Ah, the festive season. Over here it starts with Diwali, the Indian new year, followed by Eid, the Muslim remembrance of Abraham nearly killing his son, then Christmas, the old pagan midwinter festival hijacked by the Christians.
Perhaps because of the large number of westerners here, or perhaps because of it's inherent commercialism, Christmas seems to dominate in terms of decorations. Thankfully, the pretty colours and annoying music don't start in September as they do in the west (or just after Easter as they do in Australia), but they make up for that by going all in. Shops, and I mean all shops, torture their customers and hapless employees with looped tapes of really shit music. No wonder suicide rates are so high over Christmas. It's nothing to do with lonliness, it's all about the lamentable tunes.
Meanwhile, decorations are everywhere. And real decorations, too: Christmas trees, signs that say "Merry Christmas", and nativity scenes. Yes, in a Muslim country they have nativity scenes because (in Dubai at least), they are tolerant of other cultures. Compare this to the idiocy seen in the West where councils can't put up decorations, nativity scenes are banned, and you can only say "happy holidays" or "seasons greetings" lest you offend someone. Personally, I think the only people to ever get offended are the wet lefty do-gooder apologists who think they know what's best for others. I'm pretty sure all the Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Sikhs, Animists, Jews, Pagans and Jedis living in countries like Australia or the UK or France accepts Christmas as part of the culture and don't get offended. Well I say, if you don't like it, get on a boat and leave. Then the Navy can do some target practice.
And here's another recent example. Sarah's school (run by a bunch of poms) put on a Christmas concert called "Winter Wonderland" (and not, oddly, "Taking the Christ out of Christmas"). This consisted of little kids singing Christmas songs, but not carols. (Santa Claus good, Three Wise Men bad. In fact, Sarah was nervous about one song as it referred to a Parson Brown, as that has religious connotations.)
Between songs individual kids would get up and tell the audience about Christmas in different parts of the world. The best part was the pommy kid: "the most important character... at Christmas time is Santa Claus." No jokes! It was all I could do not to shout out "what about Jesus?"
Once the kids were off the stage things got positively weird. Some guys dressed as snowmen, but resembling Santa's bovver boys - kind of a cross between A Clockwork Orange and Munch's The Scream - wandered onto stage and started to sing. Lucky the kids were gone or they'd have nightmares for years.
Back in the general population, though, there was one Christmas theme that didn't quite make sense: Wafi (a shopping centre) ran the following radio ads: "In the magical world of Narnia [mmm, ok], the lion awakes with a mighty roar [check]. In her castle, the Ice Queen knows she is defeated [check]. The woodland animals rejoice [check]. Children visit Santa in his secret grotto [WTF? Santa in a secret grotto? How does Santa figure in an alegorical story about the reincarnation of Christ?]..."
* * *
Christmas itself was okay as far as that kind of thing goes. Sarah's parents were over so we went to the park with a picnic after calling home to speak to the family. I called during the present opening ceremony so everyone seemed keen to get off the phone and get back to it, but I managed to cover everyone, so that was good. I might go back next year, though...
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Weird Sports
Deep Water Soloing
Step one: hire local fisherman to take you out to the cliffs off Dibba.
Step three: jump
Step one: hire local fisherman to take you out to the cliffs off Dibba.
Step two: climb cliffs
Step three: jump
Awesome...
Unfortunately, we didn't take photos of the really good cliffs and climbing, but I'll be going back so stay tuned...
Meanwhile, the Rugby 7s are on again this weekend and this time it's warm and sunny. It's sold out, the rugby was good, beer cost Dh240 for 12 cans (around AU$60!!!) but everyone had a grand day out. Unfortunately, I didn't take a camera. So stiff, you'll just have to come and see it for yourself.
Culture Vulture
One criticism a lot of people level at the UAE is that it lacks culture. Today I'm going to demonstrate that that is not the case, as in the last month I have experienced many fine examples of a culture much more sophisticated than the beer drinking expat pasttimes most people indulge in.
First up, Sarah and I have started going to free classical music concerts. These are varied affairs, with the first one being a piano recital by Sonya Bach.
Now, with a name like that, you'd think you'd be on a winner, but unfortunately the South Korean miss Bach was, while technically proficient at hitting the keys, very heavy on the pedal and had such weird interpretations of well known pieces that I couldn't recognise them. That didn't bother the audience though, who clapped like madmen and wouldn't stop, so she wound up trotting out about six times and subjecting us to two encores! The gall of some people, really! I always thought an encore was something you were invited to do, not just a live version of a hidden track to give yourself more time on stage.
Our second concert was much better, especially because Sarah was playing in it. She's in the Dubai Philharmonic Orchestra, a grandly titled ensemble of professionals and amateurs who play for kicks. This time they were playing with the Australian Jazz Quartet, which implies a sense of government sponsorship, and these guys had arranged some Mozart peices with a jazz flavour. They called it Jazz Meets Mozart, and it was Jazz Meets Mozart in an Ali Meets Foreman kind of way, or perhaps it should have been called Jazz Waylays Mozart In A Dark Alley And Leaves His Battered Body Behind The Dumpster.
Again, there were some examples of unrecognisable classics, but there was a great latin interpretation of something famous whose name I can't remember, but the comic highlight was this Swiss guy who sang the bassoon part of the Bassoon Concerto. Now, if he'd sang it in a classical style, maybe it would've worked. But he sang in scat (doobie-doobie do wah). People in the audience were openly laughing at this poor bastard. I guess it's technically tricky to do it, but it really just didn't work.
Number three was a quartet from Hungary at another free concert. These guys were good, but I can't rember their name...
That's about it for culture. Next up: sport.
First up, Sarah and I have started going to free classical music concerts. These are varied affairs, with the first one being a piano recital by Sonya Bach.
Now, with a name like that, you'd think you'd be on a winner, but unfortunately the South Korean miss Bach was, while technically proficient at hitting the keys, very heavy on the pedal and had such weird interpretations of well known pieces that I couldn't recognise them. That didn't bother the audience though, who clapped like madmen and wouldn't stop, so she wound up trotting out about six times and subjecting us to two encores! The gall of some people, really! I always thought an encore was something you were invited to do, not just a live version of a hidden track to give yourself more time on stage.
Our second concert was much better, especially because Sarah was playing in it. She's in the Dubai Philharmonic Orchestra, a grandly titled ensemble of professionals and amateurs who play for kicks. This time they were playing with the Australian Jazz Quartet, which implies a sense of government sponsorship, and these guys had arranged some Mozart peices with a jazz flavour. They called it Jazz Meets Mozart, and it was Jazz Meets Mozart in an Ali Meets Foreman kind of way, or perhaps it should have been called Jazz Waylays Mozart In A Dark Alley And Leaves His Battered Body Behind The Dumpster.
Again, there were some examples of unrecognisable classics, but there was a great latin interpretation of something famous whose name I can't remember, but the comic highlight was this Swiss guy who sang the bassoon part of the Bassoon Concerto. Now, if he'd sang it in a classical style, maybe it would've worked. But he sang in scat (doobie-doobie do wah). People in the audience were openly laughing at this poor bastard. I guess it's technically tricky to do it, but it really just didn't work.
Number three was a quartet from Hungary at another free concert. These guys were good, but I can't rember their name...
That's about it for culture. Next up: sport.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Via Ferrata
So I got all geared up for a via ferrata trip, which is where you traverse a cliff clipped in to a permanently fixed steel cable. So far, so easy, but throw in zip lines across an 80m canyon, added to my paralysing fear of hanging over a void (which is why I hate climbing overhangs) and I had to bail.
Which is a pity considering the 5 hour trip out, the one hour wait while one of the guys who was late to the Oman border caught in a queue of 6 busloads of holiday makers (it was the Eid weekend), and another half hour wait while the same guy realised at the last minute he'd forgotten his pulley and had to go back down the hill to get it.
The problem for me was really the zip line thing. Ben bailed first, freaked by the cliffs, but I got to the zip line. And my god, what a sight.
Which is a pity considering the 5 hour trip out, the one hour wait while one of the guys who was late to the Oman border caught in a queue of 6 busloads of holiday makers (it was the Eid weekend), and another half hour wait while the same guy realised at the last minute he'd forgotten his pulley and had to go back down the hill to get it.
The problem for me was really the zip line thing. Ben bailed first, freaked by the cliffs, but I got to the zip line. And my god, what a sight.
It was really hairy. I checked a couple of times after bailing that I'd made the right decision, and then I checked the photos later as well, and I made the right decision. It was too much for me at this point. Perhaps if I'd done zip lines before, perhaps over the sea and not so high, but for your first experience to be so scary one of the organisers bails, well, that's pretty scary.
But the scenery was beautiful, so it was worth a trip out. Unfortunately, the photo-uploader isn't working too well, so you'll have to imagine it, or check out Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/photos.php?id=784253645
Kuala Lumpur
I followed up my trip to India with another flying visit to Singapore (leave Thursday night, arrive Friday morning, leave Saturday afternoon) to hand over the biggest cheque I've ever written. As a result, I now own 1/3 of a very expensive flat in the heart of Singapore. (A 5 minute walk to Robertson Quay, for those who know Sing, and that's only another 5 minute walk to Clarke Quay, one of the hippest parts of town.)
The following weekend I was back, but this time carried on to Kuala Lumpur to see my parents who were stopping off there rather than Dubai on their way home from Europe. (The Dubai stopover was prohibitively expensive, so fair call.) KL has come along a bit since I was last there in 2002 (see previous posts) with grand new malls, cleaner streets, and the removal of the smell of raw sewage that I remember so fondly from last time.
We were staying at the Westin Hotel, a comfortable but ultimately colour-by-numbers affair that was centrally located and overlooked the Petronas Towers.
The following weekend I was back, but this time carried on to Kuala Lumpur to see my parents who were stopping off there rather than Dubai on their way home from Europe. (The Dubai stopover was prohibitively expensive, so fair call.) KL has come along a bit since I was last there in 2002 (see previous posts) with grand new malls, cleaner streets, and the removal of the smell of raw sewage that I remember so fondly from last time.
We were staying at the Westin Hotel, a comfortable but ultimately colour-by-numbers affair that was centrally located and overlooked the Petronas Towers.
The great thing about this trip, other than seeing my folks for the first time in nine months, was that I got to do some touristy things I missed out on last time. Like go to the telecoms tower, see batik getting made in a traditional tourist trap, and see the elephant sanctuary.
Malaysia still has elephants, but these are large creatures that like to eat so often encroach on farm land. This is not ideal (if you're a farmer), so the poor creatures are captured and relocated and at some point seem to pass through a sanctuary in the Genting Highlands.
Now all that's very cool, the sanctuary is nice and the elephants are well treated. But then come the tourists. In this case, a school trip from Australia, and these little bastards smelt around 100 times worse than the elephants. My god, those little f*ckers smelt as bad as Indian labourers in Dubai. Seriously. It made me ashamed to be Australian.
Anyway, our full day guided tour also involved a trip to the Batu caves and, once again, I was too embarrassed to buy the souvenir I wanted to get last time: a T-shirt of the caves with my face superimposed in the middle.
The Batu caves are pretty cool and involve over 200 steps to get to them. These steps were clearly built before the invention of codes, as they have a rise of about 500mm in places and are possibly the most strenuous I've encountered. Mum sensibly passed up the opportunity to haul herself to the top, cover herself in perspiration and then get subjected to some infuriatingly bad Bollywood music on a continual loop at the top of the stairs. Once you get to the top, you go into the cave and it opens out to a sky cave... with a smooth concrete floor.
Getting back to KL, Mum and I went to the markets to buy genuine copies of various goods, from ties to belts to DVDs. (I couldn't pass up every Jet Li film condensed to 5 discs for MR55. I was assured they had subtitles, only to discover they are Chinese subtitles. Then again, who needs dialogue in a Jet Li film?) Then we went for a foot massage...
The previous week I'd had a massage at Changi airport: it was a clean and subdued place, with a nice young Thai lady who rubbed my legs. The parlour in KL looked as bad as you're thinking, and the nice young Thai lady was in fact an old Malaysian crone who seemed intent on going above the knee. As a result, it was somewhat hard to relax, especially with Mum on the neighbouring table laughing every time I expressed surprise: such as when the crone got me in a headlock then cracked my neck. What part of "foot massage" didn't she get?
After that, it was back to Singapore to wait for a day for a connecting flight, bought some souvenirs in Chinatown (another touristy thing I had never done before) and then home to Dubai. And my sixth flight in three weeks where I got to load up on movies... (see my other blog, link on top right of page.)
Monday, September 10, 2007
Nick's Food Tour - India
As my eyes wept, my nose ran and my ears started to ring, I realised that perhaps I should not have let myself be goaded by Arshad into eating the green chilli.
It was, however, possibly the best Indian meal I've ever had (and it thankfully did not degenerate into a murderous argument over the bill...). Luckily, I'd tasted everything before I seared the tastebuds off my tongue.
The restaurant was Kababs and Kurries at the ITC Grand Central in Mumbai. Despite the rather cavalier attitude to spelling, the food was excellent and not a chicken tikka marsala or other Euro-Indian dish in sight. The prawn kebab was subtle in flavour and made out of prawns the size of a baby's fist. The chicken was barbecued perfectly and went well with the yoghurt and the lamb was something else. Specifically, it was goat. It seems "lamb" is Indian for "goat meat".
Now, the fish (in kokunut kurry) was a little bland, but that may have been because I had most of it after trying the green chilli. (Fortunately, one bite was not enough to liquify my entire digestive system, but there were a few moments the next day when I felt like I'd been given a prostate exam by a doctor who confused the KY with Tiger Balm.)
* * *
Mumbai is a city of contrasts. Largely, it's the contrast between poverty and squallor, but you can also see that some people earn a rupee or two. The hotel, for example, was easily 5-star, I saw million dollar display homes, and I thnk I saw a car without dents. But the rest is raw. Like sewage. Particularly the sewage.
The grand old buildings look as worn as you could expect after 60 years of no maintenance, new buildings look old, and buildings under construction look like they may be under deconstruction. The lucky ones live in these. The not so lucky live in shanty towns on the footpaths, adn the really poor bastards live under tarpaulins on the side of the road. Suddenly I understoof why they flock to places like Dubai to work hard and live 8-12 to a room for scant pay: it's probably absolute luxury to them. It really makes you appreciate what you've got.
Children play on the streets in Mumbai, then grow up to play on the streets some more, only in a car. Traffic here is nuts. Not only is it one of the few places where you can still share the road with a bullock pulling a cart, but the bullock is actually the best driver around. I think Indian drivers have some kind of echo-location as they don't use their eyes at all, relying instead on constant honking. Once again, Dubai doesn't seem so bad.
It was, however, possibly the best Indian meal I've ever had (and it thankfully did not degenerate into a murderous argument over the bill...). Luckily, I'd tasted everything before I seared the tastebuds off my tongue.
The restaurant was Kababs and Kurries at the ITC Grand Central in Mumbai. Despite the rather cavalier attitude to spelling, the food was excellent and not a chicken tikka marsala or other Euro-Indian dish in sight. The prawn kebab was subtle in flavour and made out of prawns the size of a baby's fist. The chicken was barbecued perfectly and went well with the yoghurt and the lamb was something else. Specifically, it was goat. It seems "lamb" is Indian for "goat meat".
Now, the fish (in kokunut kurry) was a little bland, but that may have been because I had most of it after trying the green chilli. (Fortunately, one bite was not enough to liquify my entire digestive system, but there were a few moments the next day when I felt like I'd been given a prostate exam by a doctor who confused the KY with Tiger Balm.)
* * *
Mumbai is a city of contrasts. Largely, it's the contrast between poverty and squallor, but you can also see that some people earn a rupee or two. The hotel, for example, was easily 5-star, I saw million dollar display homes, and I thnk I saw a car without dents. But the rest is raw. Like sewage. Particularly the sewage.
The grand old buildings look as worn as you could expect after 60 years of no maintenance, new buildings look old, and buildings under construction look like they may be under deconstruction. The lucky ones live in these. The not so lucky live in shanty towns on the footpaths, adn the really poor bastards live under tarpaulins on the side of the road. Suddenly I understoof why they flock to places like Dubai to work hard and live 8-12 to a room for scant pay: it's probably absolute luxury to them. It really makes you appreciate what you've got.
Children play on the streets in Mumbai, then grow up to play on the streets some more, only in a car. Traffic here is nuts. Not only is it one of the few places where you can still share the road with a bullock pulling a cart, but the bullock is actually the best driver around. I think Indian drivers have some kind of echo-location as they don't use their eyes at all, relying instead on constant honking. Once again, Dubai doesn't seem so bad.
Iran 01
For a country where half the population is under 30, the flight to Iran certainly had a high proportion of old people. But no matter, myself and Sarah were on our way to one third of George Bush’s “axis of evil”. After an hour’s delay, while the Iran Air ground crew siphoned jet fuel from another plane, we got the announcement to board.
Once all the women had fixed their head scarves in place and we’d boarded the plane, I heard the first safety announcement that didn’t waste time with life jackets, then an hour later we hit Esfahan airport, where the Duty Free specialises in kitchen appliances from Wherethefuckistan, and where a guy collects your baggage tags in a make-work scheme the Emiratis would be proud of. Then it was into the car to speed along the highway running through a pretty desolate and grey landscape that reminded me a bit of footage from the Yugoslav war.
But eventually that gave way to a beautiful streetscape of trees, shaded paths, parks, and wonderfully decorated mosques. Our eyes hadn’t even had a chance to stop boggling before we were delivered to the Abassi Hotel, built around an old caravanserai, that is an opulent, old world sort of place with a large central courtyard that is filled with al fresco dining by night, and where the staff wear the kind of livery that convinces you to give the bellhop a large tip. And thus Sarah found out the value of the currency when she tried to tip the porter IR2,000, or AU$0.20. For some reason the central bank allowed the currency to collect quite a few zeroes over the years and as a result I was soon a millionaire. AED500 gets you IR1.25m, and buying souvenirs feels more like negotiating the price on a house in Double Bay.
* * *
Apart from the mosques, Esfahan reminds me of Mendoza in Argentina. Maybe it’s the tree lined boulevards, the perfect summer climate, or roads so chaotic you’re never actually sure which side of the road people are supposed to drive on. Or maybe it’s the vague sensation that you’ve been transported back to the seventies, when men and women competed as equals in Biggest Hair competitions. There are so many John Travolta (circa Saturday Night Fever) look-alikes, it’s a wonder his portrait doesn’t hang beside Khomeini’s!
Speaking of hair, the distribution of eyebrows in this country is quite uneven, particularly among the women. Some ladies have two, some just have one, but most seem to have none at all so they draw them on, giving themselves a permanent look of surprise. Maybe there’s a Conservation of Hair law going on here, whereby hair can neither be created nor destroyed, just redistributed among the population, with any surpluses ending up in the moustaches of waiters. (Which reminds me, Super Mario isn’t an Italian labourer, he’s the head waiter at the Abassi Hotel.)
Our first place to visit was Naqsh-e Jahan, renamed to Imam Square, the second largest square in the world after Tiananmen in Beijing. This is ringed by a bazaar (well, souvenir shops) and has stunning Imam Mosque at the south end, the formerly private Sheihk Lotfollah Mosque to the east, Ali Qapu Palace on the west, and the entrance to Bazar-e Bozorg, an everyday bazaar to the north.
Once all the women had fixed their head scarves in place and we’d boarded the plane, I heard the first safety announcement that didn’t waste time with life jackets, then an hour later we hit Esfahan airport, where the Duty Free specialises in kitchen appliances from Wherethefuckistan, and where a guy collects your baggage tags in a make-work scheme the Emiratis would be proud of. Then it was into the car to speed along the highway running through a pretty desolate and grey landscape that reminded me a bit of footage from the Yugoslav war.
But eventually that gave way to a beautiful streetscape of trees, shaded paths, parks, and wonderfully decorated mosques. Our eyes hadn’t even had a chance to stop boggling before we were delivered to the Abassi Hotel, built around an old caravanserai, that is an opulent, old world sort of place with a large central courtyard that is filled with al fresco dining by night, and where the staff wear the kind of livery that convinces you to give the bellhop a large tip. And thus Sarah found out the value of the currency when she tried to tip the porter IR2,000, or AU$0.20. For some reason the central bank allowed the currency to collect quite a few zeroes over the years and as a result I was soon a millionaire. AED500 gets you IR1.25m, and buying souvenirs feels more like negotiating the price on a house in Double Bay.* * *
Apart from the mosques, Esfahan reminds me of Mendoza in Argentina. Maybe it’s the tree lined boulevards, the perfect summer climate, or roads so chaotic you’re never actually sure which side of the road people are supposed to drive on. Or maybe it’s the vague sensation that you’ve been transported back to the seventies, when men and women competed as equals in Biggest Hair competitions. There are so many John Travolta (circa Saturday Night Fever) look-alikes, it’s a wonder his portrait doesn’t hang beside Khomeini’s!
Speaking of hair, the distribution of eyebrows in this country is quite uneven, particularly among the women. Some ladies have two, some just have one, but most seem to have none at all so they draw them on, giving themselves a permanent look of surprise. Maybe there’s a Conservation of Hair law going on here, whereby hair can neither be created nor destroyed, just redistributed among the population, with any surpluses ending up in the moustaches of waiters. (Which reminds me, Super Mario isn’t an Italian labourer, he’s the head waiter at the Abassi Hotel.)
Our first place to visit was Naqsh-e Jahan, renamed to Imam Square, the second largest square in the world after Tiananmen in Beijing. This is ringed by a bazaar (well, souvenir shops) and has stunning Imam Mosque at the south end, the formerly private Sheihk Lotfollah Mosque to the east, Ali Qapu Palace on the west, and the entrance to Bazar-e Bozorg, an everyday bazaar to the north.
This place is a must. The intricate tile work in the mosques astounds. I can’t do it justice in words, and barely in picture, but I’ve tried. Check out the following links for more (you may need to have a facebook account):
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=14316&l=26c2b&id=784253645
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=14312&l=c308b&id=784253645
The square, like much of the rest of Esfahan, is also full of people desperate to either get a photo of the strange creatures in colourful attire, or to practice their English. The photos are often attempted surreptitiously by people pretending to take a photo of a lamppost as you happen to walk by, but sometimes they just come out and ask to pose with you. The English practice might be in preparation for a trip overseas (which needs an exit visa!) or a future influx of tourists, but they’re not at all shy in trying. It can be a pretty laboured affair, but they’re so eager and welcoming it’s a pleasure to chat. Plus it quite often ends up with an invitation to share tea in their carpet shop which just happens to be just around the corner, so you can find yourself looking at dozens of carpets and having a generally relaxing time.
Just up the road from Naqsh-e Jahan is Jameh Mosque, the construction of which spans around 800 years, and the history of which includes the odd bit of destruction at the hands of the Iraqis in the 1980-1988 war. This is great for history buffs, but for shear beauty, my money’s on Imam Mosque.
I won’t go into all the details about the sites and sights we saw, but I will say this: if you ever feel you’re a little too good at navigating, just can’t seem to get lost and always find what you want straight away, then it’s time to follow a Lonely Planet map. These are possible the worst maps I have ever used, with non-existent streets, non-existent roundabouts and distance scales which are plain wrong. I thought the street map for Penang was bad a few years ago. The Esfahan map had us walk past our destination and waste so much time we only got to Vank Cathedral just after the one o’clock shut down and therefore ran out of time to see the famous shaking minarets. Bastards.
* * *
Our next stop was Shiraz. This isn’t as lively as Esfahan, and frankly the only reason I wanted to go was to see Persepolis, the ancient capital that Alexander the Great accidentally burned to the ground after a drunken orgy in 300BC.
Persepolis is stunning. You should go. It is around 2,500 years old and some of the reliefs and carvings are immaculate. Most of it has the odd corner or leg or something knocked off, and carved graffiti shows that mindless dickheads have been around for some time (who really cares if the British consul and his wife went there in the 1800s?) but overall it is just amazing. Again, you should go.
Amir, a colleague from Dubai, came over to Shiraz to show us around, which I believe is a pretty typical display of Iranian hospitality. We also went to some other nearby ruins and tombs. They were cool. But I’ve got a history degree. Still, you should go.
* * *
After a day wandering around Shiraz (and eating the best ice cream and faloudeh on the planet), it was time to go home. I just have to report on the scene at Shiraz airport. Checking in was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I thought the French were bad a queuing. There was one check-in guy, and about 100 people crowded around him trying to push their tickets in his face. I soon realised standing calmly behind the guy in front wouldn’t get me home, so I called on my tiny bit of French heritage (about 1/32nd) and worked my way through the throng of people and pushed my ticket in the check-in guy’s face. Another hour’s delay waiting for the plane to show up (are their watches all set back or something?) and we were airborne again, heading back to life in Dubai.
Axis of evil? Some things make you think so. The US currently wants to list the Revolutionary Guard (which is essentially a modern day Praetorian Guard) as a terrorist organisation but that’s probably a little silly, as it would be like Iran listing the CIA as such, but they must have their reasons. And the current Iranian administration has crackdowns on “bad hijab” (dress code violations). And of course the Ayatollah Khomeini looks down on the country from countless portraits. These all show a beady eyed, shifty looking, real son of a bitch evil bastard. Seriously, every picture, including paintings, are from the same official portrait, and the guy is out and out scary. Stalin had a bad rep, but he always looked like a kind old uncle. Khomeini probably had his moments, but he looks like the kind of bloke who tortured kittens in his spare time as a kid. Now perhaps I’m being naïve, but the people on the street aren’t like that. Everyone I spoke to wants things to change. They want to display their elaborate hairstyles and go on dates. They are kind and welcoming and have a stronger sense of hospitality than any group of people I’ve ever met. Plus the scenery and cities (sample size: two) are beautiful and vibrant (but maybe I’ve been in Dubai too long!) All up, my verdict is a big thumbs up for Iran. I’ll be back.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Dubai 15 - Summer Sales
It's summer here and that means two things: first, it's really hot. Second, the sales are on!
Dubai has, perhaps, every chain of shops in the world, from Prada to Suzhou Heavy Industrial Pumps. Clothing wise, there are all the European brands, including quite a lot of Italian ones. Yessir, if you don't just want to look woggy, but you want to look Chapel Street-woggy, or like a footballer, come and shop here. Start with some white, pointy shoes, then head into one of the Dolce & Gabbana stores for something excessively flashy and then accessorise next door at the Louis Vuitton shop. (I said to my friend Bridge that LV just looked common and she came back with "that's because footballers' wives shop here". Nail. Head. Hit it. Why did LVMH chose to send its flagship down the same road as Burberry?) Finally, pop into Gucci for some sunglasses as big as your head. (I mean seriously, the next step up from the current oversized sun-gigs fashion is the sun-helmet with full-face visor.)
Now, if you want to deck out your home, the only place to go to satisfy your inner Greek is Home Centre. We're talking tassles on the ornate sofas, more tassles to hang around the door, braid trimming on the cushions, stone lions, and a good discount on concrete for your lawn.
There is no shortage of shops, either. Malls are so prevalent that people go mall-walking (power walking in malls for exercise) because everything else seems to be road (and you get to window shop at speed). I'd rather brave the heat personally, than the slow-walkers...
The other thing there are lots of are supermarkets. In my neighbourhood, there are a good half dozen within 5 - 10 minutes walk. These are kind of specialists supermarkets, but they don't specialise in things like expensive honey from Denmark (Carrefour carries that). Instead, it's more like one supermarket spread over six locations. The dairy products are in the Street 13a supermarket along with onions, Street 22 carries meat and stationery, while Mankhool Road has the other vegetables and luggage. Then you get the corner shops which are even more limited: cereal but no milk, for instance.
Carrefour piles everything under one roof, though. And I mean everything, from flat screen TVs to sacks of spice, Argentinian beef and, on a Friday, about 100,000 Indians - the poor bastards don't have any other entertainment and, since staying in on their day off means hanging out with a dozen roommates, Carrefour is the place to be. Makes you appreciate what you've got...
Time to push on for the day. Later.
Dubai has, perhaps, every chain of shops in the world, from Prada to Suzhou Heavy Industrial Pumps. Clothing wise, there are all the European brands, including quite a lot of Italian ones. Yessir, if you don't just want to look woggy, but you want to look Chapel Street-woggy, or like a footballer, come and shop here. Start with some white, pointy shoes, then head into one of the Dolce & Gabbana stores for something excessively flashy and then accessorise next door at the Louis Vuitton shop. (I said to my friend Bridge that LV just looked common and she came back with "that's because footballers' wives shop here". Nail. Head. Hit it. Why did LVMH chose to send its flagship down the same road as Burberry?) Finally, pop into Gucci for some sunglasses as big as your head. (I mean seriously, the next step up from the current oversized sun-gigs fashion is the sun-helmet with full-face visor.)
Now, if you want to deck out your home, the only place to go to satisfy your inner Greek is Home Centre. We're talking tassles on the ornate sofas, more tassles to hang around the door, braid trimming on the cushions, stone lions, and a good discount on concrete for your lawn.
There is no shortage of shops, either. Malls are so prevalent that people go mall-walking (power walking in malls for exercise) because everything else seems to be road (and you get to window shop at speed). I'd rather brave the heat personally, than the slow-walkers...
The other thing there are lots of are supermarkets. In my neighbourhood, there are a good half dozen within 5 - 10 minutes walk. These are kind of specialists supermarkets, but they don't specialise in things like expensive honey from Denmark (Carrefour carries that). Instead, it's more like one supermarket spread over six locations. The dairy products are in the Street 13a supermarket along with onions, Street 22 carries meat and stationery, while Mankhool Road has the other vegetables and luggage. Then you get the corner shops which are even more limited: cereal but no milk, for instance.
Carrefour piles everything under one roof, though. And I mean everything, from flat screen TVs to sacks of spice, Argentinian beef and, on a Friday, about 100,000 Indians - the poor bastards don't have any other entertainment and, since staying in on their day off means hanging out with a dozen roommates, Carrefour is the place to be. Makes you appreciate what you've got...
Time to push on for the day. Later.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Dubai 14 - Nick's Food Tour of the Middle East I
Part One: Buffets
If you had to classify Dubai cuisine, it would be hard. There are probably traditional desert-peoples dishes (roast camel on a bed of rice, sprinkled with sand), but given the modern and cosmopolitan nature of the place now, I’d say it’s actually the buffet. And the two greatest examples of buffets here are break-fast (intentional hyphen) buffets of Ramadan, and Friday Brunch.
Every Friday the big hotels, and some of the smaller ones, host brunch. This is a largely western expat affair and varies greatly depending on where you go. My first brunch was at the Dussit, last summer. This brunch is located on the top floor of the Dussit Dubai overlooking Sheik Zayed Road and the sea beyond. Unfortunately, when we went it was a hazy day and you couldn’t even see the street below. The food was good – a choice of three restaurants, covering pan-Asian, identi-kit continental buffet foods like a carvery, smoked salmon, etc, and breakfast (eggs, bacon, hash browns, etc). Champagne was free flowing.
This particular brunch then kicked onto Double Deckers, the Worst Pub In Dubai. This has a London Transport theme, so is overcrowded, overly loud, and full of (fat middle aged) English people drinking too much and dancing to the Worst Music In Dubai. Abba had its day, and that day was 30 years ago. Seriously, the DJ in this place was playing music older than me, and that, unfortunately, is often the norm. (I finally found a good place to go (Radisson in Media City) where they had a visiting DJ from Japan who played some seriously good music. This guy could beat-mix as fluidly as walking, whereas the analogy for the DJ at Double Deckers is more along the lines of one of those children of thalidomide trying to jump rope.) Anyway, Double Deckers also has a brunch which probably consists of bacon, eggs, baked beans, chip butties, Yorkshire pudding, and none of that foreign muck. All set in the beautiful smoky ambience of a nightclub.
Brunch Number Two was Al Qasr. At Dh300 a head, this features free flowing Bollinger, three restaurants (Spanish, seafood and identikit but with Lebanese ingredients as well). Fantastic place, fantastic food. I must go back. I love jamon and I love Morton Bay Bugs. And I’m rather fond of Bollinger, too…
Yalumba. I went with Sarah’s workmates. This is the same Yalumba as in the Australian wine label, and the food was consequently … Australian in a Rolf Harris kind of way: lot’s of sparkling confidence but no taste. At Dh350 this is easily the most ripped off I’ve felt in this town. Not only is it located on the wrong side of the Creek, but the music was too loud and plain shit. (Again, Abba is history.) And frankly, when I dine out, even if it is with a bunch of half-cut poms, I don’t want some drunken wanker from the next table falling onto me because she can’t dance and remain upright but they’re playing her favourite song which reminds her of losing her virginity behind the toilet block at Broadmeadows High when she was 15. Call me old fashioned, but in my book, no matter how drunk you are, you just don’t dance in a restaurant.
Why it’s called brunch it a bit of a mystery. They don’t start before 12:00 and they go until 4:00 or 5:00, at which point you’re most likely loaded and willing to kick onto a nearby bar. You’ll be so full you won’t want dinner, so really it should be called linner, or dunch. Anyway, a great way to spend a Friday arvo and anyone coming to visit us will be treated to a good one.
If you had to classify Dubai cuisine, it would be hard. There are probably traditional desert-peoples dishes (roast camel on a bed of rice, sprinkled with sand), but given the modern and cosmopolitan nature of the place now, I’d say it’s actually the buffet. And the two greatest examples of buffets here are break-fast (intentional hyphen) buffets of Ramadan, and Friday Brunch.
Every Friday the big hotels, and some of the smaller ones, host brunch. This is a largely western expat affair and varies greatly depending on where you go. My first brunch was at the Dussit, last summer. This brunch is located on the top floor of the Dussit Dubai overlooking Sheik Zayed Road and the sea beyond. Unfortunately, when we went it was a hazy day and you couldn’t even see the street below. The food was good – a choice of three restaurants, covering pan-Asian, identi-kit continental buffet foods like a carvery, smoked salmon, etc, and breakfast (eggs, bacon, hash browns, etc). Champagne was free flowing.
This particular brunch then kicked onto Double Deckers, the Worst Pub In Dubai. This has a London Transport theme, so is overcrowded, overly loud, and full of (fat middle aged) English people drinking too much and dancing to the Worst Music In Dubai. Abba had its day, and that day was 30 years ago. Seriously, the DJ in this place was playing music older than me, and that, unfortunately, is often the norm. (I finally found a good place to go (Radisson in Media City) where they had a visiting DJ from Japan who played some seriously good music. This guy could beat-mix as fluidly as walking, whereas the analogy for the DJ at Double Deckers is more along the lines of one of those children of thalidomide trying to jump rope.) Anyway, Double Deckers also has a brunch which probably consists of bacon, eggs, baked beans, chip butties, Yorkshire pudding, and none of that foreign muck. All set in the beautiful smoky ambience of a nightclub.
Brunch Number Two was Al Qasr. At Dh300 a head, this features free flowing Bollinger, three restaurants (Spanish, seafood and identikit but with Lebanese ingredients as well). Fantastic place, fantastic food. I must go back. I love jamon and I love Morton Bay Bugs. And I’m rather fond of Bollinger, too…
Yalumba. I went with Sarah’s workmates. This is the same Yalumba as in the Australian wine label, and the food was consequently … Australian in a Rolf Harris kind of way: lot’s of sparkling confidence but no taste. At Dh350 this is easily the most ripped off I’ve felt in this town. Not only is it located on the wrong side of the Creek, but the music was too loud and plain shit. (Again, Abba is history.) And frankly, when I dine out, even if it is with a bunch of half-cut poms, I don’t want some drunken wanker from the next table falling onto me because she can’t dance and remain upright but they’re playing her favourite song which reminds her of losing her virginity behind the toilet block at Broadmeadows High when she was 15. Call me old fashioned, but in my book, no matter how drunk you are, you just don’t dance in a restaurant.
Why it’s called brunch it a bit of a mystery. They don’t start before 12:00 and they go until 4:00 or 5:00, at which point you’re most likely loaded and willing to kick onto a nearby bar. You’ll be so full you won’t want dinner, so really it should be called linner, or dunch. Anyway, a great way to spend a Friday arvo and anyone coming to visit us will be treated to a good one.
Dubai 13 - Busy times
I know, I know, I’ve been incredibly slack with this blog: sorry. I’ve had my head down leading the environmental design on the world’s lowest energy hot-climate skyscraper, so as you can imagine it’s taken a bit of my time.
None the less, I’ve still managed to get some other things done.
1. We moved house. I’ve ditched the soullessness of Legoland – I mean The Springs – the suburb of identical houses lined up one after the other, distinguishable only by the cars parked out front. The population was European, Indian, Asian, Arabian and Antipodean. After some nine months there for me sharing with Chris, about five for Sarah, and three for Tanya, I think everyone thought four people was too many, so Sarah and I left Chris and Tanya to it. I never did find out why the guard at the front gate took down my rego every time I entered, and now I guess never will.
We’ve moved to a two bedroom flat in Bur Dubai (the older part of town with bustling people, laundry hanging from balconies, stray cats and dirt – ie, character). Some people don’t like this part of town. Jumeirah Janes (see previous posts) are a rare sight here. I’ve even known people to take a shower after just walking through it to the tailor’s. Anyway, it’s super cheap as it’s owned by an Islamic bank and they don’t like ripping people off, and only a three minute walk to work!
Plus there’s a pool on the roof and a lot of my mates are in spitting distance. As a result the past few weeks have seen impromptu pool parties that, despite the total lack of organisation, have gone off like a frog in a sock. The other day the watchman came up and told us to leave as they had to have a lifeguard on duty and they shut the pool at 10:30. I told him I was rescue trained so effectively was a life guard, and that, being 4:30, it was still some 18 hours before closing time.
2. I did my Royal Yachting Associating Level 1 course (passed with flying colours) and am currently trying my best to ingratiate myself with the sailing club to accelerate my membership bid.
3. I bought a flat in Singapore. I took Sarah down one weekend to see it and to sign some papers and I’ll be back in September for settlement. It’s a three bedder in one of the best parts of town and is already valued at more than my partners and I paid for it.
4. I learnt how to snowboard. Yep, I finally got bored of skiing – at Ski Dubai. (I mean come on! It’s like doing Bourke Street at Mt Buller all day long.) Skiing is still where it’s at, obviously, but should I now find myself in a situation that requires a knowledge of snowboarding, for example being chased by machine-gun wielding thugs on ski-doos and my skis have been mysteriously mislaid but there’s a snowboard there, then I’ll be able to get away. Provided there are no bumps, no sharp turns and I don’t catch a front edge.
(If you want to learn how to snowboard, do it on a hill with plenty of snow, not a hill with concrete base. Ouch!)
5. And did I mention I delivered the concept design on the coolest bit of sustainable design in the region, if not the world? I did? Oh well, thought I’d repeat it in case you weren’t paying attention.
So that’s my life right now. Sarah’s back in Australia for a few weeks, but is back next weekend (yay!), in time for the tail end of the summer sales. Looking forward to that.
None the less, I’ve still managed to get some other things done.
1. We moved house. I’ve ditched the soullessness of Legoland – I mean The Springs – the suburb of identical houses lined up one after the other, distinguishable only by the cars parked out front. The population was European, Indian, Asian, Arabian and Antipodean. After some nine months there for me sharing with Chris, about five for Sarah, and three for Tanya, I think everyone thought four people was too many, so Sarah and I left Chris and Tanya to it. I never did find out why the guard at the front gate took down my rego every time I entered, and now I guess never will.
We’ve moved to a two bedroom flat in Bur Dubai (the older part of town with bustling people, laundry hanging from balconies, stray cats and dirt – ie, character). Some people don’t like this part of town. Jumeirah Janes (see previous posts) are a rare sight here. I’ve even known people to take a shower after just walking through it to the tailor’s. Anyway, it’s super cheap as it’s owned by an Islamic bank and they don’t like ripping people off, and only a three minute walk to work!
Plus there’s a pool on the roof and a lot of my mates are in spitting distance. As a result the past few weeks have seen impromptu pool parties that, despite the total lack of organisation, have gone off like a frog in a sock. The other day the watchman came up and told us to leave as they had to have a lifeguard on duty and they shut the pool at 10:30. I told him I was rescue trained so effectively was a life guard, and that, being 4:30, it was still some 18 hours before closing time.
2. I did my Royal Yachting Associating Level 1 course (passed with flying colours) and am currently trying my best to ingratiate myself with the sailing club to accelerate my membership bid.
3. I bought a flat in Singapore. I took Sarah down one weekend to see it and to sign some papers and I’ll be back in September for settlement. It’s a three bedder in one of the best parts of town and is already valued at more than my partners and I paid for it.
4. I learnt how to snowboard. Yep, I finally got bored of skiing – at Ski Dubai. (I mean come on! It’s like doing Bourke Street at Mt Buller all day long.) Skiing is still where it’s at, obviously, but should I now find myself in a situation that requires a knowledge of snowboarding, for example being chased by machine-gun wielding thugs on ski-doos and my skis have been mysteriously mislaid but there’s a snowboard there, then I’ll be able to get away. Provided there are no bumps, no sharp turns and I don’t catch a front edge.
(If you want to learn how to snowboard, do it on a hill with plenty of snow, not a hill with concrete base. Ouch!)
5. And did I mention I delivered the concept design on the coolest bit of sustainable design in the region, if not the world? I did? Oh well, thought I’d repeat it in case you weren’t paying attention.
So that’s my life right now. Sarah’s back in Australia for a few weeks, but is back next weekend (yay!), in time for the tail end of the summer sales. Looking forward to that.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
A quick one
I'm searching on the web for images for a presentation, including one of a PV-powered golf buggie. I want this: 
...and I get this:
Which in itself is worth posting.
More news soon, possibly about the music scene here.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Dubai 12 - 33 Today (or 3 weeks ago)
Sorry for the lack of commentary: I've been a bit busy with work, brunches, snorkelling and golf. Read all about it... now:
It was my birthday three weeks ago. No matter how much Sarah tells me I'm old now at 34, the fact is I'm a very young 33. Or is that "immature"? Whatever, I don't feel too old, despite the creaks, the reduced tone and the fact I want to do nothing else on a Thursday night other than park my arse on the couch with a large whiskey and a DVD.
So the day started out very nicely indeed with golf at the local course. It was my first round since 1998, so even though we were only playing the par 3, I was a bit crap. My medium game is still ok (thanks for the lessons as a kid, Dad!) but my putting has gone to the dogs. (As, mind you, has the quality of television news which is on in the background as I type.)
After golf we had second breakfast at the club house (my favourite meal of the day!) then a break for a few hours at home to finish Splinter Cell Undercover on Playstation (much to Sarah's disgust, but I'd had a long week and needed to shot stuff) before getting picked up for a desert safari.
Everyone has to do a desert safari. It's a bit like getting a taxi on Sheik Zayed Road or in Sydney, except the car's a Land Cruiser rather than a Commodore (aka Lumina) or Corolla, the driver's Arab rather than Indian and getting thrown around in the back seat as the car careens on the edge of control is entirely intentional. The blaring Arabic music is the same, as is the realisation that you've been taken out to the middle of nowhere...
But not quite, you wind up, about sunset, at an "authentic" bedouin permanent camp with a buffet of unnamed meat, free henna painting and a Russian belly dancer.
So, what else has been going on? Well, last week we went to Snoopy Island off the east coast for some snorkelling (3 black tip reef sharks, 1 turtle, plenty of barras and parrot fish), and the weekend before was a fun excursion all over town looking for a car for Sarah (pictured right on the desert safari). I was a bit over it by hour 7, and in the end she picked up an ex-demo Audi A3 for not very much at all. No photos I'm afraid, I only have photos of my very slick CLK, the door of which has been hit TWICE by the Chinaman (polite version: Sum Dum Gi). Anyway, enough for now. Stay tuned for my food tour of the Middle East. Coming soon.
It was my birthday three weeks ago. No matter how much Sarah tells me I'm old now at 34, the fact is I'm a very young 33. Or is that "immature"? Whatever, I don't feel too old, despite the creaks, the reduced tone and the fact I want to do nothing else on a Thursday night other than park my arse on the couch with a large whiskey and a DVD.
So the day started out very nicely indeed with golf at the local course. It was my first round since 1998, so even though we were only playing the par 3, I was a bit crap. My medium game is still ok (thanks for the lessons as a kid, Dad!) but my putting has gone to the dogs. (As, mind you, has the quality of television news which is on in the background as I type.)After golf we had second breakfast at the club house (my favourite meal of the day!) then a break for a few hours at home to finish Splinter Cell Undercover on Playstation (much to Sarah's disgust, but I'd had a long week and needed to shot stuff) before getting picked up for a desert safari.
Everyone has to do a desert safari. It's a bit like getting a taxi on Sheik Zayed Road or in Sydney, except the car's a Land Cruiser rather than a Commodore (aka Lumina) or Corolla, the driver's Arab rather than Indian and getting thrown around in the back seat as the car careens on the edge of control is entirely intentional. The blaring Arabic music is the same, as is the realisation that you've been taken out to the middle of nowhere...But not quite, you wind up, about sunset, at an "authentic" bedouin permanent camp with a buffet of unnamed meat, free henna painting and a Russian belly dancer.
So, what else has been going on? Well, last week we went to Snoopy Island off the east coast for some snorkelling (3 black tip reef sharks, 1 turtle, plenty of barras and parrot fish), and the weekend before was a fun excursion all over town looking for a car for Sarah (pictured right on the desert safari). I was a bit over it by hour 7, and in the end she picked up an ex-demo Audi A3 for not very much at all. No photos I'm afraid, I only have photos of my very slick CLK, the door of which has been hit TWICE by the Chinaman (polite version: Sum Dum Gi). Anyway, enough for now. Stay tuned for my food tour of the Middle East. Coming soon.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Dubai 11 - Drinkies
Wow, either I was really drunk last night, or everyone else at the barbecue was talking Afrikaans.
Speaking of drinking, booze isn't hard to get here, it's just a little awkward. Technically you need a licence just to consume the stuff, and you definitely need one for take-out. The alternative is a trip to Barracuda in Ras Al Khaimer, an alcohol supermarket where the laws are different, the duty is less, and you don't need a licence. Of course, it's technically illegal to transport it between emirates (say, back home to Dubai), but you'd be pretty stiff if you got done.
The other option is to drink someone else's, which is what our cleaner does. This was welcome news in a way (it turns out I do know how much I drink), but also disappointing (Black Bush is hard to find in the Middle East, and idiotic new airline laws might make buying it at various airports problematic). So we're going to mark our bottles. I'm also going to replace my whiskey with tea, just to stick it to the dirty pig-fornicator.
Meanwhile, it's starting to heat up here, but the cold water isn't hot enough to shave with yet, so it's not officially summer in my book.
Later.
Speaking of drinking, booze isn't hard to get here, it's just a little awkward. Technically you need a licence just to consume the stuff, and you definitely need one for take-out. The alternative is a trip to Barracuda in Ras Al Khaimer, an alcohol supermarket where the laws are different, the duty is less, and you don't need a licence. Of course, it's technically illegal to transport it between emirates (say, back home to Dubai), but you'd be pretty stiff if you got done.
The other option is to drink someone else's, which is what our cleaner does. This was welcome news in a way (it turns out I do know how much I drink), but also disappointing (Black Bush is hard to find in the Middle East, and idiotic new airline laws might make buying it at various airports problematic). So we're going to mark our bottles. I'm also going to replace my whiskey with tea, just to stick it to the dirty pig-fornicator.
Meanwhile, it's starting to heat up here, but the cold water isn't hot enough to shave with yet, so it's not officially summer in my book.
Later.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Dubai 10 - Side Trips - France and Switzerland
Following on from the previous post, I took some time to continue the World Ski and Dive Tour the other day and went to Les Arcs with Rob.
We flew into Zurich, then drove down to Luzern, a stunningly beautiful town, where we decided to take a suite for the night at a 5 Star hotel on the lake (may as well treat yourself occasionally). Bit of a look around, a couple of oversized beers and a fondue and we felt right at home.
Then it was down to Wengen where I'd been tipped off about a cheap restaurant. Wengen is a ski town (without snow in the village this year) and the drive to get there (or to Lauterbrunnen where you catch the funicular - I know, my spelling's terrible) is spectacular. Driving through Switzerland is like driving through a postcard. Everywhere you look (scenery-wise) is so spectacular you become desensitised after a while.
(Everywhere you look shop-wise, however, are souvenirs. Victorinox and Wenger Swiss Army knives, Sigg drink bottles, cookoo clocks, flags.)
From Wengen we caught the funicular to the top of the Jungfrau (ironic name considering the train that penetrates the tunnel to the top, right through the Eiger!) where there are spectular views and where I froze my phone.
Then it was onto France for a week of skiing out of Arc 2000 with Mick from London and a bunch of his mates. Good snow, but not great. It snowed just before we got there, then it was sunny for the rest of the week. So south faces got a bit slushy and cruddy, the lower runs were patchy (ie, patches of snow!) but the top was nice. Lots of nice steeps runs! It was a good crew, too.
The funniest thing about Arc 2000 was the resident sports hero: Kevin Alderton, the double blind speed skiing champion. (It took us a while to work out he was the champion twice over, not blind twice over!) Basically, this bloke holds a record in an event with only one competitor: skiing fast down a hill without proper sight. How he gets his seeing eye dog on the skis is anyone's guess! So this bloke from the rough part of London, judging by his accent, props up bars in 2000 trying to score free drinks. His record is around half the speed of someone with eyes, which I find odd as they can at least see enough to be scared!
But here's the thing. His not even blind. He's "differently sighted" at best. And it's not a congenital disorder: he had his eyes gouged in a bar fight!
France, and Switzerland, are on the list for a return visit.
We flew into Zurich, then drove down to Luzern, a stunningly beautiful town, where we decided to take a suite for the night at a 5 Star hotel on the lake (may as well treat yourself occasionally). Bit of a look around, a couple of oversized beers and a fondue and we felt right at home.
Then it was down to Wengen where I'd been tipped off about a cheap restaurant. Wengen is a ski town (without snow in the village this year) and the drive to get there (or to Lauterbrunnen where you catch the funicular - I know, my spelling's terrible) is spectacular. Driving through Switzerland is like driving through a postcard. Everywhere you look (scenery-wise) is so spectacular you become desensitised after a while.(Everywhere you look shop-wise, however, are souvenirs. Victorinox and Wenger Swiss Army knives, Sigg drink bottles, cookoo clocks, flags.)
From Wengen we caught the funicular to the top of the Jungfrau (ironic name considering the train that penetrates the tunnel to the top, right through the Eiger!) where there are spectular views and where I froze my phone.
Then it was onto France for a week of skiing out of Arc 2000 with Mick from London and a bunch of his mates. Good snow, but not great. It snowed just before we got there, then it was sunny for the rest of the week. So south faces got a bit slushy and cruddy, the lower runs were patchy (ie, patches of snow!) but the top was nice. Lots of nice steeps runs! It was a good crew, too.The funniest thing about Arc 2000 was the resident sports hero: Kevin Alderton, the double blind speed skiing champion. (It took us a while to work out he was the champion twice over, not blind twice over!) Basically, this bloke holds a record in an event with only one competitor: skiing fast down a hill without proper sight. How he gets his seeing eye dog on the skis is anyone's guess! So this bloke from the rough part of London, judging by his accent, props up bars in 2000 trying to score free drinks. His record is around half the speed of someone with eyes, which I find odd as they can at least see enough to be scared!
But here's the thing. His not even blind. He's "differently sighted" at best. And it's not a congenital disorder: he had his eyes gouged in a bar fight!
France, and Switzerland, are on the list for a return visit.
Dubai 09 - Side Trips - Mussandam
I've been slack, I know, so a quick update is in order.
Life in Dubai continues on with ridiculous amounts of work and not enough time. I've had one new starter in my team (Bridge, a good mate from my Peterborough days, who was tempted across from Dublin by tax free money and lots of it), and a graduate (Saif) starts later this month. After some cunning manoeuvring in concert with the Marketing team, I got my position renamed from "Regional Building Physicist" to "Regional Head of Sustainability", which sounds a lot more important, if possible less maningful.
Naturally, all this work encourages the odd break to recharge, so a few weekends ago Sarah and I headed up to Mussandam in Oman to cruise through the fjords.
Now, when I think of fjords I think of Norway - snow capped peaks, ice bergs, blonde women: that kind of thing. But Oman has them too.
And they are beautiful to behold. Massive peaks rising vertically from the sea, and barely a single plant in sight. These hills are barren, but spectaqcular. Luckily the sea is full of life, and our first stop on our dhow cruise was to watch dolphins. Or watch grown men frantically push little kids out of the way so they could get a better vantage point themselves. And video the sea in the hope of getting a glimpse of a dolphin. (What is it with people video taping EVERYTHING on holiday. "Look, a fountain. Let's video it and subject our mates to it when we get home.")
After an hour and a half of circling these majestic and harried sea mammals, we were told the rudder was on the fritz so we transferred to two smaller dhows to continue the cruise. Everyone piled onto the one without the hordes of screaming Japanese children who wound up with a boat almost to themselves, while we all sat almost in each others laps. After a while we anchored for a spot of snorkelling where I discovered that the side of a dhow is a little too high to do a backwards roll into the water. I also discovered that the water was full of jellyfish and that most of these had a mild sting.
That night we went for dinner at a restaurant down the road a bit. We asked the waiter what the laws are regarding drink driving in Oman. (In Dubai you go to jail. Even if some muppet runs into you, if you have any alcohol in you, you go to jail.) His response: "Don't worry. Drink as much as you like. Drive home. Crash the car. No problem." I didn't crash my beautiful new Mercedes CLK 200 Kompessor, but I did have a quiet drink with my buffet. Good old Oman.
This is a really poor way to end an entry, but if you don't like it, write in and tell me.
Life in Dubai continues on with ridiculous amounts of work and not enough time. I've had one new starter in my team (Bridge, a good mate from my Peterborough days, who was tempted across from Dublin by tax free money and lots of it), and a graduate (Saif) starts later this month. After some cunning manoeuvring in concert with the Marketing team, I got my position renamed from "Regional Building Physicist" to "Regional Head of Sustainability", which sounds a lot more important, if possible less maningful.
Naturally, all this work encourages the odd break to recharge, so a few weekends ago Sarah and I headed up to Mussandam in Oman to cruise through the fjords.Now, when I think of fjords I think of Norway - snow capped peaks, ice bergs, blonde women: that kind of thing. But Oman has them too.
And they are beautiful to behold. Massive peaks rising vertically from the sea, and barely a single plant in sight. These hills are barren, but spectaqcular. Luckily the sea is full of life, and our first stop on our dhow cruise was to watch dolphins. Or watch grown men frantically push little kids out of the way so they could get a better vantage point themselves. And video the sea in the hope of getting a glimpse of a dolphin. (What is it with people video taping EVERYTHING on holiday. "Look, a fountain. Let's video it and subject our mates to it when we get home.")
After an hour and a half of circling these majestic and harried sea mammals, we were told the rudder was on the fritz so we transferred to two smaller dhows to continue the cruise. Everyone piled onto the one without the hordes of screaming Japanese children who wound up with a boat almost to themselves, while we all sat almost in each others laps. After a while we anchored for a spot of snorkelling where I discovered that the side of a dhow is a little too high to do a backwards roll into the water. I also discovered that the water was full of jellyfish and that most of these had a mild sting.That night we went for dinner at a restaurant down the road a bit. We asked the waiter what the laws are regarding drink driving in Oman. (In Dubai you go to jail. Even if some muppet runs into you, if you have any alcohol in you, you go to jail.) His response: "Don't worry. Drink as much as you like. Drive home. Crash the car. No problem." I didn't crash my beautiful new Mercedes CLK 200 Kompessor, but I did have a quiet drink with my buffet. Good old Oman.
This is a really poor way to end an entry, but if you don't like it, write in and tell me.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Dubai 08 - Best Fans Ever
For the Melburnians among my readers, you might think that Lygon Street and Chapel Street are the places to go to see joyous football (soccer) fans and hotted up cars, respectively. Well, the last few days have made me realise that, eager as the rice-boys are back in Aus, they are lame namby-pambies in comparison to the UAE.Last week the UAE won the regional football championship and the fans celebrated in such style that, from here on in, the UAE is my team of choice. The UAE beat Oman to win the Gulf Cup final for the first time. I was in Sharjah on the night and the roads were gridlocked with people driving slowly, hanging out of windows and sunroofs, standing on running boards, all waving flags, ululating and cheering. A couple of days later a victory parade was staged in Dubai and it, and general revellers, clogged up Sheik Zayed Road and Beach Road (and many others). For once no-one was too upset by the traffic - everyone was having such fun.
But here's the thing. When Italy wins a game, you might expect mayhem on Lygon Street, but under no circumstances would you expect to see cars decorated with stars, little stick-on flags, or spray painted slogans and the national colours. That's right, people were spray painting their cars (new ones, that is - Prados and Mercedes, for example) and driving along celebrating. (Sorry for the photo quality, they're third party.) And no, it wasn't some kind of temporary paint...And here's the other thing: everyone was happy and getting into the spirit of it. A major win in Australia is met with a low key beer and perhaps a few sly digs at the poms (or a visibly drunk Prime Minister telling the nation that any boss who fires staff for being late is a bum), while a major win in England quickly degenerates into drunken brawls. A major win in the UAE and it's burn-outs, standing atop moving cars, and severe panel damage. And not a drop of alcohol in sight. So well done to the UAE football team, you have my support.
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