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.