed my wallet, well, my whole purse, and then my computer, and I set off.
I had never seen as many of my neighbors at once, although I’d say it was a poor representation of all the inhabited flats in our building. It was a holiday, so I hoped that most of the residents were on one. Although the area outside was not packed, it was quite the scene. Indeed there were ambulances, a fire truck, various civil servants and other government folks, as well as families from the building.
After a number of texts and phone calls to Erika, I found Fely on the other side of the building. As she was giving me a brief summary of what happened – from what I gathered the explosion included a man and two children who were propelled by the explosion – Erika called. Everyone was safe. I decided to find out the story, so I kept walking around the building until I could find someone to give it to me. I walked around the building and through the parking garage several times.
Eventually, some people began going inside, and I noticed there were fewer emergency vehicles around the building. I found a woman who was getting the scoop from a security guard. The woman was Indian, probably northern, and so was the security guard, and I could only assume they were speaking Hindi. Either way it wasn’t English. A Middle Eastern woman and her daughter stopped and I decided to as well. She asked what happened, and the first woman began telling us in English.
We talked about the explosion and we talked about the building in general. We discussed how the day before, in our brand new building, some plaster fell from the roof of the parking garage, right through the windshield of a Range Rover, as well as the windshield of another SUV. The second woman said previously she had always lived in a villa, and that this her first time living in an apartment. She pays more to live here as opposed to other apartments because this is one of the government’s buildings – it is supposed to be sturdier, safer, nicer. I knew from experience it clearly was not. The first woman agreed. As we spoke, one of the pipes above us began to shake. The first woman’s son, pointed up and we moved over a little. Someone it said it was fine – an air-conditioning pipe. We just looked at one another.
Here’s what happened that morning:
The man who lived in the flat on the first floor is a doctor, specifically a pediatrician. He had been having some problems with his gas for a few days. He called the gas company. They sent out a "repairman" on Tuesday, Eid-al-Adha. The doctor explained the situation and told the repairman not to try to light the gas, for it was dangerous, and he emphasized this. Apparently, the resident’s mother called, long distance, to wish him Eid Mubarak and what-not, so he briefly stepped out. At that point, the “repairman” lit the gas – and it exploded. Two children were propelled from their location due to the blasts, although supposedly they were not injured - neither was the doctor. The gas repairman went to the hospital with second-degree burns.
The second woman began discussing the reality of Dubai. This is what happens, we all nodded, when “they” pay people to come to the UAE to complete these engineering and construction jobs, and the people are under-trained or unqualified. We were pretty lucky though. Our building was well designed. It was an open design that was centered around the swimming pool, and it had all of those open-airways – the ones behind the gas doors. No chemicals would get “caught” in the building, and there are plenty of places to allow gases to escape. That, was a good. But the swimming pool that leaks into the parking garage, the water heaters that explode, the light fixtures that fall into living rooms, the bathtubs that direct water onto the floor…and gas canisters that explode when the “repairman” comes…these are all the results of living in our brand-new government building in our 21st century desert oasis. What perks.
We were told we could go back inside, but that the gas had been turned off for the day – we would not be able to cook. I walked with the first woman and her son, and we briefly got off the elevator on our floor. She then decided to go down to the first floor and check out the scene. I decided to go with her.
We walked down the hallway and turned the corner. The glass doors had been blown off the wall there. They were lying on the floor to our left. We looked to the right, to the empty space that those glass doors previously hid, and there was the blackened kitchen, with its misshapen kitchen sink, the broken glass and the missing window. Across from that kitchen – an identical one, also missing a window and clearly affected. We were shocked. Thank goodness there was no fire to go with that explosion.
We walked back upstairs and chatted – small talk. We formally introduced ourselves, and discussed India, where I was headed that evening. The woman - Sabina(sp), was from Delhi, and did have plans to go over the holidays, but after the attacks in Mumbai, her husband had second thoughts about the safety of traveling to the subcontinent. We showed one another our addresses, only a few doors apart, and agreed that I would stop by after my return. Although it was under such dubious circumstances, it was surprisingly nice to get to meet one of my neighbors.
I turned and went inside, and triple-checked the space heaters, the stove and the gas, to make sure everything was off. I was hungry. I quickly thought and realized everything I planned to eat that day – real oatmeal with fresh apples and cinnamon, tomato soup – required me to cook using my gas stove. That was a no-go. I had a brief spell of a little disappointment that I would not get to use my gas stove that day. It was quickly replaced by a healthy dose of skepticism and reassurance, and the necessity to pack. That gas canister crisis – at least for now – was over.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment