Clerical and Medical

Fecking hell.

What a bloody palaver that was.

Excuse the language, but BUGGER ME!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!!!!

"What's a Gime?"

Said Homer J. Simpson walking past a gymnasium one day...

Well, Homer, a gime, or gym as we like to call them is a place of torture were sado-masochists go for their fix and watch other, more muscly people admiring themselves in the mirror. Or so I used to believe.

Tonight I went to a gym and tortured myself for over an hour with exercise bikes and various resistance machines that wouldn't look out of place in a medieval dungeon. The Inquisition boys would have loved this place.

As it happens, the things I hate most about gymnasiums - other people, who are generally healthier, better-looking, musclier...you get picture - weren't there. I had the place ALL to myself. Now this is because it's a fairly small gym at the top of a hotel. Hotel gyms aren't very busy at any time, so I'm well in here. It's got a pool and a jacuzzi and a steam room and a sauna and really very plush faciltites in the changing room with brilliant white bowl-style sinks and frosted glass on all the doors and little uplighters on the walls. All the equipment is brand new and the cardio machines have little TVs that can be toggled on and off with the exercise data, or even shared with it.

But the reason I'm going to this particular gym is that I won a month's free membership by answering a few questions on the radio a few weeks back. I also won a meal and a night in the hotel for two, which is nice. Anyway, the good thing is, it's given me a reason to go along and start off the exercising phase of my new healthy lifestyle. Stop laughing at the back. I've been sticking to my eating plan, which is a sort of modified paleo diet. I don't eat bread, pasta or potatoes. Well, some , but not very much at all. I have bread maybe once a week now. Most of my food now is lean poultry and fish, vegetables, rice, oats, fruit and proper nuts (not peanuts or cashews, which aren't really nuts at all). i've found myself going right off junk food. Even when we went to the Johnny Rockets burger joint (a fabulous stainless-steel-plated American diner) last week, I thought about treating myself to a burger, but went for the chicken club on brown bread instead (easy on the mayo), and it was very tasty. I couldn't even face more than 2 of the WIFE's chips. They tasted greasy and bland.

So far, I've lost 7 kilograms, or maybe more, because I didn't start weighing myself immediately. That's 15 pounds or just over 1 stone for any imperialists out there. I seem to have switched over quite easily to this way of thinking, and I put it down to what happened a couple of weeks ago with my visit to hospital. I've never felt so motivated to do it and have never felt so sure that I can do it. I've even got a cold, which always seems to happen within 4 weeks of starting these regimes, but I'm nearly over it, fingers crossed, and I can get on with it for real.

Anyway, the gym session was hard work. The little life guard / trainer man (who was small but strong, as he showed me when demonstrating machines) was a great help and showed me how to use everything, and even took me through a slightly shortened general workout with cardio and resistance training. He counted my reps and gently encouraged me to do the leg extensions, shoulder presses and hyperextensions (not hypertensions).

After I finished and had my shower, I felt like I was walking on air. I had a real buzz. The only little annoyance was a bit of acid reflux during and after the session, but I put that down to the very acidic Strepsils I've been taking for my cough. I drove home, hearing the new U2 song on the radio (which is superb) on the way, and had some grilled fish and veg for me tea. I am in danger of becoming a bit of a health bore with all this, but if I keep the right mindset going, I don't really care. Like I said just a few weeks ago, I'm sick of being sick.

OK. Enough of that.

I should just mention a mate of mine who is having a really hard time at the moment. He's split up with his wife and had an accident in his jeep and all kinds of other things, and yesterday he found out that he had 9 broken vertebrae in his back. They were talking about doing a major operation on him to fix it, and naturally he's worried about it. I hope his luck turns soon, and I hope he gets well as quickly as possible. Our fingers are crossed for you, M.

Nothing Gets In The Way Of Ssergorp...

Nothing, you hear?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things to do in Doha when you're ...

bored and lonely:

Visit the Pearl Lounge bar attached to the side of the Marriott hotel. There you will be made to feel completely unwelcome, brusquely quizzed like a criminal suspect about your hotel room number and name and hastily ushered to the bar because all the tables are reserved even though the place is emptier than Paris Hilton's head. Even when you manage to convince them to let you sit at a table, by telling them you won't be staying long, they watch you like hawks wearing bi-focals as you slide down the leather-clad low seats with shallow-sloping sides, toying with your over-iced Jamesons and wondering what kind of people come to a place like this, apart from lonely and bored businessmen, of course. The lighting is non-existent, so much so, that the drinks menus have little torches attached to them. There are large Plasma screen TVs dotted around the walls, showing scenes of snowy mountains and trendy people skiing down them on a permanent loop, all accompanied by instantly forgettable chill/trance/technopap. You should probably have more than one drink, just to annoy them, and see if anyone comes in. When people do appear, they look at you like you are sitting there in the altogether. Finally, when you've had enough of feeling as welcome as Timothy Mallett at a wake, the bill appears in your face and you leave, tutting to yourself about the utter absurdity of it all, and swearing never to go that kind of place again. Until next time you're alone and bored in a strange city. Still, you feel slightly amused and smug as a couple of Japanese businessmen (dressed smartly enough) try to get in as you're leaving and get turned away from a 90% empty club because they aren't hotel guests. You think to yourself that the club must resent the arrangement with the hotel.

Which is a shame, really, because the trip was otherwise a reasonably good experience. Well, OK, the plane was an hour late, and there were no taxis to be had when I landed, which meant a 30 minute wait for one, and then after popping into my firm's local office, I had a really interesting experience in the most banged-up, crappy car I've ever been in, because there just weren't any taxis. This car was a wreck. The headlights were smashed in and the wing mirrors hung off, and the rust was just about holding it together. I even had to push it to get it going, and jumped in as it spluttered and coughed into life. The Sudanese man driving it was quite a good driver, but without a working seat belt and a seat set at a permanent 45-degree recline, I didn't feel very safe. When we inevitably encountered a local in a white 4x4 who cut across us, my driver let out a stream of exotic-sounding expletives and gesticulated wildly at the other driver. Getting to the hotel was a relief.

The hotel itself was a smooth operation and they were falling over themselves to help me at every turn. Every corner I turned seemed to reveal another oriental person in bell-boy get-up greeting me with the now-familiar American-accented, nasal whine of, "Good Morning, Sir," or something similar. The restaurants had good food and excellent service. The room was pleasant, and the free use of the business lounge (with 4 free alchoholic drinks a night) was a nice touch.

The aims of the trip were met as well. We had loads of meetings about the Big Hole in the Ground, and how much it was going to cost to build something in the hole and how long it was going to take, etc., and in the end people were satisfied with what I did. I hope. A few of us went for dinner in a nice Italian in the Rydges hotel on my second night, and as if by magic, the conversation turned to politics. We had me, a Brit, a South African, and Australian, an Iraqi and two Palestinians (one Christian, one Muslim) sat around the table, and the Australian broke the shop talk up spectacularly with a question about the whereabouts of a certain Mr. Bin Laden. In the end, some strong (and surprising) viewpoints were aired, but everyone managed to come away smiling and still on talking terms. The consensus was that the British had managed to mess about with and fuck up the Middle East after both World wars, and now the Americans were carrying on where we had left off. Scars run deep round here, it seems.

Apart from everything else, I found myself thinking how lucky I am to be living in Dubai. Doha is trying desperately to catch up with Dubai, but the general feeling around here is that they are about 15 years behind at least. There are few things for tourists and expats to do, and the infrastructure is seriously poor. People who work there constantly tell me they wish they didn't. Some even fly to Dubai every weekend. On the other hand, I bet they don't spend as much living in Doha.

The Asian games that start on the 1st December are looming large now. It's quite obvious that Doha is going to struggle, because hotel rooms are just impossible to get now, and traffic is getting heavier and heavier whilst they attempt to finish all the new roads and tart up the airport and the unfinished roads and buildings and erect huge scaffolding structures covered in plywood advertising the games. The taxi situation sucks, truly sucks. It seems that they are all being used as chauffers now, driving officials and dignitaries all over the place, because public transport is even worse here than it is in Dubai, and that's saying something. Even so, I wish the city well. I hope they pull it off and show the continent a good time. I hope the games give the place a good kick-start towards catching up with its bigger, glitzier neighbour.

So I left Doha after 4 days, looking forward to seeing my wife and kids again. The week had gone a lot quicker than the previous one in hospital, that's for sure. The plane out of Doha was 40 minutes late in departing, and I spent the whole flight quietly fuming as men in National dress sat in their seats sending text messages all through the flight, despite the many in-your-face reminders to turn off all mobile phones. I try to be understanding of cultural differences, but this annoyed me. They knew they were doing wrong, because they hid their phones when any cabin crew passed close. Some, I stress SOME of these people just don't give a fig about rules, regulations, common courtesty and cultural norms and believe themselves to be invincible and above everyone else because they wear a dish-dash. It's a shame, because a few bad eggs end up giving everyone else a bad name.

Anyway, despite all this, we landed safely, and despite some of the strangest and most worrying mechanical noises I've ever heard on an (supposedly modern) aeroplane. I am getting better at flying, and I don't have a choice but to do so, with all the flying that is done round here. My fear levels are reducing every time, but I still have my little superstitions and routines that I have to go through. I always read the safety information card on both sides, I invariable end up praying to that God who must be pissed off with hearing from this agnostic again, and I always find my imagination running riot with the infinite number of ways a plane can come to harm on the ground and in the air as we taxi out to the runway. Statistics can say what they want, but there's just something unnatural about hurtling at just less than the speed of sound, 6 miles up in the air in a pressurised tube.

It took me just an hour to pass through Dubai airport this time. Passport control was a chew as ever, and will continue to be until my company get my residence visa sorted out, and there was a long queue as ever. I remembered to pick up some duty free goods this time, though, so it eased some of the earlier frustrations. I even managed to find a taxi quite quickly, as you would expect at an international airport, and less than an hour later, I was home, and my kids ran with outstretched arms to greet the bags of goodies I'd brought them. It's good to be home again

Doha or bust...

I get the feeling Doha doesn't want me to enjoy its charms again. The week after Eid I was meant to go and talk about the Big Hole in the Ground, but I couldn't find a hotel room for love nor money nor sexy shenanigans in the pantry, so I had to call it all off. Then last week, I managed to have a hotel booked, but ended up in the much-vaunted hospitel, so again the trip was off.

Today, back at work, and the owners of the Big Hole in the Ground are still insistent that I should go to Doha for a few days. Well, fine, but let me find a hotel room. I spent most of the day chasing various people hither and thither, than I finally phoned a lady who was supposed to help, and it transpires that I might actually have a room, but it ain't 100% certain, and the room in question is really expensive. There's the small matter of the Asian Games approaching, you see. There are tales of hotel rooms being rarer than an egg-laying bird with a smile like Tom Cruise and stories about the place not being ready for the event. They say it about everywhere they hold one of these things. People just like to whinge. Don't I, dear?

But anyway, I am undeterred. Tomorrow I'm getting on that plane for the short (but still nerve-wracking) hop to Doha. Even if I end up kipping in a bus shelter, I've got to be there and do my stuff. I've even changed my hospital appointment with the cardiologist so I can go. Committed? I should be.

Anyway, I think an important lesson today was (again) not to sweat the small stuff. I get stressed out about things far too easily, and it has to be affecting my blood pressure. A friend told me today that the frustration of living here with all the traffic and the bureaucracy and the over-use of the word Insha'allah was understandable. He also said that some people are just more stressed than others, and being told to calm down by other people is the worst thing they can hear. I agree with that sentiment. It makes me even angrier when someone says it to me.

But then, if it's my nature or not, I need to control it or focus it or something. I need to laugh more. And this picture of the under-construction Dubai Metro makes me laugh:

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.

Happy Hallowe'en...

As they say in many parts of the world. Even here now. We even had trick-or-treaters tonight.

You know what? I AM SICK, SICK AND THRICE SICK!!!!

WARNING: THIS BLOG ENTRY IS FULL OF SELF-PITY AND OTHER SUCH NONSENSE. IT MAY DAMAGE THE READERS PERCEPTION OF THE AUTHOR. THEN AGAIN, IT MIGHT ENHANCE IT. WHO KNOWS?

Sick of the situation.

I have HAD ENOUGH!

It's time for ACTION!

I am sick and fecking tired of feeling and being and looking fecking SICK and TIRED!

It has finally hit home.

Please tell me it's true...

Oh, it has. Big style.

Well, thank God for that...

Well, let's be honest. It can't go on like this for much longer. The start of this epiphany, this particular wake-up call was on Saturday after I had the free health check at Ibn Battuta. A blood pressure of 170/110 was recorded, and the nurse said, quite casually, that it was high. I put it down to the stresses of shopping (which the WIFE and kids will testify is my least favourite weekend activity, closely followed by sticking pins in my eyes whilst listening to Toploader). Having done some research (Oh no, not the cyberchondria again...) and talked to a couple of people, it seems that such a reading is really quite high. I should really get a couple more readings to be sure, but I think it's obvious what I am doing to myself. So enough is enough.

I've spent the last decade blaming everyone but myself. I've got a knackered hip, following a bout of Perthes Disease as a kid. I used that as an excuse to do no exercise, especially when the Orthopeadic Surgeon at a now-closed Military hospital in North Yorkshire told me that I shouldn't be playing football on a hip like mine back in 1993 or so. Oh, OK. I will continue to eat fast food, confectionary and drink alcohol, but I won't do anything in place of the football. Come on, everyone knows that swimming and cycling and the like are incredibly boring. Team sport (even when you're completely shite) is where it's at. There's camaraderie, banter, unexpected hat-tricks and a chance to injure people you dislike under the guise of hard tackles (sorry about the knee-cap, Yamamoto). These solo sports are utter bobbins. Isn't there a song about the loneliness of the Long Distance Runner? I always thought of these marathon-runner types as a bit strange. You must be mental to want to run a marathon in the first place, and then all that solitude...26 miles of it. I'd go mad. der.

So, I put on a lot of weight over the next few years. By 1999 I was knocking on for 20 stone. That's 280lbs for our American audience, or 127kgs for the metric-minded. Somehow, I managed to get the WIFE pregnant. No, really, the BOY is mine. Anyway, in the year 2000, about 4 months before he was born I had another moment of awakening and decided to go to Weight Watchers, and promptly lost nearly 5 stone on the Points system. Quite an acheivement, and by the time the BOY was in the big, wide world, he clapped eyes on a relatively slim father.

About a month after the BOY came into the world, I had my first episode of Atrial Fibrillation. This was brought on by excessive caffeine consumption in the form of Red Bull and Pro Plus and coffee by the gallon, all taken to keep me awake due to chronic sleep deprevation caused by a cholicky baby. The AF had probably been there all the time, and the combination of caffeine-abuse and extreme, short-term weight-loss probably contributed to the onset of the arrhythmia. The first time only lasted half an hour. Then I had an episode once every six months for a couple of years, usually after a drinking binge. One was brought on by a rather boozy night in a Chinese restaurant just before Christmas. MSG, alcohol and caffeine are all triggers for it. Not too wise, as Confuscious might have said. Then I went for a 9-month stint in Taiwan, and even with all the decauchery that involved, I only had 2 episodes. With most of these episodes I just stayed in bed for the day and they always stopped by the evening or the next day. I would wake up in AF after a blow-out, then lie in bed all day, then wake up the next day in Normal Sinus Rhythm again. Cool. Just like a hangover with knobs on, really.

Hey, is this going anywhere? It's turning into a life story...

Yeah, yeah. I'm going somewhere with this. It's all important, the background to where I am now. Anyway, after Taiwan I managed to go over a year without having an episode. I forgot about it. I became complacent. The weight I had lost was coming back, pound by pound. It ALWAYS does with these kind of diets. I had a couple of goes at Slimming World, but didn't have the will-power this time. Then the GIRL came along in mid-2004. About a month or two later we drove to the Channel Tunnel, making our way to a holiday on the Continent. It was Friday 13th. The traffic was absolutely atrocious, making our journey 3 hours longer than it should have been and leaving us tired and stressed when we got to the hotel just before the tunnel. I had a bar of chocolate before retiring. Snickers or something. Not a Marathon. Big mistake. The beast (as AF sufferers ALL call it) knocked on the door, and despite my protestations, I couldn't keep it out, and I went into an episode. Bugger. Fear gripped me. I was in a strange place and it happened at a strange time, for me. So we rang 999 and I got taken to a hospital in Ashford where they poked and prodded and stuck me full of needles before deciding to give me a drug to help the heart get back to normal. It worked like a dream.

It turns out I was also suffering from a virus, so the combination of the stress of the journey and the virus had caused the AF to rear its ugly head again. The hospital let me go the next day, giving me a prescription for an anti-arrhythmic drug that I've been on pretty much ever since. Attempts to come off it have failed. It does control it in the main, but I have ectopic (missed) heart beats on a regular basis. Some days are worse than others, depending on how I feel. And at the moment, I'm feeling pretty crappy, if truth be told.

I know why this is: I'm back up to 20 stone again. I've been creeping up and up to that dreaded milestone again, and the last 3 months of over-eating here in Dubai have just made matters worse. I've brought this on myself. And now my blood-pressure is high as well.

Oh, woe is me!

See this? It's the smallest violin in the world...

Aye. Very good. So over the last few days I've been looking into things again, and through Hans Larsen's fantastic website about AF, I've formulated a plan. On the message boards and forums and conference sessions there have been a lot of discussions about The Paleo Diet, or Caveman diet. There are a few books about it knocking around. I've had an inkling for some time that this was the way to go. I even bought the Loren Cordain book back in the UK but never got round to starting it. It's like it's been staring me in the face: I'm making myself ill by eating CRAP. Not brain science, or even rocket surgery, I know, but all my many ailments - the feeling crappy, the obesity, the insomnia, the fibromyalgia, maybe even the AF itself - are down to what I've been putting in my mouth.

The theory behind the Paleo diet is that we aren't designed to eat what we now eat, and our bodies are reacting to this by treating these "foodstuffs" as foreign invaders, and essentially producing an extreme allergic reaction, but at the same time, we crave what makes us ill, because we get a rush from eating high glycemic index foods that give us quick fixes of energy. Agriculture, a relatively recent innovation for mankind, has been a curse (in more ways than one, and I don't mean grumpy farmers), because for the first million or two years as human beings we ate as hunter-gatherers. We ate what we could hunt and gather, not what we farmed and mass-produced. All these grains and starchy vegetables that we have to process are poison to our systems. Millions of people are waking up to it, and realising that the modern carb-rich, processed diet is slowly eating away at us and making us ill. Diabetes, heart disease, obesity - these are modern conditions caused by the way we eat. I know some will say it's another version of Atkins, but there are essential differences - namely eating lean meat and avoiding dairy as well as being able to eat fruit for the carbs we do need.

Bloody hell, I've convinced myself. I'll be getting called a shill if I'm not careful. Anyway, I'm going to give it a go. A real go. I've tried so many things, and have chased my tail hither and thither looking for the Holy Grail. It seems to make more sense the more I look into it. I don't want to carry on the way I am and end up dying early and missing out on what could be a great life with a great family.

It's time to get a life. My life.

Hurrah!

Off with the horns, on with the show. This is about Dubai. And bloating. And beer, which I'll have to knock on the head 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.

EID MUBARAK

As they say in these parts.

It means Happy Eid, and I think everyone is happy that Ramadan is over. The locals are happy because they can stop the fasting, the early mornings and the late nights, and the rest of us are happy because we can get a coffee or a sandwich while we're out and about during the day. Oh, we are such shallow, desperate beings.

It's been a strange experience, and very educational. Without wanting to sound trite, I think a lot of people could learn from being in a place like this during Ramadan. In most cases (not all, it has to be said), concessions and allowances are made, mutal respect is shown, and we all muddle through. Of course, people still find things to bicker about, and it's a shame that the bickering seems to be getting quite nasty back in the UK. The whole veil issue is highlighting the divisions and the intolerance that can bubble away beneath the surface of any multi-cultural society. Point-scoring and oneupmanship is rife, on ALL sides. Sometimes I think there's no hope for us, because try as we might, a lot of us just can't accept differences or see things from other people's perspectives. But at other times I see great kindness and togetherness, and think that we aren't so bad after all. I know..I'm going off on one again. I try to keep this kind of thing out of this blog, but it's part of my life here, however much I try to avoid it.

Today we had a little drive out, and after remarking on the quietness of the roads, we noticed that there were sub-continental chaps dressed up to the nines all over the place. They seemed to be at every major junction of every major road, even when we were out in the middle of nowhere on the Emirates Road, and almost every single one of them were in their Sunday best (or is it Friday best here?). We wondered who they were and what they were doing out there. Were they the labourers finally getting some time off and heading out for the day? If so, how did they get to these places in the relative wilderness? For what purpose? And where were they going now? As we passed the huge Chinese discount mall called Dragon Mart (which was closed at the time), we saw a group of several dozen of these smartly-dressed men standing around near the entrance. There were no women or children there, or none that I saw.

So we headed to a little theme park inside the Creekside Park just over the Garhoud Bridge on the south side of the creek. This was closed as well, and again there was a small group of these men milling around. We finally landed at the Wafi City mall, which was open, and had a spot of lunch and a little play in the amusement area. There weren't any of these smartly-dressed sub-con men in here. I've heard that they don't let them in the malls. Elitist? Racist? Who knows? Who decides? There were plenty of Emiratis there, also dressed in their best finery. The mens' dish-dashes were whiter and brighter than ever, and almost all of them were in a chipper mood - two smiling young men played chess at one of the now-open coffee shops, laughing and joking to themselves all the while, some younger men ran amok in the amusement areas, and large groups of women in their bejewelled, black robes and designer sunglasses browsed in the high-end fashion joints of the mall.

We headed home after the mall - the roads weren't much busier - and decided to go for a swim at the Springs 8 pool. It was largely deserted when we arrived, but a few more people joined us later. We had a good splash around in the warm afternoon sunshine, until the flies started emerging in large numbers with sunset approaching, and then headed home for tea.

Now I'm nicely tired again, and I've somehow managed to write a long entry again. Maybe not the most interesting or exciting one, but I hope it conveys something of the first day of Eid. Back to work tomorrow, but only 3 days till the weekend comes round again.

(It's today)

Yup. They boys in charge have decided, in their wisdom, that today is the last day of Ramadan. Tomorrow is that start of Eid Al Fitr, so the fasting ends and the partying begins. Phew. They declared Ramadan early this year, so it was actually one day longer than normal, or so I believe.
So yesterday we had a day out. We went to the water park called Wild Wadi, which is right next to the Burj Al Arab and the Jumeirah Beach Hotel.



We didn't tell the kids about it until we got there. The BOY was convinced we were destined for another half-empty shopping mall. We even sneaked the swimming bags into the car while he had his attention elsewhere. As we got closer to the park he started to suspect the truth, and the relief and excitement in his voice was nice to hear.

We had a good time. There are plenty of rides and slides for young and old. Gentle ones and wild ones. The photo above shows the view from the top of the Jumeirah Sceirah (sic). I did start the arduous climb towards the top, but when I caught sight of the queue winding all the way down the tower and out onto the terrace at the bottom, I changed my mind and went for the ride that goes all the way round the park, with the rider sitting in a large rubber ring. It goes up, down, left, right, over bridges and through long, dark tunnels. They use really powerful water jets to propel you on the upward sections - which is pretty impressive when you're nearly 20 stone. The only problem with this is the jets had a habit of catching my shorts and pushing them forwards and off my backside. I'm glad that none of the slide sections were see-through, for the sake of those below me. It was pretty cool, anyway. I liked the way you could choose different routes of varying scariness on the way and have a different journey every time.

The BOY was a bit shy with some of the bigger things, but was eventually encouraged to go into the wave pool, and had to be literally dragged out of it when we left. The GIRL was her usual Jekyll and Hyde mix of giggling fun and gibbering hysteria. I don't think she should have tried the Sceirah...

As the sun started to set, we made our way out. As we neared the changing rooms, the Wadi show was gearing up. They have built this large artificial cliff-face with a little wadi at the bottom. As we were walking past, thunder crashed from the speakers at ear-splitting levels, and the kids weren't too happy about that, I can tell you. Then the water started spilling from the top of the cliff, and soon a torrent of water was rushing down the cliff and flooding the wadi. I suppose it's meant to mimic what happens in real wadis. When I told the BOY this, he asked me in a shaky voice if there were any near our house. In my best fatherly tone, I reassured him that the only real ones existed out in the desert near the mountains. This didn't really convince him to stay and watch, especially with the noise, so we quickly entered the changing rooms and got ready to leave. The WIFE and the GIRL had long gone.

Overall, a pretty good place to go, I would say, especially as a family or in big groups. I especially like the little innovation of the wristbands that get you in and out of the park, open and lock the lockers, and store credit on them which can be spent around the park so you don't have to carry money around. You get any unused money back at the end. There are some good rides, loads of catering outlets (slightly expensive, as is the norm, I suppose - but not outrageously so) and plenty of places with loungers and parasols to sit and relax if that's what you want to do. And I didn't get stuck in any tubes.

After the wildness of the wadi, we headed for a burger at Hardees (they should bring this chain to the UK - a superior burger restuarant in every way), then thought we'd go for a coffee and a shisha. We went to the Madinat, which was the closest place I thought we could find some, and after a bit of a trek around the Madinat souk, we found out that they had a Shisha terrace at the Mina A'Salam hotel, which is one of two five-star hotels at either end of the complex. So we wandered in to the plush reception, slightly bedraggled from our soggy adventures, and were lead to the terrace, without any hint of haughtiness. We ordered a strawberry shisha and some drinks and sat under a gazebo on large comfy chairs. The shisha man fixed up the big bong-like contraption and set it going, bringing it over and puffing at the end of the pipe to make sure it was lit. Then he stuck another plastic pipe in the end and handed it to us.



The WIFE was curious - I've done shisha before in Taiwan (of all places), and so she had a few little drags on it. After a couple of splutters and coughs she admitted it was quite pleasant - and it is. The smoke is thick, but cool, tasty and very smooth; nothing like a cigarette or cigar. After about five minutes I had a mild buzz, but tobacco alway does that to me. The WIFE had nearly as much as me of it, but the best bit was her comical expression when she smoked. The eyebrows went up and the eyes widened, and she turned her head quickly to one side before exhaling. The drinks were really nice as well. I had a Kiwi Cooler mocktail which was cool, refreshing and bursting with real fruit flavours. The kids were happy to wander around our gazebo, sipping their drinks and looking out over the balcony at the abras (water taxis) coming and going from the station below us. The BOY even had a try at the shisha, but we couldn't get him to suck instead of blow, so all he did was make smoke come out of the other end. I don't think the shisha man was impressed.

We finished our drinks, paid our bill and went down to the abra station. The Madinat has artificial waterways all around it, with little abras to transport guests around the complex. The boats are meant to be for hotel guests only, but they weren't to know, and I doubt we're the first to buck the system, so we jumped on one and glided smoothly past the waterfront promenades full of people dining under the Arabian skies, gentle mood lighting and ethnic music adding to the holiday atmosphere. A gentle breeze caught our faces, and, "Oh, this is the life," is the thought that probably went through all our minds right then. Or in the case of the GIRL, perhaps, "Oh, good. Dora the Explorer will be on TV when I get home".

On the last day of Ramadan....?

Which is....when, exactly?

It's a bit of a guessing game, it seems. The country is getting all geared up for Eid Al Fitr and the long weekend, but the lack of announcements in the press (no 7 Days newspaper today) means we are in limbo. We don't know if Ramadan is over or not, especially as they allegedly started it early. I told the WIFE that she should run down to Spinneys at the Town Centre to see if Starbucks was open - that would tell us for sure. She told me to Bog Off.

We went to another shopping mall yesterday - the Burjuman Centre in Bur Dubai. It was dead - and I mean dead. More than half the shops were closed, along with all the food outlets and the kiddies play areas. The shops that were open were mostly empty, with bored-looking assistants sitting at their counters. Is this what happens at the end of Ramadan? My lack of knowledge on these matters is frustrating, but it seems that it's the way of the world round here. Holidays are based on the movements and sightings of the moon, so they can be announced with very little notice at all. I've been told several tales of people going to work and finding out they shouldn't have bothered.

Anyway....we're going to Wild Wadi today, which is a water park. Should be fun, as long as I don't end up getting stuck in one of the slide tubes like Homer Simpson once did. I've rung ahead and they told me that the Ramadan restrictions aren't enforced in the park, and all the concession areas are open for business, which makes sense really. You couldn't expect people to visit an outdoor amusement park without access to at least drinks.

Will report back later.

56 years ago...

Dubai looked like this...



It looks like this now:



And it's still growing...

Anyway, I heard something a bit sad yesterday. Apparently, there is a local company that runs a particular petrol station (there are only 3 or 4 companies in the UAE) which not only pays their pump attendants a pittance (like most service providers), it also takes their tips away from them. These guys stand in the heat all day, filling our cars and washing our windscreens, and are pretty much treated like dirt by most of the people here. They do get tips, though. If the tank of petrol costs, say 67 dirhams, you give them 70 and let them keep the 3. It's not much, I know, but you think they must make a little bit of money to supplement their meagre wages. Not so, if the reports are true. One company makes them give the tips to the company. They have no pockets in their uniform trousers and it has been known for the company to search these guys before they go home at the end of their shifts. If it's true, it's disgusting and vile and utterly greedy, and I won't be using this companies filling stations again.

You see? This place ain't perfect.

Ha-Ha in Hatta

I read a label on a bottle of disinfectant today. It said, in that commanding manner that these things all seem to have, "KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN"

Good advice, I thought. Problem is, I've spawned two of them and so I can't really keep away from them that much. Ho-hum.

Of course, I love them really. There's the BOY - an inquisitive, sulky, boisterous, completely bonkers 6-year-old who is inclined of late to impersonate Nelson Muntz from the Simpsons should anything unfortunate occur to anyone - particularly me. In the supermarket today I managed to knock a large bag of crisps onto the floor in my normal clumsy way.

HA HA!

Then I picked them up and dropped them just as I was about to replace them.

HA HA!

I just had to laugh as well, because the crab sandwich in my basket wasn't big enough to hurt him with.

Then there's the GIRL. She's also bonkers, even more so, and has the biggest case of split personality I've ever seen in a 2-year-old. She will be making you laugh with her silly faces and voices and sounds one minute, then the next she will be screaming blue murder at some perceived injustice. This can cause some tense moments in restaurants and supermarkets, mainly because we often let her get on with it, since asking her to calm her down is about as effective as using cream cheese as a tile adhesive. The only really effective way of ending the tantrums and screaming is to threaten her with an AK-47. But since this is frowned upon by do-gooding types and the public at large, we end up distracting her by acting like fools. So we leave the public space with our reputations as good parents and normal, balanced people completely in tatters.

Anyway, I'm digressing. We had a good day today, as it was. Well, apart from the shouting match I had with the WIFE when I mistakenly sent her the wrong way driving out of the Mall of the Emirates. It's an easy thing to do when the signs all point the wrong bloody way. Apart from that - a good day. We did our food shop at Carréfour, had lunch, then decided to head for Hatta. Hatta is a small town near the Omani border, about 100km from Dubai city. Getting there involves driving through the desert, albeit on a proper dual carriageway, and we fancied exploring a bit more of the country, so off we went.

As we left Dubai, we passed loads of developments and upcoming developments. We saw the fake (but full-sized) space shuttle and roller coaster near where they are building Dubailand, which is apparently going to be bigger than Disneyland. We saw the Sports City site, which will basically be an Olympic city. They haven't bid for the Olympics yet, but watch this space. We saw a hoarding with a picture of the replica Eiffel tower. We saw the Autodrome - a Formula One-standard motor racing circuit. It just keeps going and going, and you realise that this place will still be growing in 10 years.

Finally, we started leaving the city and the development behind us. The landscape changed gradually as we got further into the wilds of the UAE. The plant life became more and more scarce, the sand darkened in colour, and about 45 minutes after setting off, we were surrounded by undulating orange dunes and not much else really. A game of I Spy would have lasted about 4 rounds. The traffic was non-existent, and every way we looked there was just sand and sky.



This continued for a while, and then we spotted the mountain range coming into view on the horizon. These mountains are real desert mountains - grey, harsh, inhospitable and impressive in scale. They look like the mountains in Lord Of The Rings. Bilbo Bobbins is coming!

As I was taking in this view, an SMS came through to my mobile telling me I could use my Etisalat account on a roaming basis. Which is all well and good, but I thought I was still in the UAE. Wrong-o! It seems that you actually go into Oman and then out again on the way to Hatta, which is part in the Emirate of Dubai. My phone was now telling me that my network was Etisalat Oman. Crazy shit, man. There were no border controls or any signs saying WELCOME TO OMAN or anything. They have different petrol stations, though. I saw a Shell garage for the first time in 3 months. I was nearly overcome with excitement.

We had read about the carpet shops along the road to Hatta, and lo and behold, there is a long stretch of just that as you approach Hatta. The WIFE was keen to find a nice rug for the living room, so we pulled in at one and after a quick look around and the obilgatory haggle (you've gotta haggle), we drove away with a nice colourful rug.

Then we arrived in Hatta. You know you've got to Hatta because you come to a roundabout with a big mock fort thing right in the middle of it.



Hatta itself is pretty unimpressive. There are lots of shabby buildings and they have the biggest speed bumps in the world. There is a heritage site there as well, but it looked closed, so we headed to the Hatta Fort Hotel, which is raved about in various publications. It's more like a resort than a hotel, with sporting facilities galore and chalet style rooms. We had a play in the kiddies' park, a quick gurn at the beautiful people in the inviting pools, then as we walked around the hotel grounds, we luckily turned round and caught sight of the view that is behind you as you enter the main hotel building.



Then we went for tea in the hotel coffee shop. Or dinner, whatever you wanna call it. It was getting late, and there was an hour and a half's drive ahead. The meal was OK. Not over-expensive and not really flash. Adequate is the word I'm looking for. What made it for us was having a really good view of the sun setting behind the mountains as we ate. The BOY was particularly impressed as he saw the last sliver of burning orange disappear behind the mountain.



To be fair, the banana and coconut pie was nice as well.

So, we left Hatta in the dark. I was quite excited about this, because I fully expected to drive back to Dubai through the desert and see the starry, unpolluted sky above me, which is supposedly a really amazing sight to behold. Sadly, this wasn't to be, because the oh-so-safety conscious people running this country decided to put great big, bright orange street lights along the entire length of the Dubai-Hatta road, so all we saw above our heads on the drive back was a load of street lights. It didn't even feel slightly dangerous or anything, because it was like driving along an urban motorway. They can do thousands and thousands of street lights - oh yes. But can they stop people driving like maniacs? I think you know the answer.

As for the the starry sky - our time will come. A desert safari trip is going to have to be squeezed in at some point. I can't wait.

Never again...

We always say it, but we always end up going back to booze, like we go back to the slightly mad lover who gives us great sex but then beats us up with a large frozen sausage....

I went out with some chaps from work last night, to a very nice bar called Scarlett's, situated in the promenade at the bottom of the Emirates Towers.



(There wasn't actually any fog when I went, but I like the pic)

(And it was dark)

So....I arrived quite early (the WIFE wanted to get home and get the SPROGS to bed) and stood at the bar for about half an hour, drinking a leisurely pint of Guinness and eating the nasty cheesy nuts provided for me by the bar staff. I watched people come and go. People watching can be quite interesting in Dubai - you see people of every nationality, dressed in so many different ways, speaking many different languages. And of course, you imagine what they do and what they are like. Anyone earing a sharp suit and flashing around their blackberry is immediately labelled a complete fucking poser, any group of giggling females are probably trolley dolleys, and any single bloke is a desperate loner. Oh, yeah...I arrived alone, didn't I?

Then my boss turned up, and said Hello to me and the guy stood right behind me, who happened to be from my company, but site-based. He had actually been there when I arrived, and we had stood there at the bar in complete ignorance and silence for 30 minutes. There's some kind of quantum mechanical phenomenon that could describe this situation. Or maybe there isn't.

Anyway, they all started piling in, the boss had his credit card prised from his cold, dead hands, and the tab was up and running. Guinness followed Guinness. I started to lose count. I got talking to the other new guys who have been joining the company in their droves recently. I felt like an old hand with over 2 months under my belt when I talked to the chap who arrived last week. "Oh, yeah," I said, "Dubai this, Doha that...price of formwork - terrible inflation...bibble....really dodgy bars in Bur Dubai....bobble...have you been to Ski Dubai? Yadda yadda..."

After pint 4 or 5 I had an orange juice to pace myself and to prevent what could turn into a next-day Atrial Fibrilation episode if I wasn't careful. The quizzical looks came my way, along with the comical and the condescending. Can't handle your drink, eh? So the next OJ had some vodka in it. Call me an easily-lead weak-minded fool. Obi-Wan would have a field day with me. These aren't the Quantities you're looking for....

Then I had 2 Coronas, not coronarys, and a few snacks ordered in a moment of the munchies. Then I was too drunk and too tired to carry on, but sober enough to know that I should make my way home. So I said my goodbyes, shook everyone's hand, and got a taxi home.

This morning was bad. Two important meetings. Lots of concentration required. The traffic lights failed at the Trade Centre roundabout just as I was approaching them on the way to meeting number one. The client Project Manager went a bit beserk over some of my figures at meeting number two. It was a looooooong old day. So now I'm off to bed.

G'night all.

Take Me Higher

This is an interesting website.

It's all about the Burj Dubai, which is currently being built just off the Sheik Zayed Road. It will be over 800m tall (half a mile!) and will have 162 floors (maybe more), and will be the tallest building in the world (by a long chalk) when finished in 2 or 3 years' time. Taipei 101, the current highest, at less than 600m high, will be a tiddler in comparison.

I've seen it many times - I pass it on my way to work every day. It's already the bigget building in Dubai, currently standing at 74 floors. They are building it at a rate of a floor a week, which means they should be done in about another 88 weeks. Then there's just(!) the outer cladding and the internal works to do. The thing is, it doesn't really look that big from a distance, but when you get up close, you appreciate what a massive beast it is - and will be. According to the website linked, it's not even close to half-way completed in height terms. I managed to get close last Thursday - eventually - because I had to go and see a man about another tall building (the one in Doha that I'm working on), and he just happens to work in a site office that is situated at the foot of the Burj.

The other staggering thing about it is the development going on all around it. It's like a town in itself, with other towers and malls and parks and Lord only knows what else. The very plush sales area (no small development in its own right) to one side was easy to find, but I managed to get lost trying to find the site office right next to the tower, which sounds ridiculous considering the size of it, but the actual development has one small site entrance which isn't that easy to find if you're a relative Dubai newbie like me. But I think what I'm trying to say is...IT'S HUGE!

But then, you come across this in Wikipedia, which is a list of the tallest buildigs structures in the world. If you look at section 5, you will see some of the proposed new structures that are in the pipeline, and you realise that the Burj Dubai is suddenly looking like a model of Canary Wharf in comparison to what is being planned. They are talking about building one in Kuwait that will be 1,000m high, but that is still dwarfed by the proposed Murjan Tower in Bahrain, which will be 1,022m high, and will have 200 floors. Truly mind-boggling.

Not only do you wonder how they can possibly build something so high (and take your hats off to the Engineers), you wonder about the logistics surrounding such a structure. What would happen to people on the 200th floor if a fire broke out on the 10th? The stairs would take about 2 hours to descend. Or are they planning to provide parachutes or death slides attached to other buildings? Madness. You won't get my up one of them, that's fo sho. I got to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower and wanted to go back down. I don't feel safe unless there is land all around and level with me.

It seems this part of the world has become obsessed with building the biggest of everything now. They've made a heap of money from oil, and want to spend it by playing with life-size mecanno sets, trying to outdo their neighbours. Where will it end?

Take Me To Your Leader

I just did a Which World Leader Are You test. I was expecting to be some bloody do-gooder like Ghandi, but ended up as:

No, not Adolf:



I suppose I get it in a way...

Anyway, to do it yourself, click here: Leader Test

Birthdays, Boredom, Baldness, Blobbiness

I'm officially having my first bad week here in Dubai. I'm getting a cold. I turned 36 just over a week ago, and then I found out that I have put about a stone on in the 2 months that I've been here. Woe, woe and thrice WOE! I suppose that's what happens when you eat stuff like chocolate birthday cakes.

D'oh!

So, yeah. Ramadan's still going on and on. The working days are shorter (well, supposedly - we work till 4.00pm with no lunch break, but I'm often there till 4.30 or 5.00pm - these boss people ain't stupid). The Malls are bizarre. No cigarette smoke. No bustle of cafés and restaurants, just vacant tables and seats, as if you are there in the middle of the night, or as if you're in a zombie flick. Heck, some people here drive like zombies - drooling on their phones as they zoom past you at 180kph to get home for Iftar (the breaking of the fast). I digress...the malls. We went to the Mall of the Emirates on Friday to look for shoes for the BOY. Turned out he didn't need new ones just yet. That was a bonus. Then we went looking for nourishment, which is a difficult task, as you can imagine. We walked past Ski Dubai to the Kempinski Hotel end of the Mall... (BTW, Ski Dubai looks like this:)

...and the mall-level restaurants were all closed, despite Time Out Dubai saying that at least one of them would be open for brunch. Useless gets. I should have realised their info wasn't reliable after their factually questionable review of Foccacia at the Hyatt Regency. Anyway, I remembered that there was this place called Sezzam in the Kempinski, and we found it down on the ground level after another white-knuckle ride with 2 kids and a push-chair down the escalator. It was hidden behind black curtains running the length of the lobby, keeping the gobbling hoardes out of sight, away from those who are fasting. Seems fair, I suppose. I wouldn't like to watch people eat if I wasn't allowed to eat for 14 hours.

The food was pretty good, after all that. The grilled bratwurst wasn't really that good, it wasn't a real bratwurst - far too soft, and lacking flavour, but the lamb chops (more like a half-rack) were heavenly, as was the cheesy mash and the grilled veg. The WIFE had Tandoori chicken, which tasted really nice and fresh and not at all dry (although she said there was too much coriander), and the BOY and the GIRL ate their pizza and nuggets with little complaint. The GIRL's fresh fruit salad also impressed. Blimey, this is turning into a restaurant review. As I'm doing it, I would also say that the service is a bit patchy, but friendly. I will definitely return.

So Saturday came, and we ended up in a bloody shopping mall again. This time it was Ibn Battuta (did he have a massive hooter?), which is actually a very unusual mall, because it has separate themed areas. I took the family for a little wander in there to see the different zones and the things you just don't expect to see in malls, like full-size replicas of Chinese junks and elephants with enormous tusks. We did the weekly shop in Géant, which we seem to have settled upon as the best place. Carréfour in MOE is just too manic, Spinneys is too small, but Géant seems to have it sorted, except they don't have a pork section, so we always end up going to Spinneys or Choithrams for the bacon and ham, etc. I mean shopping for food is always a soul-destroying experience, in my view. Up and down with the trolley and 2 whingeing kids... so you have to make it interesting by throwing surprise items into the trolley - usually nice-tasting, fattening items, it must be said.

Food, food, food. Ah yes. The solution to and cause of all my problems. (c) Homer Simpson, talking about beer. I can't live without it, but I'm living too much through it. I am in that horrible cycle of eating, feeling fat, not sleeping, feeling shite, eating to feel better, feeling fat, and so on.... I need to snap out of it before I break the 20 stone barrier. SNAP OUT OF IT, MAN!
And what did I do? I was looking at exercise bikes, but ended up buying a PS2 because me and the BOY need our PES fix! The WIFE is now resigned to watching us replaying Boro v Sevilla over and over again to avenge the UEFA cup final humiliation. And then she has to listen to the BOY cry and me shout because we got Tekken 4 free with the console, and we're both terrible losers.

Boro! They're depressing me as well! Bloody hell! Losing to Sheffield frigging United (with all due respect). AAAGGGGGHHH!

I think it's cabin fever, actually. I just want this damn weather to cool down enough for us to get outside for a decent length of time!

Whinge over. Thank Allah!