From Frauke Heard-Bey’s ‘From the Trucial States to the United Arab Emirates:’
'Foreword:
By Sir Geoffrey Arthur, KCMG, formerly Political Resident
‘When the United Arab Emirates was established as a state at the end of 1971 it had few admirers in the West: it was incomplete, it looked loose and ramshackle, and it was born – so said the facile commentators of the day - under the ill star of British patronage. It has since acquired a host of fair-weather friends, but I do not recollect that a single special correspondent of a major Western newspaper – let alone a politician or a statesman – took the trouble to attend the ceremony of its formation.’
Well, get you, Western Governments!
That’s super-random. Who would have thought our glorious elected leaders would behave like a bunch of bitchy tweens and shoot themselves in the foot so spectacularly? I mean, hello? Oil? Thick black stuff? Oozes out of the ground here? Worth about a thousand dollars an ounce?
Was the internal combustion engine not invented until the 1980s? Because I’m pretty sure there was a massive energy crisis in the 1970s, and if so, declining to attend the ceremony establishing the UAE seems about as clever as sleeping with the window open during a forest fire. Civil Servants breed like cockroaches, I'm sure we could have spared a couple for the afternoon.
They should have just called OPEC the Organisation of Last Laughs.
Saturday 8 December 2007
Excuses Excuses
(Board meeting)
TD: You missed your plane again?
BH: I tried my best!
TD: How hard can you have tried? In the time since your scheduled departure Orville Wright could have grown the trees and built a whole damn plane!
BH: The queues at the airport were really, really bad… I only got out of the meeting an hour ago….
TD: Uh-huh…
BH: I tried! I really did!
TD: How hard?
BH: I bribed the anti-terrorism unit to escort me to the airport with their lights flashing! I inconvenienced traffic all the way from Beijing to Jakarta!
Pause.
TD: You know we would never countenance behaviour like that…. I hope you’re ashamed
BH: I am, I really am
TD: (audibly, to secretary) Put another couple of thousand on her bonus for creativity.
TD: You missed your plane again?
BH: I tried my best!
TD: How hard can you have tried? In the time since your scheduled departure Orville Wright could have grown the trees and built a whole damn plane!
BH: The queues at the airport were really, really bad… I only got out of the meeting an hour ago….
TD: Uh-huh…
BH: I tried! I really did!
TD: How hard?
BH: I bribed the anti-terrorism unit to escort me to the airport with their lights flashing! I inconvenienced traffic all the way from Beijing to Jakarta!
Pause.
TD: You know we would never countenance behaviour like that…. I hope you’re ashamed
BH: I am, I really am
TD: (audibly, to secretary) Put another couple of thousand on her bonus for creativity.
Tigers in the Smoke
JF: Abdullah, you know that having a shisha is kind of like you’re still smoking right?
AA: Oh don’t be so f*cking ridiculous.
AA: Oh don’t be so f*cking ridiculous.
Hurray, Hurray, it's UAE National Day
Say what you like about Sheikh Mohammed, and I’ve never ever heard anything but praise for him (in contrast to some other well-known types from these here parts - Dancing Girls of Lahore – Contents - Twelve year old Pakistani Virgins, shipped to the Gulf, Sheikhs for the Use of) economically he is the man. In these post Fukuyama days, he stands somewhere between the Sun God and David Hasselhoff in his post Baywatch chest-rippling glory days.
Now, you expect a little hagiography in the Gulf - just look at the adoration allotted to Sheikh Zayed. But frankly, it can get a little old to read hardened journo’s behaving like a bunch of thirteen year olds at a knicker-wetting contest.
Nice then to find another article from the FT, but one which redresses the balance a little. (And to be honest, at least the FT knows where Dubai is. Unbelievably, in March 2007 London's Metro News mixed up a photo of our Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum, with that notorious terrorist badboy, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Great stuff London!)
Anyway,
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/e9966606-f9dc-11db-9b6b-000b5df10621.html
There's totally some spin here - see for example the Haroun al-Rashid type detail of wandering the offices of Dubai picking out the brilliant and the deserving.
'It was, for example, a "mystery shopper" who first noticed Mohammed Gergawi a decade ago, when he was deputy head of the government's economics department. Since then, Mr Gergawi has risen to chairman of Dubai Holding, probably the most powerful of Sheikh Mohammed's companies, as well as to the post of cabinet minister in the UAE federal government...'
Very Arabian Nights, and yet, given that Gergawi was already Deputy Head of the Economics Department, not exactly seeking out a brilliant diamond in the rough hein?
This is sweet too:
"People think we're just building Dubai. But no, we're accommodating 1.5bn people in the central world, here, between the east and west. When we say the west and we think of Europe and America. When we say the east and we think of Japan and China. And we are part of Asia but we are in the Middle East. And that's what I meant by the central world."
Slightly reminiscient of the old Dan Quayle crack about the Middle East existing to stop the Far East and the Near East from encroaching on each other, but a truly important point. Anyone who thinks Dubai is about Dubai is an idiot. It's about the GCC, Asia, the Levant, North Africa, Sub-Saharan Africa.... Any major company who doesn't have an office here is already about ten years behind, and falling further.
Given the traffic, the dust, and the noise of construction, it says something about Sheikh Mohammed that to read an interview with him is to start feeling excited about Dubai all over again.
Now, you expect a little hagiography in the Gulf - just look at the adoration allotted to Sheikh Zayed. But frankly, it can get a little old to read hardened journo’s behaving like a bunch of thirteen year olds at a knicker-wetting contest.
Nice then to find another article from the FT, but one which redresses the balance a little. (And to be honest, at least the FT knows where Dubai is. Unbelievably, in March 2007 London's Metro News mixed up a photo of our Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum, with that notorious terrorist badboy, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Great stuff London!)
Anyway,
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/e9966606-f9dc-11db-9b6b-000b5df10621.html
There's totally some spin here - see for example the Haroun al-Rashid type detail of wandering the offices of Dubai picking out the brilliant and the deserving.
'It was, for example, a "mystery shopper" who first noticed Mohammed Gergawi a decade ago, when he was deputy head of the government's economics department. Since then, Mr Gergawi has risen to chairman of Dubai Holding, probably the most powerful of Sheikh Mohammed's companies, as well as to the post of cabinet minister in the UAE federal government...'
Very Arabian Nights, and yet, given that Gergawi was already Deputy Head of the Economics Department, not exactly seeking out a brilliant diamond in the rough hein?
This is sweet too:
"People think we're just building Dubai. But no, we're accommodating 1.5bn people in the central world, here, between the east and west. When we say the west and we think of Europe and America. When we say the east and we think of Japan and China. And we are part of Asia but we are in the Middle East. And that's what I meant by the central world."
Slightly reminiscient of the old Dan Quayle crack about the Middle East existing to stop the Far East and the Near East from encroaching on each other, but a truly important point. Anyone who thinks Dubai is about Dubai is an idiot. It's about the GCC, Asia, the Levant, North Africa, Sub-Saharan Africa.... Any major company who doesn't have an office here is already about ten years behind, and falling further.
Given the traffic, the dust, and the noise of construction, it says something about Sheikh Mohammed that to read an interview with him is to start feeling excited about Dubai all over again.
I Went to Dubai and All I Wrote Was a Lousy Article
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/eea3210e-9854-11dc-8ca7-0000779fd2ac.html
A little old, but roughly in order, thoughts as follows:
International journo flew to Dubai and judged it on…. Trader Vics?
Well absolutely, in the same way that the Hard Rock Café perfectly encapsulates all of the subtlety and complex variation of modern Britain
Why didn’t he just order a Tikabukabuka like everyone else?
As if the MacKinsey guys here drink! I work with those guys and they are all Algerian, religious, get three hours sleep a night because of their work schedule and spend their lives pimped out to Saudi to work on implementation of year long contracts. Wave a proper drink around at the other end of the room and they’d all slump face down on the floor, overcome by exhaustion and the distant, marginally alcoholic tikabukabuka fumes
Dubai remains economically dependent on oil despite diversification programmes? Well all hail the mighty revelation… thank seven pound three ounce baby Jesus for this article because otherwise we might actually have deluded ourselves that this is a diversified economy
‘Despite over-dependence on hydrocarbons, Dubai remains a liberal economic paradise.’
……Ok people, just nod and smile at the crazy journalist, because he might be dangerous. Note to Mr FT - Try and set up an office here; try talking with monopolistic state companies such as Etisalat and Du: try to hire staff working for the competition who incur a ban if they try to shift companies, or even try to work out which laws control those contracts you’re so girlishly negotiating, and THEN hit us with your economic prelapsarianism
‘Mix a cocktail and they will come.’ Quick! Someone tell Saudi Arabia!
I wonder who paid to fly this guy in for another Dubai! Dubai! Type article? MacKinsey? Or the notoriously well-funded Department of Tourism and Commerce Marketing?
A little old, but roughly in order, thoughts as follows:
International journo flew to Dubai and judged it on…. Trader Vics?
Well absolutely, in the same way that the Hard Rock Café perfectly encapsulates all of the subtlety and complex variation of modern Britain
Why didn’t he just order a Tikabukabuka like everyone else?
As if the MacKinsey guys here drink! I work with those guys and they are all Algerian, religious, get three hours sleep a night because of their work schedule and spend their lives pimped out to Saudi to work on implementation of year long contracts. Wave a proper drink around at the other end of the room and they’d all slump face down on the floor, overcome by exhaustion and the distant, marginally alcoholic tikabukabuka fumes
Dubai remains economically dependent on oil despite diversification programmes? Well all hail the mighty revelation… thank seven pound three ounce baby Jesus for this article because otherwise we might actually have deluded ourselves that this is a diversified economy
‘Despite over-dependence on hydrocarbons, Dubai remains a liberal economic paradise.’
……Ok people, just nod and smile at the crazy journalist, because he might be dangerous. Note to Mr FT - Try and set up an office here; try talking with monopolistic state companies such as Etisalat and Du: try to hire staff working for the competition who incur a ban if they try to shift companies, or even try to work out which laws control those contracts you’re so girlishly negotiating, and THEN hit us with your economic prelapsarianism
‘Mix a cocktail and they will come.’ Quick! Someone tell Saudi Arabia!
I wonder who paid to fly this guy in for another Dubai! Dubai! Type article? MacKinsey? Or the notoriously well-funded Department of Tourism and Commerce Marketing?
How to Bag Yourself an Oil Rich Lover
LL: JennyF!
LBB: Lisa Lashes!
LL: Oh my God!
LBB: Oh my God, how are you?
LL: Did you hear?
LBB: I heard…
LL: Well….
LBB: You always knew it was for a year….
LL: I know, but he was so lovely… wonderful cheekbones, and the villa was FABULOUS
LBB: Lease ran out?
LL: In so many ways…
LBB: Miss the pool?
LL: Miss the pool parties…
LBB: Who moved in?
LL: Couple of German girls
LBB: Has he?
LL: Of course. Within two days of the pretty one moving in, he….
LBB: Moved in?
LL: Of course
Pause.
LBB: Are you ok?
LL: My diamond tennis bracelets are ok
LBB: Oh thank God! You must have been so worried….
LBB: Lisa Lashes!
LL: Oh my God!
LBB: Oh my God, how are you?
LL: Did you hear?
LBB: I heard…
LL: Well….
LBB: You always knew it was for a year….
LL: I know, but he was so lovely… wonderful cheekbones, and the villa was FABULOUS
LBB: Lease ran out?
LL: In so many ways…
LBB: Miss the pool?
LL: Miss the pool parties…
LBB: Who moved in?
LL: Couple of German girls
LBB: Has he?
LL: Of course. Within two days of the pretty one moving in, he….
LBB: Moved in?
LL: Of course
Pause.
LBB: Are you ok?
LL: My diamond tennis bracelets are ok
LBB: Oh thank God! You must have been so worried….
It's Just...So....Beautiful...
NB (Americanly, enthusiastically): Oh my god! I have the best idea for a business!
JF: (Britishly, gracelessly) Wot?
NB: We’re setting up a business writing the biographies of rich dudes in Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Saudi. Baby, think of the margins! Write one – rags to riches, caravan to owning Caravaggio’s, date palms to IPOs, flog them a limited print run in gold covers, 500 to give out to friends and people they hate, charge ‘em like a hundred thousand dollars per book.
JF: (staring incredulously) Oh. My. God.
NB: I know right?
JF: I don’t know what to say.
NB: Don’t speak.
JF: (Emotionally) That is the single best idea for a business I ever heard in my life. I might cry. Is it weird to cry?
NB: Be strong.
JF: You don’t even have to write them, just set up a template.
NB: My parents were nomadic and lived in a tent in Jebel Ali….
JF: We owe everything to Sheikh Zayed…
NB: We started to see the opportunity in the 80’s…
JF: I owe everything to the example set by my father….
NB: And to God….
JF: I made some fortunate decisions….
NB: Many multinational companies needed a local sponsor….
JF: I remain very close to my roots
NB: I love falcons and driving up and down the desert sands in my four-wheel drive…
JF: My daughters wear Versace….
NB: Each of my sons got a Porsche on his eighteenth birthday….
JF: We all live together in a villa in Jumeirah….
NB: Fourteen sons and seventeen daughters…..
JF: Two wives and thirty maid servants….
NB: Swarovski chandeliers and Iranian carpets….
JF: (regarding him in awe) It’s brilliant, quite simply brilliant
NB: But it’s just, how are we going to get started?
JF: Oh, no worries, I’ll just put it up on my website
JF: (Britishly, gracelessly) Wot?
NB: We’re setting up a business writing the biographies of rich dudes in Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Saudi. Baby, think of the margins! Write one – rags to riches, caravan to owning Caravaggio’s, date palms to IPOs, flog them a limited print run in gold covers, 500 to give out to friends and people they hate, charge ‘em like a hundred thousand dollars per book.
JF: (staring incredulously) Oh. My. God.
NB: I know right?
JF: I don’t know what to say.
NB: Don’t speak.
JF: (Emotionally) That is the single best idea for a business I ever heard in my life. I might cry. Is it weird to cry?
NB: Be strong.
JF: You don’t even have to write them, just set up a template.
NB: My parents were nomadic and lived in a tent in Jebel Ali….
JF: We owe everything to Sheikh Zayed…
NB: We started to see the opportunity in the 80’s…
JF: I owe everything to the example set by my father….
NB: And to God….
JF: I made some fortunate decisions….
NB: Many multinational companies needed a local sponsor….
JF: I remain very close to my roots
NB: I love falcons and driving up and down the desert sands in my four-wheel drive…
JF: My daughters wear Versace….
NB: Each of my sons got a Porsche on his eighteenth birthday….
JF: We all live together in a villa in Jumeirah….
NB: Fourteen sons and seventeen daughters…..
JF: Two wives and thirty maid servants….
NB: Swarovski chandeliers and Iranian carpets….
JF: (regarding him in awe) It’s brilliant, quite simply brilliant
NB: But it’s just, how are we going to get started?
JF: Oh, no worries, I’ll just put it up on my website
Those Dirty Dirty Bombs
Colleague: So ok, the Iranians might have abandoned their nuclear programme back in ’03, but they totally have guys embedded here in Dubai waiting to attack us if the Americans ever hit Tehran.
JennyF: Really?
Colleague: Swear. Like, a thousand deserters have told the Americans and the Emiratis all about it. I saw it in Seven Days a couple of years ago
JennyF: My God….
Colleague: Dirty bombs, totally
JennyF: The Iranians are going to hit Dubai?
Colleague: I know, right?
JennyF: But what is a dirty bomb exactly? I’ve always wondered what that means…
Colleague 2: (passing) One wrapped in pages from Debbie Does Dubai. Insult to injury….
JennyF: Really?
Colleague: Swear. Like, a thousand deserters have told the Americans and the Emiratis all about it. I saw it in Seven Days a couple of years ago
JennyF: My God….
Colleague: Dirty bombs, totally
JennyF: The Iranians are going to hit Dubai?
Colleague: I know, right?
JennyF: But what is a dirty bomb exactly? I’ve always wondered what that means…
Colleague 2: (passing) One wrapped in pages from Debbie Does Dubai. Insult to injury….
Mother India Takes a Payrise
Today we offered jobs to two consultants from Mumbai, both aged under 26, one of whom had three years experience, one a single year. We gave both of them offers at above $6,000/month with a generous bonus and incentives scheme. Both of them turned us down without a second thought.
Actually, that’s not quite true. One of them thought about it, and then said if we would write a bonus equivalent to eight months salary into the contract, he would consider condescending to mention the offer to his girlfriend.
It sounds a little like bitching, but actually, this is fabulous. Salaries in India are rising so astronomically that the software developer and the outsourcing types are already trawling around the region like a bunch of big ol’ flirts. Right now, we’re hitting Sri Lanka, Pakistan, North Africa, and more than anywhere, the Philippines. As economies are liberalized and protectionist barriers broken down, brilliant and qualified people are finally, finally! being given a break, and bloody hell, watch them go.
Emerging markets totally heart Adam Smith.
Actually, that’s not quite true. One of them thought about it, and then said if we would write a bonus equivalent to eight months salary into the contract, he would consider condescending to mention the offer to his girlfriend.
It sounds a little like bitching, but actually, this is fabulous. Salaries in India are rising so astronomically that the software developer and the outsourcing types are already trawling around the region like a bunch of big ol’ flirts. Right now, we’re hitting Sri Lanka, Pakistan, North Africa, and more than anywhere, the Philippines. As economies are liberalized and protectionist barriers broken down, brilliant and qualified people are finally, finally! being given a break, and bloody hell, watch them go.
Emerging markets totally heart Adam Smith.
And the Award for Most Random?
JennyF: And as you will see, our contractual obligations are QUITE CLEARLY laid out on pages seven to nineteen of the original proposal…
Client: Yes, well I….
JennyF: And AS WE HAVE DELIVERED on each and every one of the points laid out therein, we will be seeking redress for the…
Client: Yes, but I think that…
JennyF: And we are more than happy for this to be taken before your board, in fact…
Client: Yes, but….
JennyF: In fact, we will be proactively be seeking mediation from….
Client: I have to go now! I just cut myself on model of the Burj al-Arab!
Click… dial-tone….
Client: Yes, well I….
JennyF: And AS WE HAVE DELIVERED on each and every one of the points laid out therein, we will be seeking redress for the…
Client: Yes, but I think that…
JennyF: And we are more than happy for this to be taken before your board, in fact…
Client: Yes, but….
JennyF: In fact, we will be proactively be seeking mediation from….
Client: I have to go now! I just cut myself on model of the Burj al-Arab!
Click… dial-tone….
Monday 3 December 2007
Mullahed Whine
Oh it's all terrible in Iran, with those poor poor mullahs issuing an ever-increasing list of problems, and troubles, and small sadnesses.
According to the BBC website, there is very little that doesn't worry them.
But, as my boss says, don't bring me problems, bring me SOLUTIONS people.
So, Iran. A country with rampant unemployment and prostitution, a brain drain which would require at least $50bn to repair, two million drug addicts sucking up all that lovely cheap heroin from Them Next Door (Afghanistan) and an oil infrastructure so degraded that one of the most oil wealthy countries in the world is going to stop exporting in the next ten years. At which point the already screwed economy is going to start looking sicker than... well, than one of the skinny heroin addicts of Tehran.
But it’s ok, because the Iranian government know what the problems are, and they've got a plan. Over the last few months tens of thousands of women have been arrested for dressing contrary to the principles of the revolution (ie. not wearing the all-enveloping chador), which creates employment for policemen, and religious types. Earlier this month Iranian newspapers printed a list of vices where prosecutions are expected to ramp up, including decadent films, drugs and alcohol. And now they’ve come out hard against rapping, presumable because it's absorbing all that energy which could be more profitably spent on fixing that oil infrastructure. Then, over the last couple of days nuclear talks have broken down as Iran declared any abandonment of Uranium enrichment ‘unacceptable’.
So there you were, it’s all coming together in a brilliantly A-team way – you use the nukes against the poppyfields and then retrain the rappers as hydrocarbons engineers. And the women…?
Um... Ah well, the Mullahs never cared much about them anyway.
According to the BBC website, there is very little that doesn't worry them.
But, as my boss says, don't bring me problems, bring me SOLUTIONS people.
So, Iran. A country with rampant unemployment and prostitution, a brain drain which would require at least $50bn to repair, two million drug addicts sucking up all that lovely cheap heroin from Them Next Door (Afghanistan) and an oil infrastructure so degraded that one of the most oil wealthy countries in the world is going to stop exporting in the next ten years. At which point the already screwed economy is going to start looking sicker than... well, than one of the skinny heroin addicts of Tehran.
But it’s ok, because the Iranian government know what the problems are, and they've got a plan. Over the last few months tens of thousands of women have been arrested for dressing contrary to the principles of the revolution (ie. not wearing the all-enveloping chador), which creates employment for policemen, and religious types. Earlier this month Iranian newspapers printed a list of vices where prosecutions are expected to ramp up, including decadent films, drugs and alcohol. And now they’ve come out hard against rapping, presumable because it's absorbing all that energy which could be more profitably spent on fixing that oil infrastructure. Then, over the last couple of days nuclear talks have broken down as Iran declared any abandonment of Uranium enrichment ‘unacceptable’.
So there you were, it’s all coming together in a brilliantly A-team way – you use the nukes against the poppyfields and then retrain the rappers as hydrocarbons engineers. And the women…?
Um... Ah well, the Mullahs never cared much about them anyway.
The Rainbow Sea (Area GAY)
JennyF: (Whining) But why won’t you come to Dead Sea with me?
AF: (Arab, Looking shifty) I just…
JennyF: But why…. When it would be SOOO COOL.. And you can float in the water and it’s very therapeutic and the beaches have lots of naked Germans to prove it... pleeeeeaaaase come with me
AF: I cannot go there… please understand, it is a bad place and my mother she wish for grandchildren
JennyF: What?
AF: (Hissing) It is biblical place - Sodom and Gemorrah. The water there does things to a man, make them a not-man. Please…
JennyF: (loudly) You think the water will make you GAY?
AF: People are looking! And it’s true.
AF: (Arab, Looking shifty) I just…
JennyF: But why…. When it would be SOOO COOL.. And you can float in the water and it’s very therapeutic and the beaches have lots of naked Germans to prove it... pleeeeeaaaase come with me
AF: I cannot go there… please understand, it is a bad place and my mother she wish for grandchildren
JennyF: What?
AF: (Hissing) It is biblical place - Sodom and Gemorrah. The water there does things to a man, make them a not-man. Please…
JennyF: (loudly) You think the water will make you GAY?
AF: People are looking! And it’s true.
My Daughters For Your Visas
Ten steps to get a visa to anywhere:
1. Dress like a sixth form pupil in a religious boarding school – modest and sweet, scrubbed skin and the expression of a gentle forbearing angel
2. Disguise that motivation. Working visa in order to economically rape your country? Good grief officer, no, visiting my poor sick sister in order to nurse her back to health
3. Flatter to buggery. ‘But I was so hoping to see some of the beautiful sights of your country, where the welcome is famous and the camels are pulchritudinous'
4. Invent some helpful relatives. ‘Absolutely, I’ve been wanting to visit Saudi Arabia for many years, my grandfather was a close friend of Philby pere. In fact, it was Granddad F who first shouted ‘We struck really really dirty water!’ on that special day in Dahran '38
5. Bitch up the neighbours…. ‘It would be so great if you could give my friend a visa for Qatar. He’s only been to Kuwait/Bahrain/Qatar/Dubai so far, and I’d love to show him some real Arab hospitality…’
6. Cry. Let those crystalline tears drip on their forms - bureaucrats hate smudges
7. Cry some more
8. Tell the embassy staff you’ll be fired
9. Tell the embassy staff that if you get fired Little Alice will never get her operation
10. If all else fails, make for the border and tuck a hundred dollars into your passport for ‘administrative costs’
1. Dress like a sixth form pupil in a religious boarding school – modest and sweet, scrubbed skin and the expression of a gentle forbearing angel
2. Disguise that motivation. Working visa in order to economically rape your country? Good grief officer, no, visiting my poor sick sister in order to nurse her back to health
3. Flatter to buggery. ‘But I was so hoping to see some of the beautiful sights of your country, where the welcome is famous and the camels are pulchritudinous'
4. Invent some helpful relatives. ‘Absolutely, I’ve been wanting to visit Saudi Arabia for many years, my grandfather was a close friend of Philby pere. In fact, it was Granddad F who first shouted ‘We struck really really dirty water!’ on that special day in Dahran '38
5. Bitch up the neighbours…. ‘It would be so great if you could give my friend a visa for Qatar. He’s only been to Kuwait/Bahrain/Qatar/Dubai so far, and I’d love to show him some real Arab hospitality…’
6. Cry. Let those crystalline tears drip on their forms - bureaucrats hate smudges
7. Cry some more
8. Tell the embassy staff you’ll be fired
9. Tell the embassy staff that if you get fired Little Alice will never get her operation
10. If all else fails, make for the border and tuck a hundred dollars into your passport for ‘administrative costs’
Oh You Little Charmer....
Taxi Driver: ‘Madam, where are you from?’
JennyF: ‘England’
Taxi Driver: ‘Oh no, not English. England are good looking peoples.’
JennyF: ‘Cheers’
JennyF: ‘England’
Taxi Driver: ‘Oh no, not English. England are good looking peoples.’
JennyF: ‘Cheers’
Drink Drink, and be Arab
Libya, taxi driver. ‘No, it’s illegal. So, who cares? Many people die of cirrhosis of the liver here, is very advanced country!’
Pakistan, friend: ‘It’s bootleg, nasty as your primary school teachers tongue. Djam!’
Pakistan, waiter: ‘Madam, if I can have your passport I can bring you a bottle of Murree Beer. This is a five-star hotel Madam.’
Syria, someone who doesn’t know much about Christianity: ‘We’re in the Christian quarter, party party! Blood of Christ Cocktail very nice!’
Saudi, Aussie friend: ‘$200 for a bottle of Johnny Walker? That's it man, I am so headed to Bahrain next weekend. Strippers, whores and alcohol! It's just like Canberra!'
Dubai: ‘Man I’m bored of the spring fashions, let’s get a cocktail in Apres until the hiked-up prices start to make sense. After that, let’s get a cocktail on the way home; and a couple of beers at the beachfront. And then let’s call the delivery guy because I'm running totally low and man, it’s just so damn hard to get a DRINK here.’
Pakistan, friend: ‘It’s bootleg, nasty as your primary school teachers tongue. Djam!’
Pakistan, waiter: ‘Madam, if I can have your passport I can bring you a bottle of Murree Beer. This is a five-star hotel Madam.’
Syria, someone who doesn’t know much about Christianity: ‘We’re in the Christian quarter, party party! Blood of Christ Cocktail very nice!’
Saudi, Aussie friend: ‘$200 for a bottle of Johnny Walker? That's it man, I am so headed to Bahrain next weekend. Strippers, whores and alcohol! It's just like Canberra!'
Dubai: ‘Man I’m bored of the spring fashions, let’s get a cocktail in Apres until the hiked-up prices start to make sense. After that, let’s get a cocktail on the way home; and a couple of beers at the beachfront. And then let’s call the delivery guy because I'm running totally low and man, it’s just so damn hard to get a DRINK here.’
And That's When I Accidentally Smacked the Sheikh in the Face
*Phone rings*
JennyF: (world of exhaustion in voice) What now?
Perennially Stressed Colleague: ‘Oh hey!... Oh, well, um, I got that flight in the end. And the thing was, I was really stressed right?.... Ok, so we’re an hour delayed and it’s this really big board meeting in Lahore and this bitch of an air-hostess won’t call the terminal and let them know I’m on my way to the connection. They normally do that, and I’ve had like two hours sleep every night for six days because of this project so I’m kind of hopping from foot to foot with exhaustion and unsteady with tiredness and the client’s going to go mental if I’m not at this board meeting.
So then when this other really nice hostie says I can be the first person off the plane, I took it kind of… literally. And there’s this old dude in a dishdash right? He wants to go first too, like he doesn’t know I have a CONNECTION. But I could totally take him. So upshot is I’m standing right by the door as they open them, and he’s standing right behind me muttering.But then there’s this big sandstorm right? The moment they open the doors I get a tonne of grayish grit in the eyes, and kind of reel backwards blown by all the force of the desert winds… and the upshot is that I kind of accidentally headbutt this old dude.
Yeah, Senior Prince…. Do you think you could let them know I’m not going to make the board meeting?’
JennyF: (world of exhaustion in voice) What now?
Perennially Stressed Colleague: ‘Oh hey!... Oh, well, um, I got that flight in the end. And the thing was, I was really stressed right?.... Ok, so we’re an hour delayed and it’s this really big board meeting in Lahore and this bitch of an air-hostess won’t call the terminal and let them know I’m on my way to the connection. They normally do that, and I’ve had like two hours sleep every night for six days because of this project so I’m kind of hopping from foot to foot with exhaustion and unsteady with tiredness and the client’s going to go mental if I’m not at this board meeting.
So then when this other really nice hostie says I can be the first person off the plane, I took it kind of… literally. And there’s this old dude in a dishdash right? He wants to go first too, like he doesn’t know I have a CONNECTION. But I could totally take him. So upshot is I’m standing right by the door as they open them, and he’s standing right behind me muttering.But then there’s this big sandstorm right? The moment they open the doors I get a tonne of grayish grit in the eyes, and kind of reel backwards blown by all the force of the desert winds… and the upshot is that I kind of accidentally headbutt this old dude.
Yeah, Senior Prince…. Do you think you could let them know I’m not going to make the board meeting?’
Dear the Environment: Die You Bitch, Die
Friend: I just don’t see how you can justify flying so much. I mean, does your company even carbon off-set for the emissions?
JennyF: No, but we help emerging countries! We’re cute and fluffy!
Friend: How many flights do you take each week?
JennyF: (tiny hiding voice) eight to ten
Friend: You are a murderer, a murderer of the world. You care for nothing. Satan is your teacher and your friend.
JennyF: Ok fine, FINE. We’re secretly funded by one of those American evangelist groups who try to bring on the end of days by buying SUVs
Friend: Consultancy is the amoral-ist and the worst.
JennyF: Ha ha ha, just kidding! *Makes note on Blackberry to call American evangelist groups and arrange funding, perhaps finally meeting those stringent fourth quarter targets*
JennyF: No, but we help emerging countries! We’re cute and fluffy!
Friend: How many flights do you take each week?
JennyF: (tiny hiding voice) eight to ten
Friend: You are a murderer, a murderer of the world. You care for nothing. Satan is your teacher and your friend.
JennyF: Ok fine, FINE. We’re secretly funded by one of those American evangelist groups who try to bring on the end of days by buying SUVs
Friend: Consultancy is the amoral-ist and the worst.
JennyF: Ha ha ha, just kidding! *Makes note on Blackberry to call American evangelist groups and arrange funding, perhaps finally meeting those stringent fourth quarter targets*
If My Mother Could See Me Now (She'd Call Up the Priory)
Ah Dubai, those musty dusty pink streaked sunrises enlivened only by the sound of piling, those wistful hours spent looking out of the taxi window at the stationary traffic on Sheikh Zayed, those sophisticated evening parties spent trying to unclamp the roaming hand of a Baku-based oilman from your perfectly toned arse (Dubai, obsession with frei body kultur because of total lack of anything else to do, cheap labour and more beauticians per capita that anywhere else in the world; equals, unimpeachably pert, toned and moisturized).
And enough booze to fill up the swimming pool at a Norwegian dipsomania convention
Friday morning:
Lisa Lashes: (Australianly) ‘Darlz! Sweetheart! What are we doing?’
LBB: ‘Cheap champagne brunch, the really nice brunch at the Fairmont, expensive but really classy, ok that one possibly not suitable for you two. Moet brunch, Jumeirah Beach Hotel, Yalumba for the dancing?’
JennyF: ‘Yalumba!’
Lisa Lashes: ‘Yalumba!’
Saturday morning
LBB: Was that actually technically illegal? I mean, if I reparked the ferrari before leaving and if I never really meant to steal it, only to borrow? And if I offer to pay for the scratches?
Lisa Lashes (Australianly) My HEAD. All I remember is waking up in the camel sanctuary and seeing that horrible thing just LOOKING at me
LBB: I mean, he has five. Where’s the harm?
JennyF: Did I…? What the? When did I get the snow-globe with ‘A Present from the Azerbaijan National Oil Co?’
LBB: Hang on…. Is that…?Lisa Lashes: My HEAD
LBB: Since when is the Emirates Palace in Dubai? Did we….? No…surely not… It is! Girls, I think we..
JennyF: We spent Friday night in Abu Dhabi?
Lisa Lashes: Socially, we are dead people.
And enough booze to fill up the swimming pool at a Norwegian dipsomania convention
Friday morning:
Lisa Lashes: (Australianly) ‘Darlz! Sweetheart! What are we doing?’
LBB: ‘Cheap champagne brunch, the really nice brunch at the Fairmont, expensive but really classy, ok that one possibly not suitable for you two. Moet brunch, Jumeirah Beach Hotel, Yalumba for the dancing?’
JennyF: ‘Yalumba!’
Lisa Lashes: ‘Yalumba!’
Saturday morning
LBB: Was that actually technically illegal? I mean, if I reparked the ferrari before leaving and if I never really meant to steal it, only to borrow? And if I offer to pay for the scratches?
Lisa Lashes (Australianly) My HEAD. All I remember is waking up in the camel sanctuary and seeing that horrible thing just LOOKING at me
LBB: I mean, he has five. Where’s the harm?
JennyF: Did I…? What the? When did I get the snow-globe with ‘A Present from the Azerbaijan National Oil Co?’
LBB: Hang on…. Is that…?Lisa Lashes: My HEAD
LBB: Since when is the Emirates Palace in Dubai? Did we….? No…surely not… It is! Girls, I think we..
JennyF: We spent Friday night in Abu Dhabi?
Lisa Lashes: Socially, we are dead people.
Countries, Countries Everywhere and Not a Visa to Enter
You know you're a footsoldier of the Liberal Consensus when....
You refuse to go to Syria because they take your damn passport for two weeks before issuing a visa – and because last time you got so stressed at being without it that after three days you broke, invented a sick child, flew to London and cried on the Syrian Ambassador until he gave it back.
And then got your visa issued by flirting with guards on the Jordanian border (MA stop giving them come-hither looks. It’s just so… unsubtle.)
You refuse to go to Syria because they take your damn passport for two weeks before issuing a visa – and because last time you got so stressed at being without it that after three days you broke, invented a sick child, flew to London and cried on the Syrian Ambassador until he gave it back.
And then got your visa issued by flirting with guards on the Jordanian border (MA stop giving them come-hither looks. It’s just so… unsubtle.)
Saudi Arabia, Non Amour II
And the other story from Saudi ... another old topic, the abuse of maids in the Gulf but this time the BBC asked people with direct experience to write in. The email below, from an Indian doctor resident in Saudi is particularly interesting.
Another useful comment was from the head of a women's shelter in Dubai, who noted that they sent 100 women back to Ethiopia alone in a single month over the summer. From a country with a population of 1.3 million, that's a problem of some serious scale.
DR SHARMA, INDIAN NATIONAL, SAUDI ARABIA'I often treat household help brought to the clinic by their sponsors [employers].... They usually start by complaining of routine physical ailments, but after a little gentle questioning, one by one they talk about being abused sexually by the men in the family... Getting beaten and working 18 hours a day is almost routine....There is no way we can do anything about it. Saudi Arabia is the most starkly racist place you can have.... '
The Saudi citizens who wrote in were surprised and shocked. Must be a different Saudi Arabia, they thought. 'Saudi is a closed society, that's just the way it is.'
That's ok then.
Another useful comment was from the head of a women's shelter in Dubai, who noted that they sent 100 women back to Ethiopia alone in a single month over the summer. From a country with a population of 1.3 million, that's a problem of some serious scale.
DR SHARMA, INDIAN NATIONAL, SAUDI ARABIA'I often treat household help brought to the clinic by their sponsors [employers].... They usually start by complaining of routine physical ailments, but after a little gentle questioning, one by one they talk about being abused sexually by the men in the family... Getting beaten and working 18 hours a day is almost routine....There is no way we can do anything about it. Saudi Arabia is the most starkly racist place you can have.... '
The Saudi citizens who wrote in were surprised and shocked. Must be a different Saudi Arabia, they thought. 'Saudi is a closed society, that's just the way it is.'
That's ok then.
Saudi Arabia, Non Amour
Another Friday, another rash of stories from Arabia S.
First of all, the 'girl from Qatif', the rape victim who was attacked by seven men while sitting in a car with an unrelated male, is now in a world of trouble. After reporting the rape, she was sentenced to 90 lashes for fraternisation with the car-owner. After appealing, the sentence was increased to 200 lashes and six months in jail, with the judges linking the increase directly to 'foreign interference.'
And then it gets worse. The Saudi response to any international outcry has always been to escalate rather than to back down, and now they have discovered that the victim from Qatif is even more of a red painted jezebel than your ordinary rape victim (because it's always the woman's fault, hein?). Suddenly, and in direct contrast to her earlier statements, she's allegedly confessing to adultery, a crime punishable in Saudi by death.
How strange that she didn't remember those capital crimes before embarassing the country.
First of all, the 'girl from Qatif', the rape victim who was attacked by seven men while sitting in a car with an unrelated male, is now in a world of trouble. After reporting the rape, she was sentenced to 90 lashes for fraternisation with the car-owner. After appealing, the sentence was increased to 200 lashes and six months in jail, with the judges linking the increase directly to 'foreign interference.'
And then it gets worse. The Saudi response to any international outcry has always been to escalate rather than to back down, and now they have discovered that the victim from Qatif is even more of a red painted jezebel than your ordinary rape victim (because it's always the woman's fault, hein?). Suddenly, and in direct contrast to her earlier statements, she's allegedly confessing to adultery, a crime punishable in Saudi by death.
How strange that she didn't remember those capital crimes before embarassing the country.
The Adventures of Auntie B
Twenty-something: ‘Mum, how did we end up with this link to the Middle East in the first place?’
Placid Grey-haired Mother: “Well darling, do you remember Auntie Betty? Well in the 1960’s Auntie Betty was very good friends with the King of…
‘Twenty-something: ‘Lets stop right there.’
Placid Grey-haired Mother: “Well darling, do you remember Auntie Betty? Well in the 1960’s Auntie Betty was very good friends with the King of…
‘Twenty-something: ‘Lets stop right there.’
Land of Sand and Cinema
Now this is a new development – for the past year it seems as though it just hasn’t been possible to turn a corner in Dubai or Abu Dhabi without running into a film crew. Celluloid addiction has been a part of life in the Gulf for a while – although it used to be Bolly-beauties cavorting on Sharjah beach in see through draperies rather than grade A big budget Hollywood movies we’re getting now.
It’s the sheer unexpectedness of how the Middle East is being normalised in the Hollywood world view. First we had Syriana, all about the oil and the corruption; so far, predictable. Then a rash of movies in which Americans befriend a single selfless noble Arab and learn some lessons about life before single selfless Arab takes a bullet to the chest and pays for the sins of the etc etc. Stand up The Kingdom and take a bow. (Still, Michael Mann filming in Abu Dhabi – imagine!)
But then a film in which the Gulf wasn’t just oil ‘n’ sand ‘n’ terrorism; a film where the first third was set in Qatar in a perfectly natural way, in which locals were neither the bad guys or some sort of cliché half-inched from a 1950s Western but just piled in with the rest of the world; a film which was funny, charming, better than it had to be, where religion was absolutely incidental to the scenes in the Middle East and which tried to show something of the beauty of the desert and some of the traditional buildings.
Transformers
It’s the sheer unexpectedness of how the Middle East is being normalised in the Hollywood world view. First we had Syriana, all about the oil and the corruption; so far, predictable. Then a rash of movies in which Americans befriend a single selfless noble Arab and learn some lessons about life before single selfless Arab takes a bullet to the chest and pays for the sins of the etc etc. Stand up The Kingdom and take a bow. (Still, Michael Mann filming in Abu Dhabi – imagine!)
But then a film in which the Gulf wasn’t just oil ‘n’ sand ‘n’ terrorism; a film where the first third was set in Qatar in a perfectly natural way, in which locals were neither the bad guys or some sort of cliché half-inched from a 1950s Western but just piled in with the rest of the world; a film which was funny, charming, better than it had to be, where religion was absolutely incidental to the scenes in the Middle East and which tried to show something of the beauty of the desert and some of the traditional buildings.
Transformers
What a Wonderful Wonderful Place It Must Be
Colleague: ‘The thing is, that I wouldn’t say it was the best time of my life, but ultimately mentally I was fine until I moved to Abu Dhabi.’
And That's When I got Myself Arrested by the King's Personal Bodyguard
*Phone rings*
‘Hello? Hello is anybody there? Hello?’... Hi! Peter? Yes, I can hear you!.... Yes, it’s Jenny. How are you?.... Yes, I’m ok, things are pretty much fine here.... One smallish thing… nothing major really, just a little bit of a misunderstanding. The thing is… well, I’ve been arrested for trying to bribe the King’s personal bodyguard.
No, I kind of wish that I was kidding. Or that I spoke better Arabic – that would help a lot. I really must start those classes again.... Well, we were on the airport and they’d kind of shut it down while the convoy went past.... So we were waiting, and the bodyguard kind of took over security so they wanted to see my passport, right?...
No I did have a proper visa but…The thing is, I had a 100 dinar note in my pocket and I kind of forgot about it, and somehow it got caught up in my passport. So yeah, I um, handed the two over together..... Yes that was when they made me get out of the car.... The thing was, that when they opened the visa page and it was a bit unclear they got a bit worried then....Well, I had a bottle of orange squash in my bag and it leaked a bit.... No, all of the pages....Yes I’ll have to go to London and get a new one,, it’s just that right now, what I really really need an Arabic speaking lawyer.....’
‘Hello? Hello is anybody there? Hello?’... Hi! Peter? Yes, I can hear you!.... Yes, it’s Jenny. How are you?.... Yes, I’m ok, things are pretty much fine here.... One smallish thing… nothing major really, just a little bit of a misunderstanding. The thing is… well, I’ve been arrested for trying to bribe the King’s personal bodyguard.
No, I kind of wish that I was kidding. Or that I spoke better Arabic – that would help a lot. I really must start those classes again.... Well, we were on the airport and they’d kind of shut it down while the convoy went past.... So we were waiting, and the bodyguard kind of took over security so they wanted to see my passport, right?...
No I did have a proper visa but…The thing is, I had a 100 dinar note in my pocket and I kind of forgot about it, and somehow it got caught up in my passport. So yeah, I um, handed the two over together..... Yes that was when they made me get out of the car.... The thing was, that when they opened the visa page and it was a bit unclear they got a bit worried then....Well, I had a bottle of orange squash in my bag and it leaked a bit.... No, all of the pages....Yes I’ll have to go to London and get a new one,, it’s just that right now, what I really really need an Arabic speaking lawyer.....’
Random Books Found in Random Places
1. Best of Belle du Jour - found amongst the ‘Heritage Qatar’ books at Doha Airport
2. Quite readable detective book by one of the League of Gentlemen, with many many gay type porn passages – in the children’s section of MacGrudy’s. (‘Um miss? Have you seen the bit with his man-servant on page 73?’)
2. Quite readable detective book by one of the League of Gentlemen, with many many gay type porn passages – in the children’s section of MacGrudy’s. (‘Um miss? Have you seen the bit with his man-servant on page 73?’)
Moments to Like the Middle East
Watching one of the richest men in the world sitting completely unassumingly at the back of a meeting – sharpening the pencils and humming to himself.
Those Special Little Saudi Moments
JennyF: ‘So it’s illegal for me to be here?’
Colleague: ‘Well, technically it’s against the law for single women in their twenties to travel here’
JennyF: ‘And to stay in hotels?’
Colleague: ‘Yes, unless you’re with a brother or father. Usual rules, they just aren’t going to risk letting you near any men.’
JennyF: ‘So why does the private butler in my suite keep trying to tuck me in at night?’
Colleague: ‘Because you’re a six-star illegal immigrant.’
Colleague: ‘Well, technically it’s against the law for single women in their twenties to travel here’
JennyF: ‘And to stay in hotels?’
Colleague: ‘Yes, unless you’re with a brother or father. Usual rules, they just aren’t going to risk letting you near any men.’
JennyF: ‘So why does the private butler in my suite keep trying to tuck me in at night?’
Colleague: ‘Because you’re a six-star illegal immigrant.’
Things Overheard in Spinneys II
Poker-up-the-bum Jumeirah Jane: ‘Do you expect me to buy this? Or this? These avocados are fit for nothing!
‘Little Philipina Chick: ‘Yes ma’am, I’m very sorry ma’am’
P-u-t-b Jumeirah Jane: ‘and the lettuce looks very tired, and those tomatoes are just about ready to lay down and die.’
Little Philipina Chick: ‘But ma’am it is Ramadan - the vegetables find it hard.’
‘Little Philipina Chick: ‘Yes ma’am, I’m very sorry ma’am’
P-u-t-b Jumeirah Jane: ‘and the lettuce looks very tired, and those tomatoes are just about ready to lay down and die.’
Little Philipina Chick: ‘But ma’am it is Ramadan - the vegetables find it hard.’
We Don't Do Such Things In London or Paris II
More things to miss about Dubai:
1. The way the perennially corporate nature of women’s bathrooms will include a couple of over-tanned nineteen year olds from Birmingham, an astonishingly beautiful Chinese hooker in hot pants, a New York lady-lawyer or two and a dishdash-fabulous chick applying yet more eye-liner with a confident hand, nattering away about each other’s shoes in equally badly pronounced English
2. Tourists who think they are going to get cut price diamonds and gold in the Gold Souk
3. The look of benign and avuncular sweetness bestowed by vendors on tourists who think they can buy cut price diamonds and gold in the Gold Souk
4. The two white mini-skirted women who generously entertain crowds with biting scratching hair-pulling fights outside the dodgy London underground themed bar in the Murooj Rotana Every. Single. Weekend. Rumoured to be considering a residency at Jumana, Oddity of the Desert
5. The annual selection of the year’s worst reviewed and most generic Hollywood Action flick to open DIFF. ‘This year, Electra II! Partially filmed in Sharjah!’
1. The way the perennially corporate nature of women’s bathrooms will include a couple of over-tanned nineteen year olds from Birmingham, an astonishingly beautiful Chinese hooker in hot pants, a New York lady-lawyer or two and a dishdash-fabulous chick applying yet more eye-liner with a confident hand, nattering away about each other’s shoes in equally badly pronounced English
2. Tourists who think they are going to get cut price diamonds and gold in the Gold Souk
3. The look of benign and avuncular sweetness bestowed by vendors on tourists who think they can buy cut price diamonds and gold in the Gold Souk
4. The two white mini-skirted women who generously entertain crowds with biting scratching hair-pulling fights outside the dodgy London underground themed bar in the Murooj Rotana Every. Single. Weekend. Rumoured to be considering a residency at Jumana, Oddity of the Desert
5. The annual selection of the year’s worst reviewed and most generic Hollywood Action flick to open DIFF. ‘This year, Electra II! Partially filmed in Sharjah!’
For Queen and Country
A girlfriend, BH, comes back from Syria and tells us about dancing the night away with the guys from the embassies in some of the new bars in Damascus.
Nice Guy from New Europe Embassy: ‘You should watch things a bit lovely…’
BH: ‘Who is that boy? Chicago accent right? Northwestern?’
Nice Guy: ‘You need to be a bit careful here…’
BH: ‘I KNOW! Those lashes are killer!…Embassy boy?’
Nice Guy: ‘Head of Syrian Military Intelligence,’
BH: ‘Unexpected.... Do you think all secret policeman dance like JZ?'
Nice Guy from New Europe Embassy: ‘You should watch things a bit lovely…’
BH: ‘Who is that boy? Chicago accent right? Northwestern?’
Nice Guy: ‘You need to be a bit careful here…’
BH: ‘I KNOW! Those lashes are killer!…Embassy boy?’
Nice Guy: ‘Head of Syrian Military Intelligence,’
BH: ‘Unexpected.... Do you think all secret policeman dance like JZ?'
Conversations Overheard At Spinneys
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘Mate, can I copy some of those tunes back?’
Board shorted mate: ‘Yeah whatever’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘Awesome’
Board shorted mate: ‘How come?’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘Mate, my cleaning lady cleaned my cds… with a wire brush’
Board shorted mate: ‘That is…. not …cool…’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘I dunno, I thought it was kind of sweet. She really tries, you know?’
Board shorted mate: ‘Yeah whatever’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘Awesome’
Board shorted mate: ‘How come?’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘Mate, my cleaning lady cleaned my cds… with a wire brush’
Board shorted mate: ‘That is…. not …cool…’
Laid back Aussie dude: ‘I dunno, I thought it was kind of sweet. She really tries, you know?’
I Must Have Time for My Fecundity
One of the oddest things about Dubai has always been the absolute lack of community events. With the exception of a few rotary type things and all of those perfume launches featured in Ahlan, everyone else just socializes with work colleagues and the occasional random met in a bar or, if you’re a guy, someone met at the football.
Finally this seems to be changing, as the lonely of Dubai get a bit more cyber-savvy. Casually browsing Dubizzle.com one finds advert after advert for ‘new to Dubai’ and looking for friends. That’s because everyone else is out with their work colleagues and if you’re not from that type of company the initial settling in can be titanium hard.
Which might explain why Meet-ups.com now has a Dubai psychics community (two members), a Dubai Parkour community (five members) a Dubai choral singers society (membership of three) and a Dubai ‘Bored Jumeirah Housewife looking for muscular dark eyelashed lover’ (membership eighteen hundred).
Finally this seems to be changing, as the lonely of Dubai get a bit more cyber-savvy. Casually browsing Dubizzle.com one finds advert after advert for ‘new to Dubai’ and looking for friends. That’s because everyone else is out with their work colleagues and if you’re not from that type of company the initial settling in can be titanium hard.
Which might explain why Meet-ups.com now has a Dubai psychics community (two members), a Dubai Parkour community (five members) a Dubai choral singers society (membership of three) and a Dubai ‘Bored Jumeirah Housewife looking for muscular dark eyelashed lover’ (membership eighteen hundred).
Things Overheard At Barasti
Random Arab Guy in Dishdash: ‘Yes I had sex with her ok! I meet her in bus-stop! I have sex with her in bus-stop!’
Pretty Malaysian Girlfriend in Hotpants: (crying) ‘But Wael….’
Random Arab Guy in Dishdash: ‘I do it again! You drive me to this with your jealousy! Is your fault, jealous woman!’
Pretty Malaysian Girlfriend etc: (crying) ‘But Wael, I…’
Watching Hostie 1: (to friend) ‘Oh my God! Can you believe that guy?’
Friend: ‘I know, totally…’
Watching Hostie 1: ‘I know…’
Friend: ‘Who uses public transport in Dubai?’
Blonde tourist girl to cute dark-haired guy: ‘So where are you from?’
Cute dark-haired guy: (careful timing, expecting major league impact) ‘Baby, I’m Emirati!’
Blonde tourist girl: ‘Oh, like from Japan?’
Pretty Malaysian Girlfriend in Hotpants: (crying) ‘But Wael….’
Random Arab Guy in Dishdash: ‘I do it again! You drive me to this with your jealousy! Is your fault, jealous woman!’
Pretty Malaysian Girlfriend etc: (crying) ‘But Wael, I…’
Watching Hostie 1: (to friend) ‘Oh my God! Can you believe that guy?’
Friend: ‘I know, totally…’
Watching Hostie 1: ‘I know…’
Friend: ‘Who uses public transport in Dubai?’
Blonde tourist girl to cute dark-haired guy: ‘So where are you from?’
Cute dark-haired guy: (careful timing, expecting major league impact) ‘Baby, I’m Emirati!’
Blonde tourist girl: ‘Oh, like from Japan?’
Those Subtle Spies
Skinny check shirted guy plumps himself down at your table in the lobby despite all the others being empty, interrupting a client meeting.
‘Hello - welcome, welcome, Excuse me, I like always to practice my languages. Today we make exercise, “Why is it that you are coming here, and who is this person that you are meeting?”And then, taking a few days break and striking 800 kilometres into the dunes of the Sahara.
Standing by a tiny salt lake,‘Miss Jenny! Hello, hello! So, very strange coincidence, my brother live here – um, behind dune. Right now his house is not there. So now, what are you here and who is this person that you are meeting?!’
‘Hello - welcome, welcome, Excuse me, I like always to practice my languages. Today we make exercise, “Why is it that you are coming here, and who is this person that you are meeting?”And then, taking a few days break and striking 800 kilometres into the dunes of the Sahara.
Standing by a tiny salt lake,‘Miss Jenny! Hello, hello! So, very strange coincidence, my brother live here – um, behind dune. Right now his house is not there. So now, what are you here and who is this person that you are meeting?!’
Conversations With New Staff
JennyF: (with map) ‘And this is the Greens, and this area is called the Lakes, and this bit the Meadows’
Minion: (looking out of the window) ‘Why are they called that?’
JennyF: ‘Irony.’
Minion: (looking out of the window) ‘Why are they called that?’
JennyF: ‘Irony.’
They Don't Do Such Things in London and Paris
Ten things to miss about Dubai:
1. Champagne brunches – that curious fizzing popping sensation of the first few weeks away from Dubai, what is that? Oh yes…, liver function.
2. Looking at the things to do section of Time Out and realizing that this weeks single most important, culture defining event is a mothers and babies brunch in the Springs
3. Random chats with taxi drivers Topic 1: Where is Your Husband? Why I Am Not Yet Married Despite Being In My Mid-Twenties And Therefore Clearly A Long Way Down The Slippery Path To Death
4. Random Chats with taxi divers Topic 2: Where is Your Father? How I Lack A Paternal Role Model And Yet Am Not An Egregious Slut
5. The weekly population migration by which 95% of the expat population finds its ways to Barasti each Friday night. And then gropes each other
6. Regular conversations with girlfriends which start ‘so my boss wants me to be his mistress, and look, diamond tennis bracelet!’
7. More regular conversations with girlfriends which start ‘so my boss wants me to be his mistress, and look, tickets to KL!’
8. Girlfriends leaving on the overnight flight to Melbourne or London, in tears.
9. Postcards from Girlfriends who have sold Diamond Tennis Bracelet, now happily relaxing with pretty Thai boy on Bangkok beach
10. Just the words, ‘Ajman: City of Vice’
1. Champagne brunches – that curious fizzing popping sensation of the first few weeks away from Dubai, what is that? Oh yes…, liver function.
2. Looking at the things to do section of Time Out and realizing that this weeks single most important, culture defining event is a mothers and babies brunch in the Springs
3. Random chats with taxi drivers Topic 1: Where is Your Husband? Why I Am Not Yet Married Despite Being In My Mid-Twenties And Therefore Clearly A Long Way Down The Slippery Path To Death
4. Random Chats with taxi divers Topic 2: Where is Your Father? How I Lack A Paternal Role Model And Yet Am Not An Egregious Slut
5. The weekly population migration by which 95% of the expat population finds its ways to Barasti each Friday night. And then gropes each other
6. Regular conversations with girlfriends which start ‘so my boss wants me to be his mistress, and look, diamond tennis bracelet!’
7. More regular conversations with girlfriends which start ‘so my boss wants me to be his mistress, and look, tickets to KL!’
8. Girlfriends leaving on the overnight flight to Melbourne or London, in tears.
9. Postcards from Girlfriends who have sold Diamond Tennis Bracelet, now happily relaxing with pretty Thai boy on Bangkok beach
10. Just the words, ‘Ajman: City of Vice’
Baby, you've changed
I stopped keeping this weblog about a year ago for a number of reasons – mainly that I work in a sensitive industry and Evil Corporate Masters frowned upon such expressions of individuality as opinions. In short, I confided in a friend and got told to stop posting or stop being paid. And that my laptop would be checked regularly. And I was a wuss.
Oh yes, and then there was the being moved out of Dubai to spend eighteen months in the region’s more cheerfully rat infested hostels, which is why I'm going to be taking a bit more of an international approach this time.
Anyway, attacking Dubai always feels a bit redundant- like going postal on a sofa. An easy target, but ultimately a little bit pointless when there are so much more annoying places in the world. (Saudi Arabia please stand up. Syria - put that nice Lebanese politician down, and Sudan? Someone is going to be sent to the naughty step!)
After all that travelling, I'm now back in Dubai. The strangest thing has been to come back and look at it from the eyes of most people who migrate here from Asia or Africa, rather than, to be honest, those of the spoiled western expat I was before. It doesn’t make them look any less knackered and pitiable, but the willingness of construction workers and taxi drivers to put up with conditions here starts to make a little more sense when you’ve been up to Northern Pakistan, or God forbid, Afghanistan. Even the ever-spiraling construction industry starts to look a little more rational. Spend a little time around the instability in Iran or Pakistan and, on the Fort Knox security scale, pouring all of your money into even the most poorly constructed apartment building in Bur Dubai starts to look like a secured loan to Warren Buffett.
After knocking around the region for a bit it's easier to see why Dubai is genuinely seen as a bit of a liberal paradise. So tip of the hat Sheikh M, and thanks for giving me that residency back.
Oh yes, and then there was the being moved out of Dubai to spend eighteen months in the region’s more cheerfully rat infested hostels, which is why I'm going to be taking a bit more of an international approach this time.
Anyway, attacking Dubai always feels a bit redundant- like going postal on a sofa. An easy target, but ultimately a little bit pointless when there are so much more annoying places in the world. (Saudi Arabia please stand up. Syria - put that nice Lebanese politician down, and Sudan? Someone is going to be sent to the naughty step!)
After all that travelling, I'm now back in Dubai. The strangest thing has been to come back and look at it from the eyes of most people who migrate here from Asia or Africa, rather than, to be honest, those of the spoiled western expat I was before. It doesn’t make them look any less knackered and pitiable, but the willingness of construction workers and taxi drivers to put up with conditions here starts to make a little more sense when you’ve been up to Northern Pakistan, or God forbid, Afghanistan. Even the ever-spiraling construction industry starts to look a little more rational. Spend a little time around the instability in Iran or Pakistan and, on the Fort Knox security scale, pouring all of your money into even the most poorly constructed apartment building in Bur Dubai starts to look like a secured loan to Warren Buffett.
After knocking around the region for a bit it's easier to see why Dubai is genuinely seen as a bit of a liberal paradise. So tip of the hat Sheikh M, and thanks for giving me that residency back.
The Middle East and Me (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Emirates)
My bloodstained, dusty and shell-shocked introduction to the Emirates (definitely not for the squeamish)
I got to know Abu Dhabi first, and completely inadvertently, changing planes while being invalided out of Sub-Saharan Africa. Transferring to a London flight, I met the emirates with a Frankenstein arm held together by stitches, two pints of stiff dried blood staining my tight African jeans, and in a state of shock after running six inches of iron railing through my wrist the evening before.
As the plane touched down I was still reliving the fall, putting my hands out to save myself… that dreadful sucking sound as I pulled the metal spike out of my arm; the way that the flesh inside my arm was cold stark white and that long horrible pause until the deep round hole filled with a sudden rush of blood; afterwards, the endless dizzy trudge to find help, left hand holding right arm together and bright red blood welling between the fingers. At several points I had stopped and watched it for five or ten minutes, absorbed like a biologist with an ants nest, held capture by the strange scientific detachment of shock.
As we disembarked from aircraft in Abu Dhabi I was swaying with morphine and exhaustion. I gripped the staircase handrail with a blood-sticky left hand as we disembarked from the aircraft into a dark swirling sandstorm. The touch and the thought of cold metal made me feel sick and shocked all over again. I left a rust-coloured handprint to which the blowing sand adhered.
I know now that storms of that severity are rare verging on non-existent in the United Arab Emirates, of which Abu Dhabi is the richest and most powerful. We had been lucky to land. The airport was closed minutes later - no flights could land or take off, with departure times falling back and falling back before the storm. Six hours went by, and then eight. Children cried and I had no money for a book. Instead, I looked out of the window and watched the darkness of the sand against the darkness of the fog.
As the storm settled in and delays transmuted into cancellations Emirates airline sent their passengers into hotels, then British Airways, and KLM and all the others. At last only the Gulf Air passengers were left, and the children cried harder and the parents grew more irate. Only four hours after everyone else, when the hostesses were developing the wary look of someone expecting violence and it was clear that the storm might not disperse for days, did the Gulf Air authorities relent and agree that we also would be given hotels for the night.
By the time they released us, the three star and the four star hotels were full, even some of the five stars. Families with children were sent to hotels first, and then the elderly. As the hotel rooms ran out the names that they called became more luxurious. I swallowed a cocktail of pink and grey painkillers and fell into a codeine-twitching doze against the cold tiled walls.
When they finally woke me, I one of the last to leave the airport, emergency visa stamped in passport and loaded into an anonymous white minivan. I knew nothing about the Gulf or the Emirates at all, and watched utterly confused as we drove past strange monumental statuary of pearls and coffee pots and clock towers, evenly spaced palm trees and the most immense mosque I have ever seen standing uncompleted against the red sky. After Nairobi and Dar-es-Saleem it seemed almost hostile in the space and the cleanness. I saw workers sweeping marble streets at 4am in a sandstorm, one of those moments where you can never be sure afterwards if it was seen or dreamed.
The last hotel in Abu Dhabi was one which is now famous the world over. Gold covered domes, a lobby the size of a football pitch. The sound of my footsteps against the marble floors echoed against marble walls and the impossible high ceiling. The lobby was so large that a tiny breeze whispered across it and I shivered with shock and tiredness and air-conditioning.
Five hours later I woke up against the freshest most crisp cotton sheets ever to be spoiled by the red dust of the Rift Valley. I had been woken by the gentle, almost silent entrance of a butler who claimed to be there to do nothing but look after me. He brought me fresh orange juice and dates, and quite unprompted, a doctor to check the stitches in my arm. After fighting and fighting to stay awake and watch the treatment and the needles and to keep away the nurses wanting to give me a blood transfusion in the little clinic in HIV ravaged Africa, I closed my eyes, and relaxed, almost enjoying the solicitous tugging as my stitches were checked and cleaned.
Champagne brunches are part of life in the Gulf. Immensely luxurious, they can easily cost a hundred dollars a head, with people being given as much food and alcohol as they absorb over the many courses and five or six hours until they move on to the bar.
These luxury-inured days, I take them in my stride and bitch about the quality of the wines, but then… I had seen nothing like it in my life. A student before going to Africa, I lived on marmite and cheap white bread before moving on to maize porridge and fly-blown meat shared by people who often fainted from hunger while we talked.
In the Rift Valley I had been living in an area which barely supported life in the most fertile seasons, and living there during the worst drought in memory.
In Abu Dhabi I saw room after room full of food and couldn’t believe that it might be real. Knowing the poverty next door, it should have seemed grotesque, but it was only wonderful. Six or seven linked rooms, suite after suite of food alone: roasted food, boiled food, baked food, carved watermelons, ice-statues, sushi tables, starter tables, tables of Arabic food, Italian food, French food, Salads, tables of crepes, of pasta, of freshly made stir fries and flash fried stakes each with dedicated attendants to help and slice and serve and encourage.
And last and best, facing the swimming pool where children jumped and ran in the fast-emerging sun, the room solely dedicated to desserts. Table after table of dark and creamy things, cakes and cherry topped patisserie, silver trays of sliced and translucent fruit, Arabic pastries brushed with gold leaf, melted chocolate swelling from an enormous fountain, serried ranks of bright and unidentifiable juices in crystal jars, and almost imaginably to a small girl out of Africa, elbow high jars of M&Ms and the brightly coloured boiled sweets of home.
A waitress pressed a glass of champagne into my hand and I flushed with shame and embarrassment. Ridiculous as it is, I was twenty-two and from a poor family. I had hardly even stayed in a hotel before, and nothing that cost more than ten dollars a night.
‘I’m not… I mean, I can’t a….’
‘For you Ma’am,’ she said, sweet-faced, ‘All this for you…’
And at that pain and painkiller hazed moment, I really did imagine that it had all been put there for me – that one of these sunglass wearing white-robed Sheikhs had taken pity on me, and told the hotel to lay everything in the world at my feet, or that my charitable work had come to the attention of some anonymous and benevolent millionaire.
The combined champagne and codeine haze lasted until we landed at Heathrow seven hours later, and for the long tired train journey north. I held my injured arm tight against my chest and watched the hills flitting by, spellbound by the clear pale light and contrasting it to the glare of the Rift Valley.
My mother, who had been waiting for days met me from the train station in our village and cried and cried. Seeing me for the first time in years, white-faced and translucent; blood-stained and swaying, with torn clothes, dilated pupils, stitches torn out carrying bags across London and blood dripping onto my battered trainers, all that she could think to say was…
‘I knew this would happen.’
But I was thinking ‘What was that place?’
I got to know Abu Dhabi first, and completely inadvertently, changing planes while being invalided out of Sub-Saharan Africa. Transferring to a London flight, I met the emirates with a Frankenstein arm held together by stitches, two pints of stiff dried blood staining my tight African jeans, and in a state of shock after running six inches of iron railing through my wrist the evening before.
As the plane touched down I was still reliving the fall, putting my hands out to save myself… that dreadful sucking sound as I pulled the metal spike out of my arm; the way that the flesh inside my arm was cold stark white and that long horrible pause until the deep round hole filled with a sudden rush of blood; afterwards, the endless dizzy trudge to find help, left hand holding right arm together and bright red blood welling between the fingers. At several points I had stopped and watched it for five or ten minutes, absorbed like a biologist with an ants nest, held capture by the strange scientific detachment of shock.
As we disembarked from aircraft in Abu Dhabi I was swaying with morphine and exhaustion. I gripped the staircase handrail with a blood-sticky left hand as we disembarked from the aircraft into a dark swirling sandstorm. The touch and the thought of cold metal made me feel sick and shocked all over again. I left a rust-coloured handprint to which the blowing sand adhered.
I know now that storms of that severity are rare verging on non-existent in the United Arab Emirates, of which Abu Dhabi is the richest and most powerful. We had been lucky to land. The airport was closed minutes later - no flights could land or take off, with departure times falling back and falling back before the storm. Six hours went by, and then eight. Children cried and I had no money for a book. Instead, I looked out of the window and watched the darkness of the sand against the darkness of the fog.
As the storm settled in and delays transmuted into cancellations Emirates airline sent their passengers into hotels, then British Airways, and KLM and all the others. At last only the Gulf Air passengers were left, and the children cried harder and the parents grew more irate. Only four hours after everyone else, when the hostesses were developing the wary look of someone expecting violence and it was clear that the storm might not disperse for days, did the Gulf Air authorities relent and agree that we also would be given hotels for the night.
By the time they released us, the three star and the four star hotels were full, even some of the five stars. Families with children were sent to hotels first, and then the elderly. As the hotel rooms ran out the names that they called became more luxurious. I swallowed a cocktail of pink and grey painkillers and fell into a codeine-twitching doze against the cold tiled walls.
When they finally woke me, I one of the last to leave the airport, emergency visa stamped in passport and loaded into an anonymous white minivan. I knew nothing about the Gulf or the Emirates at all, and watched utterly confused as we drove past strange monumental statuary of pearls and coffee pots and clock towers, evenly spaced palm trees and the most immense mosque I have ever seen standing uncompleted against the red sky. After Nairobi and Dar-es-Saleem it seemed almost hostile in the space and the cleanness. I saw workers sweeping marble streets at 4am in a sandstorm, one of those moments where you can never be sure afterwards if it was seen or dreamed.
The last hotel in Abu Dhabi was one which is now famous the world over. Gold covered domes, a lobby the size of a football pitch. The sound of my footsteps against the marble floors echoed against marble walls and the impossible high ceiling. The lobby was so large that a tiny breeze whispered across it and I shivered with shock and tiredness and air-conditioning.
Five hours later I woke up against the freshest most crisp cotton sheets ever to be spoiled by the red dust of the Rift Valley. I had been woken by the gentle, almost silent entrance of a butler who claimed to be there to do nothing but look after me. He brought me fresh orange juice and dates, and quite unprompted, a doctor to check the stitches in my arm. After fighting and fighting to stay awake and watch the treatment and the needles and to keep away the nurses wanting to give me a blood transfusion in the little clinic in HIV ravaged Africa, I closed my eyes, and relaxed, almost enjoying the solicitous tugging as my stitches were checked and cleaned.
Champagne brunches are part of life in the Gulf. Immensely luxurious, they can easily cost a hundred dollars a head, with people being given as much food and alcohol as they absorb over the many courses and five or six hours until they move on to the bar.
These luxury-inured days, I take them in my stride and bitch about the quality of the wines, but then… I had seen nothing like it in my life. A student before going to Africa, I lived on marmite and cheap white bread before moving on to maize porridge and fly-blown meat shared by people who often fainted from hunger while we talked.
In the Rift Valley I had been living in an area which barely supported life in the most fertile seasons, and living there during the worst drought in memory.
In Abu Dhabi I saw room after room full of food and couldn’t believe that it might be real. Knowing the poverty next door, it should have seemed grotesque, but it was only wonderful. Six or seven linked rooms, suite after suite of food alone: roasted food, boiled food, baked food, carved watermelons, ice-statues, sushi tables, starter tables, tables of Arabic food, Italian food, French food, Salads, tables of crepes, of pasta, of freshly made stir fries and flash fried stakes each with dedicated attendants to help and slice and serve and encourage.
And last and best, facing the swimming pool where children jumped and ran in the fast-emerging sun, the room solely dedicated to desserts. Table after table of dark and creamy things, cakes and cherry topped patisserie, silver trays of sliced and translucent fruit, Arabic pastries brushed with gold leaf, melted chocolate swelling from an enormous fountain, serried ranks of bright and unidentifiable juices in crystal jars, and almost imaginably to a small girl out of Africa, elbow high jars of M&Ms and the brightly coloured boiled sweets of home.
A waitress pressed a glass of champagne into my hand and I flushed with shame and embarrassment. Ridiculous as it is, I was twenty-two and from a poor family. I had hardly even stayed in a hotel before, and nothing that cost more than ten dollars a night.
‘I’m not… I mean, I can’t a….’
‘For you Ma’am,’ she said, sweet-faced, ‘All this for you…’
And at that pain and painkiller hazed moment, I really did imagine that it had all been put there for me – that one of these sunglass wearing white-robed Sheikhs had taken pity on me, and told the hotel to lay everything in the world at my feet, or that my charitable work had come to the attention of some anonymous and benevolent millionaire.
The combined champagne and codeine haze lasted until we landed at Heathrow seven hours later, and for the long tired train journey north. I held my injured arm tight against my chest and watched the hills flitting by, spellbound by the clear pale light and contrasting it to the glare of the Rift Valley.
My mother, who had been waiting for days met me from the train station in our village and cried and cried. Seeing me for the first time in years, white-faced and translucent; blood-stained and swaying, with torn clothes, dilated pupils, stitches torn out carrying bags across London and blood dripping onto my battered trainers, all that she could think to say was…
‘I knew this would happen.’
But I was thinking ‘What was that place?’
Oh My God, I Accidentally Deleted My Blog
Note to self: don't ever ever think you can edit your weblog from a hotel in Serbia.
You do not speak Serbian and never will.
You do not speak Serbian and never will.
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