Dubai 07 - Expat sport

A few years ago I went to the annual AFL exhibition game at the Oval in London. West Coast vs Collingwood, perhaps. Frankly I don't remember and I really don't care: Australian Rules just isn't my game. Anyway, it was a beautiful sunny day and the ground was packed with Aussies munching on their ration packs from home - Twisties, Mint Slices and Tim Tams - and sucking down £6 cans of VB. My mate Jon remarked at the time that if you had 8,000 Englishmen drinking beer in the sun together, there'd be fights, no question about that. But Australians are a bit more laid back and so rather than fighting we streaked.

It started off with one galah nuding up and going for a quick sprint to the centre, before getting smacked to the ground by the cops and private security. The crowd took offence to this harsh treatement at a football friendly, and so retaliated by sending other runner onto the ground. Arrested.

The cycle was inevitable, as was the escalation. Before too long coordinated streaks occured with people running on from several directions. Eventually the police just gave up, and people would almost wander onto the field of play, (some of them clothed!) only to be smacked down by the still zealous private security personnel. All the while the PA was going on about how it was prohibited to go onto the pitch. Finally the game was abandoned once the players were outnumbered, and the PA switched to a message of please come onto the pitch, but stay off the centre square.

Naturally we ignored that message, too.

***
So last weekend was the Dubai Rugby 7s, the biggest social event on the calendar here. Everyone goes. Unless it rains. Which it did. All day.

The people who sold their Dh175 tickets to Dh1,000 in the lead up to the weekend must have been laughing as they sat at home watching the rainy event on TV. But I was there with Ben and Darren, two resilient Poms, (Christian, the Kiwi, bailed), and we got there just in time to see the Australians get caned by England in a quarter finals match. We were up in the stands (where it turned out the roof was not a roof but a loose-weave plastic sun shade), surrounded by drunken England supporters.

Now, I'm the first to admit that "aussie aussie aussie oi oi oi" isn't the most cerebral of supporting chants, and I am impressed that English crowds sing show tunes to cheer their players. But in rugby they sing a negro spiritual, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Or more correctly, they sing the chorus. If that much. Sometimes someone will pipe up during a quiet moment with "...iot, coming for to [and now the crowd joins in with] carry me home." It's weird, and you can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swing_Low,_Sweet_Chariot.

Meanwhile, the other pitches at the Dubai Exiles ground (where I play touch rugby, coincidentally) were given over to club games, U21, and the like. Then, after the semis, there was a break on the main pitch for the internationals, and the school girls came out to play. And I have to say, there is nothing funnier than seeing school girls smack each other to the ground in a game of rugby. I hope next year they get to play the Samoans.

Anyway, it was a grand day out that reminded me what it was like to be wet and cold at the same time as well as the importance of proper footwear. Fun and learning in the one day. What more could you want?

Dubai 06 - Queues

I gather, from reading the local paper, that people here are getting a little sick of things. Of course, I'm talking about the Letters page, so it's not just people here! The latest hated topic in my neck of the woods is queue jumping, specifically the drivers who push into a line of traffic, thus holding up two lanes at once (three if you count the guy who tries to squeeze past and stuffs it up).

Now I must really be fitting in because, altough I would never push in in traffic, I did go to the airport the other day and do something similar (and seriously, Dubai Airport is up there with San Rafael when it comes to quality and good layout. Actually, San Raf is better). I wandered up to my gate and came across a queue snaking to the left. Now I figured that if the queue is so stupid as to run to the left rather than straight, the sensible thing to do would be to form a new queue and merge. Sure, it was a queue of one, but it's an airport for crying out loud and seats are assigned. And I have French ancestors.

As luck would have it, I found myself merging in front of two Australians. Talk about confused: Their Anglo-Irish heritage told them to suffer in silence for the time being and bitch about it later, but their Australian upbringing told them to stand up for themselves. The following resulted:

Tall guy to short guy (sote voce hoping I'd hear, get embarrassed and go to the back): Look at this bloke.
Short guy: Huh?
Tall guy: Jumping in like that, etc etc etc

The queue moved on a bit, I continued to politely merge and politely ignore this poorly dressed buffoon, while he tried to wheel his oversized carry-on luggage into my feet. Then it got funny:

Tall guy (slowly and as if he was feeding an actor a line): Queue. Queue. Queue.
If this bloke had any cajones, he'd tap me on the shoulder and say, excuse me mate, go to the back. And I probably would have... considered it. Or at least let him go in front. But talking to yourself saying queue queue queue is just dumb. So finally I turned around, looked him in the eye and said:

Diddums

That went down well and elicited a "you're a blood idiot" (but an idiot in front of you in the line - ha!) and more luggage into ankles. A few more pleasantries came from him and then I eyeballed him a second time and suggested he accept his fate in this life and realise there are bigger issues at stake with a gentle

Get over it, mate

No response. He knew he was beaten by my superior reasoning. I turned back around.

Short guy: oh, he's your mate now. [grunt]

And that was it. I probably really ruined those guys' days and put them in foul moods. And I'm glad, because if you're 1) wound up that tight and 2) stupid enough to join an orderly queue that goes in the wrong direction and not merge yourself with the ready explanation of "I thought it was for something else because it started 3 gates to the side", then you deserve to have a shitty day.

Now I realise some of you might think that makes me a rude, pushy, arrogate queue-jumping bastard, but tell me you've never done it yourself. And really, except in traffic where it's dangerous, I'm with the French and Chinese in their attitude to waiting. Here's another one: I went to the hospital recently for my blood test and x-ray for my residency. I walked in to the place and the first room had a queue of several hundred Indians passively standing around waiting for god knows what. My Australian friend from the airport probably would have assumed that was a queue and meekly joined it. I went past it, found someone in a uniform and asked where to go for a blood test, and was back in the car a few minutes later. And I didn't even jump any queues. The Indian blokes could have been part of a post-Modernist art exhibition, or trying out for the world stand-silently-in-a-room record. (On the other hand, Indian blokes do seem to like standing around in groups...) Life's too short to follow the crowd - make your own queue.

Dubai 05 - My place

Dubai is made up of Deira (north of the Creek, a brackish body of water that disects the city and has only three crossings), Bur Dubai and all the stuff between it and Jebel Ali. Deira is a mysterious place I never go to unless I need a blood test for immigration purposes, Bur Dubai is where I work, and Sheik Zayed Road (SZR) is the main artery beween it and all the stuff on the way to Jebel Ali, including The Springs.

Now, I'm sharing a villa with a South African bloke called Chris out in The Springs. This is a really fake little suburb about half an hour down SZR from Bur Dubai. All the houses are identical and it's a bit like being in Legoland. It's a gated suburb or compound (ie, a bloke operates a boom on the only road in or out, noting down the licence plates of all cars, including the residents, for reasons unknown. Actually, I think the guy's a trainspotter, but the total loack of railways here has reduced the poor fellow to carspotting), and actually there are 11 (?) Springs compounds ingeniously named Springs 1 through Springs 11. I'm in 2. Next to me is Meadows 6, another Legoland compound, for people with a bit more money. Out the back of M6 is Emirates Hills which faces onto a small man-made lake, and this is where the really rich live.

How do I know they're rich? By the cars of course. Parked outside the mansions are gleaming new BMW X5s, and Land Rovers, with number plates like "80". And these are parked on the street because the garage is housing the Bugatti. It's pretty flash. Out in the grotty old springs it's just SUVs with number plates like D 456245 - nothing special at all.

It's come on since the satellite took the above photos, mind you. Everything is planted and green - I'll post some more photos later - and not just sand. It's nice and quiet and relaxed out here, which beats the hell out of living in the 24h construction site that is Bur Dubai...

I really have no ending for this post. Sorry.

Dubai 04 - Copywatch

One of the great things about developing countries is the black market for counterfeit goods. The ones that you see the most are DVDs, watches and handbags.

There are various moral and legal issues associated with this, of course, but on the whole I say it’s a good thing. Take watches: no one gets hurt by this trade. The prestige watch companies have the attitude that a person who’ll buy an Omega would never buy a fake Omega, and a person who buys a fake would never buy the real thing. And it’s pretty obvious why – a real Omega costs around AU$3,000+ here, and a fake one is very obviously fake – bezels freewheel, designs are ones you’ve never seen in the catalogue, the gold doesn’t look like gold, that sort of thing.

I’d’ve thought it would be the same with handbags – what is a little padlock on a Hermes bag becomes a Chubb security lock spray painted gold on the copy – but apparently the bag companies are getting a little dark at this sincerest form of flattery.

But DVDs are what I’m in the market for. This is definitely a zero-sum game with studios losing out big time, but it serves them right for not embracing new technology and coming up with a way of distributing their product more cheaply. Meanwhile, quality films from the independent studios don’t really get a look-in, so it’s not like you’re doing a struggling artist out of his dinner. And really, if I chose to watch Snakes On A Plane, there’s no way in hell I’m going to pay even the rental price to do so. And besides, how does going to the cinema or Virgin compare to the thrill of The Deal.

It goes like this: after deciding you need to add to your video library, you head down to Karama and just wander along. Within about 10 seconds some friendly chap and fifteen or so of his mates converge on you and ask if you’d like a “copywatch” (no thanks), sunglasses (no thanks), a handbag (for the ladies – no thanks), or DVDs (yes please!)

And now the adventure begins. If you’ve said yes to the wrong guy you get taken around the corner to the spot under some stairs, stopping first at a fire hose-reel cupboard to retrieve a plastic shopping bag full of pirated movies, while your man’s mate acts as a lookout for the fuzz.

If you say yes to the right bloke, though, or to someone selling copywatches or handbags, you get led away to a shop (eg, women’s ware), which is possibly located some distance away, and/or up several flights of rickety stairs in a residential building, down the back of the shop to the secret door and up some stairs into the attic where they store their inventory of undergarments and dodgy goods. You might even meet an American getting ripped off. The first time you do this you feel a little dodgy, like you’re doing a drug deal, or something.

But then you forget all that as you peruse their wares. Typically blockbuster fare or sometimes TV series. A lot of the goods come out of Europe so the cover might by written in French or Russian, but most comes from China and the copy on the cover is alone almost worth the purchase price. Usually the précis on the back is about the film – but not always – and usually it makes sense – but not always. This is from Cinderella Man:

The big recession of American industry is period, man cloth gram of New York pull the match gram for the sake of living,For feeding the family to attend the boxing match to acquire the cash award, did not thought of to therefore become the generation boxing champion.

The quality is generally good, unless you get a 5-in-1 disc, in which case the video is rotten, or you get one that's still in the cinemas and you're more likely to get a bootleg (ie, camcorder in the cinema) rather than a pirate (ie, copied from the master). In this case, the sound will blow and probably get increasingly out of sync with the action as the film goes on. This can ruin an otherwise damned awful film like Superman or X-men III.

Probably the best thing about pirate movies, in this country at least, is the lack of bewildering censorship. I recently picked up a (legal) copy of Enter The Dragon, to expand my Bruce Lee collection, and was stunned by what was left out. For example, Lee fights O'Hara and kicks his arse. The bit where O'Hara smashes two bottles together and charges Lee is completely cut and suddenly the guy is dead on the floor. Han says he deserved it for his treachery and you're thinking "WTF?" Or Li fights Bolo and, mid-fight, Bolo's suddenly lying on ground, deader than A-line flares with pockets in the knees. Or deader than the continuity in Goldmember which was on TV the other night, minus the jokes (eg, the entire Japanese twins scene. I turned off after that.)

So it'll be back to Karama for me.

Dubai 03 - Jumeira Jane

Dubai is full of people from all over the world and so it's a great opportunity to mix with different nationalities. I have friends here from the Middle East, India, South Africa, NZ, USA, UK and Europe. Not so Jumeira Jane.

Jumeira Jane is the archetypal spoilt housewife who has suddenly found herself relatively well off. Out here with Hubby (who we can assume is on a good wicket – Jumeira is kind of like Armadale in Melbourne, Double Bay in Sydney, New Farm in Brisbane, and I can’t think of a London equivalent, but JJ and her friends are strong in number in the Springs, too), she finally has time to do all those things she’s always wanted to. Like flaunt her relative wealth in the most tactless ways possible.

For example, Jumeira Jane doesn’t do the shopping herself, that’s too far beneath her now she’s suddenly near the top of the social ladder. And obviously the maid can’t do it on her own, (she’d have to drive), so they both go to the shops, JJ points to what she wants, and the maid loads the cart. Sometimes poor Jane can’t afford a maid, so she gets one of the store clerks to help her with that big heavy trolley instead. And there’s no way she’ll load those bags into the SUV herself! Bags of shopping are like kids: JJ pays for them, but the maid looks after them.

(There’s currently a bit of a stink in the Letters to the Editor of the local rag: One JJ’s maid was refused entry to the country club and JJ had to look after her kids herself. She claimed racism as the maid was part of the family after eight years; everyone claims she ought to look after her own little terrors and no one wants the club overrun by screaming bastards while the parents are off playing golf.)

Jumeira Jane is typically British and, I think, would be right at home on Lamma Island in Hong Kong, or the Costa del Sol in Spain, hanging out with other poms and complaining about the food: “I’m not eating that foreign muck. I want fish and chips and a lager.” Don’t get me wrong, not all Brits here are like this, just like not all Americans are like the stereotypical American tourist, and not all Aussies are unsophisticated yobbos. But there are enough of them to warrant a stereotype of their own and a catchy name. And it’s not an exclusively British thing, either: but the Brits outnumber the other Western expats, and I don’t think the non-Westerns are as ostentatious about their money.

It’s a shame, really, because I think they’re missing out on a great experience by mixing with their own pretty much exclusively. It’s important to assimilate, if only to get something other than mindless rants in the Letters To The Editor pages of the local paper. (I seem to be doing a stirling job of integrating. Just last night Ben told me how well I was doing when he said: “I can’t believe you did that, you drive like a bloody Arab!”)

* * * WARNING: DESCENT INTO POLITICALLY INCORRECT RANT * * *
* * * Do not read the following if you are easily offended by other people's views * * *

And picking up on the Letters To The Ed thing: is it me, or do Muslims go on a bit too much about the things they don’t like? Like racism:

1. The paper publishes an ad for a skin whitening cream (ie, anti-spray-on-tan) and it's racist.
   
2. A British MP recommends a debate on veils and suddenly he’s a racist.
   
3. If you're a Westerner living over here you need to be respectful of local customs, but if you're a Muslim in the West, local customs (and sometimes laws) are irrelevant.
   

Or the issue of violence:

1. The Pope, in a lecture on theology, quotes some dead guy in what is essentially a footnote, and suddenly Muslims the world over demand his death and kill a nun because he dared to suggest they were violent (which he didn’t).
   
2. I write a personal opinion on a barely known blog, and I’m forced to wonder if I should.
   
3. America invades Iraq and it goes pear shaped - howls of invective from the Muslim world … protests from the West. A suicide bomber takes out a bus full of commuters – howls of invective from the West… silence (complicity?) from the Muslim world.
   

Here's my thought for the day: Is Islam a peaceful religion? If so, are Muslims peace loving? If so, why don't they write better letters to the ed? And WHY do they constantly bring EVERYTHING back to the issue of religion? Skin whitening cream is NOT a subtle attempt to overthrow Islam in the Middle East!!!

* * * END OF RANT * * *

And end of this post.

Dubai 02 - Driving

You know, I think hazard lights go by a different name here. Not sure what, exactly, but it could be any of:

• Parking lights (watch out, I’m reverse parking, this could be dangerous)
• Waiting lights (watch out, I’m double parked waiting for someone. I could do anything, this could be dangerous)
• Going slowly lights (watch out, I’m travelling at or below the speed limit, this could be dangerous)
• Going fast lights (watch out, I’m travelling above the speed limit, and you’re in the damned way, this could be dangerous)
• Indicators (watch out, I’m thinking about changing lanes or turning a corner, or maybe I’ll keep going straight, who knows? This could be dangerous)

Which segues nicely to the next observation: very few people seem to understand indicators here. Hardly anyone understands headlights (I can see where I’m going, so I don’t really need them) and, by all accounts, no one understands driving in the rain (omigod, there’s a puddle, better swerve wildly to avoid it, but I’ll still go really fast on this slicked up road that’s been accumulating oily residues for 10 months).

As for sharing the road with others, cutting in is an art form here. Let’s say you’re a car length behind a car in the slow lane and you’re closing in. Local thrill seekers will undertake you and then cut in, missing the slow car by millimetres and relying on you to ease off to avoid a major accident.

So basically, apart from the hazard lights, this is a city of Commodore drivers.

***

And speaking of cars, one of the satellite channels here is playing re-runs of Knight Rider. You know, I never realised how … un-macho that show was. And I’m not talking about David Hasselhoff – sure, we’ve all seen the photos of The Hoff in the buff cuddling puppies, The Hoff in the rain tearing off his frilly shirt, or The Hoff in a bubble bath wearing a cowboy hat – oh no, he was The Man in the show. I’m not even talking about his boss, Devon. He proved his blokey credentials despite his effeminate English accent by lovin’-from-beyond-the-grave in The Ghost and Mrs Muir.

Oh no, I mean the car itself, Kitt.

It’s a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am with a steering wheel straight out of a commercial airliner and a dashboard to match. It’s sleek and black. Everything about it looks boss. It looks like it should have a throaty roar from a V8 engine with no muffler. Instead, it whirrs. It sounds like a hover-car from Star Wars. My vacuum cleaner makes a better noise than that thing. It just screams golf cart with after-sales trans am panels.

And then it speaks. “Ooh, Michael, should we drive around and scare those nasty looking villains in their tight T-shirts, or shall we go and get a latte?” It should be more like: “YO! Get that damned perm in the car and lets RIDE, MUTHA-F*CKA! Let’s kick some A-S-S!” I reckon the producers were going for an accent that suggested refined sophistication: a fine wine and classical music sort of voice. Instead, it's shandy and Rick Astley.

Dubai 01

23/7/2006

Three months ago I didn’t expect I’d be spending the Friday afternoon before last relaxing in the pool of the Radisson SAS hotel in Muscat, Oman. Yep, to quote Ferris: Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.

For anyone who’s missed the news, I’ve taken a job in Dubai. I was planning to stick around at my last firm, really I was, but when someone phones you up and gives you a chance to work on world class buildings in the world’s biggest boom town for several times your current salary and asks that you can help make the planet’s least sustainable city a little more so, it’s hard to say no. And so, seven weeks after my phone rang, I rocked up to work in 40°C heat and got to it. My very first project is of a scale that you wouldn’t even dream of in Australia. But it’s confidential, so I can’t tell you about it.

And six days later I was in Oman helping out on projects there, too.

Anyway, the Middle East, this part of it at least, is crazy. (Other parts are crazy, too, but in a different way.) The world’s tallest building is going up down the road. Taipei 101 (current record holder, I believe) is so big it’s increasing earthquake activity in that city. The Burj Dubai is going to be bigger. Europe has a crane shortage because of this town (the machines, not the birds. I don’t know how Europe’s avian crane population is going, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they all came here too). It’s the building concepts that make this place nuts, though. Integrated wind turbines, no straight lines, buildings so skinny you wonder how the lifts can fit in, that sort of thing. But I’ll not bore you with shop talk.

Dubai seems to have taken the bits it likes from other places all over the world and combined them into a unique experience. So, cheap labour from India and the Philippines, skilled labour from the UK, the Antipodes, and the occasional European, driving skills from the Melbourne School of Taxi Driving, cars from Japan, Germany (and even Australia), and, my favourite, electrical appliance plugs from Europe (ie, two round pins) but electrical sockets from the UK (3 square pins).

I’m staying in a (company provided) serviced apartment at the moment which reminds me a little of some places I’ve stayed in China (and Sydney’s north shore), only the guys who clean it do a much better job: the bed has good hospital corners, the extract fans are always left on to suck out the cool air, the AC is turned down to compensate, and they even turn on the vacuum cleaner when I’m there so I think they’re vacuuming. It also comes with a one-size-fits-all saucepan (12”, perfect for boiling an egg), a blunt knife (for cooking safely), a dinner set for four and two glasses (for entertaining people who aren’t very thirsty). There’s even a gym and a pool, and it’s close to work, so all up, it’ll do just fine until I find somewhere better.

Finally, I thought I’d better dispel a few myths before signing off:

• It’s not that hot. 42° today, but not very humid, so it’s probably more comfortable than Brisbane in summer. And the AC is so fierce I often need to step out just to thaw out.
• There are no anti-women rules like in Saudi (well, there might be some, but they’re obscure if there are). Women can drive, walk around unaccompanied, and they don’t need to wear veils.
• It is not illegal to drink alcohol.
• Nearly everyone speaks English (or a heavily accented dialect thereof).

Right, that’s it. Nothing really to report on the sights and sounds around town: it’s too hot to go sightseeing on weekends, and a mall is a mall is a mall (unless it has a ski slope in it, which The Mall Of The Emirates does). (Besides, this place was little more than a hamlet 30 years ago, it’s not like it has any history.)