The UAE Highway Code

Someone (cheekily) wrote in to 7 Days and asked if there was a Highway Code for the UAE. I've had a quick go at writing one. Tongue firmly in cheek, of course...

The UAE Highway Code

1: Vehicle condition

You MUST ensure your vehicle and trailer can at least move, whether using motor, camel or donkey traction. Wheels would be nice too. If you are driving a Heavy Goods Vehicle, be sure to adorn it with coloured lights. This might help make you more visible, especially as the vehicle’s proper lights don’t seem to work.

2: Before setting off

You should ensure that:

• you have kind of planned your route and only allowed enough time to get to your destination if you travel at just under light speed. With a tail wind.
• clothing and footwear are from Harvey Nich’s
• you sort of know where all the controls are but have no idea what they do.
• your seat are adjusted correctly to ensure comfort, at least partial control and maybe, just a little bit of good vision. Don’t worry about the blacked-out windows. Position the mirror for optimum self-admiring glances.
• head restraints are properly adjusted to reduce the risk of neck injuries in the event of an seeing an attractive woman
• you have sufficient fuel before commencing your journey, especially if it includes motorway driving. The car might only make 50km on one tank, so be careful.

3: Seat Belts

Drivers in the front seat: That black strap thing might look a bit silly across your nice designer clothes, and may even crumple them. It also restricts the driver’s movement to the other seat, to the rear of the vehicle to get your CDs, or out of the sunroof. Don’t bother.

Children ages 3 and under: These should be restrained fully by bouncing them on the knee of a passenger, or even the driver, depending on your mood. Hanging them out of the window at 140kph is a good laugh.

Children ages 3 to 12: These children should sit on the roof.

4: Signals

Signals are made with that stick thing behind the steering wheel. Pull it towards you to make people move out of the way. In combination with the horn, this is the only signalling you require. There are these things called indicators as well, but they only cause confusion and actually, it isn’t anyone else’s business where you are going.

You should also

• watch out for hand signals given by other road users and ring the police immediately if they give you the bird.
• Watch for other drivers using indicators. If you see them doing so, you should speed up to prevent them from manoeuvring.

You SHOULD REALLY obey signals given by police officers and signs used by school crossing patrols. Aw, go on

5: Traffic light signals and traffic signs

Traffic lights are simple. Green means go very fast. Amber means go even faster. Red means go really, really fast, unless the idiot in front has stopped for some reason. As soon as the lights go green again, give the driver in front 3.5 nanoseconds to move before honking angrily and at length.

Traffic signs are there to be knocked over and will probably send you in the wrong direction or give you incorrect information anyway.

6: Flashing headlights

Only flash your headlights in an attempt to intimidate other road users. Do not flash your headlights to let other road users know that you are there.

If another driver flashes his headlights MOVE OUT OF THE WAY IMMEDIATELY. This rule does not apply to White Nissan Sunnys.

7: Hazard warning lights

These marvellous thingies are great for telling other road users that you are a moron. Switch them on when it gets foggy or when it rains in order to remind other road users of what they are already painfully aware of, and keep them guessing as to where you might be going. Everyone else on the road with a brain is more nervous than usual, but that’s a good thing. It galvanises the senses.

Also use your hazard warning lights when you need to inexplicably stop in the road and obstruct all other road users.

8: Speed Limits

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Ahem.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

9: Lines and Markings on the Road

They look nice, don’t they? Give a bit of symmetry to the roads and roundabouts. Anyway, Yellow lines are to be crossed whenever possible. Chevrons painted in an area designate taking-over and pushing-in points for large 4x4 vehicles.

10: Mobile Phones and other technology

Mobile phones are compulsory. They should be stuck to one ear at all times. You might want to keep one hand free for smoking, shaving, applying make-up, reading or selecting a play-list on your I-pod.

11: Overtaking

You MUST get to your destination before everyone else. Don’t let Dastardly and Mutley win. End of. Only move away from the fast lane 5 metres before your turn off. Without indicating, naturally.

12: Being Overtaken

I know. It’s a mad concept, but it might just happen when you’re coming onto a fast road. Don’t worry, you’ll be in the fast lane soon. Anyway, should anyone in the lane beside you put on their indicator, it means they want you to get closer to the car in front as quickly as possible.

13: Pedestrian Crossings

You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Those zebra-patterned things? Nah! If you see anyone stop at them, refer to the last part of the instructions for traffic lights. Anyway, watch out for men in night-shirts running across highways. They could well give your car a nasty dent.

14: Cyclists

Cyclists will come the wrong way down a highway towards you, wobbling around with the weight of whatever it is they have in the huge baskets. They particularly like doing this at night. Without lights.

The Art of Posing

Posing is big in Dubai. But there are different types of posing depending on who does it.

1. The Locals.

The local men like nothing better than cruising up and down Dhiyafa street (linking the Sheik Zayed Road to Jumeirah Beach Road via Satwa) in their ridiculously expensive, stupidly fast, garishly flash sports cars. If you sit in one of the numerous cafés or restaurants lining said street you will see them cruising past ever so slowly, going over the huge hump at the pedestrian lights, then turning round and coming back. They can do this for hours on end.

The local women also like to pose, but do so in shopping malls and even at work. They wander round in groups of 2 or 3, wearing abbayas, often decorated with sequins, that leave only their faces and hands visible, and wear the largest designer sunglasses feasible and carry the most expensive handbag they can lay their hands on. They breeze about the place with an air of quiet, gracious aloofness. (Is that a word?)

2. The Western Expats.

Western Expats like to dress up as if they are on holiday (and, yeah, it does feel like a holiday sometimes). The men wear knee-length shorts and flip-flops, the women wear summery, light dresses, and they all wear designer sunglasses either on their eyes (strangely enough) or perched atop their perfectly-coiffured heads. They then park their 4x4s along the Jumeirah Beach Road and head to the Lime Tree Café, where they order something healthy from the glowing counter staff, then lounge lazily in the comfy chairs, preferably on the terrace or balcony for (maximum pose factor), sip their soy lattés and eat some poncey bloody frittata with rocket salad or (the admittedly superb) carrot cake. They will often bring their hideously photogenic children with them, making sure they are dressed in Osh Kosh B'Gosh or something similar, and sit them in IKEA high-chairs with a traditional wooden toy. This looks a bit strange with children over the age of 7.

3. The Lebanese (men).

Think heaving, darkened nightclubs with strobe lights and richter-scale music. Think tight, white tops and copious amounts of hair gel. Enough said, really.

4. The Subcontinental Expats.

They pose by pretending to watch everyone else pose, mostly at the public beach, or from their spluttering, dirty Nissan Sunnies as they bumble along the SZR in the middle lane at 25kph. Those who can't afford a car pose like nodding dogs in the spluttering, dirty buses taking them to and from the building sites. Others pose at the side of main roads, waiting for the chance to dash across between the Land Cruisers, 4x4s, Nissan Sunnies and buses. I really wish they would strike a Bruce Forsyth pose after risking death or serious injury by succesfully crossing the Al Khail Road. I am yet to see it happen, however.

Back to life...back to reality

The MIL and SIL are home now. I conveyed them to the airport last night to catch their flight. Over their last few days we have really lived it up. We had a super afternoon tea at the Ritz Carlton, then spent Thursday on the Big Bus going round Bur Dubai, under the creek through the Shindaga tunnel and a jaunt Deira before returning over the Maktoum Bridge. It was strange when the tour guides told us about the buildings all around us, giving us dates of construction from the last 20 years.

We alighted at the Dubai Museum, which is based in a proper old building (a rare sight round here) stop to have a look round the Museum, and it was excellent. I had thought it was just a few minor exhibits above ground in the grounds of the old fort it is located in, but there is a huge underground gallery with some fascinating exhibits on Dubai and Bedouin culture. After the museum visit we had lunch in a café in the "historic" Bastakiya area. I had a taste of camel meat, and it was much like beef for me.

That night, the WIFE and me took the opportunity to go out on our own, and went to the BiCE restuarant at the Jumeirah Hilton. It was terrific. Great food, superb service and a lovely atmosphere made for a really pleasant evening. We also had a nightcap cocktail in the BiCE skybar on the 10th floor to finish off the night on a sophisticated note. Well, we tried to be sophisticated. Our broad Yorkshire accents kind of jarred with the whole atmosphere. "Aye, lad. Git us one of them there fancy drinks, chuck. Manhattan? Ee bye gum, ecky thump. That's some backwater over t'pond, isn't it?"

So Friday - yesterday - was the visitor's last day. We had an easy, lazy day, cumilating in a drive along the Jumeirah Beach Road to catch the sunset and a final meal out at the Dhow and Anchor in the Jumeirah Beach Hotel. They have a lovely wooden terrace area to sit out and watch the world go by, with views of the nearby Burj Al Arab through the trees. Like with most places round here, the best time to go to them is just before sunset, in my opinion. The light fades quickly, the sky goes a lovely mix of colours, then the lights all come on around you. It felt like the last night of a holiday for all of us. Following the meal of average pub food (all the food I've had at JBH is average) we wandered down to the waterfront and took in the magnificent views of the Burj Al Arab, as the lights around it changed colour and searchlights swayed to and fro from the helicopter pad.

On the way out, we saw a papparazzo waiting with his camera for some celeb or other, but after a quick call on his mobile, he disappeared in a large car. Our car was delivered to us by the valet, and we bundled in as quickly as we could before driving off amongst all the Hummers, beamers and other expensive-looking vehicles, filled with expensive-looking women.

An hour or two later, I was on the way to the airport with the in-laws. The BOY came with me while the WIFE and the GIRL stayed at home. The GIRL was in bed by the time we set off. The MIL and SIL were quiet and pensive as we sailed along the Sheik Zayed Road, taking in the bright lights of the Marina, the various building called Burj and Trade Centre for one last time. The traffic built up over Garhoud bridge, but we got there in plenty of time. The airport was a manic muddle of faces preparing to fly all over the globe, dressed in a million different ways, all clutching a bewildering variety of luggage, but all getting ready to fly somewhere. The MIL and SIL said their goodbyes and melted into the crowds and through to the departure areas. The BOY and I set off for home, thinking that we will soon be greeting my own parents and the BRO very soon. Less than 6 weeks now, and we'll be doing all this again.

On the way home, I had a bit of a brush with what I will call LAND CRUISER MAN. I came back round the Garhoud way onto Garhoud bridge. Even at 11pm last night it was ridiculously busy. The road feeds in from the right onto the bridge, and as you get towards the bridge, there is a small chevron-painted hard-shoulder to the left. As I moved along, a red car pushed in front of me from this area, just in the nick of time. I let it go. Normal standards round here. Then a white LC (blacked-out windows) with an Abu Dhabi plate pulled alongside. No chance, thought I. There's not enough room. He would have to drop in behind me. But not this one. He (I assume it was a he) was DETERMINED to get ahead of me. I wasn't about to be bullied, so kept moving, thinking that he had to give in. But NO...he dived across the front of me, clipping my wing mirror as he passed, and flipping his to the flattened position against the side of his door. I was utterly astounded. Flabbergasted. Astonished. And fucking angry. As we crossed the bridge, he was the car in front of me all the way, and had saved all of 2 seconds, if that, by his actions. I think he was hovering in front of me hoping that I'd give him the bird. I kept my hands down, even if I swore quite a lot. The BOY slept through all of this, though he admitted he had heard my astonished swearing at LAND CRUISER MAN and had hugged his teddy bear a little tighter.

Today, the house feels empty. We went food shopping and just kind of floated around. Tomorrow I am back at work and the BOY is back at school. Good old routine. My diet needs it, I can tell you.

The Road to Heck

So this morning, on my drive to work, I am quite pensive. It may well have been all the wine I drank at last night's BBQ.

My drive of around 30 minutes takes me along the Al Khail road, Sheik Zayed Road's calmer sibling, and I drive past ever-shrinking patches of desert that probably won't be around for much longer, stark electricity pylons marching along the route of the road, a variety of tower cranes emerging from the midst of numerous new developments in the distance,and concrete factories surrounded by fleets of dusty concrete mixers.

As I leave the industrial estate of Al Quoz behind on the left, the half-built towers of Business Bay and the enormous Burj Dubai development shimmer into view. On the right I pass the Nad Al Sheba racetrack, and if I'm lucky, I might spot small groups of camels galloping along in their awkward but fluid style, training with their R2D2-sized robot jockeys on their back. Then I turn off the Al Khail Road and head towards the Oud Metha side of the creek. The road sweeps past the Ras Al Khor widlife sanctuary on my right, where the creek shallows and widens, and thousands of flamingos stand in the water amongst low, thick copses of trees as the traffic rumbles by.

A little further on, I pass the newly-opened man-made extension of the Creek, and spot the towers at the Trade Centre end of Sheik Zayed Road sprouting from a dirty brown blanket of smog, and then the huge pyramid of the nearly-complete Raffles hotel which is near my office appears, and after another five or so minutes, I'm in the office, starting up my computer and waiting for the e-mails to flood in.

The city in the sand. There's nowhere quite like it.

The Boy in the Bubble

The UAE national football team has won the Gulf Cup, beating Oman 1-0 in last night's final in Abu Dhabi. Good stuff. I wonder if they'll move onto qualifying for the World Cup next. With Bruno Metsu in charge, they seem to going from strength to strength. Well, in this region they are.

Now I understand why that Beemer I saw the other day was covered in red, white, green and black heart stickers. No window flags for this lot - they go the whole hog. Today I saw even more bizarre decorations on cars, with spray paint in the national colours applied hap-hazardly to wheels, body and even windows. Streamers hung on every available appendage - door handles, aerials, window wipers. I think they're quite happy about it all. There are reports of cars careering up and down various roads last night with people perched on top waving flags and blowing horns. I can't imagine there were many drunken brawls.

Speaking of cars, today I've been observing more of the Bubble behaviour that I was talking about recently, where the people here just seem to seal themselves away from all external influence and show no consideration for anyone or anything, etc. Like I say, I don't think there's an ounce of malice in it at all. It's just the way it is. And to be honest, it isn't just the locals. Expats start to assimilate this culture quite quickly.

Imagine the average day of a person living here, whether he be Arab or Indian or whatever. He or she drives to work at 180km/h (or 60km/h in the fast lane in a Nissan Sunny), merrily sending SMS messages and pulling the headlight stick on the steering column as they go. When they get to their turn off, they cut across 3 or 4 lanes at the last possible minute, as if they weren't expecting it, causing a cacophony of angry horns and desperately squealing brakes.

He or she arrives at work, and proceeds to park their car diagonally across 2 or even 3 spaces. Then they get out of the car and enter the office bulding. They press the lift call button and wait impatiently, possibly talking to someone on their hands-free kit as they tap their foot on the floor. Then the lift arrives with a merry ping, the doors open, and the person barges straight into the lift without waiting for anyone who might want to exit. As the lift rises, they have a good, long, loving look at themselves in the mirror.

The lift gets to their floor, and he or she rushes headlong out into the corridor before deciding to visit the facilities / rest-rooms / bogs. If you're behind them, watch out. Don't assume that they will hold the door for the person directly behind. Some will, but most will just let it close into your face. Then (if you're a bloke) you watch them approach the row of 3 urinals on the wall. This bit really gets me. I just find it sums everything up. In the UK, we have this little game with urinals, where the first person to approach always takes one at either end - never in the middle. No-one, but no-one wants to be stood directly next to another man having a slash.

But not here.

Here, the first man to the urinal invariably takes the middle station, and stand there with legs wide apart, doing his business without a care in the world. If I come in behind him, I don't know what to do. I just can't bring myself to stand right next to them, so I end up going into the cubicles and feeling faintly ridiculous for doing so.

Then, when you come out, the person is at the sink, and they are either snorting water up their nose, hacking up massive lumps of phlegm with that charming "hkhkhkhkhkhkoooocccckkkk" noise, or they are washing their feet in the sink. From there, they spend the rest of the day smoking in the no-smoking areas of the building.

Of course, it's all an education, and demonstrates something. Possibly that us Brits are really anal and uptight. Cultures are all different and this place is the biggest melting pot of all, and somehow we muddle through. We shake our heads and swap anecdotes about what the locals and subcons and Philipinos do and laugh about it with our mates, but ultimately we just get on with it. I suppose because we have to.

I hope this doesn't come across as critical of the people I'm watching. It isn't. It's just the observations of a man who has been brought up in that stiff, British way, and I find these little behavioural quirks alien and fascinating. I think deep down we are all the same. We all breathe and eat and sleep and love and hate. We are all born and we all die. When you cut us, we bleed. But differences are there for a reason. We all live in different places with different infuences, and they affect us all in different ways. And anyway, if we were all exactly the same, life would be boring, and I wouldn't have anything to write about on here.

Nighty night.

OY!

Someone's nicked all my comments!

I had about 50 comments yesterday, then noticed that the last one (quite a good one about my last post) had disappeared. It seems any comments by non-subscribers have been deleted, and non-subscribers weren't allowed to comment when I checked my settings. So, sorry to all those whose comments have vanished. It wasn't me! I've re-enabled them now.

THIS SECTION REFERRED TO THE BRITISH EXPATS BLOG SITE.

But there we go. It's been a while - again. Time seems to be squeezing together like some mad accordian played by Buster Bloodvessel, and all the daily occurences are just falling on the floor and flowing down the drain. We are nearly in February 2007. Yesterday it was June 1996, I'm sure it was. I've already been in Dubai for 6 months, and it's been a veritable BLEEEUURRRGH. It's good to be occupied, rather than bored. Boredom depresses me and makes me want to eat bad, bad things that will make me fat again. With all the time in the gym and with the WIFE becoming a cyber-addict (she's been playing a particularly annoying and addictive game called Zookeeper pretty much every waking hour...she didn't notice what I did to her the other week while she was sat playing...maybe she'll notice when the bump gets between her and the table...) I've had less time to go on the computer. But that's probably a good thing. I spend all day on the bloody things at work.

But yeah, that good old gymnasium. I've been going for a 2 full weeks now after joining up at the local place, and the weight is dropping off. I'm trying a programme I found on a Men's lifestyle website which only takes 35 minutes, 3 times a week, but which leaves you feeling really quite tired, as if you've done an hour and a half of hard work. There is little cardio work, just 5 minutes warm-up and cool-down, and the rest of it is resistance training, on the basis that muscle burns more calories and is denser and more compact than fat. The trick is the slow cadence, and doing a low number of reps till failure (listen to me, I sound like a gym rat). 4 seconds to lift, then 4 seconds to put down. Try it and see - you get a proper burn. So far I've managed to double pretty much every weight that I'm lifting. The only area I'm struggling with is my shoulders, but I'll keep working on it.

The best bit is going to a gym that is quiet. I rarely, if ever, have to wait to go on a machine. And that's 15kg (33lbs) down, 23 (51lbs) to go to reach my target. I like the metric system. It sounds much less. At 1 kilo a week, I should be down to target by July or August. I went to see the heart doctor again last week and he seems to be happy with what I'm doing. Getting drug-free 6 months down the line would be brilliant.

In other news, we finally got the two cars we've been waiting for so long to get our hands on. The actual buying process was smooth and trouble-free. Once the car dealer had the money, they arranged the insurance and registration, and I picked them up the next day. At the same time, the WIFE and kids' residence visas came through, so we got the WIFE her driving licence and got rid of the 2 hire cars. Now, in a weird kind of juxtaposition, I (the large man) drive a little sporty coupe car and she (the little lady) drives a 7-seater MPV.

Worryingly, I'm now driving something like a local. I flash my lights and beep my horn and occassionally weave between lanes when I get frustrated at the chap in the ageing white Nissan Sunny bumbling along at 80kph in the middle lane without a care in the world. But I'm getting to thinking that it's the only way to be, because hesitancy here can get you into bother. Of course, I draw the line at some things. I always strap the children into their seats nice and safely. I never drive on the hard shoulder. I don't send SMS messages whilst driving at 180kph (140 is the limit), and I'll never, ever plaster pictures of my country's leaders on my car's back window. Can you imagine seeing that in the UK? I reckon anyone who put Tony BLEEEUURRGH's insincere grin on the back window would probably get a brick through it. And rightly so.

As I drive around this place and get used to the anarchy on the highways, I'm starting to realise that a lot of the people in this part of the world live in little sealed-off bubbles. It's not malicious, they just don't think about consequences, particularly when other people are involved. The oft-used phrase "Insha'allah" is starting to make a little bit of sense. It's the culture, the upbringing to just carry on regardless, and leave the worrying about it all to God. It was similar in Taiwan. The people were lovely and friendly and hospitable, as they are here, but when they get in a car (or sometimes just in public), they just throw a switch and the bubble surrounds them. They must wonder what these flashing orange light things and shiny appendages attached to the doors are, because they don't bloody use them. Queues? They have a Barbie in front, don't they?

And then, there was the incident with the drill, which completely threw me out of kilter the other night. I think it was Thursday. I was sat at my laptop at home, minding my own business. It was late. The WIFE had gone to bed. From nowhere, the incredibly loud and wall-juddering sound of an electric drill burst into life. I looked at my watch. It was 11.25pm. Someone next door (in the adjoining villa that's been empty for 3 months) was obviously moving in, and had decided that this was the right time to start auditioning for DIY SOS. I can't remember the exact thoughts that were going through my mind, but I think the words "what", "the" and "fuck" were in there somewhere, amongst others.

I let it go. I ignored it. It couldn't go on all night. Could it? The WIFE, the BOY and the GIRL didn't seem to be overly upset by it upstairs. The kids could sleep on the runway at DXB International Airport (or the suburb of Mirdiff, as it is known round here). It kept going for another half an hour, on and off, and finally ceased just before midnight. It's a good job they stopped, because I was getting more and more annoyed, and was even thinking about going to bed in a bad mood. Again, I put this behaviour down those cultural quirks I was talking about before, you know - that unwitting, unintended selfishness. It was like my first few weeks in Dubai which I spent in that flea-pit hotel that the fleas had moved out of, and the banging doors and shouting and general hoo-hah that occured every night after midnight. It's not malicious. These people have just been brought up that way, and don't know any different.

The next day, as we pulled out of our car port and set off for Al Ain, we saw the culprit getting out of his own car with some curtain poles.

It was a Westerner.

Money, money, money

FINALLY. I got my car loan. I've been trying for about a month to get one, and yesterday the money was credited to my account. Now I can get the two cars I need. The relief! Nearly as good as coming out of Atrail Fibrillation. I have made myself ill over it all - and in hindsight I shouldn't have, but when you come up against the incompetence, intransigence and sheer bloody-minded beauracracy that I've encountered over the last month, I defy anyone to remain calm. Today, as something of a celebration, we went for brunch at Mina A'Salam, a hotel at the Madinat Jumeirah. It has had a lot of good write-ups, and it was fantastic, and I'm still stuffed 5 hours after eating. The kids were well catered for as well, and even though it was quite pricey, the free-flowing booze and really high-quality food made it all worthwhile. The ambience there is really special, and the Madinat is probably one of my favourite places in Dubai. I can't wait to take some of our guests there when they come to visit. My doctors probably won't be happy that I've had a few glasses of wine, but I've not had any for at least 3 weeks, and probably won't have any more for a good while now. A little of what you fancy, and all that.

Anyway, the bank episode is in the past now. Let's move on. Another week has zipped by in the blink of an eye. We are busy again, and it shows. The morale in the office is dipping badly again, so much so that the newest of the staff have noticed it. It doesn't help that the BOSS has been on the rampage this week. Before Christmas he delivered a fatwa on people not wearing ties, and this week he has been cracking down on early lunch leavers and anyone with the notion of having a life outside of work. A couple of his comments this week have left me bamboozled. He suggested (half-jokingly, I think) that my family were dispensable when there were important clients to be placated, and then when someone had to cancel some leave, he said he didn't have ANY sympathy, because holidays were more of a privelege than a right, especially as he has worked years with only 2 days of leave.

That's all fair and well, but for some of us, work is a means to an end. I work to live, not vice-versa. I will give my all and put my best in at the office, and have no qualms about doing a bit of work outside my allloted hours and travelling to places like Doha for a few days, but when the implication is that work comes first, second and third, with family life a poor fourth, I start to get worried. There are people in this world who like to come to work at 7am and leave at 8pm, and they make it out to be some kind of macho honour thing, but to me that's bullshit. You can only be effective for so long during a day, and 9 hours is about right. I will take a lunch break, and I will leave work at 6pm, unless there is a really urgent job that NEEDS to be done. If we feel obliged to stay long hours or are made to feel guilty for not doing so, I honestly think it makes for bad morale. But there we are, and there we go. It pays the bills, and the work is quite interesting. I've learned loads since I came here, and the CV will not suffer with the scale and type of project I'm working on now.

One thing I've started to notice at work and in general is the behaviour of some people here, in particular Western Expats. I've noticed the way some of these people talk to and behave towards people of other nationalities here, especially South-Asians or Eastern-Asians. So not to beat about the Dubya, they treat them like dirt. They shout at and berate them for the slightest lapse in standards of service, they show no gratitude or even basic manners towards them, and seem to think they are perfectly entitled to lord it over these people. They wouldn't get away with it at home, because they'd get told where to go forth and procreate, I have not a shred of doubt. The thing is, it's a double-edged sword, because the people on the receiving end just take it, say, "Yes, sir/madam," in their whiny American accent and scurry away sheepishly when they've been reprimanded by another highly-strung, self-important expat. Some of them look petrified when you talk to them, and then they look genuinely astonished when you say Please and Thank You to them, before breaking into a broad smile.

I often wonder how much these people resent us moneyed westerners, especially when we act like complete and utter twats towards them. I want to be there when one of them finally cracks, and tells some jumped-up, betroot-faced, flip-flop-wearing fool that they added their own special ingredient to their drink. I just hope it isn't me. Yes, I have witnessed poor service in the past here (the bank!), and yes, I've admitted that I get annoyed and wound up, but when I talk to people I'm doing business with I always try to remain calm and composed and respectful without raising my voice. I usually rant and rave about it to myself afterwards, because rude, arrogant behaviour and trying to humiliate some poor sod when it's probably not even his fault just breeds resentment and contempt and is unlikely to achieve any improvement in service.

It seems to be a pattern here. People change when they come here, and do stuff they wouldn't dream of doing back home. Of course, it's a different country, and a different lifestyle, and as the old saying goes - When in Rome - but people here don't do what Romans do, they act like frigging Cybermen. On acid. I've witnessed expats who don't secure their young children in car seats before driving on the third deadliest roads in the world. I've seen people who seem to think it's perfectly fine to drink drive on a regular basis, and when I say drink - I mean drink. This is despite the fact that the punishments here are more severe than back home. It's as if coming to this place makes them take leave of their senses. Is the almost-permanent sunshine melting their brain cells? Hard to say, really, but as with most things, it's probably a combination of things. As long as they can get away with it, they'll do it. And no amount of tutting and writing letters to 7 Days will change that.

But the funniest thing about it all is when I hear some expat say to me that they came here to get away from all the immigrants who don't respect the British Way Of Life, and the so-called PC brigade pandering to their every whim. So they came to a county which is 80% immigrant and bends over backwards to accomodate Westerners and their love of excess. On the other hand, they can come here and lord it over the non-white immigrants who don't earn as much money, because it makes them feel big and clever. I'd really love to see them talk to an Emirati like that.

And still - I'm happier than I've been for a long, long time. Life here is pretty good in the main. Nothing will ever be perfect, but you have to make the best of it, and I think that's what we are doing. I've spent too much time in my life sweating the small stuff.

Deeper and deeper

So I got my residence visa last week. It happened quite quickly after the medical. I've also got my driving licence, after another visit to another red-tape nightmare with more multiple points of liaison and more sitting waiting for your number to be called while other people ignore the queueing system and just wander up, even when other people are being dealt with. It probably wouldn't have been half as bad if I had actually had my original passport with me. As it was, I had to drive all the way to work to collect my passport through atrocious weather (the wettest December in eleven years, so they say) and trying to get back without getting stuck in a traffic jam on SZR caused by an awful accident early that morning which claimed 9 lives. It seems that people were driving too fast for the conditions again. "Will the learn?" you may ask. I doubt it.

After getting back and waiting some more, I eventually walked away with a nice new shiny gold credit-card-sized licence. I also got a parking ticket. Hurrah!

Traffic, traffic, traffic. It's really starting to grate now. Almost every journey of more than ten minutes in duration will involve some kind of traffic jam or hold-up, and there are often no tangible reasons for it. I've been trying to get savvy and find short-cuts, but I always end up in another queue when I try to get back to the main route. The confusing thing for me is how it has got noticably worse since the end of Ramadan. Before Ramadan was bad enough, during it was absolutely great with everyone going home early, but since the end of it, the number of cars on the road seems to have suddenly doubled, and with all the rain recently, it has only made things worse still. I don't know if it's because quite a lot of people went away for the summer and are now back. It might be a factor.

So, I think on and on about it. I feel quite lucky to live this end of Dubai, where the traffic going to town in the morning and back out on an evening isn't nearly as heavy as the traffic heading in the other direction. But for how long will this last? You only have to look up a bit as you drive around to see all the tower cranes working constantly, and you can't help notice the giant hoardings going up everywhere trumpeting some new mega-development: Sports City, Falcon City of Wonders, The Lagoons, The second Airport, Dubailand....the list goes on and grows seemingly by the day. I don't know what the projections are, but this place could well be double the size it is now in a decade's time.

There are promises of new roads and there is a metro system under construction, but I can't help but wonder what it will be like to live and work here in the not-so-distant future. And the nagging question that I can't get over (aside from building all these mega-structures on sand) is...Who is going to live here, and what are they going to do?

I'd say 60% or more of those living here now are working in construction, from labourers to the likes of me. What happens when it's finished? A lot of people will have to go home or find something else to do. Of course, there will be service-sector jobs, but what about those being served? Where are they coming from? Who are they? Hey, I'm sure they have a plan here, but I'll be damned if I can see what it is, knowing where they are taking this place in terms of development. There are ports and airports and hotels and theme parks to run, yeah, but that won't employ the population of a four-million-plus city, will it? Will it?

As far as I'm concerned, I can't see us living here more than the originally-planned two years. I think we will have had enough by then, and may want a bit of a quieter life. I'm enjoying quite a lot about the place, really I am, but now that I've been here a while, the novelty and the sheen have worn off and I'm seeing more and more of the bad things that lie under the surface and don't get advertised. Then there's the whole hypocrisy issue. Being a liberal/left-winger/commie pinko here isn't a terribly comfortable feeling, and you end up switching part of yourself off to deal with it when you see the effects and (even benefits of) rampant, naked capitalism. See no evil, and so forth. How long one can keep it up for is an intriguing dilemma.

Rain, Rain, Rain and even more rain.

t's been pissing it down all day. Hasn't stopped. It rained quite a bit yesterday and last night as well. Driving along the roads here is now even more interesting, with huge puddles, nay rivers, where the inadequate drainage is failing. In the puddes there are soapy bubbles. Apparently, they put detergent on the road before it rains to prevent the many oil slicks from becoming like ice rinks.

So we've been stuck indoors all weekend. We went to the cinema at Ibn Battuta yesterday, taking the GIRL for her first ever time. She didn't watch much of the film, and wouldn't sit on her seat, but she was fine. It wasn't too bad. Then we had tea at Tony Roma's. They have a branch in Taiwan which I had a few incredibly calorific meals in, mainly due to the amazing pork ribs they serve, especially the baby back variety. However, here in Arabia, as you may have gathered, pork is only available in certain places, and Tony Roma, who are famous for ribs, only do one type of rib - beef. That's by the by. I still had a half portion - no fries, and they were OK, but the service was terrible. They got most of the orders wrong and the food was lukewarm.

Never mind. Today we went to the Mall of the Emirates and had a spot of lunch in Apres, a sort of alpine-style, apres-ski place with fondues on the menu, and a view of people falling over on the ski slopes of Ski Dubai. It was very pleasant, of course, but then the GIRL managed to spill not one, but two of my glasses of wine, so I only drank one in the end.

On the way home, in the continuing rain, I saw a sight I have seen too much of since coming here. I saw a car going along the road with young kids in the back, jumping around, completely unrestrained. It was a western family as well. Just what the HELL are these morons thinking? Is it really such a pain in the arse to strap your kids in safely? Would they do it in the UK? No, I bet, so why do it here, where the chances of an accident are much higher? The sheer selfish stupidity of it just amazes me. Have they become so spoilt and lazy by living a luxury lifestyle that they can't be bothered to do anything that takes the slightest effort? Do they not know what can happen to a loose child in a crash? I know locals and eastern expats do it as well, but they can claim ignorance and cultural something or other...well, they probably can't, but it still shocks me to see people who should know better doing it.

Rant over.

Clerical and Medical

Fecking hell.

What a bloody palaver that was.

Excuse the language, but BUGGER ME!

I went to do my medical today, which is the compulsory blood test and chest x-ray everyone coming to work and live here has to take. They test for HIV and TB, and if you have either, you get summarily and unceremoniously deported. Being a worrier, I wonder if there's the slightest chance that I could have got HIV from somewhere. Even the minisuclest (is that a word) odds of something occuring will not matter if it's something really bad. I worry about asteroids and wandering black holes and stuff as well. Bibble.

But anyway, the test. It was carried out at the Maktoum hospital (this name is everywhere - do they own the place or something) which is in Deira, which is over the creek. I was told to go early - before 7.30am ideally, so as to avoid queueing for several centuries. I was also advised to park at work, i.e. just this side of the creek, and catch a taxi to take me there and back. My advisors told me that this would only take an hour or so. What does that WRONG noise from Family Fortunes sound likeagain? EH-URRRR!

I drove to work, got the cab, so far so good. The traffic in Deira was a mess. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes crept along the roads, blocking up junctions and roundabouts. The drivers amused themselves with some kind of free-form jazz played on car horns, which provided a constant staccatto of noise in the air all around. Asian and Arab men gesticulated at each other, and I shook my head.

We had been stuck on one roundabout for nearly 10 minutes, when the driver cheerily announced that the hospital was just round the corner, so I got out and walked. It was 7.35am. I entered the hospital gates and thanked Allah that I was a privileged Westerner with private health cover. The Maktoum hospital is grim, let's just leave it at that. I quickly found the Admin office (this is gonna be a cinch, I remember thinking) and entered through the Female entrance. They sent me packing, even though I offered to show my (now-reducing) breasts as evidence, and I entered the Male waiting area. 5 minutes later I had handed over my documents, paid my money and was in possession of my Government health card and a slip of paper which would get me the requisite tests. But it had to be typed up in the Typing Office first.

Then it started going tits-up. It took me an age to find the Typing Office, where I had to get something or other typed. It was in a pre-fab hut hidden round the back of some other building. I was told 15 minutes by the man who was sat there doing not very much, other than drinking coffee and picking fluff out of his navel. To give him his dues, it was only 8 minutes, and then I got another piece of paper. Go back to the Admin office, was the order, so I trudged back round there and paid some more money and got the proper typed-up slip for the tests. Now go to the testing room. Er...where's that? Over there somewhere (nonchalant wave in some general direction).

After another 10 minutes of fruitless searching I found the X-ray department, but I had to go for the blood test first, so they told me to follow the green line backwards to the blood test laboratory which was over near the side entrance. Well, it could have been the main entrance. I really don't know. I entered the Male section this time and was greeted with a large room full of chairs, set out like church pews, and four hatches at the far end. Above the hatches was an electronic display board, showing a group of three-digit numbers that flashed and changed at random intervals. Sort of like Argos in a mental home. Looking as stupid as possible, I wandered towards the windows and a kindly young chap with a mischevious face told me which window to go to. I handed over my papers and was directed to sit down.

My papers then moved from the first window across to the last one, in some kind of process that had me wondering what was for tea tonight. Then a large group of subcontinental labourer types entered the room and sat together in a tight, protective huddle at the other side of the room. A man with them dumped all their papers at the LAST window, and then all their numbered tickets started appearing as if by magic. I think this annoyed the mischevious young man and his mates. He went to the windows and spoke in rapid-fire Arabic. I reckon "How come they got to push in?" was the gist of it.

Time was dragging on. I resigned myself to waiting a long time. So much for the early start. Then, out of the blue, my name was called and I got my numbered ticket. 327. I sat down again, and 5 mintues later the board changed about a dozen times, bleeping manically each time, then settled on a group of numbers ending in 327. I moved to a smaller waiting area with about 10 chairs in it, sitting amongst Indian and Pakistani men of different shapes and sizes who watched me impassively. The moment they got the chance, they moved away from me. Hey, I showered last week, mate!

Then my number was shouted brusquely from the next room, and I entered a veritable factory of blood testing. There were 8 or 10 chairs with doctors and nurses sat next to them, waiting to take our blood, and I sat down at the nearest free one. As the doctor stuck the cold steel into my vein he made some small talk about where I was from, yadda yadda. I barely felt the needle, I've become so used to the whole process, I could probably do it myself.

Then, with a plaster holding a lump of cotton wool over the hole in my elbow, I walked back to the X-ray department, where there were more windows and seats, but not as many. I handed more documents over, and was soon doing a contortionist act against the chest X-ray screen. Not too bad, I thought, but I checked my watch and it was just after 9.15am. What a kerfuffle. All these administrative tasks could be done in one place, yet they choose to separate them into the smallest components and make something that should be simple really quite complex. Is it to give people jobs? It must cost a fortune!

Anyway, I headed out of the hospital and started the search for a taxi to take me back over the creek. This was the worst bit of the whole experience. Being a man of short patience, I didn't do what I should have done and waited for a taxi to drop someone off at the hospital, I wandered out towards the main roads, thinking my chances were better there. As it was, I saw loads of taxis, but they were all occupied. I saw maybe 3 unoccupied cars, but they zoomed past, ignoring my increasingly desperate waving and shouting. I ended up walking to the creek itself, well the road alongside anyway (near where we parked a while back after brunch at the Hyatt). I don't know how far I walked, but it was over a mile, I'm sure of it. Eventually a taxi dropped someone off at a large office building and I leapt into it, relieved, hot, sweaty and completely stressed out, as is my wont. I just couldn't believe that a place as busy as Deira would prove so difficult to find a taxi in. Lesson for today: stay put.

I expected the drive back over the creek to be horrendous, but it wasn't. It took less than 20 minutes, and I got back to the office at around 10.30am. I was glad to get that over with. This is one of the last steps towards getting my full visa. If everything is OK, I will have it within 10 days to 2 weeks. Fingers crossed. It has been a frustrating first 4 months in the sense that I haven't been able to establish myself fully with my own car and proper banking facilities, and a liquor licence, etc. It looks like we're finally getting there. INSHA'ALLAH!

Nothing Gets In The Way Of Ssergorp...

Nothing, you hear?

So, if the powers-that-be decide to stop the unrestricted internet access available in the Dubai Internet City areas and subject it to Etisalat and their poxy proxy, that's Ssergorp.

And if they decide that they're going to introduce a trial road toll system next year on the Sheik Zayed and Garhoud Bridge Roads, even though the alternative routes aren't very good and there will be no Metro in place until 2009 at least, that's real Ssergorp.

And, if they decide that they won't renew the 15% rent-increase cap (for what it was worth), thus giving landlords huge boners all across the land, that's Ssergorp again, even if we beg the Great God of Market Forces to bring about the Great Blessed Correction.

Best of all, though, if the company you work for pays you on random days by cheques which take 48 hours to clear rather than electronic transfer, and they take over three and a half months to get you a residence visa, that's definitely Ssergorp.

However, if the powers-that-be decide that the stout fellows who work all hours in crappy conditions and live in ever crappier conditions should have some rights and protection and some health insurance, etc., well that is Progress, and should be applauded.

It's just a shame that it seems to be a case of one step forward and three steps back.

Oh well, at least my hair is growing better in this climate.

The Day Of The Camel

I finally saw my first live camels today on the way to work. I emerged from a bank of fog near the Nad Al Sheba racetrack and, having to slow down for the aftermath of yet another car crash, I caught sight of about 20 of these magnificent beasts trotting along the racetrack to my right, heading for their morning training.

I wasn't the only one to spot a camel or two. The WIFE went for a little drive today. She's getting brave now, and decided to venture outside of the relative safety of the Emirates Hills development, and head to the Ibn Battuta Shopping Mall, which is named after a famous Arabian traveller. The mall is themed around the various places he visited, with a Chinese court and an Indian court and so on. It is quite an interesting mall, as malls go, and has some educational displays to look at, and a full-size replica of a Chinese junk. It's also a lot quieter than the Mall of the Emirates.

Anyway, I digress. The WIFE managed to miss her turning from the Sheik Zayed Road, which I will attest to being an easy thing to do, and she ended up driving in the general direction of Abu Dhabi with a rising sense of panic. She phoned me from a petrol station, jabbering on about being in the middle of the desert and having nearly collided with a group of camels (what's the collective noun, I wonder?) and with a few calming words ("Calm down, you silly moo" didn't initially work, to be fair), she got the message that she had to turn off ASAP and head back for Dubai. She managed to do that, get to the mall, and get home in one piece. As I told her, it's all part of the experience of this place. The roads and signs are confusing and misleading and you can end up more lost than a group of sickeningly photogenic people who have crashed on a tropical island in no time at all. You can usually see the place you want to get to from the main road, but actually getting to it can be a real challenge unless you know the precise place names to look for and which and slip-road to take.

I got lost every day for my first week, which was infuriating, but ironically this helped me in the long run, because I got to know the names of places quite quickly and am now fairly comfortable with getting around, although it is still possible to take the wrong turning and end up in some dusty industrial estate.

Later today, there was some bad news about a friend I made early on during my time here. This chap had taken me under his wing, invited me for a beer, and had shown me some of the more "interesting" places in Dubai. He had also been good enough to rent the spare room in his lovely Villa in Jumeirah to me for a couple of weeks so I could get out of the crappy London Crown Hotel Apartments. Anyway, I hadn't heard from him, apart from one short e-mail, since I had moved into my Villa a couple of weeks ago, and so today at lunch I sent a text message to a mate of his asking if he was alright. The ominous message, "Call me" came back. Oh, bugger. The worst of worst things went through my mind, and when I rang up I found out that he had been dune-bashing in his Jeep last weekend and had managed to somersault the bloody thing over a dune and had broken his neck in 5 places. It had been touch-and-go as to whether he would be paralysed or not, but it seems he has been quite lucky and has just(!) broken the verterbrae in his neck, without damaging the spinal cord.

Apparently he is now resting up at home in a neck brace. Get well soon, mate!

Huuuu liyuvs inner plaice liyuk thus???

We do! Yep, that's our "Villa", in the Springs area of Emirates Hills, Dubai. At last I've got the hang of posting pictures. I managed to re-size it with some fancy software that I have on my new laptop because the original was taking up the whole bloody page! Now I'll be posting loads of photos.

There was even worse fog this morning. More people with hazards, and police everywhere for a bloody change, but they weren't doing anything worthwhile, all they were doing was directing (blocking) traffic on the roundabout near Springs where the Emirates Road meets Al Khail Road. Cray-zay!

Work was good again today. More meetings about massive amounts of monet and some really good heated discussions, which are always fun to watch. The weirdest bit about today was arriving at the meeting to hear a few of the local guys discussing the events of 5 years ago to the day (9/11). There were some bizarre and interesting theories being bandied about, and quite extreme differences of opinion on who or what was responsible and who or what was controlling those planes. It reminded me of when I worked in Northern Ireland and was in a meeting where they started blaming various paramilitary groups for this and that. Like today, I decided to keep quiet and listen with interest.

But, talking of work and (gulp) flying, I'm off to Doha on Wednesday. Should be interesting to see another bit of the Middle East, and possibly somewhere a bit more "real" than Dubai.

It was like watching a car crash

Except, I missed the actual crash. On the way home tonight, I saw the aftermath of another accident on the roads of Dubai, which involved an ambulance and a couple of cars just off a roundabout on the Al Khail Road (which is supposed to be safer than the Sheik Zayed Road), one of which was on its roof. Cars were slowing right down for a good ghoulish gawp, and there were no police anywhere to be seen. No lanes were closed off at all. It was the same with a lorry that had over-turned, again on a roundabout on the AK road, that I saw the other day. No wonder people drive like they do here. You hardly see any police on the road, so the chances of enforcing the rules (which aren't that great, it is not actually illegal to tailgate here) are both slim and fat at the same time. The driving here would make even Jeremy Clarkson cringe, I'm sure.

Strange thing, that. Slim chance and fat chance both mean pretty much the same thing....

Anyway, I found myself actually looking forward to going to work today. Crazy shit, I know. The particular job I'm working on is a huge one in Qatar, but it's made more interesting by the fact that the project has gone totally tits-up. The meetings don't send me to sleep for a change, they actually grab my attention. It helps that there are about 10 different nationalities around the table. I really have to pay attention to what people are saying, and sit in wonder as a Scotsman talks to a Yemeni, and then a Frenchman interjects, before a Scouser starts telling everyone to simmer down. I admit I came here with something of a preconception about the Arabs and the way they do business, but the ones I've dealt with so far are cool customers, who don't mind having a bit of banter with you. I thought they'd be aloof and business-like to a T. I do wish they wouldn't break into Arabic now and again, though. It's like they're talking about you. "Did you hear what that fat English dick-head just said?" "Yeah! Idiot. I can't believe we're paying for these freaks!"

Ah, such is life, and soon the weather will get better, or so we have been told, and we can get out of the buildings and get some fresh dust, I mean air. But this morning, I woke to an alarming sight: overcast skies. I thought I'd dreamt the last 5 weeks and was back in blighty. I drove to work in a misty, sunless void, surrounded by petrified locals with their hazard lights flashing. What's that all about? If anything out of the ordinary happens, the hazards go on. And when the hazards go on, the driver is suddenly exempt from all rules of the road, and becomes invisible and impervious to all external influences. This is especially the case when they double park and block everyone else behind them. I'm not really here! I can do anything I want!

And so, we've come full circle, at full speed around this roundabout to driving in the UAE. It's like a fairground, I tell thee....

I'm new here...

So please be gentle.

Actually, I've been in Dooby-dooby-dubai for 3 weeks now. Scary. It's flown, but it also feels like it's been months and months. So much has happened since I stepped off the KLM flight from Amsterdam on 5th August and thought to myself, "where's this much-vaunted heat?" That would come later. But, blimey, what a big airport. It was obvious enough because it took so long to taxi to the gate after landing. The walk through the airport was good exercise at least. Passport control wasn't too bad, apart from some rude American guy who jumped the queue. Finally I stepped out into the open air to look for my hotel pick-up and the heat hit me. WOOOSH. Shut that oven door, bubba!

I got to the hotel and realised it was crap. Fully-equipped kitchen my hat. Since when did a surface-top hotplate, a fridge and a washing machine made in Albania constitute fully-equipped? At least there was a clean bed there to sleep on. Sleep? HA! Obviously the time difference caused a few day's worth of minor sleep problems, but that's nothing. I suppose part of this whole multi-cultural exposure deal when you come to a new country is getting used to the strange habits of other cultures. It was like the place came alive at 11.30pm, a time when I am usually trying to get off into the land of nod. Doors slamming, kids running around, people shouting along the corridors.....SHUT UP! Don't these people sleep?

They gave me a hire car after a day or two. It looked like a beaten-up old dodgem with the amount of little dents and scratches all over it. Obviously, it didn't have a pole for the electric feed at the back, and it didn't have a thick rubber bumper all the way round, but to be honest, they should make cars here like that. It would be much more fun. My first experience of SZR was pretty much like the dodgems, only without the tattooed men clambering all over the vehicles. Black-windowed SUVs screamed past on all sides, mini-buses tailgated me, and men on bicycles pedalled towards me the wrong way.

Anyway, I'm not whingeing. It's all part of life's rich tapestry. The melting pot feel of the place is really something. It's like being in the Cantina in Mos Eisley. The building work going on (the reason I've got a job, ultimately) is amazing, even if there is a slight nagging doubt at the back of your mind, mainly to do with that parable about the man who built his house on the sand. I've had a good explore already, and want to see more when it gets cooler. I'd definitely like to see more of the authentic Arab culture, which seems a bit lacking in Dubai itself.

So, let's get it on. We've got a long journey ahead of us.