Weird Sports

Deep Water Soloing


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.

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.

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 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.