Since my last entry – back in July, I have indulged in one of the Friday bubbly brunches and can confess that it is an exercise in excess. A dozen or so of us went to celebrate a friend's birthday. We arrived at midday. I didn't get home until 1am the next morning!!
For photos, check this link:
http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=46425&l=1f304&id=598031808
I’ve also been making the most of the three-day weekends and accessibility to the region, travelling to Yemen, India, Afghanistan and the neighbouring emirate of Fujairah, where the sea was silky like oil, which is probably what it was as we later read that tankers were dumping their oil in the waters nearby.
more photos:
Yemen http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=47459&l=6dba2&id=598031808
Kabul http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=43721&l=2928e&id=598031808
Random Abu Dhabi http://www.new.facebook.com/album.php?aid=37627&l=54ab4&id=598031808
So now, Ramadan has just finished - the Muslim holy month of fasting (and gorging) and we are all sitting a little easier at work as we can all now eat and drink at our desks!! Imagine, every time you want a sip of water or a cup of coffee as you dive into a particularly difficult editing job - you have to head off to the room of shame, where the shades are drawn and heathen non-believers snack and chat and moan about the restrictions.
It is actually illegal in the UAE for anyone to eat and drink in public during the day – including non Muslims. One of my colleagues was stopped by the police for smoking in his car.
All restaurants and cafes and shops were closed during the day, with most reopening about 7 and staying open until 2am.
The idea, which came from Prophet Mohammed, is that Muslims get a chance during Ramadan to understand what it’s like to have to go without food, and to engender greater empathy with people less well off than themselves. It is also around this time, Muslims believe, that the Quran was unveiled to Mohammed, so all in all, a very holy month indeed.
But of course, like all big holidays, it has been corrupted. Although there is a bit of giving - some of the sheikhs put up tents on their outside grounds where they hand out free food boxes at sunset for the labourers, mostly what you see is a lot of indulgence.
The streets are packed, and dangerous, at dusk, as everyone - starving and thirsty and no doubt grumpy from lack of energy - race home or to restaurants to break their fast.
Every hotel and restaurant has an iftar (fastbreaking) buffet and people gorge themselves and then go shopping in the mall until 1am. On the other side, you see the labourers working on construction sites throughout the day in 40-degree heat with no food or water. Then at dusk, they sit out in clusters on the grassy verges of the motorways sharing what food they have with their friends and colleagues.
On September 30, when Eid was announced - due to the sighting of the moon, the weather suddenly dropped a degree or two. It has been a noticeable change, not so much during the day, but at night. A couple of nights ago I went for a bike ride along the corniche - the beach, promenade that runs along the Gulf. It was humid, but not unbearable. The path was smooth, although quite busy with Pakistan and Indian strollers - many of whom did not seem to understand the meaning of the bike bell or were perhaps too aghast at two western women - one in cycling shorts, the other in a shoulder-bearing t-shirt - cycling towards them.
Sadly, this friend - my gym buddy - is going back to Canada next week. I think this is one of the first times I've ever had a friend leave before me. I will miss her.
Sep 1, 2008
Jul 11, 2008
No sex please, you're in the UAE
According to a story in our newspaper, www.thenational.ae (shameless plug )a 30 year old British expat in Dubai is facing a six year jail sentence after she was caught having sex on a public beach with "Vince", a British tourist she had just met that day. The pair, apparently, had spent the afternoon indulging in one of the city's many free-flowing Friday afternoon bubbly brunch buffets before engaging in the said "criminal" activity. Now, as the expat prepares for court, the government, fearing the emergence of mass orgies on its holy day, plans to dispatch teams of moral poice to patrol from the streets to the shores on Friday afternoons to stamp out any signs of intimacy.
So the other sex that UAEites won't be getting any of here is Sex and the City. Censors were at first considering allowing it to run, but without the word "sex" in the title, yeah, right ... "And the City" won't exactly pull in the crowds .. but then I guess someone watched it and decided that it was a little risque, and gave it a big NO. No matter - it's available on pirated DVD, already circulating around the office.
Censorship is another one of those issues where logic just seems to have no place in the decision making. I went to see 21, about a university student who outplays a casino in Las Vegas - even though gambling in any form is illegal here. Yet, Iron man was slashed to pieces, with huge chunks taken out as Rob Downey Jr's Hummer is being attacked by Arab terrorists. Actually, these scenes were in the film the first time I watched it, but missing the second time around - as though perhaps someone had complained it showed Arabs in a bad light (yes, I understand that - but just those scenes????) and they were later pulled.
But probably the funniest cut has had to be in Friends. In one episode, Ross is explaining to his son about Hanukkah, and every time he mentions Israel, or Jews, those words are beeped out ... surely it would have made more sense not to the show the episode at all; as the result is only to make people more curious.
So the other sex that UAEites won't be getting any of here is Sex and the City. Censors were at first considering allowing it to run, but without the word "sex" in the title, yeah, right ... "And the City" won't exactly pull in the crowds .. but then I guess someone watched it and decided that it was a little risque, and gave it a big NO. No matter - it's available on pirated DVD, already circulating around the office.
Censorship is another one of those issues where logic just seems to have no place in the decision making. I went to see 21, about a university student who outplays a casino in Las Vegas - even though gambling in any form is illegal here. Yet, Iron man was slashed to pieces, with huge chunks taken out as Rob Downey Jr's Hummer is being attacked by Arab terrorists. Actually, these scenes were in the film the first time I watched it, but missing the second time around - as though perhaps someone had complained it showed Arabs in a bad light (yes, I understand that - but just those scenes????) and they were later pulled.
But probably the funniest cut has had to be in Friends. In one episode, Ross is explaining to his son about Hanukkah, and every time he mentions Israel, or Jews, those words are beeped out ... surely it would have made more sense not to the show the episode at all; as the result is only to make people more curious.
Jul 3, 2008
A box of chocolates
I was going to call this entry 'the lost art of indicating' but the above is much better as you'll soon see why - and no, it has nothing to do with Forrest Gump.
Driving in the UAE is like swimming with sharks. The roads are full of minnow chomping SUVs, Hummers and other beasts that move with stealth, speed and ferocity.
Driving the speed limit here (60km on the city roads; 100-120 on the highways) is a health risk; I often glance in my rear view mirror to find some hulking beast looming up on me flashing his lights, I say ‘he’, but women are just as bad, chatting away on their mobile phone as they steer their tinted-window Hummer into incoming traffic, expecting everyone to stop for them – and guess, what, they do.
The penalty for getting into an altercation with an Emirati can be severe. Take for example the colleague who was quite happily sitting in the back seat of a taxi, driven by one of the army of drivers from Peshawar, when an Emirati woman fails to indicate and just pulls out into traffic and into the side of the taxi.
Luckily, no one was hurt, but it is a crime to leave the scene of a traffic accident, no matter how minor, so everyone hung around until the police arrived; the Emirati woman, clad in abaya and sheela (the headscarf) sat chatting on her mobile in her air-conned vehicle, while my friend and the taxi driver tut-tutted at the damage to the taxi and the unsurprisingly unmarked Hummer.
The police arrived, took one look at the scene, pulled out a ticket book and wrote up the taxi driver.
My friend tried to explain to the police that it was not the taxi driver’s fault – to no avail. Then he appealed to the Emirati woman to tell the truth, but was again ignored. The taxi driver just shrugged his shoulders.
There are a couple of reasons that the roads are so perilous here, and seriously they can be quite fatal. Accidents happen every day and not long after I arrived, the country had its biggest car accident – a 300-plus car pile up on the Dubai-Abu Dhabi highway.
It was poor visibility, and, instead of slowing down, everyone continued to drive at ridiculous speeds …
Roads here are at least 6 lanes wide and it’s almost as though there’s a competition as to how many times you can change lanes - without indicating of course. The only ones who do indicate are either foreigners or bus drivers, and no, the latter is not good as thier style of indication does not mean: 'hey, i'd like to come out,' but 'hey, i'm coming out now, so you better swerve to avoid me.'
Most of the drivers on the road have learned to drive in Pakistan or India where rules are very lax, and probably have faked licenses. No one knows what to do at a roundabout, which for those of us who like to abide by the rules of the road – is very frustrating.
But despite teh atrocious driving here, the worst thing you could possibly do is get angry. Road rage is a serious crime, and if an Emirati is involved, well ….
Here’s a cautionary tale for those of you thinking of visiting:
A friend of a friend was driving to work and checked his rear view mirror to find an SUV on his tail. He was doing 20km over the speed limit, which is quite usual, and was in the middle lane, so after a few miles of the SUV refusing to back off and flashing its lights, this friend stuck his hand out of the window and waved the guy on …
The SUV swerved round my friend and gunning his engine pulled ahead.
My friend thought no more of it and headed off to work, where he was met by his manager and taken down to the police station.
It seems the Emirati in the SUV had taken my friend’s licence plate and filed charges of road rage. Therein followed a heated negotiation between police, the Emirati and my friend’s boss in Arabic, with the only thing my friend could make out as “five months in jail”.
In the end, it was settled as all things are in this country. The Emirati agreed to drop all charges if my friend made a humble apology both in person and in writing, and bought him a box of chocolates.
Driving in the UAE is like swimming with sharks. The roads are full of minnow chomping SUVs, Hummers and other beasts that move with stealth, speed and ferocity.
Driving the speed limit here (60km on the city roads; 100-120 on the highways) is a health risk; I often glance in my rear view mirror to find some hulking beast looming up on me flashing his lights, I say ‘he’, but women are just as bad, chatting away on their mobile phone as they steer their tinted-window Hummer into incoming traffic, expecting everyone to stop for them – and guess, what, they do.
The penalty for getting into an altercation with an Emirati can be severe. Take for example the colleague who was quite happily sitting in the back seat of a taxi, driven by one of the army of drivers from Peshawar, when an Emirati woman fails to indicate and just pulls out into traffic and into the side of the taxi.
Luckily, no one was hurt, but it is a crime to leave the scene of a traffic accident, no matter how minor, so everyone hung around until the police arrived; the Emirati woman, clad in abaya and sheela (the headscarf) sat chatting on her mobile in her air-conned vehicle, while my friend and the taxi driver tut-tutted at the damage to the taxi and the unsurprisingly unmarked Hummer.
The police arrived, took one look at the scene, pulled out a ticket book and wrote up the taxi driver.
My friend tried to explain to the police that it was not the taxi driver’s fault – to no avail. Then he appealed to the Emirati woman to tell the truth, but was again ignored. The taxi driver just shrugged his shoulders.
There are a couple of reasons that the roads are so perilous here, and seriously they can be quite fatal. Accidents happen every day and not long after I arrived, the country had its biggest car accident – a 300-plus car pile up on the Dubai-Abu Dhabi highway.
It was poor visibility, and, instead of slowing down, everyone continued to drive at ridiculous speeds …
Roads here are at least 6 lanes wide and it’s almost as though there’s a competition as to how many times you can change lanes - without indicating of course. The only ones who do indicate are either foreigners or bus drivers, and no, the latter is not good as thier style of indication does not mean: 'hey, i'd like to come out,' but 'hey, i'm coming out now, so you better swerve to avoid me.'
Most of the drivers on the road have learned to drive in Pakistan or India where rules are very lax, and probably have faked licenses. No one knows what to do at a roundabout, which for those of us who like to abide by the rules of the road – is very frustrating.
But despite teh atrocious driving here, the worst thing you could possibly do is get angry. Road rage is a serious crime, and if an Emirati is involved, well ….
Here’s a cautionary tale for those of you thinking of visiting:
A friend of a friend was driving to work and checked his rear view mirror to find an SUV on his tail. He was doing 20km over the speed limit, which is quite usual, and was in the middle lane, so after a few miles of the SUV refusing to back off and flashing its lights, this friend stuck his hand out of the window and waved the guy on …
The SUV swerved round my friend and gunning his engine pulled ahead.
My friend thought no more of it and headed off to work, where he was met by his manager and taken down to the police station.
It seems the Emirati in the SUV had taken my friend’s licence plate and filed charges of road rage. Therein followed a heated negotiation between police, the Emirati and my friend’s boss in Arabic, with the only thing my friend could make out as “five months in jail”.
In the end, it was settled as all things are in this country. The Emirati agreed to drop all charges if my friend made a humble apology both in person and in writing, and bought him a box of chocolates.
Jun 27, 2008
Waiting
You seem to do a lot of it here.
Right now, I am waiting for the second hand furniture store to deliver my bed. After a month sleeping on a ridiculously thin mattress on the floor, I'm about ready for a grown-up bed.
They were supposed to be here at 11am. I struggled out of bed after a rather heavily indulgent night at one of the nicest hotels I've been to here and waited. And waited. And waited. At midday I called the owner, Ahmed, and asked where the delivery guys were.
'Oh, they got back late from Dubai last night, they are sleeping now. They will come later. How about tomorrow?
'But Ahmed,' I said, my head banging a tribal rhythm, 'tomorrow I am going to India, and you said they would come today.'
'Oh, Ok,' he said. 'What about 3?'
'No, no. I can't' I replied, 'I have to go out (it's Friday, so I have two gatherings lined up - a candian national day afternoon social and a girls night before jumping on the plane).
'What about 2?' I haggled. 'Ok, he said. 2,' adding for good measure 'inshallah'.
'No, no,' I said, 'Ahmed, it has nothing to do with God's will, you must be here at 2.' He giggled and hung up.
So it's 3pm now, and they still aren't here.
The parties will have to wait.
Oh - there's the door bell.
Right now, I am waiting for the second hand furniture store to deliver my bed. After a month sleeping on a ridiculously thin mattress on the floor, I'm about ready for a grown-up bed.
They were supposed to be here at 11am. I struggled out of bed after a rather heavily indulgent night at one of the nicest hotels I've been to here and waited. And waited. And waited. At midday I called the owner, Ahmed, and asked where the delivery guys were.
'Oh, they got back late from Dubai last night, they are sleeping now. They will come later. How about tomorrow?
'But Ahmed,' I said, my head banging a tribal rhythm, 'tomorrow I am going to India, and you said they would come today.'
'Oh, Ok,' he said. 'What about 3?'
'No, no. I can't' I replied, 'I have to go out (it's Friday, so I have two gatherings lined up - a candian national day afternoon social and a girls night before jumping on the plane).
'What about 2?' I haggled. 'Ok, he said. 2,' adding for good measure 'inshallah'.
'No, no,' I said, 'Ahmed, it has nothing to do with God's will, you must be here at 2.' He giggled and hung up.
So it's 3pm now, and they still aren't here.
The parties will have to wait.
Oh - there's the door bell.
The three day weekend
Or should that be the three-day weekend. Our style guru at the newspaper is rather idiosyncratic and thinks hyphens look inelegant. I tend to agree, but grammar is grammar. But I digress.
The three day weekend, with or without the hyphen, is upon me. And I'm off to New Delhi. It's only a three hour flight and I arrive at about 5am on Saturday and leave late Sunday night. Enough time to browse the markets and pick up some cheap sivler, books and clothes, have an Indian meal and some Kingfisher beers with our New Delhi correspondent; maybe throw in a little sightseeing at one of the sights I haven't yet seen and then arrive back in Abu Dhabi, refreshed and probably in need of a good sleep and a few gym sessions.
It's caused something of a stir at the office, only because dropping in to Delhi for the weekend, is just not something that sounds faesible. But that's the great thing about this place, there are so many countries just a few hours away.
Last time my three day weekend came around I drove to the east coast of Oman and spent two days diving. It was fantastic. Also on the list is Jordan, to the UNESCO sites of Petra and the Dead Sea; Yemen with its historical capital of Sana'a; Iran (my colleague there tells me she can take me to some great parties in Tehran); Israel, Turkey and Cyprus are not too far either and last month a colleague went to Ethiopia for 4 days.
Plus, there are all the other emirates I haven't seen yet - another six, including Dubai. So roll on the next three day weekend.
The three day weekend, with or without the hyphen, is upon me. And I'm off to New Delhi. It's only a three hour flight and I arrive at about 5am on Saturday and leave late Sunday night. Enough time to browse the markets and pick up some cheap sivler, books and clothes, have an Indian meal and some Kingfisher beers with our New Delhi correspondent; maybe throw in a little sightseeing at one of the sights I haven't yet seen and then arrive back in Abu Dhabi, refreshed and probably in need of a good sleep and a few gym sessions.
It's caused something of a stir at the office, only because dropping in to Delhi for the weekend, is just not something that sounds faesible. But that's the great thing about this place, there are so many countries just a few hours away.
Last time my three day weekend came around I drove to the east coast of Oman and spent two days diving. It was fantastic. Also on the list is Jordan, to the UNESCO sites of Petra and the Dead Sea; Yemen with its historical capital of Sana'a; Iran (my colleague there tells me she can take me to some great parties in Tehran); Israel, Turkey and Cyprus are not too far either and last month a colleague went to Ethiopia for 4 days.
Plus, there are all the other emirates I haven't seen yet - another six, including Dubai. So roll on the next three day weekend.
Jun 20, 2008
Fridays
Last week, a colleague invited me to a dinner party he was having that Friday evening to mark moving into his new flat. Not too remarkable, unless you remember me as a one-time troglodyte and misanthrope. No, what was truly surprising was that I turned down the invite – and not because there were beer-battered ribs on the menu – rather, the girls were getting together for a dinner party of their own at someone's house!
With the newspaper a six-day operation, Friday is everyone’s one guaranteed day off, and for most of us, the sole opportunity to make use of the homes that we have waited so long for, furnished so thoughtfully [thanks to Ikea] and are paying exorbitant sums for. So the Friday house gathering has become something of a phenomenon, not to mention a bit of a clash of dates. This Friday, a posse of us from building 57 are heading to a friend's apartment five minutes walk away to celebrate their little girl's 1st birthday.
The day before, the couple, Kiwis, dashed about buying wine and beer for the party. Yes, you can buy alcohol here, but not on Fridays and only in designated shops where the windows are blacked out and there is no indication that anything morally corrupt is happening inside. A bit like sex shops in the UK.
Friday is an odd day. It’s the official holy day, when absolutely nothing is open, so it’s a bit like Sundays in the UK before consumerism became the new religion. But then it’s the first day of the weekend, so it’s also a Saturday in my western-mind. To complicate things further, I often start work on a Saturday so that by the time Monday rolls around, I'm half way though my working week.
You could think that a day of forced rest after a week of work is a good thing – and when I say forced rest, I mean it – banks, post offices, government offices, shops, launderettes, everything is closed, at least until 4pm. But when most of us have just the one day off, and would rather be getting some chores done, it can be frustrating.
Mornings are eerily quite. The local supermarket in the mall – usually full of Pakistani men buying huge sacks of rice and bags full of dozens of onions, and Emirati women in their all-covering abayas and face veils - is for once, blissfully empty. In contrast, the western-style supermarket downtown is packed with women in spaghetti strap tops and men in shorts paying ridiculous prices for imported tomatoes, while at the coffee shop upstairs, there's a queue of people waiting to get in and tuck into bagels and scrambled eggs.
At 1pm, the streets begin to fill, of men on their way home from the mosque. As I write this looking out of my window, I see dozens strolling, hand in hand, all dressed in pale pastel salwar kameez [long shirt and loose baggy trousers], with their muslim scull caps perched on tight black hair; some carry prayer rugs. They stop to greet friends, neighbours, shake hands, kiss, and go on their way. At the more upmarket mosques in the residential areas, it's mostly Emiratis - pulling up in their squeeky clean SUVs and Hummers, Mercedes and flash sports cars, dressed in a crisply starched white dishdash, gutra (headdress) and sandals. The latest addition to the man's Emirati dress appears to be a tiny black wire that snakes out from their ear and dangles down their front - bluetooth.
Later, they will take their wives [note the plural] and their children and descend on the mall, or the park in cooler days.
So, while the mall can be a delight in the early hours of Friday - if all you want to do is grab a starbucks and catch a film, when you are most likely to be the only person in the cinema. Anytime after 4pm is chaos.
And that is just the time I will be making my way over to my friends' home for a little bit of indulging of my own. The only question is this: on this holy day - should we feel morally wrong for imbibing? It's a question that could drive you to drink.
With the newspaper a six-day operation, Friday is everyone’s one guaranteed day off, and for most of us, the sole opportunity to make use of the homes that we have waited so long for, furnished so thoughtfully [thanks to Ikea] and are paying exorbitant sums for. So the Friday house gathering has become something of a phenomenon, not to mention a bit of a clash of dates. This Friday, a posse of us from building 57 are heading to a friend's apartment five minutes walk away to celebrate their little girl's 1st birthday.
The day before, the couple, Kiwis, dashed about buying wine and beer for the party. Yes, you can buy alcohol here, but not on Fridays and only in designated shops where the windows are blacked out and there is no indication that anything morally corrupt is happening inside. A bit like sex shops in the UK.
Friday is an odd day. It’s the official holy day, when absolutely nothing is open, so it’s a bit like Sundays in the UK before consumerism became the new religion. But then it’s the first day of the weekend, so it’s also a Saturday in my western-mind. To complicate things further, I often start work on a Saturday so that by the time Monday rolls around, I'm half way though my working week.
You could think that a day of forced rest after a week of work is a good thing – and when I say forced rest, I mean it – banks, post offices, government offices, shops, launderettes, everything is closed, at least until 4pm. But when most of us have just the one day off, and would rather be getting some chores done, it can be frustrating.
Mornings are eerily quite. The local supermarket in the mall – usually full of Pakistani men buying huge sacks of rice and bags full of dozens of onions, and Emirati women in their all-covering abayas and face veils - is for once, blissfully empty. In contrast, the western-style supermarket downtown is packed with women in spaghetti strap tops and men in shorts paying ridiculous prices for imported tomatoes, while at the coffee shop upstairs, there's a queue of people waiting to get in and tuck into bagels and scrambled eggs.
At 1pm, the streets begin to fill, of men on their way home from the mosque. As I write this looking out of my window, I see dozens strolling, hand in hand, all dressed in pale pastel salwar kameez [long shirt and loose baggy trousers], with their muslim scull caps perched on tight black hair; some carry prayer rugs. They stop to greet friends, neighbours, shake hands, kiss, and go on their way. At the more upmarket mosques in the residential areas, it's mostly Emiratis - pulling up in their squeeky clean SUVs and Hummers, Mercedes and flash sports cars, dressed in a crisply starched white dishdash, gutra (headdress) and sandals. The latest addition to the man's Emirati dress appears to be a tiny black wire that snakes out from their ear and dangles down their front - bluetooth.
Later, they will take their wives [note the plural] and their children and descend on the mall, or the park in cooler days.
So, while the mall can be a delight in the early hours of Friday - if all you want to do is grab a starbucks and catch a film, when you are most likely to be the only person in the cinema. Anytime after 4pm is chaos.
And that is just the time I will be making my way over to my friends' home for a little bit of indulging of my own. The only question is this: on this holy day - should we feel morally wrong for imbibing? It's a question that could drive you to drink.
Jun 17, 2008
In the beginning
So this is my first attempt at a blog - if only they had the internet when I was first travelling (am I really THAT old!) I wouldn't now be carting around 32+ journals each time I move.
So you all know I am now working for an English language paper in Abu Dhabi. I arrived on March 3. Here’s a brief summary of the last 3 months.
I have a residency visa, a UAE driving licence and a liquor licence. I have two medical insurance cards, an ATM card and two credit cards; a card that gets me into the office and another for the gym. I have been tested for HIV and TB, ushered into special waiting rooms for women, but had my chest x-rayed by a man. I’ve given vials of blood, my finger, palm, and ear prints, and over 40 passport photos and the same number of copies of my passport.
I’ve lied about my marital status and religion and repeatedly given the ages, jobs and home addresses of my father and brother but never my mother. I have spoken to Pakistani taxi drivers, Indian shopkeepers, Burmese doormen and Filipino everything else – but not one Emirati (except for the man on the bus to Al Ain; although that was less a conversation as not only did he refuse to sit next to me - being a woman -but also refused to speak to me and directed his comments to my friend; oh, and does shoutng obscenities at the arrogant Emirati drivers in their hummers count?)
I have shopped in Gap and Next where the clothes finally fit – hurrah, one plus for being out of Asia! And Carrefour where I feel I am back in China amid the scrum for tomatoes from Oman and aubergines from Iran. But I much prefer picking up the occasional pint of camel milk and Arabic bread from my local grocer – of which there is at least four on every corner, often with names like Osama’s supermarket, or Spike of Prosperity Grocery – where they laugh at my impatience as they lallygag about, chatting to customers instead of packing my bag.
I have learned three Arabic words – shakrum (thank you), gatu (cat – although this may not be correct) and jalal ittihad (Emirates media). Although am about to start proper lessons with some of my colleagues from work.
Friends? – I’ve made a few. We booze at hotel bars, lounging on bean bags overlooking the turquoise Gulf, taking turns on a strawberry sheesha pipe, and fill up on falafals at streetside Lebanese restaurants. On weekends, we sneak into hotel beach clubs, hang out at the mall and take day trips into the desert. They come from the Times and Telegraph in London, the New York Times, the Canada Post and a smattering of papers from across the world.
Our paper, The National, launched two months ago. It’s been a hectic time of 10-12 hour days six days a week. I’ve moved to the foreign desk where I’m editing the copy of correspondents in the field – basically the same job I did at AP, but a different geographic region.
A couple of weeks ago, after more than 3 months in a serviced apartment that was only slightly more spacious than a domestic’s room in Hong Kong, I finally moved into in my own flat. It’s been over 6 months since I had my own place, and more importantly, a place for the cats. They are both happy and content and surprisingly more chummy with one another than in Bangkok – I guess that’s what 7 months of constant, often traumatic change with only each other for reliable contact will do.
There is an obscene building boom in Abu Dhabi (apparently the richest city in the world). But even with dozens of buildings going up every day it still isn’t meeting the demand for property. My vet and her husband had to move to Dubai for three months while their own apartment was being finished. Luckily our apartments are rent-controlled as in the 3 months we were waiting (we, because everyone in my building works at the paper), the market prices of the flats went up about 20 per cent.
So that’s it for today. I’ll hopefully update as and when.
So you all know I am now working for an English language paper in Abu Dhabi. I arrived on March 3. Here’s a brief summary of the last 3 months.
I have a residency visa, a UAE driving licence and a liquor licence. I have two medical insurance cards, an ATM card and two credit cards; a card that gets me into the office and another for the gym. I have been tested for HIV and TB, ushered into special waiting rooms for women, but had my chest x-rayed by a man. I’ve given vials of blood, my finger, palm, and ear prints, and over 40 passport photos and the same number of copies of my passport.
I’ve lied about my marital status and religion and repeatedly given the ages, jobs and home addresses of my father and brother but never my mother. I have spoken to Pakistani taxi drivers, Indian shopkeepers, Burmese doormen and Filipino everything else – but not one Emirati (except for the man on the bus to Al Ain; although that was less a conversation as not only did he refuse to sit next to me - being a woman -but also refused to speak to me and directed his comments to my friend; oh, and does shoutng obscenities at the arrogant Emirati drivers in their hummers count?)
I have shopped in Gap and Next where the clothes finally fit – hurrah, one plus for being out of Asia! And Carrefour where I feel I am back in China amid the scrum for tomatoes from Oman and aubergines from Iran. But I much prefer picking up the occasional pint of camel milk and Arabic bread from my local grocer – of which there is at least four on every corner, often with names like Osama’s supermarket, or Spike of Prosperity Grocery – where they laugh at my impatience as they lallygag about, chatting to customers instead of packing my bag.
I have learned three Arabic words – shakrum (thank you), gatu (cat – although this may not be correct) and jalal ittihad (Emirates media). Although am about to start proper lessons with some of my colleagues from work.
Friends? – I’ve made a few. We booze at hotel bars, lounging on bean bags overlooking the turquoise Gulf, taking turns on a strawberry sheesha pipe, and fill up on falafals at streetside Lebanese restaurants. On weekends, we sneak into hotel beach clubs, hang out at the mall and take day trips into the desert. They come from the Times and Telegraph in London, the New York Times, the Canada Post and a smattering of papers from across the world.
Our paper, The National, launched two months ago. It’s been a hectic time of 10-12 hour days six days a week. I’ve moved to the foreign desk where I’m editing the copy of correspondents in the field – basically the same job I did at AP, but a different geographic region.
A couple of weeks ago, after more than 3 months in a serviced apartment that was only slightly more spacious than a domestic’s room in Hong Kong, I finally moved into in my own flat. It’s been over 6 months since I had my own place, and more importantly, a place for the cats. They are both happy and content and surprisingly more chummy with one another than in Bangkok – I guess that’s what 7 months of constant, often traumatic change with only each other for reliable contact will do.
There is an obscene building boom in Abu Dhabi (apparently the richest city in the world). But even with dozens of buildings going up every day it still isn’t meeting the demand for property. My vet and her husband had to move to Dubai for three months while their own apartment was being finished. Luckily our apartments are rent-controlled as in the 3 months we were waiting (we, because everyone in my building works at the paper), the market prices of the flats went up about 20 per cent.
So that’s it for today. I’ll hopefully update as and when.
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