Southgate's Cat

The weather has been bizarre this last week. We had sandstorms for a couple of days, which meant driving round wasn't as pleasurable as it can be. All the familiar sights were obscured by the sand in the air as we drove past them, with the ghostly shadow of one or two large landmarks just visible through a creamy murk. Walking from the car to any building involved adopting a troubled, twisted expression, with mouth firmly shut to prevent sand getting in.

After the sandstorms and the increasing humidity that was building up, we had a short burst of thunder storms on Saturday night. The thunder storms can be quite impressive here. We saw several awe-inspiring examples of fork lightning as we returned from a meal at Ibn Batutta mall. The storm passed overhead very quickly at about midnight, and sprinkled some rain on us. This was most annoying, as I had taken the time to hose my car down to rid it of the thick layer of sand left by the sandstorms, and when it rains here, our slatted-roofed carport spills more sand onto the cars.

At least the storms took the humidity away. It was much fresher on Sunday as I headed back to work after another all-too-brief weekend. The airborne sand was also gone, and the familiar sights of towers and cranes and more cranes were visible once more. A stiff breeze was still blowing, though, and on some places on the roads, ribbons of fine sand rippled across the tarmac like other-wordly snakes coming back to claim the desert from all this maddening development.

Oh, and I've been feeling shite again. The dust and sand are playing havoc with my sinuses, and I've been feeling just generally bad, even dizzy at times. I rebuffed a friend's invitation to visit the Hatta mountains over the weekend, and decided to visit the doctor on Friday. So I laid there on the surgery bed, submitting myself to his probing and prodding, waiting for the verdict. After a moment he stepped away from me, straightened up and sighed.

"How old are you?" he asked brusquely
"Er...Thirty six," said I, almost as a question.
"And you have SO many diseases!" he said, shaking his head.
I had no answer to that.

Turns out I had a sinus infection. Yes, I am a wreck. What can I tell you? I've been through it all before; the dodgy ticker, the shagged hip, the sinuses, the things I won't mention... I'm a walking medical text book, and a hypochondriac to boot. They call it CYBERchondriac these days, because people like me spend hours looking up symptoms and diseases on the internet at the slightest twinge. I think I've worked my way up to "T" in the medical dictionary. There's definitely some ringing in my ears.

It would be great to wake up and have a day when I didn't feel rotten. I can't remember how that feels. I can only hope.

Enough, enough! I'll be setting of down that path of self-pity again, and that's half the problem, I reckon.

Onwards and sidewards. If you're wondering about the post title, I am about to reveal all. If you're not, look away now. I may have mentioned before that I am a a supporter of, or at least a fan of Middlesbrough Football Club. Being an exiled fan is something of a unique experience. I remember being in the USA in the 90s and having to listen to BBC World Service on my short-wave radio for snippets of news about the team. The only games I saw on TV were the FA Cup final and some World Cup games, and with the time difference, I watched most of them at 9am.

Nowadays, English football benefits from blanket TV coverage all over the world, and every Saturday (and Sunday), expat bars around the globe fill with supporters of various English Premier League teams hoping to see their team win. There are a few bars in Dubai that show every single game that is on, thanks to having wall-to-wall TV screens. I've been in a few of them, and it can be difficult to concentrate on one game with all the others going on around you, especially when people in various replica shirts jump up and shout at a goal in the game they're watching.

Of course, weekend games are the best, because they usually kick off at 6pm or 7pm here depending on the BST/GMT situation in the UK. Sunday games are sometimes a little later, but it's quite nice being able to go out for a drink on an evening and catch a game. But then there's the midweek games which invariably kick off at 7.45 or 8.00pm in the UK. If you're a die-hard (read NUTTER, but each to their own. You NUTTER), that's OK, you just stay up till 2am to watch the game. That isn't for me. I have enough problems with lack of quality sleep as it is, (Oh God, not again...) so I'm not really keen on staying up to watch late matches, especially on a school night.

The problem with this is that I've missed all the replays this season. Boro have got to the Quarter Finals of the FA Cup this season, and have contrived to need replays in the last 3 rounds. That's all of them, I think. Hull, Bristol City and West Brom. We've also had to win 2 penalty shoot-outs to get here. And as fate has it, we drew with Manchester United just over a week ago, and need to go to a replay at Old Trafford (We might as well not turn up, if I'm honest, but who knows). Every time this happens, I go to bed at the normal time, and the game is played as I sleep, or try to sleep at least. In the morning, I wake up completely oblivious to the result of the game until I get downstairs and switch on Sky News just in time for the sports bulletin. So in the period between waking up and watching the report, as far as I'm concerned, anything could have happened. Boro could have won gloriously, lost heavily, won on penalties, or just decided to forgo the game and go shopping for manbags. I really don't know, and until I see the result on the news, all the possibilities still exist. For me at least. Tonight, I will be going through this again, even though in my heart I know Boro have about as much chance of surviving as a sausage roll at a Meatloaf after-gig party.

Now this is what those boffin types refer to as the many-worlds interpretation or MWI (also known as relative state formulation, theory of the universal wavefunction, many-universes interpretation, Oxford interpretation or many worlds). It's all to do with quantum mechanics, apparently. A clever Austrian physicist chap called Erwin Schrödinger came up with a theoretical experiment involving a cat locked in a box (see Schrödinger's Cat) with a vial of poisonous gas that had a 50% chance of being released by a switch connected to a geiger counter which is placed near some decaying radioactive substance of indeterminate type. Until the box is opened, no-one knows whether the cat is alive or dead. It is in a state of flux, and both states (dead and alive) exist at the same time. There is also some guff about the interference of the observer and whether it has any influence on the result, and how there could be an infinite number of universes (multiverses) based on all possible outcomes of all situations that have happened, EVER. All terribly complicated and brain-troubling. I imagine any Geordie readers are dribbling on the keyboard mumbling about cats in boxes right now. I'm not far behind, to be fair. It's really deep shit, man, and would become much clearer after a nice big spliff, I imagine.

So, there you are: Southgate's Cat. If Boro win tonight, the cat will live. If they lose, the cat will be sent to the nearest labour camp.



Don't worry, there isn't really a cat. I'm off to give my brain a rest now.

Rain, Rain, Rain and even more rain.

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

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

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

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

Rant over.

Christmas is coming...

The camel's getting worried. Probably because some wag will put a Santa hat on him. How terribly festive.

In this mad place, the clashes of cultures still have the power to amaze, amuse and completely bamboozle. I took a walk through the shopping mall they call Wafi City the other day, a kind of loosely Egyptian-styled, sand-coloured monolith with stained-glass pyramids perched on top. Inside, high-fashion and high-tech shops mingle with high-fat fast food franchise outlets.

God, I miss the Subway foot-long meatball...

But the mall has now become a Christmas wonderland. Slap-bang in the middle of the central plaza, under one of the pyramids, is a giant Christmas tree, adorned with shiny baubles and twinkling lights. Around the bottom of the tree there are some white hoardings, with the words ELVES AT WORK painted on in various places. It seems that there will be a Grotto at the bottom of the tree, and they're going to have a big light-switching-on ceremony on Thursday. Dotted around other parts of the mall are other Christmas displays, such as small cottages with snow-covered rooves and pairs of red-trousered, black-booted legs sticking out of the chimney.

t is a strange feeling seeing all this. Firstly, it's 30 degrees centigrade and sunny outside. Secondly, this is a Muslim country. I've been in non-Christian countries around Christmas before, and knew that there would probably be a few trees here and there, and shops selling Christmassy stuff for the large Western expat population, but I never thought I'd see a mall in the Middle East trying to outdo the Metro Centre for sheer festive overload. It's confusing, really, because even here I get told that Christmas is being banned in the UK because of PC do-gooders, etc., but we are looking at a 40-foot-high symbol of a Christian festival, and the dish-dashed men and their abbaya-wearing wives don't bat an eyelid. You have to wonder what the Sun or the Mail would make of some Ramadan decorations being put up in the Trafford Centre. Probably best not to think about it, to be honest.

Then I think...does this show Christmas up for what it really is today? It isn't much of a religious festival nowadays. All the paraphenalia in the malls and in the shops are based around trees, lights, baubles, snowy scenes, stockings, candy canes, toys, presents, and consumerism gone mad. In that respect, it fits Dubai like a glove. More chances to spend, spend, spend. You can buy nativity scenes in the shops if you so wish, but there doesn't seem to be much of a market for them. I think it's fair to say that this is the case in the UK as well. The religious aspect of Christmas is a side-show to most people, and maybe that's why it's so easily accepted and assimilated around the world now, because it can be celebrated without mentioning Jesus at all.

It's only 4 weeks away now. It doesn't feel right. We went to the beach at the Jumeirah Beach Park on Saturday, and enjoyed the warm sunshine, yellow sand (although it was sadly full of fag-ends and other rubbish) and clear Gulf waters. We have promised the kids a visit to Ski Dubai before or around Christmas, and we'll have a snowball fight and do some sledging, then have some fondue and mulled wine in the alpine-styled restaurant afterwards. On Christmas Day itself we might have dinner in a hotel or at a golf club. We will miss our extended family, but with the visits from them due to start in February, it won't be too bad. Whatever happens, our first Christmas in a warm country will be an adventure.

That reminds me, we need to go and buy a tree...I see they have them in IKEA. AARRGGHH!!!!

Wherever you go in the world...

there are universal constants, undeniable truths that will never change.

The sun sets in the West.

Beer gets you drunk.

Quantity Surveyors are boring.

And, most pertinent of all...

Hospital food is crap.

Anyway, it rained the other day. I missed it, because I didn't wake up in my private room in the hospitel (hospital/hotel) until it was gone. I opened the blinds to see strange marks on the car park tarmac which seemed to suggest that precipitation had occurred. The sky was white, misty and almost chilly-looking. The WIFE confirmed that, Yes indeed, it had rained that morning and it was that "really fine stuff".

Oh, yeah. I was in the hospitel because last Sunday, the day after my last posting, the day I was meant to fly to Doha, I had another episode of the dreaded Atrial Fibrillation. I thought about sitting it out and letting it go back in its own time, but since I was unsure of why it had happened this time (there's usually a definite trigger), I went to the local health centre. The doctor there was very nice and reassuring. He did an ECG on me, and told me what I already knew - I was in AF. Between us we half decided that my new diet might well have been the trigger this time. I'd been on a form of the Paleo diet since the 1st November, which was 4 days ago. Something didn't ring completely true to me, though. I was feeling quite good in myself up till Sunday night. I had got over the initial slight dizziness and my appetite was adjusting. More importantly, my ectopic beats (skipped beats that can be a precursor to AF) had reduced by a significant amount. What else could it have been, though: the ginger and lemon tea the night before, or the large diet pepsi consumed at lunchtime the day before, maybe even the handful of walnuts eaten as an evening snack? I was confused.

The doctor decided to send me to see a cardiologist at a new hospital in the Bur Dubai area, near Port Rashid. We got directions and more reassurance, and with the WIFE driving, we headed along the SZR towards the hospital. We landed and I booked into the ER. Another ECG was performed, then I was transferred up to a small white, functional room in the Intensive Care/Cardio Care Unit. That may sound alarming, but they have the best equipment for dealing with matters of the heart. Well, maybe not broken ones, and we all know that Padme Skywalker died because of a broken heart.

I digress. I told the WIFE to go home with the GIRL because the BOY needed to be picked up from school. She knows the drill by now, and so do I. I was soon covered in wires and needles were stuck in various places on my hands and arms. I ended up with 2 IV drips this time, one in each hand. They tried a drug on me, but it only slowed the fast rate down, so they ended up putting me under for a few minutes and zapping me with the defibrillator. I've had it before, and it invariably works. The best bit is being gradually more drugged up with various legal substances, which make you feel like you've had a bottle of wine in 30 seconds, then the oxygen mask descends and they add the real knock-out stuff. It was ever so slightly disconcerting to hear the nurse ask the anaesthetist if it was 50 millilitres, and the anaesthetist replying in a loud panicky voice that, No, it should be 15 millilitres, but before I knew it I was having a strange dream about being inside a computer or something, and then I was awake and back into blessed Normal Sinus Rhythm. It's hard to describe the feeling. It's one of utter relief, after being in AF and on edge for several hours. It's as if a huge, not agonising but naggingly painful splinter has been removed from your bum. Lying there with AF is pretty crappy. People can tell me it isn't life-threatening in itself, etc., but when your heart is doing a dance like a drunk uncle doing the birdy-song in your chest, it isn't nice. I always end up praying to God, and making deals with him about how I'll be good from now on, even though I'm a sworn agnostic with a leaning towards (without the utter certainty of) atheism.

I thanked the man who put me to sleep, who was a genial Libyan chap with an impossible name who had lived and worked in various UK locations for a good deal of his career. He melted back into the hospital hubbub as quickly as he had arrived, and I was left wondering what time I would be let out. Wishful thinking is what they call that. The cardiologist came and spoke to me and told me he wanted to keep me in ICU overnight, then transfer me down to ward for observation tomorrow. Blimey. In the UK, I've been pretty much sent home 2 hours after going back to NSR. The last serious obs and tests had been over 2 years ago when the AF had resurfaced. Not this time, though. This doctor wanted to watch me and prod me and poke me, so who was I to argue. The only worry for me was the insurance. Would they cover it? Would I have to pay it and reclaim it? I rang the WIFE and told her the good news. She was also surprised that I was staying overnight.

So I spent that night in that small white room. No TV. Nothing to read. I did get some food, nd it was pretty good, but then all food tastes great when you've not been allowed to eat for hours. I didn't get much sleep. The automatic blood pressure monitor inflated every hour through the night and then the nurses came to take more blood every 6 hours, and with all those wires and tubes, I defy anyone to sleep well under those conditions. In fact, they should use it at Guantanamo Bay as a new form of torture. OK. Maybe not. Anyway, I was ready for some more of that magic bottle of wine in a syringe from The Affable Sandman of Tripoli.

The next morning I rang work and the WIFE and the BOSS and told them the score. I was going down to the ward and was likely to spend at least another night there. Finally they released me from the drips and monitor wires and I performed a very unsteady stand up routine that wasn't funny at all, and managed to walk around for a bit. They wheel-chaired me down to the ward, and I was in for a bit of a surprise. Being used to the good ole' NHS, I expected a large ward full of old men in ill-fitting pyjamas surrounded by bored relatives. But of course, all healthcare is private here, and I got my own private hotel-style room, with a separate lounge and 2 TVs and a wardrobe and...an empty fridge. A minibar might have been too much to expect, in hindsight.

So I ate increasingly poor food and drank water and watched The Golden Girls on TV. The family came and went, soon getting bored of seeing Daddy in a open-backed dress. The vital sign checks and blood pressure tests carried on at 4-hourly intervals, but just before bedtime (Ha! You're always in a bed in hospital) they noticed my BP was up a bit. They took it again to check about half an hour later and it was down a bit. The next morning, as I waited for the doc to come and tell me to go home, they took my BP again, and again it was high. They started getting a bit more urgent about it, getting doctors involved, and another 2 checks later, they were asking me about hypertension and family medical history and all kinds of things. Hmm. Me - Hypertensive? Don't be so bloody stupid!

I was given a really nasty dissolving tablet to stick under my tongue and promptly wheeled down to the Cardio Outpatient clinic where they performed an ultrasound scan of my ticker. After 10 minutes of prodding with a gelled-up device, the doctor told me that I was definitely suffering from hypertension and my heart was showing signs of it that indicated a long-term problem, maybe going back 3 or more years, and which has avoided detection until now. He told me that the high BP was making my heart work harder, and it was now over-muscly, like some mad keen body-builder. The problem with big muscles is that they get stiff and eventually weaken. Oh bugger. But then, it dawned on me, and the doc was alluding to the fact that the hypertension could be the major factor behind my AF. It's not often you are happy to find out you've got a condition, but this time I was, because if it's true, I have found out what has caused all this crap I've been putting up with for the last 6 years. Now I can treat it. Now I can beat it.

I knew what was coming next. The doctor told me I had to stay another night. He told me I had to go on medication. He told me to go on a diet. He told me to exercise! Well, duh! The list of drugs was growing. Anti-arrhythmics, anti-cholesterol, anti-aircraft, and now anti-high blood pressure. It's kind of at odds with what I'm trying to achieve with this Paleo diet, because they are yet to dig up the remains of a Homo Erectus branch of Boots the Chemist from 100,000 years back. C'est la vie. I went back to the ward with a strange sense of elation mixed with terror. Now I know what has to be done. If I do it right, and lose the requisite weight and lower my cholesterol and blood pressure, I should be able to get off the meds within a year or two, one by one.I knew that from now on I held my destiny, or at least a great deal of it, in my own hands. I have been given control.

I left hospital yesterday, and was glad to get away in the end. The hotel-style room had impressed me to start with, but after 2 days in there, I was bouncing off the walls. The TV was my only companion for much of the time, and it was starting to grate with its repeats of Roseanne and Different Strokes and straight-to-video movies. I did see a couple of good ones late at night, mind. The doc gave me a final pep talk and told me that while nothing was outright banned now, I had to remember the simple golden rule - the more legs an animal has, the worse it is for you. It's like Orwell's Animal Farm in reverse - 4 legs bad, 2 legs good. No legs even better (Fish, that is). I wonder if this was a case for cannibalism, although I wouldn't eat myself given the choice.

It's kind of fitting that this has happened now. I came to Dubai for a new beginning, a new life, and all that guff. I was worried about my health, naturally, but carried on as normal, eating and drinking crap and living the luxury, lazy, expat lifestyle. My weight got to its highest ever, and my stress levels also got higher. I now realise that this has been a factor all along, and along with the obesity, it is a potent combination. I had a really bad stress-out session the day before my latest episode. That probably sent my BP through the roof and kicked the AF off. But every cloud has a silver lining. The thoroughness of the medical care here has impressed me, especially my cardiologist, who has been encouraging and reassuring and also frank with me about where I am. I now have a positive outlook, and feel ready to put right the years of abuse my body has suffered. I have gone right off fatty and sugary foods. I'm not a puddingy person any more, as my dear Mother says.

Oh yeah, and the insurance wasn't a problem. I showed my company insurance card, signed a couple of forms and didn't have to pay a penny. Suh-WEET.

Three months down...

How many to go? Dunno. Who knows what's round the next corner.

So, I've been here three months tomorrow. It's gone so quickly, but it feels like longer, if you know what I mean. So much has happened since I accepted the job whilst on holiday in Pembrokeshire back in July. That seems so distant now, in both miles and minutes. One minute I was enjoying the sunshine in Wales, the next I was enjoying the sunshine of the Arabian Gulf.

And it could have been so different. During that week I went for an interview for a job in Afghanistan, and it was pretty much there for the taking. The clincher was the offer of free body armour. It clinched the decision to go to Dubai instead of a war zone.

So, now we're here, almost settled in, the weather is cooling all the time making it a pleasure rather than a chore to take a walk outside. Eating out can be done on terraces and balconies now. We went for a bite at the Jumeirah Beach Hotel the other night, sitting outside on the wooden decking amongst the light-decorated palm trees and granite water features, the towering form of the Burj Al Arab lurking just behind the trees, changing the colour of its lighting every so often from purple to blue to yellow to white. Shame the veal roast was a bit on the bland side...

I ask myself: Does that sum it up? Is this place a triumph of style over substance? Do the glittering hotels and sparkling malls hide the reality? Is this city on the sand built on strong foundations, or are the movers and sheik-ers setting themselves up for a seriously big fall? Doubts crowd the mind, like over-concerned, fussy waiters who want to know if everything is alright with the meal. Does anyone ever say, "no"? I don't.

I watched a short documentary by a local director the other day, linked on another UAE blog (Secret Dubai Diary - I would recommend it), called Do Buy. It's available on You Tube, and shows the sides of Dubai that you don't see reported in the glossy brochures or even in the papers that much. It's an eye opener for anyone in any doubt.

It didn't take long for me to realise what was going on here. You can't help but notice the constant stream of wheezing white buses full of blue-overalled, sullen-faced subcon men being shipped from their labour camps to the many construction projects sprouting from the sand, where they invariable work 12-hour days, 6 days a week. You can't help but notice the small armies of other blue-overalled men that beaver away watering the grass or trimming the palm trees that have been planted along the roads. Most of all, you can't help but notice that you don't see any of them in the shopping malls. The vast majority of the people in malls are Emiratis, Western expats, and professional family men from the subcontinent, who dress like Western expats. You don't see the labourers in there, or in the hotels, and these are the men who built them.

Being of a liberal, left-wing bias (I know, the shame), it is sometimes a strange feeling to live in a place that has been described by Jim Davidson as, "a right-winger's paradise," and he doesn't mean that David Beckham likes the place. For once, the man is right. If you're rich here, or a Westerner at least, you will love it, because you can live an opulent lifestyle under constantly blue skies. What does that make me? A champagne friggin' socialist, no doubt. I prefer red wine anyway.

And still, and still... what can you do? I DO like it here, well most of it. I came here by choice. My eyes were wide open. I knew this place was an obscenely corpulent (and growing) capitalist's wet dream. Of course, I didn't know everything about it, and I still don't. I didn't know about the prostitution that is rife and completely brazen in areas of Bur Dubai. This came as something of a shock. I didn't know (despite the warnings) that driving here is akin to playing Russian roulette with an AK-47, with aggressive and dangerous driving that regularly takes the breath away, and daily encounters with the aftermath of another crash. Now I know that I will probably buy a gas-guzzling 4x4 or other large vehicle for the family. I just think they'll be safer in that than in a small family saloon. Am I wrong to want to protect my family?

Yes, my own hypocrisy does trouble me on occassion - well quite often. I like the lifestyle. I like the sunshine. I like the mostly tax-free living. I understand that I'm a lucky sod for having what I have, even if I whine on and on about my health. I realise that I'm extremely fortunate to have been born where and when I was, with the best chance to live a more-than-comfortable life. When I'm dodging speeding Prados and Landcruisers with permanently-flashing headlights and blacked-out windows on Sheik Zayed Road, I often see these buses full of the blue overall brigade. I see them staring impassively at the unreal world outside, staring at us Western expats and our clothes and our cars. I wonder what they are thinking. Are they envious? Are they angry at being seduced by a dream but buying a nightmare? I'm sure they wouldn't want my pity. I'm just glad that I'm on this side of the window.

Tomorrow I fly to Doha for another look at the Big Hole in the Ground. I'm staying till Wednesday at least, so might not post on here for a while.

Ciao for now.

Rain, Rain......COME BACK!!!

We nearly, NEARLY saw rain on Friday. It's strange how you start to miss these kind of things. I'll be missing cheeky-chappy chavs standing outside the shops asking politely for a cigarette next. OK, maybe not. The point being, we haven't seen any since we arrived here. For me, that is 3 months without a hint of precipitation, which is something totally alien to someone hailing from the United Kingdom's verdant, lush, frequently-irrigated-from-the-sky pastures.

Anyway, to make a short story long, we headed to the border with Oman on Friday with the express purpose of getting our visit visas renewed. They run out after 60 days, which meant we had to leave the UAE and come back again, so we drove out through the desert and past loads of camels towards Hatta, carrying straight on over the fort roundabout and between the mountains towards the border, which is about another 10km along the road.

As we approached the mountains, we noticed that there were big cloud formations just beyond. They looked like rain clouds - big, bright and bulbous with a menacing grey under-belly. Excitement grew in the family unit. We were actually looking forward to seeing some rain, maybe even going outside in it and dancing like madmen. As it was, we missed the rain. We arrived at the Omani passport checkpoint facility about 20 minutes late, I reckon. The ground was wet all around from a recent downpour, and the clouds were busy making their way into Oman. Ho-hum.

The border crossing and visa renewal process was, well...frustrating. We passed through three seperate border control points on the way to Oman, and the same three on the way back. There was a UAE passport point, followed by an Omani customs point and then the Omani passport checkpoint, about 5 kilometres after the customs point. We weren't actually sure if we could drive into Oman, because our car hire company had completely bamboozled us by trying to sell us insurance to drive there then telling us we couldn't drive in Oman with UK licences. The border points themselves had very little in the way of visible information about what to do and where to go, so there was a lot of guesswork, stupid-question-asking, and gesticulation from heavily-armed border guards, whose presence is a blessing to parents with fidgety, whiny kids. "See the man with the gun? If you don't shut up...."

After getting stamped out of the UAE, which involved getting out of the car and queueing at the window of a little white hut, we just sort of muddled our way past customs, buying insurance at the little office over on the wrong side of the road, then driving onwards not knowing what to do next. We finally came across the passport control checkpoint, which is a large, brand-new building in the middle of nowhere. Again, there were no signs telling us what to do, so we parked the car in the puddles created by the recent rain and entered the building to find a large gaggle of confused-looking people queueing at various windows. Most of these people were expats doing the same thing as us. There were more border guards, with even bigger guns, milling around, keeping an eye out for naughty children.

After standing in one queue for a couple of minutes I struck up a conversation with the British chap in front of me, and learned that I had to queue at a different window to get some forms and pay the visa fees, then fill in the forms and queue at another window for the stamps, then get in the car and queue up to get into Oman. This is a common feature of this part of the world; nothing can be done in one place or in one go.You invariably end up queueing at three seperate locations to get anything official done. It was the same when I had to go and open an account with DEWA for the electricity and water, and it's the same for a driving licence, or so I've been told. I'm surprised I haven't had to queue at four different windows and fill in a dozen forms in triplicate just to get some baked beans with pork sausages.

Eventually we got our forms, paying 240 dirhams for the pleasure (the man did say 120 to begin with, then sort of changed his mind), filled them in, queued for the stamps, got back in the car and then drove to the wrong window. They let us through anyway, and we did a quick u-turn through the car park on the Oman side and queued again to get the exit stamps. That was the easy bit, and we were back in no-man's land after our shortest visit ever to any country - all of 2 minutes.

There was more standing and queueing at the UAE border, but the actual process was fairly painless. The man behind the window at the very basic checkpoint stamped us back in without any searching questions, and we finally re-entered the United Arab Emirates nearly 2 hours after leaving. We were ready to drop, so I'm glad that we had had the foresight to book ourselves in for the night at the Hatta Fort Hotel, which I've mentioned before. 5 minutes back into the UAE we pulled into the Hotel grounds. A smiling, short man called Maxwell brought us delicious and refreshing fruit punch drinks while we checked in, before showing us to our chalet-style room with a great view of the mountains. The WIFE and the kids took the opportunity to go for a ride on a huge camel that happened to be at the hotel, and we spent the rest of the day at the swimming pool, splashing each other and enjoying the cooling of the day with sunset approaching before eating a pleasant meal and retiring to bed for an early night. The kids went out like lights, even in strange beds in a strange room. They have their moments.

The next day, we ate a hearty breakfast (missing the real pork bacon that was hidden around the corner at the hot buffet), played a game of mini-golf in remarkably hot morning conditions, then headed back to Dubai city. Of course, we still had to do the weekly food shop, so we headed to Geant at Ibn Battuta and on the way out I spotted a stand for a local hospital offering free health checks. The inner hypocondriac couldn't resist, so I went and asked for a check, which was basically just a blood-pressure test. Surprise of surprises - it was high. Shopping with kids? Well, duh.

The Sun Always Shines

It has since I arrived those many weeks ago. I haven't seen many clouds. There have been a couple of sand-storms and a bit of fog for a couple of mornings, but apart from that, it has shone all through every single day. It is hot, bright, unforgiving, but probably the primary reason we are able to live on this planet. You've heard the figures about how many nuclear bomb's-worth of energy that big ball of gas produces.

I was out in it for a bit today. We went for a little wander after an underwhelming brunch in Focaccia, an Italian restuarant in the Hyatt Regency on the Deira Corniche. Here is a picture of the Creek, looking across to the Bur Dubai side.

That big shiny thing in the sky (I know, terrible photography) is, of course, the sun. It belts down on this place for, I guess 99% of the daylight hours.

This is leading somewhere....

We were setting off this morning, and the WIFE remarked, "Why don't they use solar panels here?"

Good bloody question, my dear, and one which has crossed my mind. All that free, unlimited (well, maybe for 5 billion years) energy, and the powers that be here haven't thought of using it. I'm no expert, but surely they wouldn't have to waste too much prime real estate ground. They could put solar panels on top of every single building without spoiling their aesthetics, and supply a heck of a lot of juice for the 24/7 Air Conditioning. As it is, the sun heats the cold water, which is invariably stored in a roof-top tank, so you have a cold tap that runs hot and a hot tap that you don't need to heat up for about 5 months of the year. I suppose that saves a bit, but as I have previously alluded to, Dubai and the UAE are enormous consumers of resources. If this place was the size of the USA, we'd be nominating George Dubya Bush for honorary membership of Greenpeace. If it's not the AC, it's the flashy, colour-changing lights that seem to decorate every building with more than 10 storeys. So, what is the problem?

Is it maybe because we couldn't get charged for electricity that was produced by the sun? Who knows for sure? DEWA? Hmmm.

Oooh, the cynicism is starting to kick in, and I've not seen 2 months here.

It was like watching a car crash

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

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

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

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

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

I'm new here...

So please be gentle.

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

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

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

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

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