Feeling flabby in Abu Dhabi

The GIRL had her third birthday on Friday, and her favourite presents seem to be the toy dishwasher and the toy medical kit she acquired. In between loads of teeny-weeny cups and plates going through the dish-washer, we were subjected to injections, stethoscope investigations and spoonfuls of invisible - but always nice-tasting - medicine.

After a brunch involving balloons, fudge brownies and a nasal rendition of Happy Birthday Dear GIRL by a chorus of South East Asian waiting staff at Planet Hollywood, we rolled home, and before long I had to depart for Abu Dhabi. The GIRL wasn't very happy, but I assured her my return would be swift. I had to go and see a man about an oryx, or something, and that involved an overnight stay in the UAE's capital city. So after a kiss and cuddle and another listen to my heart, I set off along Sheik Zayed road, past Jebel Ali, and out into the desert.

It isn't long before I am almost completely alone on the highway to Abu Dhabi. The motorway looks new, with pristine white stripes and dark, even tarmac. The infinite lines of metal crash barriers separate the road from the desert, which is bleak and flat here. There isn't much to look at, apart from the odd power line and scaffold-supported hoarding heralding some up-coming mega-development to swallow up the empty sand. Now and then, a lonely-looking man in traditional Pakistani dress appears by the road, watching the traffic zip by.

Then the desert changes, and more vegetation springs up on each side of the motorway, and a line of trees takes up residence along the central reservation. A few settlements begin to emerge, and it soon becomes apparent that you are in a different Emirate. The road signs change slightly, and the service stations become the blue and white liveried Adnoc station, each with a mosque in the vicinity. One large, yellow road sign raises a chuckle, imploring the driver to BEWARE OF ROAD SURPRISES. I wonder what kind of surprises they mean; giant birthday cakes in the fast lane? Or perhaps Orang-utans on Harley Davidsons.

Soon enough, Abu Dhabi was upon me, with the airport whizzing by on the left. I kept right as much as I dared, based on the little map I had bought at a book shop earlier. I only went slightly wrong, approaching the main part of the city on the wrong road, but parallel to the one I wanted to be on, so it was just a question of cutting across to the road I needed. Abu Dhabi has a nice easy grid system of numbered roads with odd numbers running one way and even numbers the other, so there was never much danger of getting too lost.

My inadvertant diversion was a blessing in disguise, because I managed to get a good view of the incredibly massive, and I mean ginormous, Zayed Grand Mosque which is under construction, and almost complete. It has more shiny white domes than a convention for the follically challenged, and four huge minarets that reach skywards like giant, ornate pencils. I've since heard that it has been under construction for years now, and has been beset with problems galore.

The diversion was, as I said, a problem of miniscule proportions, and I found my destination. The words "hotel apartments" tend to fill me with dread these days, after my experience with the hotel apartments I was subjected to on my arrival in Dubai last August, but I was in for a pleasant surprise. The hotel apartment I was given for the night was a newly-refurbished and very pleasant flat, with separate kitchen, bedroom and lounge, and even two - count them - two toilets. The kitchen was the most impressive part, with a proper cooker, a fridge freezer, a microwave, a kettle and full sets of crockery, cutlery and pots and pans. Call me easily pleased, but I was impressed.

That night, I was entertained by a chap who works for the company I had come to meet in the morning, and we partook in a perfectly adequate Mexican meal and a few tonsil-loosening beverages. After the meal, we went to a bar called Hemingway's at the Hilton hotel. It had three distinct zone within it, including a deserted night club and a lively, smoky jazz bar, which is where we ended up, watching the obviously talented musicians strutting their stuff on a stage the size of an A4 envelope. My company for the evening told me that they used to have a grand piano on said stage, which meant the rest of the band had to huddle together in one corner. I hope they got on well.

After the jazz, which really ain't my bag, since I don't wear polo-neck sweaters and say "Nice" all the time, I was conveyed back to my hotel apartment, taking in the sights of Abu Dhabi Corniche as we went, passing the Emirates Palace and various other landmarks on the way. There aren't as many huge skyscrapers as in Dubai, with no building over 40 storeys by my estimation. It seems this will change, as seems to be the pattern round these parts. The amount of high buildings is obviously a good barometer of a nation's and city's status.

By daylight, AD appears to be a much greener and tranquil place than Dubai, and yet seems livelier and more developed than Doha. I also noticed that the air is much clearer, which is nice when you are used to the ubiquitous dust of Dubai, from the construction sites that take up a pretty large slice of the land, and if there isn't a construction site, there is invariably a sandy wasteland waiting to be developed. AD has some construction, of course, but you get the sense that the place is far more established, with more grass and trees - almost approaching Al Ain levels in some areas. Of course, if you lived here, got a bit bored with the place, and had the urge to subject yourself to the in-your-face glitz and craziness of Dubai, you know it's only an hour and a bit to drive there. I don't see why you would want to do it that much, as there seems to be plenty there. It maybe doesn't attract the same headlines and events that Dubai does, but on the other hand, AD has just won the rights to host the 2009 Formula One Grand Prix, so there must be something going for the place.

So, dawn broke, and I slept off the previous night's alcohol. I had made the mistake of leaving my car in an unsheltered spot overnight, without the sun shades in the front window, and by the time I finished my late-morning meeting and got in it to go home, it was past noon, and the temperature inside could easily have baked a few scones. The steering wheel was white hot, so I had to treat it like a hot potato as I navigated my way back out of AD, at least until the AC had cooled the car down. I stopped for a hot dog for dinner, then continued back towards Dubai, sticking the mp3 player on shuffle and listening to a few good driving tunes as the greenery of AD disappeared into the haze behind me.

You know you're in Dubai when you start seeing the cranes. There are new buildings springing up at least 20 kilometres before the Ibn Battuta mall. The metro line extends right into Jebel Ali, much further than I realised, with the thick, evenly-spaced columns sprouting up all along the side of SZR up to the Trade Centre roundabout, before veering left towards Burjuman and Bur Dubai. Some have nothing on top, just a section of bare reinforcing steel, others have concrete plinths sat atop them which will support the u-shaped pre-cast sections of the track bed, and quite a few already have the track bed extending between them. This track bed increases in length every day. They are going at some pace, and they have to, because the metro is supposed to be working in 2 year's time. There weren't even any columns when I arrived 10 months ago, so I mean it when I say they are cracking on with it.

A curious thing I've noticed about the metro is the way the raised track is designed. It doesn't go along at one level as you would expect, but rather resembles some kind of drawn-out rollercoaster ride with rises and dips taking the track over and under the many bridges and fly-overs at the junctions of SZR. I'm not an Engineer, but this seems a bit strange to me. I thought trains didn't like slopes. It will certainly be interesting to see what a train going along at 100kph will look like as it rises and falls on this track. I hope they will provide sick bags.

And then, another weekend has ended, and that means work. Sunday was the day from Hell, or at least Hull, which isn't far off. I had been trying to meet several deadlines at the end of last week, and with three major ones on my shoulders jockeying for position, I had to try and manage my time in an effective manner. I sometimes struggle to do this, especially with the impossible demands that Middle Eastern companies seem to have, and managed to meet the sum total of none of my major deadlines. I was too phased and dazed to work the weekend, and I had prior commitments anyway, so the mess I had to clear up on Sunday was not good. I had snotty e-mails from clients and lectures from Managers and phone calls from crazed Engineers, all telling me I was crap and making me feel crapper. By the end of the day, I had put out most of the fires that had sprung up, but it was bloody hard work. What I need now is a long holiday - two weeks of doing nothing. I'm scheduled to go back to the UK for 2 weeks mid-July, and I can't wait.

The Heat Is On

Summer is well and truly on its way, and the opportunity to partake in outdoor pursuits is diminishing. It is still possible to sit outside in the shade at lunchtime or go for a walk on an evening, but it invariably results in sweat pooling in unheard of bodily regions. Not really pleasant.

But there we go. Summer is the Winter of the Gulf, when the weather forces long spells inside. Everything is the wrong way round. We wear as little as is decently possible, and drink the coldest drinks available, but then for a break from the cruel, indefatigable heat, we can go to Ski Dubai and scrape our hands on the sled runs. I still have the scar from New Year's Eve.

So I've been back in Dubai for over a week now, and have just about recovered my sanity after my incarceration in the 26-floor prison they call the Movenpick Towers hotel in Doha. No more buffets for breakfast, lunch and dinner (or dinner and tea, depending on your class). No more cloying attention from grinning hotel workers who pretend to worship the ground you walk on, but secretly harbour murderous feelings to the pampered, corpulent westerners who just want to be left alone. Instead, I actually have to make my own breakfast and load the dishwasher and wipe my own bum. It's taken some getting used to, but I think I'll be OK.

The best bit of my first week back was the peace and quiet at work. The BOSS was on holiday, and the client decided he had badgered me enough during my last week in Doha, so I was able to work at a leisurely pace and get on top of my work for once, instead of vice versa. Lunch hours were taken without worry, even though most of the conversation was about how bad our company was and who was going to leave next. The rest of the time I spent pondering my future, whether that is here in the Middle East, or elsewhere. Even though it was relatively quiet, the week still went quickly.

On Thursday afternoon I was invited to go for a drink by a chap who I chat to on an internet messageboard for expatriates. I have met him before through a mutual friend, so I went along to Aprés at the Mall of the Emirates to meet him and another messageboard contributor who had been giving me some stick for my musical tastes. We had a few relaxed drinks (raspberry mojitos - very, very nice) and talked about the crazy world of Dubai and the crazier world of virtual Dubai, and before I knew it, 2 hours had disappeared, and it was time for everyone to go. It had been a nice way to round off the week, and I wouldn't mind making it a regular fixture.

As it is, I had to disappoint another friend by going to Aprés. When I got his text message, I was already on my way there. He knows who he is. He probably thinks I'm trying to avoid him at the moment with everything that has happened recently, and I will admit that I have needed some time to reflect on certain new information that has come to light, but I'm not ignoring him. There will be a time and a place, I'm sure. I hope he understands.

And then, the weekend. I had been looking forward to Friday, because there was a Star Wars marathon, showing all 6 films in sequence, on one of the movie channels. So we went shopping early on Friday to get it out of the way, and rushed back to the villa to get the TV on. I would have missed about 10 minutes of the start of Episode 1, but I could live with that. Episode 1 is the weak link, as I'm sure most people know. I didn't reckon for the weak link in my expectations. It turns out that I don't have the movie channel in question in my package. I just naturally thought we would have it, but after several flicks through all 247 channels of utter pap, the movie channel in question was not to be found. I was gutted. I rang the TV provider and asked if they could turn it on, and was told that I could, as long as I filled in 13 different forms, took them in person to 13 different offices, then travelled by foot to Al Ain to milk a goat called Colin, and finally getting the channel activated in 45 working days. Forget it. The Farce is strong in this one.

Party on...

Summer is returning. The sun is getting hotter. The air is starting to feel thick with heat and moisture, and the vicious, unrelenting glare of the sky, sand and light-coloured buildings is getting brighter and brighter. The glass windows of buildings feel warm from the inside, rather than cold now, and you really notice the difference when you enter or exit a building. The air conditioning makes you shiver monentarily as you enter, and on the flip-side, getting into a car - especially when it has been parked out of the shade - is like entering a sauna - fully clothed, with a red hot steering wheel to hold.

My third weekend in Doha has been and gone. On Thursday, I spent the day recoiling from a barrage of sardonic and annoying e-mails from one person who seemed to have it in for me that day. I was glad of the opportunity to take a bit of a flier and drive down to the site on the Corniche for a little party they were holding to celebrate the end of a particular phase of work in the Big Hole in the Ground.

I got there just in time. The portacabin meeting room was full of people standing with their arms folded, looking longingly at the Arabic-syle feast laid out on the tables in the middle, with kebabs, pickles, hummous and breads waiting to be consumed. Two large plates took centre stage, but foil concealed the delights upon them. The Project Managers made their little speeches, the staff appluaded politely, then everyone eagerly tucked in. Foil was ripped away from the two large plates to reveal the almost complete roasted carcasses of lambs laying on beds of yellow rice. I waited a moment to see what would happen, and watched as the others around me started ripping the meat from the carcasses with their bare hands. Well, their right hands, to be precise. No-one uses their left hand to touch food here, for reasons of hygiene. Left hands are for dealing with sanitary matters, shall we say.

So I dived in as well, feeling like some early hominid without a spear or a loin cloth as I tore cooked flesh from the bones of the dead beast in front of me, piled it onto my plastic plate, and stuffed it into my mouth. It felt good, and it tasted even better. I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to when this animal had been gamboling around in a field, completely unaware of its final destination, but I imagine it wasn't long ago. This thought, along with the sight of the lamb's body with leg bones and ribs protruding from it might have put some people off, but there weren't many around me that showed any signs of being so. Within ten minutes, there wasn't much meat left at all, just bones and gristle and skin, as if a pack of ravenous hyenas had just taken its fill, before washing it down with a can of Coke.

Greasy hands and faces were wiped clean and Arabic sweets were passed round. They were sweets which I hadn't seen before; a kind of sticky orange, crispy cigar filled with custardy cream. One was more than enough for me, and then the party seemed to disband, and everyone began to shuffle away from the meeting room, wiping their mouths clean as they went back to their desks, or straight out of the door towards home. A few of the big cheeses were meeting for a cup of tea in another room, but I decided against joining them - not that I'm a big cheese, more of a half-pack of Dairylea, if I'm honest - and slipped back to my car and started driving towards my hotel.

With the sun on its way down and the air cooling a bit, I decided to park up on the Corniche front and take in a little fresh air. I didn't walk very far, deciding to sit on the thick, white, sectioned wall at the water's edge and watch the world go by. Joggers, families and random single people passed by, the odd one greeting me with the traditional, "A Salaam alaykum" as they passed. I still haven't got the hang of answering straight away in Arabic, favouring the silent nod or the quick, "Hi" in reply. I hope they aren't offended.

After 15 minutes of peaceful reflection, I went back to the car and completed my journey to the hotel, wondering what I was going to do for the weekend, since it was upon me again, and I was alone again. I ended up ringing a chap I know who works for one of the companies I deal with and we agreed to meet at the Australian bar in Rydges. We'd both had hard days, so a quick drink was definitely on the cards.

We met and chatted and drank, and I was introduced to a handful of people from various places and various companies - mostly construction related - and had a thoroughly pleasant evening, drinking the black stuff and smoking other people's cigarettes, which is a filthy habit, especially when you take one without asking. Oh well, they're only 90p a packet here. So maybe I should buy my own. But if I did that, I would smoke more, and I really shouldn't smoke, even on this ad-hoc, "only when I drink" basis. It's asking for trouble with this ticker of mine on top of the alcohol.

The bar was pretty busy by 10pm. The music gradually got louder, and so did the people, and when I decided to leave at 11.30, there was a small group of people waiting to get in, standing impatiently in front of the velvet rope manned by gargantuan, glowering bouncers. I smiled to myself as I walked past them all and into the waiting lift. I've been there before, and I'm sure I'll be there again. Everyone wants to get in somewhere, and everyone wants to keep everyone out. Unless you're a VIP, of course.

Friday was lie-in day. Though I miss my children, the one advantage of being away from them is not having them jumping all over me at 6.30 in the morning on a weekend. So I had a nice long sleep, before ordering room service for breakfast and watching old movies on the TV, sitting there in a hotel-issue bath robe that just about fitted.

Boredom got the better of me by early afternoon, so I decided to ring another chap, this time an ex-colleague, who had suggested earlier last week that we visit the (in)famous Garvey's for a drink and some food. Their roast dinners are legendary. Especially in their own lunchtime. The suggestion had been made on Wednesday night when we had met up with other ex-colleagues and current incumbents over a curry at a very impressive and cheap Indian restuarant next to the tennis stadium.

So we drove out of central Doha, towards the Sports City area, and eventually arrived at a complex tucked away from view behind some shops and villas. The complex calls itself The European Families Club, and has a collection of low buildings, including villas and fitted-out cabins which they rent out to expats. Garvey's is the bar, and lies behind a solid, dark wooden door near the swimming pool area. Even on this hot day, the pool area was busy with lobster-skinned Brits sitting in the midday sun supping cold beers. Unfortunately, there were no canines in need of therapy to be seen anywhere.

Garvey's itself has been described as having the feel of a working men's club, and this assessment is spot on. It has undergone a recent revamp, with fancy wooden venetian blinds being added to the windows, and dark blue paint slapped on the walls, but it can't betray its roots. The tables and chairs are old and wobbly, and the once-white ceiling tiles now resemble a heavy smoker's teeth; yellowy-brown and quite unpleasant. Newer, cleaner tiles fitted with recessed lights have been fitted, obviously to provide some light, but they just serve to highlight the griminess of their older neighbours. In the corner, a TV shows sport on a permanent loop, interspersed with information about forthcoming Karaoke and Quiz nights, and messages imploring people not to drink and drive. The obligatory pool table and large screen telly hide round a corner at one end.

The clientele all seemed jolly enough when we entered. There was a mix of middle-aged, shaven-headed men in long shorts and football shirts, younger men in long shorts and football shirts with designer sunglasses and Crocodile Dundee hats, women in short skirts and cropped tops trying to ignore their young, boisterous children, and a few older, red-bonced men in long shorts and football shirts with faded tattoos extoling the virtues of female parents on every spare scrap of bare skin. My colleague informed me it was still early, and it was reasonably quiet for now, but most of these people would spend all day in this one place. Fights, he told me, were quite a regular occurence in the darker hours.

But before I come across as some sort of insufferable snob (moi?), I have to point out that the food in Garvey's is superb. I plumped for leek and potato soup and roast beef with all the trimmings, and was not disappointed. In fact, it was excellent, and really cheap. The soup was as good as anything I've ever made myself, the roast potatoes were crunchy and moist without being greasy and the beef was just a little bit pink in the middle, covered in dark, thick gravy. Oh yes. The only slight let-down was the Yorkshire pudding, which was a little on the soggy side, but it didn't ruin the whole experience of eating a home-made roast dinner again. When I'd eaten everything on my plate (except the cauliflower), I sent my wife a rather cheeky text message telling her what I'd just eaten. Her reply was short, sweet and effective: BOG OFF.

After a couple of non-alcoholic drinks (don't let the halo slip, now), my colleague and I headed off into the cooling late afternoon. It had certainly been an experience, that's for sure. It's like a real, authentic piece of UK culture has been lifted from a Northern industrial town and transplanted into the middle of this Middle Eastern city. The only hint that you're not in the UK is the high percentage of Asian staff behind the bar. It serves its primary purpose, which is to give people a home from home while they are overseas, and it keeps people happy. And drunk. Of course, I could go on about cultural integration and the criticism immigrants to the UK suffer because of their lack of integration, but that would be remiss of me. The point is made, and will be made again.

Friday night was a lazy night. I watched Mission Impossible 3 on the hotel pay-per-view system, and it passed the time well. When will that Tom Cruise fella start showing his age?

If Friday was a lazy night, Saturday was a lazy day. I spent it almost entirely in the hotel, only leaving it to get some lunch across the road in the neighbouring hotel, and having a little wander around the grounds to look at their impressive multi-level, lagoon-style swimming pool. The rest of the day I spent watching TV or playing the PSP, in between contemplating my future. I have two solid job offers for other work on the table now. One is in Doha, the other in Russia, and I keep changing my mind as to which would be the better one to take. I have pretty much decided to leave the company I'm with now.

The last film I watched last night was Luc Besson's take on the Joan of Arc story. It came across as a sort of Braveheart with a French woman, with maybe a little more historical accuracy, and wasn't TOO damning on the English for once. The ending, where a 19-year-old Joan is burnt at the stake, made me squirm a bit, serving as a reminder of humankind's propensity to savage brutality. I had to watch a little bit of the comedy channel to take my mind away from the images of Joan being consumed by the flames.

And here we are. The start of another week. I should get home this week. Home being Dubai, of course. Strange how I see it like that now. But home is where the heart is, and my heart is with 3 people who I miss. I miss them a lot.

Weekends - Doha style.

I have just spent my first weekend in Doha. The potential for loneliness and boredom was high. So what better way to waste the hours than drive around the place exploring and getting one's bearings. And with the loneliness and boredom at the forefront of my worries, I doubled my exploration with looking for a PSP on Friday. I decided that now I am going to be alone for long spells, I need something to alleviate the boredom. So out I went.

Dubai has a lot of shopping malls. It's supposedly one of the attractions of the place. On a stupidly hot day, what is better than wandering around an air-conditioned temple of consumerism or sitting in Starbucks sipping on a half-fat soy latte?

And what Dubai can do, Doha wants to do better.

There are a suprising amount of malls here. The main one is the Doha City Centre Mall (they seem to have City Centre Malls in all the major cities in the Gulf). It has an ice rink and a cinema and lots of shops, including Carrefour. It also has lots of shops that are not yet open, and new extensions with massive hotels being constructed all around it. I digress.

As I said, I was looking for a PSP, so I tried Carrefour. They only had pink ones, and I am not having a pink one. Call me traditional. Call me gender-role-compliant, but pink isn't my colour. I tried a few other shops in the mall. No luck there either. They seem to be in short supply, unless you're a girl. So it was time to explore Doha. It is very quiet on a Friday; a lot of the shops are just closed, or don't open till after lunch, and the roads are much quieter. It reminded me of how Sunday used to be in the UK. As it was, I didn't head out till the afternoon, so the malls were at least open, if not all the shops within them.

Looking on the map I had borrowed from the hotel, I spotted the Sports City area and a new mall called Villagio nearby, which sounded promising. So I pointed the car out towards the desert, and drove along a quiet, straight boulevard lined with closely-grouped crane-like lamposts adorned with spotlights. Within a short time I saw the elongated egg-cup of the Aspire tower and the skeletal roof of the main stadium used for the Asian Games last year, and impressive structures they are. I drove round the empty car-park getting different angles of the buildings.

There is something eerily peaceful about sports venues when they are empty. They stand like this for most of their existence, as if sleeping in dignified, empty silence, waiting to wake up to the noise and colour of a sports event to bring everything to life again as the car parks fill up, the crowds take their seats, the concession operators and programme sellers fill the concourses, and the competitors take to the field in pursuit of glory and adulation.

Right next door to the stadium is the Villagio shopping mall. In contrast to the sports stadium, this place is awake a lot more than it is asleep (except on Friday mornings, of course). After I'd finished looking at the stadium, I drove into the car park of the mall and parked. As I approached, I noticed the intended theming straight away. Even the exterior is built to resemble an Italian town, with pastel-coloured, terraced buildings of different shapes and sizes huddled together. Even so, I didn't expect to see what I found inside.

As I entered the mall, I was immediately aware of the similarities with Ibn Battuta mall in Dubai, where the malls boulevards and shops are styled and themed to make you feel like you are in an old Andalusion village, or in ancient China. Villagio is themed on Venice, and the theme of closely-huddled, terracota-rooved buildings is even more prevalent inside. The ceiling of the mall is painted to look like a summer sky; azure blue with whispy clouds here and there. The floor is tiled to resemble a Venetian street.

Then you notice it: Right in the middle of this mall is a canal with real, life-sized gondolas that you can actually ride in. The word Vegas sprung into my head, as I shook it side to side in disbelief.

So I walked along the canal, in the fake Venice. I stopped briefly when I heard a bird singing from the roof of one of the shops. I couldn't see a bird, but it sounded real enough. I wouldn't be surprised if it was just a loudspeaker. Walking further along, I crossed the canal over an ornate bridge, and turned a corner to find a food court and a large area with high white hoardings all around that was obviously not finished. Who knows what lies there? I've been told since that it might be an ice rink. It's not quite Ski Dubai standard, I'm sure, but the wish is there, you just know it.

As it happens, the Villagio visit was fruitless. The huge Carrefour (is there any other size?) had only pink PSPs again. I was told to try the Virgin Megastore, and did so, but while they had loads and loads of games and accessories for PSPs, they didn't have a single PSP. How annoying.

So I wearily headed back towards the car, stopping for a late lunch of lentil soup and bread at a French-style cafe. There were no Italian cafes. Note to self: do not eat baked beans, eggs and lentils on the same day again. It might keep you warm, but the odour is not a good one.

As I drove away from Villagio, I noticed yet another mall, just past it. Right next to it, in fact. It was a much older one, called the Hyatt Plaza or something. At the front, near the road, there is a giant - I hesitate to call it a sculpture - model of a shopping trolley. It must be 30 or 40 metres high, at a guess. So it's not just Dubai that has a taste for the incredibly kitsch and mind-boggling. This kind of thing belongs in a U2 concert (Popmart tour), or a pulp sci-fi novel about giant killer shopping trolleys. If I shake my head much more, it'll fall off.

This mall is a lot older, and it showed. There is a large hypermarket with a name I can't remember, and a cluster of small shops, fast-food outlets and kiddies play areas all around it. I tried the main shop for a PSP, but was again frustrated. Not even close. This particular hypermarket is really low-end, I thought. Netto makes it look classy.

Frustrated by my lack of success in getting my sweaty mitts on a PSP, I thought about other options. The hotel has a swimming pool, and a bit of exercise would do no harm. I could even have a jacuzzi without turning the bubbles on. So I looked for swimming shorts. I found some, and every single pair was size L. The shop assistant I collared looked at my bulk and shrugged, mumbling something about the size L being generous. He pointed me towards a changing room to see for myself.

I say changing room. It was four planks of MDF held together with nails in the middle of the clothing section. The "door" didn't have a lock, it had a shoe-lace and a metal eyelet to tie it around. It did have a mirror, I'll give them that. So I squeezed into this little structure and tried on the shorts, being careful not to knock the walls of the structure for fear of knocking them down, leaving me standing there in the middle of a low-rent hypermarket with my trousers round my ankles.

As luck would have it, the swimming shorts were of a generous size, and they fit me, so I made my purchase and left the shop. On my way out, I spied a small electronics shop to one side, and through the window I saw a range of PSPs in different colours. GET IN YA BEAUTY! As usual, salvation came from an unexpected source. I dived into the shop, bought a PSP and made my way back to the hotel with my newest toy and a smile on my face.

I also bought a couple of games - Pro Evolution Soccer and Call of Duty. I was worried when I noticed they had a different region number on them to that on the PSP, but after a quick battery charge, the software updated and all was well. The games are great, and look great. Pro Evo plays and looks almost exactly the same as it does on the PS2 / X-box. Yeah, the commentary isn't so good, and you can't edit the strips, but that's not an issue to me. I now have something to waste the lonely hours with.

Saturday came, and I decided to go for that swim in the hotel. The first part of this venture was to push down and swallow the fear of heights I have. The pool is on the 26th floor, which is high enough for me, thank you, even though I have lived on the 29th floor before during my short stay in the USA. Luckily the pool is enclosed, not open-air. So I donned my new shorts and took the lift from the 7th to the 26th floor. I was impressed with how fast the lift moved, and I watched the electronic display count them off at a floor every second or just over. I had visions of it shooting out of the top of the building, but it came to a quick stop at 26 and I got out.

The views were amazing. The pool area is surrounded by full-height windows giving a superb view across the bay and along the sweeping arc of corniche. As I stood there, I saw an airliner taking off from Doha airport and rise slowly and quietly towards me, before passing over and to the side of the building and heading out towards the Persian Gulf. At 100 metres in the air, things look small on the ground. I can only imagine what the view will be like from the top of the building I am working on, which will be nearly 100 floors and 500m high. I might struggle to contain my vertigo for any length of time. Like with most fears I have, the key seems to be confronting them and reducing their impact by just getting on with it.

So I had a little swim, then had some lunch right next to the window, looking out across the calm blue bay and down at the green arc of the corniche. It was really quite pleasant.

The afternoon was spent playing a few games on the PSP, completing a couple of tough missions in war-torn Europe before seeing off Newcastle 7-0. I think a combination of the two games would be entertaining. Hoying a few grenades at the Geordie midfield would certainly liven things up.

And Saturday night was here. I ventured out to the Ramada Hotel and an expat bar with big screens and a smoky, working men's club vibe. The name escapes me. Shezadne or something. After watching some football, I went for a very reasonable curry at the Bombay Balti. A very kind lady from the reception had guided me all the way there, telling me it was popular and always very busy. It wasn't. I was the only one there.

To round off the night, I went to the Library bar at the Four Seasons Hotel, just across the road from my hotel. It's the second time I've been there, having been there on Wednesday night when I struck up a conversation with a very nice American chap who is also working in Doha without his family. It all started when I falteringly asked about the stuffing in the stuffed olives, and he confirmed it was indeed cream cheese, which is often the way these conversations start. Anyway, the bar is a pleasant, quiet bar, with darkwood panels on the walls, large sofas to lounge in, and some delicious mini-poppadums to snack on. Last night it was quiet in the bar, and no-one struck up converation with me, so I had a couple of whisky and gingers (something I've just started drinking, but I got the idea from my old man), a cigar (which is naughty, but I didn't inhale) and read the paper.

Then I returned to my hotel room and caught a movie starting on TV called Hellboy, which was entertaining enough, and then I went to sleep. I'm loathe to say I'm becoming used to this lifestyle, but it's getting easier to bear. I'm missing the WIFE and the kids, but I'm still not missing Dubai.

Down and Out in Doha

Not really. Stranded, lonely and confused maybe. But what's new?

I'm stuck in Qatar for a few days. I have been here since last Saturday, waiting to get my residence visa. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here. I've had the blood test and chest x-ray done after the now-familiar queuing at various windows and waiting my turn. Thankfully, I had a friend with me this time, a Mister Fixit if you like, a chap who works for our company who speaks Arabic and who can pull strings. It's the same guy who drives the complete wreck of a car that I had a ride in on my first visit here. Surprisingly, the car is still going.

Anyway, my Mister Fixit managed to get me through the blood test part quite quickly, but I ended up having to wait over an hour for an x-ray. The wait was made worse by the number of people who jumped the queue, most of them wearing dish-dashes, it must be said. They don't even need a Mister Fixit. I was seething at the injustice of it all, conveniently forgetting that I'd jumped past a queue of at least 50 people to get the blood test. All in all, however, the system seemed a bit more efficient than in Dubai. Or maybe I'm just imagining it after having gone through it once already.

So now I have to wait for the results, before going to some other government building to have another blood test (finger prick) to establish blood group, then going to have my fingerprints scanned. They used to take your fingerprints with Indian ink until recently, which meant you were left with black fingertips for about a week, but now they've caught up with the 21st Century and use electronic scanners. After this, I should get the visa a day or two later. Insha'allah!

Luckily, I've been quite busy, and the time has gone fairly quickly. We've had a lot of meetings about the Big Hole in the Ground, and I've been going here there and everywhere to get different things sorted. I also went to the Traffic Department to get myself a temporary driving licence so I can use a hire car. This involved more queuing, a very quick eye test (AH! One of your eyes is very bad! Oh well! STAMP) and a few short, barked conversations between Mr Fixit and veiled women at counters, but after only an hour I left with a credit-card licence very similar to the UAE one, which will become a permanent licence when I get my visa.

So I now have the pleasure of driving around Doha, albeit in a car with less power than a three-legged zebra with stilletos on. It is different to Dubai because there is no Sheik Zayed Road-style 20-lane highway going through it (although one is under construction). The main roads seem to be the 6-lane ring roads, all given letters to identify them (C-ring road, etc) and there are traffic lights and roundabouts galore, which seems to put paid to any real speed. The roundabouts are a challenge, however. It's a bit of a free-for-all with people pulling out when they shouldn't and changing lanes without any warning. Traffic can build up at certain times in certain places, but generally moves at a better rate than in Dubai.

The worst part of the days has been the nights. Going back to an empty hotel room is a pretty lonely experience. It's when I miss the family the most, and this time I seem to be missing them more. I think it's because the GIRL was upset when I got out of the car at the airport on Saturday. It's the first time she's done this kind of thing, and it broke my heart to see her crying because I was going away. The WIFE tells me she has been asking for me, and the BOY keeps asking when I'm coming home. They're going to have to get used to me being away. Explanation later.

I'm in a different hotel this time; the Marriott was deemed too expensive, so I've ended up in the new Movenpick Towers hotel at the West Bay end of the Corniche. It's almost brand new, only opening 4 months ago, and it smells new, with the damp smell of new plaster and paint hitting the nostrils as you walk around. The roads around it aren't even finished. I think it's still going through teething problems. The staff are over-the-top in their attentiveness to the point of being annoying, and the main restaurant invariably serves cold food in the dinner buffet. Most shockingly of all, for an international chain hotel, there is NO ALCOHOL. I found this out when the Russian concierge showed me round my pleasant-enough, darkwood-filled room. He opened the mini-bar fridge, and saw my eyes light up, and then told me the hotel is dry. After letting me cry on his shoulder for half an hour, he told me I could get my fix over the road at the Four Seasons Hotel. So I did just that. Rather that than drink another fruit cocktail or watch a clumsy, nervous waiter take a plastic bottle of water wrapped in a napkin out of a champagne bucket. Ooh, it must be a vintage year for Evian.

Another night I thought I would try the noodle house restuarant, and it was pretty good, spoiled only by the presence of a plump American woman with a loud, whiny voice who was patronising some male work colleague sat opposite her. She was sat at a fair distance away from me, a distance you would assume would render normal conversation levels inaudible, or at least reduce it to a low murmur, mixing with the nondescript oriental music piped into the restaurant. But no, I heard every damned word of what she was saying. I was willing the waiter to bring her some food just to shut her up.

As is customary on these occassions, I sat in the darkest corner available, read a book, and sipped a very nice glass of ginger ale while I waitied for my food. Dining alone whilst away is never the most pleasant experience, particularly if you start talking to yourself out of loneliness. Other diners and staff tend to shoot you worried looks.

An explanation is due now. I mentioned that the kids would have to get used to my absence. Unfortunately, they are going to have to get used to seeing me only every 3 or 4 months. The WIFE and kids are going back to the UK. Our intended aim of making some money whilst abroad isn't working. Dubai is just too expensive, and Doha isn't much better. Villas are even more expensive here, and with the prospect of the GIRL starting school (with ever rising school fees), it has been decided that I will stay in the Middle East, work in Doha (working long hours to avoid boredom), and live as cheaply as possible. I will go home twice a year, and the family will visit me once a year or so.

It ain't ideal, but it's the best option out of the few available, I believe. I could go home as well, but would face a rather hefty tax bill having not spent a full tax year (April to April) out of the country. It's a stupid rule, if you ask me. I don't want to stay in Dubai alone. Well at all, really. I've had my fill of the place.

Now I've got my first weekend in Doha ahead, and I have no idea what I'm going to do. At least I have a car to use now. Come on Qatar: Entertain me!

Arabian (Karaoke) Nights

More "Only in Dubai" moments this last week, including the moment I walked into a bank and saw a man stood at the service desk with a brilliant-white specimen of a parakeet on his shoulder. I did a cartoon-style double-take, and rubbed my eyes, but my eyes were not deceiving me. I didn't bother to ask the man what was going on. I feared the bird might answer for him.

So, the Dubai World Cup is tonight, this being the Richest Horse Race In The World (TM). It runs in about 10 minutes. If I was a betting man, I would have to break the law in this country, because under shariah law, it is forbidden. The Maktoum family are mad on horses, especially Sheik Mohammad. He went to university in Cambridge and fell in love with horse-racing there, so the story goes, and now he owns the world-renowned Godolphin stables.

Of course, everyone knows that gambling does take place. It happens over phones and the internet. I've even heard hushly-spoken tales of bookies being flown in for the meeting. Well, they weren't hushly-spoken as such, but they were still told with a knowing smile and a cynical tone. Things happen that shouldn't. It's the way of our crazy world. Man.

As it is, this kind of event doesn't interest me. It's more of a fashion show for shallow people who want to be seen in the right place doing and saying the right things, and getting completely smashed at the same time. I would say that, as I didn't get invited on a corporate, otherwise I would have been there in a flash. I quite like to watch the gee-gees, even if I'm just an embarrassed, quid-each-way kind of gambler. I used to go to the races in Thirsk on occassion. It always made for a good family day out, if the weather was good. It's a shame that the race meetings invariably turned Thirsk into a no-go area for anyone sober after 7pm.

Which, bewilderingly, reminds me of the other thing that links Dubai and Thirsk, which is Paul Scholes, of Manchester United, and formerly Enger-lund. He was at Thirsk races the other year, and I saw him the other week in Dubai. It is, as they say, a small world. Especially when you meet short, ginger footballers twice in two completely different locales within two years. This probably has some cosmic meaning, and links into wormholes and super-string theory and all that, or I could just be talking bollocks again.

Bollocks. I said that a lot last night. (With these linking skills I should be a radio DJ). Our neighbours out the back way decided to have a karaoke party last night. Which is fine by me. I like a bit of karaoke now and again, especially as I can hold a tune quite well (even if I say so myself) and it always surprises people that I can actually sing. The problem with last night was when they insisted on leaving the doors and windows wide open so that everyone within 100 metres could hear their increasingly-croaky warbling and clapping and whooping as another twiddly oud kicked off another bloody song.

I might not have been so bothered if I'd known the tunes, but they were all completely unheard of in Fat and Furious Land, and all of them sounded exactly the same to me. It was really quite annoying, because it was a cooler night and we wanted to have our window open, but that was impossible. The mechanical, brain-burrowing hum of the air-conditioning was what we resorted to in the end, as we shut the door in disgust. We could still hear the karaoke, though. The inevitable excitable crescendo of every song managed to over-power the glazing and the AC, and I lay there wishing for a Bon Jovi track in the first time in living memory. I was literally Living On a Prayer.

Eventually, they shut the doors. This was at about 1.30am. I thanked my lucky stars and opened the window to let the cool night air in. 20 minutes passed, and, just as sleep threatened to swallow me into its blissful inky depths, the doors opened again, and the warbling and clapping and croaky whooping crashed into my mind like a gang of Doc Marten-wearing orang-utans carrying buckets of custard trampling over a five-star gourmet buffet that I was about to help myself from.

BOLLOCKS!

It went on for another 30 minutes, and by the time they finally shut the doors again, I had thought of every possible solution, most of which would have probably ended in me being arrested or at least beaten to a bloody pulp with karaoke microphones. I could have pleaded or just shouted off my bedroom balcony at them, but would that have helped? I don't know. I know what kind of response I'd get in the UK, but have no idea here, and being a guest of sorts here, I am loathe to offend people, even if they're annoying me. Either that, or I'm a coward, which explains why I'm venting on here. I'm glad I wasn't pushed to the point where I would have found out their reaction for sure.

Anyway, as punishment, we had a barbecue today. The GEORDIE and his BOY came round and the kids made a load of noise in the garden while the WIFE subjected our neighbours to the delights of ABBA's greatest hits. That'll learn 'em.


The race will be over by now. I wonder who won?

A Bridge Over Troubled Wadis

Being the sad bastard with techy/geeky, almost anorak-wearing tendencies that I am, I thought it would be nice for us to have a drive over the new bridge across the creek that opened a couple of weeks ago. It seems to have been given the honour of having two names, which can lead to some confusion on the approach to it. In most of the blurb that was faithfully trotted out in the local press, along with promises of improved traffic flow, ease of access and free camel cheese, it was named "The Ras Al Khor" bridge, by virtue of it's proximity to that oasis of verdant nature inhabited by long-legged pink birds. Fair enough.

And then, the bridge opened. One morning the Oud Metha Road had magically sprouted 2 extra lanes and a set of traffic lights. A yellow sign, with the smallest words I have ever seen printed on a road sign, informed the confused drivers hurtling merrily along that they could fork left to go to Dubai or right to go over the new bridge. It was a bit messy those first few days while people got used to which lane they were meant to be in, then they reverted to their usual tactic of switching lanes at the last possible second.

As the days progressed, more signs appeared around Dubai, but most of them were directing the drivers to the "Business Bay Crossing". It sort of points towards the huge Business Bay development, but isn't really that close to it at all, but there we go. Who am I to argue?
I can imagine a few people get confused by this situation. They pootle along in their Sunny at 40kph, faithfully following the signs for Business Bay Crossing. All of a sudden, the signs disappear, and they are faced with a sign pointing to Ras Al Khor Bridge. I bet they go crazy.

I went crazy, but not because of the signs. I went crazy because I assumed (wrongly) that the new bridge would bring me to the entrance of Festival City, thereby rendering Garhoud Bridge a redundant piece of civil engineering. As we drove over the bridge, everything was fine. It isn't actually complete yet; it's a double bridge with six lanes each side, and only one side is open so far, but still, it goes over the creek, and is free of queues of impatient drivers with twitchy horns. The problem became apparent as we came down onto the far shore. As we started leaving the bridge, we could see Festival City, and as the bridge road filtered towards and joined the main road, we watched helplessly as the exit to Festival City, positioned agonisingly close to where we joined the road, but just behind our entry point, passed by in a blur.

This is life in Dubai: You can see what you want, but you can't have it. You'd have thought they'd have built the bridge so you could get straight into Festival City. Oh, no. That would be far too simple. So, as is the custom here, we ended up driving in a huge, 10km loop to get back to the Festival City exit. Stunning. By the time we reached the car park under Marks and Spencers I was frothing like a badly-pulled pint.

I calmed down after some retail therapy, and despite the WIFE insisting on a visit to the Plastic Swedish Hell we all know as IKEA, I left Festival City in a reasonable mood. I had thought about trying to get back over the creek on the new bridge, but thought better of it. I'm sure when it's finished, they will sort it out and make access and egress much easier. Silly me, making assumptions again, thought it might already be that way.

The coup de grace was yet to come. I decided that we should visit Mirdiff, because I'm that kind of guy, and we headed out of FC and along the Rashidiya road. About 2km along it, we spotted a brand new entrance to Festival City. How we laughed. If we'd stayed on this road to begin with, we'd have got there without having to drive an extra 10km. Ah well, we know for next time.

So, Mirdiff. A weird place, right under the flight path towards DXB. I went to look at a few villas there when I first came out and was looking for a place to live, but the sound of low-flying passenger jets every 2 or 3 minutes put paid to that idea. I hadn't been back, and the family hadn't seen it, and I wanted to try a burger at the new Gourmet Burger Kitchen branch, so that's where we went. The GBK is in the Uptown development, which is a very European-styled residential and retail development with large circular plazas and steep-rooved low-rise buildings containing shops and apartments. Last time I came to the development, only Spinneys the supermarket was open. This time, the whole place was open, with lots of clothes shops and cafés to browse or sit down for a drink in.

We found the GBK and ordered some burgers, chips and lovely-sounding chocolate-bar-themed malt shakes. We were first there, but soon other people started filtering in. One woman came in and asked if they did anything other than burgers, which the WIFE found highly amusing. The burgers arrived, rising like SZR towers from the plate, with thick patties, masses of salad and relish, all contained in a large sesame bun and held together with a large cocktail stick. They weren't edible in the traditional burger fashion, and had to be dismantled. I removed the lettuce and tomato and anything else slightly organic-looking and tucked in.

They were OK. Nice, but not the best burger I've ever had, I must say. The shakes were good, and massive. The bill was more than I thought it would be for a trumped-up burger joint. 6 out of 10, if you were to ask me to rate it.

So, tomorrow I could end up in Doha again. They need me there, and I could be there a while this time. I don't mind, as long as I'm back for the arrival of my parents and brother.

TTFN.

Hazy Daze in Doha

Doha. Very Homer Simpson-esque, isn't it? I still don't know how to say it. I say "Dough-wuh" sometimes, but then hear someone else say "Doh-Hah", giving much more emphasis to the second syllable.

Anyway, I got there eventually. I had already checked in on the morning after being bumped onto the afternoon flight, so I just stopped by check-in to get the gate number before proceeding through passort control. I had the pleasure of using the e-gate system for the first time, and even though I managed to cock it up (as usual) by forgetting which finger I was meant to scan, I got through. It is a fantastic system. You scan your card on a reader at the first electronic gate, which is a bit like the barriers in the London Underground, then when it opens with a Star-Trek style swish, you move into the next section where you are instructed to scan your finger on the infra-red reader. Then (if you use the right finger) it bleeps and opens the next gate and you are through, laughing at the sad sacks queueing to get their passports stamped. It's even better on the way back in. You can be out of the airport in 15 minutes if you don't have any baggage checked.

The plane ride was a bit of a bumpy one. The crew gave us our snacks of roasted veg sandwiches and Arabic sweets before snatching them back as we took the first bite. It is a short flight, admittedly. They must have known we were likely to hit turbulence, and we did, especially as we approached to land in Doha. As ever in these situations, I planted my feet firmly on the floor and gripped the chair arms tightly. As if that would have helped.

But we landed safely and I was lucky enough to find a shuttle bus to my hotel waiting outside, so took the opportunity to check in before heading over to my company's offices. Within an hour we were having a long meeting about the Big Hole in the Ground with the people assigned the lovely task of building something nice in the Big Hole. It went quite well - well enough for us all to remain on talking terms, and then it was home time. It was decided that a few of us would head out to watch the England v France rugby game in a bar called Aussie Legends in the Rydges Plaza Hotel. I went back to the hotel first to freshen up before joining the others in the bar.

It was one of those typical expat bars, full of large televisions and chain-smoking antipodeans. A couple of nice pints of Guinness were consumed while we watched the English rugby team pull out all the stops to beat the French. It was a good atmosphere, without the slightest hint of bother even bubbling under. The only annoyance was a large, hairy man of unkown nationality (but definitely not English) who shouted "WAHEY" every time France had the ball near the try line or when England made a mistake. His braying soon quietened towards the end of the match as England romped home.

After the rugby we headed down to the Italian restaurant on the Ground Floor (been there before - the scene of an interesting political discussion previously) and ate a pleasant, if unspectacular meal, and waffled for a good couple of hours. My early start again caught up with me. I was almost falling asleep at the table and I was glad to get back to my hotel for some kip.

Monday morning, and after a bit of room service breakfast I made my way over to the office, from where we drove over to the site on the Corniche. As we drove along the corniche, with the sun shining down on the city, I again noticed what a pleasing-on-the-eye place Doha can be. There aren't many cranes, but there are loads of palm trees lining the roads and expanses of grass everywhere, and the buildings are nicely spread out. The Corniche is a large sweeping U-shape, with a small, deserted island in the middle of the bay, which used to be home to a restaurant at one time. At one end of the big U is the airport and the sea port, and at the other is the beginnings of a Sheik Zayed Road-style skyscraper zone, with shiny new buildings rising on the shore. Past that is the new Pearl Island, which sounds like an impressive development, in the shape of a string of pearls. They are definitely copying Dubai in some respects, but like I said before, I hope they don't try too hard. The place has a real Middle-Eastern identity and feel that should be retained. I think they are trying to strike a balance.

So we entered the site complex, walking along the precariously-balanced scaffolding walkway along the front of the cabins that are perched on the side of the Big Hole in the Ground. The Hole was a hive of activity, with cranes and piling rigs and all other manner of machines banging and digging and grinding away. The noise of construction was reaching ear-splitting levels, and the ground beneath us shuddered and vibrated unnervingly.

We met with the client Project Manager in his office overlooking the site, and even with the door shut the noise outside was obtrusive. The PM glumly admitted that he would often leave the site and find somewhere else to work just to get some peace and quiet. Even so, he soon perked up when he remembered the news from Dubai. He cheerily told us that there had been an accident at Dubai Airport this morning, where a Bangladesh Airlines plane had failed to take off and had slid off the runway. The airport was therefore closed and all flights to and from Dubai were cancelled. Once again, it looked like I would be staying in Doha for longer than I expected.

So we get going with the site progress meeting, half of which I missed due to the noise of banging and digging outisde. The other half passed right over my head with engineers talking technical jargon. I should record these meetings for when I have insomnia. The worst bit is, whenever I am right on the verge of slumber, or daydreaming about dancing hippos being hunted by cougars in smoking jackets, someone will turn to me and ask my opinion. Er... let me get back to you on that one.

Actually, I do wake up when I'm needed, pretty much always at the end of the meetings, when they deem it appropriate to talk about commercial matters, or how much money it's costing to make a lot of noise with over-sized Tonka toys in a Big Bloody Hole in the Ground.

I managed to blag it once again and after the meeting adjourned we returned to our offices. The secretary told me that there was a flight now. My original 2.25pm was now scheduled to take off at 3.30pm, so I got a lift to the airport, checked in, passed through passport control and had a quick browse in Duty Free. As I was looking at something to buy the kids, there was a BING BONG from the Tannoy. First came the Arabic version, but my ears pricked up when I heard my airline's name (out of kindness, I will call them BLOODY EMIRATES) in amongst the husky tones and throat-clearing noises of the announcement. Then came the English version, and the words: "We regret to inform you that..." told me all I needed to know and my flight was cancelled. Bugger.

So, I was stuck in limbo, with my passport still freshly adorned with an exit stamp and a boarding pass. I asked an official-looking lady milling around near passport control what was going on and what we should do, and they said they would ask before hurrying off. The departure information screen showed the words CANCELLED in large white letters next to my flight. Bugger.

The official-looking woman returned and said that a representative of BLOODY EMIRATES would be through soon to update us. A couple of other people had joined me by now, looking at their watches impatiently, shaking their heads and looking back up at the information board in case it changed. We were told to wait by the gate, but then the BING BONG sounded again, telling us that the flight was just delayed. The board still said CANCELLED. Confusion reigned, but most of us decided to wait by the gate for someone to come and tell us what was going on.

It was a long wait. No-one from BLOODY EMIRATES appeared. It transpired that 70 people had been allowed to check in before the flight had been cancelled. Mobile phones were hammered by people ringing home, the office, the airline or even their dog, who would probably have been of infinitely more use than BLOODY EMIRATES. Their Doha operation actually closes for 3 hours in the afternoon. How very professional of them. I rang the Dubai branch and was told that our flight was definitely off. The next one was at 11.15pm. Bugger. Then someone piped up with the quite startling information that Doha International Airport actaully closes between 3pm and 7pm every single day for maintenance or something like that. Bugger, Bollocks and For F*ck's Sake.

I rang our Doha office to tell them about the situation, but without any real knowledge of what to do in this situation (could we just go out through passport control again?) there wasn't really much to be said. After a little bit more waiting, a sheepish man shuffled towards us (not from BLOODY EMIRATES, surprisingly) and said we could go upstairs to the café and have a sandwich and a drink. Information would have been nice, but that wasn't on the menu, apparently. We just had to wait.

As it was, no-one from BLOODY EMIRATES showed up to tell anyone anything. I only found out what to do by spotting the lady who had checked me in (non-airline affiliated, natch) sitting in the café and asking her what to do. She told me to go to the Transfer desk. Why couldn't someone have told us that before? It seems that the message had been spreading, and a gaggle of tired, confused passengers was gathered at the Transfer desk by the time I got to it. We were all offered passes to the Business Lounge and a seat on the 11.15pm. Marvellous, thought I. An 8-hour wait for a plane that might not even leave. I could have taken them up on this offer and drunk their bar dry, but thought better of it and asked if I could come back the next day instead. I was told I could, and instructed to leave through the arrivals section by passing through the Transfer security section backwards and getting my exit stamp cancelled.

That I did, walking through an eerily deserted passport control manned by one official and past static, empty luggage carousels and out into the open air again. I rang our Doha office to tell them to book me a hotel room for the night then caught a cab (there were loads of them, probably as no flights were arriving or departing) to the office where I worked for what was left of the working day. The Doha Manager was receptive to the idea of having a beer and a bite that night, so we took off at 6pm and had a very pleasant evening eating a seafood buffet at my hotel. We got on very well, and the seeds of something were planted that night. That sounds slightly pervy, if you've got a sick mind, but I mean that future plans were considered. I have been working in Dubai on a project taking place in Doha since I arrived in August last year, and aside from the odd blip, have done a good job, or so I'm told. Personally, I feel like I've half-blagged it. But then the job is as much about being able to hold your own in negotiations and confrontations. It's about saying the right things at the right times to the right people.

Whatever. I know what I mean. The possibility of me moving to Doha, either alone on a weekly basis, or with the family in tow, has now entered my mind as an option. The people in Doha seem to be keen to get me there on a permanent basis, even if the people in Dubai would probably not want to lose me (they've said as much). I know the job and I know the people on the job, I wouldn't actually be changing companies, and honestly I would like to see the job through to its end. I would like to see this 90-storey tower sparkling in the sunlight of the Arabian Gulf. I've seen the drawings; now I want to see the reality, even if I'll have to take some tranquilisers before even thinking about going to the top of the finished building.

And of course, I know that I have previously expressed doubts about Doha as a place to live, but it's grown on me. Dubai is great in its own way. It has the bright lights, the malls, the hotels and all that. It also has traffic and hassle and maddeningly conspicuous consumption that jars with my personal outlook. It's also a very cliquey kind of place. Someone said it's like Hong Kong, where it's difficult to make friends amongst the numerous established expats who have lived there for years and like to stick to their closed circles of friends. I will say that it's definitely more suited to the single person than the family, and I've heard it said by plenty of others. Bahrain and Qatar are more family-friendly, some have said. Doha may be a small place, with less in the way of tourist attractions, but it is quiter, calmer, less materialistic, it has far less traffic and isn't far from Dubai if you fancy a mad weekend in the Vegas of the Middle East. It's a real quandary. The WIFE and KIDS are settling in. They've made a few friends. I think they like it here. Well most of it. Nowhere's perfect. Even though it's still just a possibility, I've got a lot of thinking to do. For one thing, the title of this blog would have to change.

Knowing me, I'll feel completely different tomorrow, and after another weekend of eating out in great locations and having a good time with my family, I might never want to leave. Who knows?

Anyway, I did finally get back to Dubai on Tuesday. The flight was only half an hour late.

Off to Doha again...

It's been a tiring weekend. I'll tell you more about it when I get back from Doha on Monday night.

Update: Got to the airport this morning and was bumped off my early morning Emirates flight to the early afternoon one. Ho-hum. The nice Emirates man said it was really busy today and they had loads of people being bumped. I suppose that's the risk when they over-book the flights.

So, while I'm waiting to go back to the airport, I can expand on the weekend.

Yesterday we decided to try the Dreamland Aqua Park over in Umm Al Qwain (sorry if that's not the right spelling). We've already done Wild Wadi, and a friend of mine (who we shall call the GEORDIE) told me it was nicer at Dreamland. Nicer, much cheaper, and best of all... they sell alcohol.

So on Saturday morning we set off, with the GEORDIE and his GEORDIE BOY coming along for the ride, and drove along the Emirates Road, passing through the delights of Sharjah and Ajman on the way, and after an hour or so we arrived at Dreamland, which sits next to a lagoon. You know you're nearly there when you see a giant, ancient Russian cargo plane casually abandoned on the side of the road. I looked for POLICE ARE AWARE stickers, but I don't think they could reach the windscreen. The BOY and the GEORDIE BOY spent the whole journey annoying each other and the other passengers with dog impressions, pillow fights and truck-spotting contests, so it was relief to arrive and emerge from the car into the warm sunshine.

In the park itself, it soon became apparent why it is cheaper than Wild Wadi. It is much, much older, and it shows. The metal grates in some of the pools are spotted with rust, the grout in between the tiles is somewhat grubby, and the slides and other playthings are faded and worn. That said, it is a more pleasant area than Wild Wadi, with large green areas and plenty of loungers to soak up the sunshine on. It was also much quieter, with hardly any queues for even the major rides.

After a short play in the kiddies pool we had a lunch of cheap and nasty fast food. After that, the GEORDIE and I couldn't persaude our BOYs to join us in riding on anything higher than 6 feet off the ground. We tried bribery, blackmail, threats and just general cajoling, but to no avail. My BOY even climbed to the top of a ride ominously called the Black Hole. I knew he wasn't keen, but he was hoping for a large ice cream when he did it. He finally cracked at the sight of the pitch-dark tunnel. His soft whimpering turned into full-scale screaming and crying, and without any masking tape to hand, we had to come back down the stairs past people wearing smug, knowing smiles. In the end, the men had a few goes on the big slides, but soon tired of walking half a mile up a slope and some stairs to reach a ride that lasted all of ten seconds, and which invariably resulted in swimming shorts having to be surgically extracted from bumholes.

With the day drawing on, we decided to leave. The BOYs had a short session in the tatty, half-closed video arcade, playing a best-of-three round of air hockey, which my BOY won. GET IN! I'm not competitive really.

So we left Dreamland behind, and drove round the corner to the more adult-orientated attraction which everyone in Dubai talks of in fond terms, often with misty eyes: Barracuda. Barracuda is basically an off-licence, but the attraction is that it sells tax-free alcohol. It's a useful place to go when you need to stock up, so that's what I did. With visitors coming in less than 4 weeks, I used it as an excuse to go on a trolley dash round the spirits and wine section and equip myself with a half-decent drinks selection, including gin, whisky, vodka, bacardi, baileys and a few bottles of wine. The trolley-full of booze I left with cost me 700 dirhams, about 100 quid. It would probably have cost nearly twice as much in Dubai.

Then we drove through Sharjah, the dry Emirate, at quite a pace. I don't think there's a problem, but it's technically illegal to have booze there. Then again, Sharjah airport has a Duty Free section. Work that one out.

On the way home we stopped at the Irish Village, a Dubai expat institution, where a couple of pints of the black stuff and a bit of stodgy food rounded off the day. It's quite a pleasant location, with a lake and playpark and a massive terrace to sit and watch the world go by. It's situated right in the heart of Garhoud, and is a bit of an oasis. The standard pub food comes quickly, the bar staff are either surly or deaf, but it's popular and pleasant enough.

Well, that's the time used up. I'd better make my way back to the airport.

A week is a long time...

in politics. And while the time flies by here, so much can happen from day to day and week to week.

Last week, I was buzzing. I was on a real high, heading back to work after a week's break with a pay rise under my belt and the praise of my clients and the BOSS ringing loudly in my ears. I was enjoying my job for the first time in years and the future was brighter than the desert sun.

Soon enough, things turned sour. Things had been going too well. One little stupid thing (I won't bore you with the detail) that had been missed between me and a chap who works in our office in Doha (who was on holiday the same week as me) gave some people the excuse to knock me off my pedestal with a nonchalant swipe and then jump up and down like a gleefully peeved elephant on the broken pieces on the floor. Like they say: one day you're the pigeon, the next day you're the statue covered in cack.

So work got a bit uncomfortable for a few days towards the end of last week. I took the opportunity to go for a drink with a mate and drowned my sorrows in various curious places around Dubai.

Which brings me nicely on to the next subject for today's incoherent rant. We went to a bar called Scarlett's at the Emirates Towers. It's a pleasant enough joint as joints go. We met some of my mate's friends, and one of them was an Emirati, who wore a natty black dish-dash. He sat with us sipping Bacardi breezers quite happily. It happens. Muslims aren't meant to drink alcohol. They do. I'm not meant to think about sex all day. I do. Shit, as everyone knows, happens.

But anyway, we were there integrating and getting along famously until a man approached our table. He was dressed like all these hospitality industry managers are, with a cheap navy suit and greased-back hair, exuding self-importance and bristling with truculence. Or something. He talked to our local friend in Arabic for a moment, then disappeared from the scene, back to pushing his pens and worthing his jobs. Our friend smiled knowingly and told us that he had been asked to leave the bar at 10pm. I was quite astonished. Here he was, in his own country, and he was being asked to leave an establishment because of who he was and what he was wearing.

Immediately I imagined the uproar if such a thing was to happen in the UK. The right-wing tabloids would have a meadow, pasture and field day. But it didn't bother our Arab friend. He just shrugged it off, finished his drink and left.

So Thursday I was a little jaded, but not really too hung over. The weekend couldn't have come quick enough. The BOSS still had time to shout at me a bit before letting me go on Thursday night, and I managed to get lost going to a meeting in Deira that afternoon. I finally got to my meeting 50 minutes late, after another session of steering-wheel head-butting and angry assertions to the empty car about how much I hated this place. To be fair, at least 10 of those minutes were wasted trying to get a lift in the most stupid lift lobby known to man. Instead of buttons to choose the floor in each lift, I had to press a number on a console in the middle of the lift lobby. It then told me which lift to use, but I waited a long, long time for my lift to arrive, while other lifts came and went from the ground floor. I only wanted to get the first floor.

Thursday night was relaxing. The WIFE went out with some friends and left me alone to watch a DVD or two. I only ended up watching one (Casino Royale - very good) before getting tired and going to bed.

So at the weekend we ended up going to the newest shopping mall in town - Festival City. I think Vegetable City sounds better, personally. It's shaped like a cucumber, which is nice. Half the shops aren't open yet, you can't walk along the much-vaunted canal yet, and to be frank, the standard of finish in the open sections is shockingly bad. They didn't even bother to clean the veneered wood panelling properly. It should be nice when it's finished. Which goes for the whole of Dubai, if we're honest.

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 Tourist Trap

I'm off on holiday / leave / vacation (call it what you will) this week, so have been taking the chance to do a few more of the touristy things, and take the in-laws to see a few places before they head back to the UK on Friday night. It has certainly been an experience for them. Different people from work have still managed to call me almost every day. The place is falling apart without me. Well, canteen takings are down, that's for sure.

We spent the day at a beach resort the other day. It was in the Marina area, and we had to drive through a massive building site (even more of a building site than usual) to get there. The dust was really bad that day, as it was quite windy, and it was even worse around the Marina area, where they are building the massive, monolithic, and frankly ugly towers that make up the Jumeirah Beach Residence. All kinds of lorries, cement mixers and construction plant was whizzing around or parked in stupid places (with the obligatory hazard lights on). We got lost, or should I say misdirected by poor road signs, but eventually got there.

Once inside the hotel, we made our way to the private beach, paying a fee for the privilege, of course. But that's OK, becuase the beach in this place was a world away from the Jumeirah Beach Park. The litter was minimal, and there were free towels, plentiful sun loungers and parasols, and good catering facilities. Nearer the hotel itself there were swimming pools, and between the pools and the beach, there was a lush patch of grass, again covered in loungers. Near the end of the beach we moved to, there was a big play area for the little ones, and to one side, near the gentle, turquoise waves of the Gulf, there was a Water Sports booth, with kayaks and dinghys and giant inflatable bananas. The best thing about it was the lack of airborne dust. The beach was quite well sheltered from the elements (apart from the sun, which contrived to burn me, the swine).

So we lounged on loungers, paddled in the cool sea, and generally soaked up the whole holiday atmosphere. After an hour, I hinted heavily at my hunger levels, so we headed up to the outdoor restaurant by the grass area and had a reasonably good barbeque buffet lunch. I think we were on the menu as well, because the WIFE was bitten several times on her legs by something under the table. It must be said, the flies were annoying, and there seems to be increasing numbers of them.

After lunch, we moved to the pool area to let the KIDS have a good splash and play in the kiddie pool, until the GIRL decided she'd had enough, and filled her swimming nappy with something slightly less pleasant-smelling than a dead rat with B.O. We took that as our cue to leave, but had had a good few hours there in the sun. My red head and shoulders were testament to that.

Then on another evening, we went to the Marina promenade area, just as the sun was setting, and ate a pleasant, if slightly chilly al-fresco meal at an Italian restaurant. As darkness fell, we watched the towers around the Marina light up in their many different colours. Even the cranes light up round here, and we watched them as they beavered away on their 24/7 mission to finish Dubai.

After the meal we walked back towards the water feature on the walkway between the Main towers, and the BOY and GIRL took great delight in jumping in and out of the water jets in the pavement as they danced to their pre-set programmes. They got soaked, but had good fun. Luckily, the WIFE had come prepared with changes of clothing. The MIL chose to abstain from getting wet again. I took a seat at the nearby promenade cafe and ordered a shisha and watched the kids enjoying themselves. When they'd finished, we all sat down and the shisha was passed around. After a bit of spluttering and the odd comical expression, we headed home again.

Today, we decided to go for an Afternoon Tea at a nice hotel. We ended up at the Ritz Carlton, which is also in the Marina area. I got lost again, mainly due to bad signs again, but got there in the end. We had wanted to do the tea thing in the Burj Al Arab, but when we'd phoned them to enquire, they told us we weren't nearly posh enough. Or maybe it was because they were fully booked until the end of the month.

Either way, the Ritz Carlton did not disappoint in the slightest. Scones, cakes and sandwiches galore were brought to the table on tiered trays, and we polished them off with little moans and exclamations of pleasure. The food really was top notch. The surroundings were superb as well, with massive chandeliers hanging from a dark varnished wood ceiling, massive plush sofas and chairs to sit on, and a lady on the piano in the corner playing a mixture of inoffensive, instantly forgettable music. Through the windows we could see the Arabian Gulf, looking particularly clear today, with a few white-topped waves rushing in on the landward breeze.

Tomorrow we're going to go on a Big Bus ride, which is an open-topped bus that tours the city. I will definitely be putting on some sun-block tomorrow.

On Safari

The weeks continue to fly by. Early last week, I met up with a friend from my days in Taiwan, and ended up drinking a fair amount of gin and talking rubbish all evening. Just like the good old days. Later in the week I was given a pay rise as a reward for my efforts in my first 6 months here. Somehow, I seem to be doing a good job.

So this week, I have taken the week off, and am in the middle of showing the MIL and the SIL the sights and sounds of Dubai. Well those sights and sounds other than the insides of shopping malls. A desert safari was always on the cards, as none of us had been on one yet, so I booked one for Saturday with a company called Arabian Nights Tours. We were told that we would be picked up at just after 3pm on Saturday afternoon.

After a little bit of confusion over our location (the Springs is like a maze to the uninitiated), our driver arrived in his shiny silver Toyota Land Cruiser. Named Kashmir, our driver was an amiable chap from Tanzania, who made sure we were all comfortable and looked after us well. With everyone squeezed into the huge vehicle, we set off from our villa at about 3.30pm, and headed out of town, towards the Hatta road and the desert.

After 45 minutes we reached a rendezvous point at a small group of shops and cafés, where a large gathering of other Land Cruisers from various was building up. Kashmir told us we had a few minutes to visit the shops and answer the call of nature and so on, so I took it as an opportunity to get some drinks. I was invited to buy all manner of trinkets and foodstuffs and drinks by the many shopkeepers stood around, and by the time I left, I had a new hat and a bagful of goodies for the rest of the journey.

We ended up staying at the rendezvous point for a good 20 minutes. By the time we set off again, there must have been 30 of the giant 4x4s parked in front of the shops. The Arabian Nights group set off as one, executing a swift U-turn before turning off the main road onto a smaller provincial road, then turning onto the sand itself, and we were treated to a little taster of dune bashing as the car dipped and weaved around a few small dunes. Not too bad, I thought to myself. We stopped again, right next to a camel farm, and everyone was ordered out of the cars while the drivers adjusted the air pressures in their tyres for the dune bashing to come. As we milled around and had a peek at the camels in their pens, a man with a camera wandered round, taking what we thought were still pictures of everyone in their individual groups. There were people from all around the world in the various cars, most of them unaware of what lay ahead. The MIL showed me how the sand here was different to that on the beach. It was smooth, fine, almost like powder, and blew off our hands easily.

Then we all climbed back into the vehicles and set off into the desert for real. A procession of white Land Cruisers in single file headed into the real dunes of the real desert, and soon we realised that this wasn't a game any more. We climbed up enormous dunes, then drove along the smallest of crests at the top before sliding sideways down the other side. There were steep descents and climbs, and the car lurched left and right as it navigated its way through the sand. It wasn't too rough, being on the smooth, fine desert sand, but it was pretty...well, invigorating I suppose. The oohs and aahs carried on for a while, and the BOY sang songs and basically didn't shut up all the way, while I soon fell silent, trying to swallow my increasing trepidation as the dunes got bigger.

The fear levels were increased when we got stuck on the side of a dune, after sliding down sideways from the crest. The wheels just wouldn't move us, and we soon realised why sensible people always come out into the desert in groups of cars, rather than one. The cars behind stopped and aided our driver, digging his wheels out and barking instructions until we were on our way again. Then Kashmir had problems with a particularly steep dune, taking four attempts to climb it. Sensing my rising panic, Kashmir patted my shoulder. I felt like a right wimp. In the back, the BOY chattered and sang, the SIL cackled insanely, the wife sat with a fixed, macabre grin, and the MIL did her best impression of someone who wasn't trying to stop herself from barfing all down my back. The quietest, calmest person was the GIRL, who sat there in her booster seat as if it was just another ride to a shopping mall. All the while, we barely noticed that we were getting deeper and deeper into the desert, and all signs of civilisation were disappearing. There were no road signs, no pylons, no tarmac roads. We were truly in the wild now. The only signs of life we spotted were the other cars and the odd group of camels.

Thankfully, just before the BOY's increasingly hysterical singing and squealing had driven me to distraction and potential murderous intent, we stopped, and everyone left the cramped confines of their cars again, massaging hands aching from holding on for dear life. We were able to climb up the nearby dunes and take in the views all around. It was then that I appreciated where we were; high up in the middle of the desert, with no sign of a building all around, and very few signs of vegetation. I had the feeling of magnificent isolation, and half wished that I had been all alone there to witness it in complete solitude.

A small drink of water was offered by the drivers, and then we headed off again. The dunes soon petered out and we were driving along flat desert plains. Patches of greenery materialised around us, and I realised we were driving in dry wadi beds, and we couldn't have been far from the camp we were heading for. At least, I hoped so.

We stopped again just as the sun was making its way towards the horizon. A light haze sat above the distant dunes, but the red colours we were expecting never came. Instead, the suns orange disc slowly dulled as it sank, and then disappeared altogether in the haze.

The final leg of our journey took us onto the first tarmac road we had seen for seemingly miles. It's hard to tell out there. The road was an unfinished new one, being built right in the middle of nowhere. Pieces of construction machinery stood idly by the new road, like sleeping robot cattle. We drove along this incomplete road for a short distance, then veered off into more dunes, round a corner, through a gate, and the camp appeared ahead.

We pulled up and Kashmir smiled at us all knowingly. We all smiled back, glad to be out of the woods, or the dunes, even. The camp was a fort-styled structure, with wood walls and towers on each corner. Inside, bedoiun-style low tables and floor cushions waited for the guests. A log fire set in a pit was just getting going, and a falcon swooped overhead. In one corner the barbeque was smoking away, tended to by 3 men preparing our feast, in another a souvenir shop with gaudy lighting attracted the visitors like moths to a lamp. The best thing I spied was the little window surrounded by cable lights selling something I was more than ready for - BOOZE.

So a cooling, calming bottle of Corona Extra later, we sat under the darkening skies of the desert and watched a belly dancer twirl and shimmy in the middle of the camp. Men watched admiringly and women shook their heads, and the dancer proceeded to humiliate a procession of tourists. Been there ,done that. I'm glad I had the foresight to choose a seat away from the middle and avoided being dragged up.

Then they served the food, and it was actually pretty good. It was hot and tasty and everything else that food should be, but it's always a gamble on these occassions. After eating, a few of the party decided to get henna tattoos done by a very skilful lady sitting in one corner. The final piece of entertainment was a the showing of a film depicting snippets taken by the cameraman we had seen earlier at the camel farm, mixed with shots from the desert , various landmarks of Dubai and the odd bit of clichéd stuff with camels and belly dancers atop dunes and the like. The bright lights of the camp were lowered while the film played, so I finally got a chance to see the much-vaunted starlit sky in the desert. It was definitely clearer, but with all the lights round the camp, even when they were dimmed, I wouldn't call it spectacular. I felt like walking away from the camp to get a better view, but soon the film was over, and we were called back to our cars.

The drive back was a relaxed affair. We were all pretty tired, and glad that Kashmir decided against taking us back through the dunes. I don't think it's an option anyway, in reality, and we were soon back on proper roads heading back to the city and the bright lights of Sheik Zayed Road. We floated past the twinkling skyscrapers as the GIRL slept soundly in the back, and got home just before 10pm, feeling that we'd had a real adventure.