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.
Jun 27, 2008
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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