Radiant, sir, radiant. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/ en-us Webligo BlogHoster After more frustration with comments not being visible, I've decided it's time to move my blog to a different provider. This one has been good to me so far, but I think (and have been told) that my ramblings need to have a wider audience. So, from now on, I will post anything new here: BEER AND BLOATING IN DUBAI Cheers, Chris http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2505/ The weeks continue to fly by. Early last week, I met up with a friend from my days in Taiwan, and ended up drinking a fair amount of gin and talking rubbish all evening. Just like the good old days. Later in the week I was given a pay rise as a reward for my efforts in my first 6 months here. Somehow, I seem to be doing a good job. So this week, I have taken the week off, and am in the middle of showing the MIL and the SIL the sights and sounds of Dubai. Well those sights and sounds other than the insides of shopping malls. A desert safari was always on the cards, as none of us had been on one yet, so I booked one for Saturday with a company called Arabian Nights Tours. We were told that we would be picked up at just after 3pm on Saturday afternoon. After a little bit of confusion over our location (the Springs is like a maze to the uninitiated), our driver arrived in his shiny silver Toyota Land Cruiser. Named Kashmir, our driver was an amiable chap from Tanzania, who made sure we were all comfortable and looked after us well. With everyone squeezed into the huge vehicle, we set off from our villa at about 3.30pm, and headed out of town, towards the Hatta road and the desert. After 45 minutes we reached a rendezvous point at a small group of shops and cafés, where a large gathering of other Land Cruisers from various was building up. Kashmir told us we had a few minutes to visit the shops and answer the call of nature and so on, so I took it as an opportunity to get some drinks. I was invited to buy all manner of trinkets and foodstuffs and drinks by the many shopkeepers stood around, and by the time I left, I had a new hat and a bagful of goodies for the rest of the journey. We ended up staying at the rendezvous point for a good 20 minutes. By the time we set off again, there must have been 30 of the giant 4x4s parked in front of the shops. The Arabian Nights group set off as one, executing a swift U-turn before turning off the main road onto a smaller provincial road, then turning onto the sand itself, and we were treated to a little taster of dune bashing as the car dipped and weaved around a few small dunes. Not too bad, I thought to myself. We stopped again, right next to a camel farm, and everyone was ordered out of the cars while the drivers adjusted the air pressures in their tyres for the dune bashing to come. As we milled around and had a peek at the camels in their pens, a man with a camera wandered round, taking what we thought were still pictures of everyone in their individual groups. There were people from all around the world in the various cars, most of them unaware of what lay ahead. The MIL showed me how the sand here was different to that on the beach. It was smooth, fine, almost like powder, and blew off our hands easily. Then we all climbed back into the vehicles and set off into the desert for real. A procession of white Land Cruisers in single file headed into the real dunes of the real desert, and soon we realised that this wasn't a game any more. We climbed up enormous dunes, then drove along the smallest of crests at the top before sliding sideways down the other side. There were steep descents and climbs, and the car lurched left and right as it navigated its way through the sand. It wasn't too rough, being on the smooth, fine desert sand, but it was pretty...well, invigorating I suppose. The oohs and aahs carried on for a while, and the BOY sang songs and basically didn't shut up all the way, while I soon fell silent, trying to swallow my increasing trepidation as the dunes got bigger. The fear levels were increased when we got stuck on the side of a dune, after sliding down sideways from the crest. The wheels just wouldn't move us, and we soon realised why sensible people always come out into the desert in groups of cars, rather than one. The cars behind stopped and aided our driver, digging his wheels out and barking instructions until we were on our way again. Then Kashmir had problems with a particularly steep dune, taking four attempts to climb it. Sensing my rising panic, Kashmir patted my shoulder. I felt like a right wimp. In the back, the BOY chattered and sang, the SIL cackled insanely, and the wife sat with a fixed, macabre grin. All the while, we barely noticed that we were getting deeper and deeper into the desert, and all signs of civilisation were disappearing. There were no road signs, no pylons, no tarmac roads. We were truly in the wild now. The only signs of life we spotted were the other cars, and the odd group of camels. Thankfully, just before the BOY's increasingly hysterical singing and squealing had driven me insane, we stopped, and everyone left the cramped confines of their cars again, massaging hands aching from holding on for dear life. We were able to climb up the nearby dunes and take in the views all around. It was then that I appreciated where we were; high up in the middle of the desert, with no sign of a building all around, and very few signs of vegetation. I had the feeling of magnificent isolation, and half wished that I had been all alone there to witness it in complete solitude. A small drink of water was offered by the drivers, and then we headed off again. The dunes soon petered out and we were driving along flat desert plains. Patches of greenery materialised around us, and I realised we were driving in dry wadi beds, and we couldn't have been far from the camp we were heading for. At least, I hoped so. We stopped again just as the sun was making its way towards the horizon. A light haze sat above the distant dunes, but the red colours we were expecting never came. Instead, the suns orange disc slowly dulled as it sank, and then disappeared altogether in the haze. The final leg of our journey took us onto the first tarmac road we had seen for seemingly miles. It's hard to tell out there. The road was an unfinished new one, being built right in the middle of nowhere. Pieces of construction machinery stood idly by the new road, like sleeping robot cattle. We drove along this incomplete road for a short distance, then veered off into more dunes, round a corner, through a gate, and the camp appeared ahead. We pulled up and Kashmir smiled at us all knowingly. We all smiled back, glad to be out of the woods, or the dunes, even. The camp was a fort-styled structure, with wood walls and towers on each corner. Inside, bedoiun-style low tables and floor cushions waited for the guests. A log fire set in a pit was just getting going, and a falcon swooped overhead. In one corner the barbeque was smoking away, tended to by 3 men preparing our feast, in another a souvenir shop with gaudy lighting attracted the visitors like moths to a lamp. The best thing I spied was the little window surrounded by cable lights selling something I was more than ready for - BOOZE. So a cooling, calming bottle of Corona Extra later, we sat under the darkening skies of the desert and watched a belly dancer twirl and shimmy in the middle of the camp. Men watched admiringly and women shook their heads, and the dancer proceeded to humiliate a procession of tourists. Been there ,done that. I'm glad I had the foresight to choose a seat away from the middle and avoided being dragged up. Then they served the food, and it was actually pretty good. It was hot and tasty and everything else that food should be, but it's always a gamble on these occassions. After eating, a few of the party decided to get henna tattoos done by a very skilful lady sitting in one corner. The final piece of entertainment was a the showing of a film depicting snippets taken by the cameraman we had seen earlier at the camel farm, mixed with shots from the desert , various landmarks of Dubai and the odd bit of clichéd stuff with camels and belly dancers atop dunes and the like. The bright lights of the camp were lowered while the film played, so I finally got a chance to see the much-vaunted starlit sky in the desert. It was definitely clearer, but with all the lights round the camp, even when they were dimmed, I wouldn't call it spectacular. I felt like walking away from the camp to get a better view, but soon the film was over, and we were called back to our cars. The drive back was a relaxed affair. We were all pretty tired, and glad that Kashmir decided against taking us back through the dunes. I don't think it's an option anyway, in reality, and we were soon back on proper roads heading back to the city and the bright lights of Sheik Zayed Road. We floated past the twinkling skyscrapers as the GIRL slept soundly in the back, and got home just before 10pm, feeling that we'd had a real adventure. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2498/ A few pictures from last week's escapades on and around the Creek. Unfortunately, I didn't have the camara out when the MIL fell in. Oh, look. They have lifebelts... The "pregnant lady" Bur Dubai side. A real souk. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2476/ So the in-laws are here. They've been here a week already, and I think they're enjoying the experience. The MOTHER-IN-LAW (MIL for short) has had her first ever plane rides, and her first ever trip outside the UK, so I imagine it's all very strange and exciting for her.   Of course, things are even more exciting when you end up doing the unexpected. The picture above gives a clue.   It all started on Friday. I decided to take them to the Marriott over in Deira for their marvellously mad 12-hour brunch. I'm regretting it now, because my self-control went right out of the window (or should I say overboard?), and I ate far too much. Me and the WIFE even tried oysters for the first time, and they were surprisingly...OK. Like salty snot, really.   The best feature of the brunch is the ability to go back for more later after a rest. We ate till about 2.30pm, till we were merrily stuffed, then headed to the creek. I thought a little ride on an Abra would a good experience for the visitors, and for us, before heading back for a second shot at the brunch buffet. So we parked in a scruffy multi-storey car park on the Deira side and walked to the Old Souk Abra Station. As soon as we got close, a little man was all over us, beckoning us to his vessel. I said we just wanted to cross the creek, but after a little bit of haggling and conferring, we decided to accept his offer of a short private cruise up and down the creek. It was a good decision. The little man sat back in his chair and steered with his foot as we sauntered lazily along the creek, taking in the changing views on each side; the Deira side with its glass-fronted towers and Architect's wet dreams, the Bur Dubai side a hotch-potch of mosques, souks and warehouses. On either side of the creek itself, wooden dhows sat along the quaysides and wharfs, unloading their goods. The sun shone, the water sparkled, a gentle breeze played across our faces, and thousands of gulls swooped and dodged around us as we chugged along. I turned to the MIL and remarked that while this was very pleasant, I wouldn't want to go in the water here. Prophetic words, or what?   Eventually we turned back and headed to the Abra station on the Bur Dubai side. We disembarked, thanked our little man, and headed straight into the hustle and bustle of a real souk. Crowds of subcontinental men swarmed through the darkened, covered alleys. Other men stood next to their stalls and shops, calling out in various languages depending on who was passing by. Westerners were greeted with the enthusiastic cries of, "Special price! Very nice! You like?"   We passed through the souk, then turned back to look at a be-jewelled, orange shoulder bag that the WIFE had spotted earlier. I couldn't resist the chance to have a good haggle, so took charge of affairs, and managed to secure nearly 20% off the original price for tbe bag, after assuring the vendor that I was not a tourist.   With our purchase secured we decided to head back towards the Abra station and back over the creek. This time we didn't take a private charter, and sat on a little boat with about 30 other people. As we set off, the Abra drivers hooted horns at each other to avoid any undue collisions. Just like on the roads, really. And all was good, until we reached the other side.   As we disembarked, or attempted to in amongst the throng, the little Abra was bobbing about and moving towards and away from the jetty. The MIL helped the BOY onto the jetty, and just as she went to step across, the boat moved, and she lost her footing. I won't forget the look of horror on her face as she plunged into the creek between the boat and the jetty, and I won't forget the panicked scream coming from the WIFE's mouth as she watched her mother (who can't swim) creating a splash. Luckily the gap wasn't really wide, and the MIL managed to hold onto each side. Me and several other men swooped down and plucked her out of the creek. I actually had hold of the GIRL before this happened, and let her hand go momentarily as I bent to help the MIL. In the back of my mind, I hoped someone else had taken the GIRL's hand. I imagined myself having to jump in the creek to rescue more people. Luckily, the SIL was right behind me and grabbed her.   The MIL was fine. The WIFE threw protective arms around her, and looked pretty scared by what had happened. The MIL turned round towards me and started laughing. She was soaked from the waist down, and had a few scrapes under her arms, but she was otherwise fine. We checked the shoulder bag she was carrying (waterproof, luckily) to make sure the passports were still there, and it wasn't till later that we realised that she had lost her glasses when she fell in. Somewhere in the creek, there is a fish wearing them.   After a fruitless wander around the shops near the creek, we ended up driving to Marks and Spencers near the Marriott, and the MIL bought herself some new clothes to put on. Good job there was a sale on. By the time this was all sorted we were ready to head back to the buffet, and a few stiff drinks were had. To her credit, the MIL found the whole episode pretty funny, and by the end of the evening we were all making cheap jokes about swimming and splashing and fish wearing glasses. The WIFE and the BOY were the ones who seemed most upset about it. The BOY thought it was his fault somehow, because it was him being helped off the boat when it happened. I think the idea of the fish with the glasses on cheered him up.   That night, after driving home from the Marriott, we were all worn out, and everyone got an early night.   Yesterday, we headed for the Madinat Jumeirah. I realise now, after doing the Creek/Souk exploring bit, that the Madinat is just the safe, Disney-fied version of Dubai. It dresses itself up as an authentic Arabian experience, with the souk-style covered alleyways, sand-coloured wind towers, and even the little waterways and Abras transporting people hither and thither. But you soon recognise that it's all fake. The souk is air-conditioned and the crowds are much smaller. The people in the crowds are different as well; well-fed, well-dressed, white-faced westerners, with money to burn, and don't they know it.   Antique shops and fashion boutiques selling expensive wares line the alleys, alongside charming stalls selling genuine trinkets made in China and other up-market tat. Starbucks and Costa coffee joints invite you in at every turn, and on the lower promenade levels, flashy, well-presented restaurants selling foods from all over the world beckon to the tourists wanting to sit out in the fine weather and experience the lifestyle. All very safe, all very clean, all very surreal. A greater contrast there could not be. I would implore anyone coming to Dubai to see both sides of the souk experience. It tells you everything you need to know.   So this morning, on my drive to work, I am quite pensive, but it may have been all the wine I drank at last night's BBQ. My drive takes me along the Al Khail road, SZR's calmer sister, and I drive past ever-shrinking patches of desert that probably won't be around for much longer, electricity pylons marching along the route of the road, cranes towering out of the midst of new developments in the distance and concrete factories surrounded by fleets of dusty concrete mixers. As I leave the industrial estate of Al Quoz behind on the left, the half-built towers of Business Bay and the enormous Burj Dubai development shimmer into view. On the right  I pass the Nad Al Sheba racetrack, and if I'm lucky, I might spot small groups of camels galloping along in their awkward but fluid style, training with their R2D2-sized robot jockeys on their back. Then I turn off the Al Khail Road and head to Dubai itself, and the road sweeps past the Ras Al Khor widlife sanctuary on my right, where the creek shallows and widens, and thousands of flamingos stand in the water amongst low, thick copses of trees as the traffic rumbles by. Up ahead, after passing the man-made extension of the Creek, I will spot the towers at the Trade Centre end of Sheik Zayed Road sprouting from a dirty brown blanket of smog, and then the huge pyramid of the nearly-complete Raffles hotel which is near my office will appear, and after another five or so minutes, I'm in the office, starting up my computer and waiting for the e-mails to flood in.   The city in the sand. There's nowhere quite like it. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2449/ The UAE national football team has won the Gulf Cup, beating Oman 1-0 in last night's final in Abu Dhabi. Good stuff. I wonder if they'll move onto qualifying for the World Cup next. With Bruno Metsu in charge, they seem to going from strength to strength. Well, in this region they are. Now I understand why that Beemer I saw the other day was covered in red, white, green and black heart stickers. No window flags for this lot - they go the whole hog. Today I saw even more bizarre decorations on cars, with spray paint in the national colours applied hap-hazardly to wheels, body and even windows. Streamers hung of every available appendage - door handles, aerials, window wipers. I think they're quite happy about it all. There are reports of cars careering up and down various roads last night with people perched on top waving flags and blowing horns. I can't imagine there were many drunken brawls. Speaking of cars, today I've been observing more of the Bubble behaviour that I was talking about recently, where the people here just seem to seal themselves away from all external influence and show no consideration for anyone or anything, etc. Like I say, I don't think there's an ounce of malice in it at all. It's just the way it is. And to be honest, it isn't just the locals. Expats start to assimilate this culture quite quickly. Imagine the average day of a person living here, whether he be Arab or Indian or whatever. He or she drives to work at 180km/h (or 60km/h in the fast lane in a Nissan Sunny), merrily sending SMS messages and pulling the headlight stick on the steering column as they go. When they get to their turn off, they cut across 3 or 4 lanes at the last possible minute, as if they weren't expecting it, causing a cacophony of angry horns and desperately squealing brakes.   He or she arrives at work, and proceeds to park their car diagonally across 2 or even 3 spaces. Then they get out of the car and enter the office bulding. They press the lift call button and wait impatiently, possibly talking to someone on their hands-free kit as they tap their foot on the floor. Then the lift arrives with a merry ping, the doors open, and the person barges straight into the lift without waiting for anyone who might want to exit. As the lift rises, they have a good, long, loving look at themselves in the mirror. The lift gets to their floor, and he or she rushes headlong out into the corridor before deciding to visit the facilities / rest-rooms / bogs. If you're behind them, watch out. Don't assume that they will hold the door for the person directly behind. Some will, but most will just let it close into your face. Then (if you're a bloke) you watch them approach the row of 3 urinals on the wall. This bit really gets me. I just find it sums everything up. In the UK, we have this little game with urinals, where the first person to approach always takes one at either end - never in the middle. No-one, but no-one wants to be stood directly next to another man having a slash. But not here. Here, the first man to the urinal invariably takes the middle station, and stand there with legs wide apart, doing his business without a care in the world. If I come in behind him, I don't know what to do. I just can't bring myself to stand right next to them, so I end up going into the cubicles and feeling faintly ridiculous for doing so. Then, when you come out, the person is at the sink, and they are either snorting water up their nose, hacking up massive lumps of phlegm with that charming "hkhkhkhkhkhkoooocccckkkk" noise, or they are washing their feet in the sink. From there, they spend the rest of the day smoking in the no-smoking areas of the building.  Of course, it's all an education, and demonstrates something. Possibly that us Brits are really anal and uptight. Cultures are all different and this place is the biggest melting pot of all, and somehow we muddle through. We shake our heads and swap anecdotes about what the locals and subcons and Philipinos do and laugh about it with our mates, but ultimately we just get on with it. I suppose because we have to. I hope this doesn't come across as critical of the people I'm watching. It isn't. It's just the observations of a man who has been brought up in that stiff, British way, and I find these little behavioural quirks alien and fascinating. I think deep down we are all the same. We all breathe and eat and sleep and love and hate. We are all born and we all die. When you cut us, we bleed. But differences are there for a reason. We all live in different places with different infuences, and they affect us all in different ways. And anyway, if we were all exactly the same, life would be boring, and I wouldn't have anything to write about on here. Nighty night. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2361/ It's becoming a regular saying in this part of the world.Today I saw and heard of 3 things, that made me shake my head and say, "Only in Dubai".1. I saw a lovely, shiny silver BMW 7 series in a car park covered in red, white, green and black heart-shaped stickers. 2. I heard on the radio that an ambulance attending an emergency took 18 minutes to travel 500 metres on the Arabian Ranches roundabout. No-one would move to let it past.3. I saw a man dressed up as Charlie Chaplin walking around with an Arab man in Ibn Battuta Mall.Hmm. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2352/ It must rain a bit, actually, because it's very green. Trees and grass everywhere. But then it could be down to the irrigation. I don't really know how these oasis locations work, if I'm honest.   After leaving the nocturnal driller to his curtain poles, we headed out of town. It was time to get out of the place again, and we had juggled the idea of Fujairah on the East coast, or Al Ain, which is down on the Oman border in the Emirate of Abu Dhabi. Both were a fair drive away, but the maps seemed to show an easier route to Al Ain, so we headed there. There was an Air Show on at Al Ain as well. I wish we'd gone to Fujairah now.   The drive was pleasant enough. The long, straight roads are easy enough to drive on, even if they provide little in the way of stimulus. A game of Eye Spy only lasts 5 rounds if you're lucky. Sun. Sky. Road. Trees. Sand. Er, that's your lot. We noticed that the signs and petrol station names changed as we entered the next Emirate. All of them were the same name, in fact, and every single one was an exact replica of the one before. I started to wonder if we were going round in circles.   Before long, the harsh, red sand of the desert became more and more punctuated by lush, green vegetation. We aren't talking palm trees and turfed grass, either. Verdant pastures passed by in a green blur, and trees of all kinds cropped up in clumps here and there. It's quite a thing to see after being in the dusty, landscaped confines of Dubai for so long.   We arrived at Al Ain's outskirts and were greeted by the sight of a giant Arabic coffee pot in the middle of a roundabout.     We started following the signs for the Airport, which is the kind of place they usually host Air shows, I figured. After several miles of outer suburbs and no sign of an airport or even an aeroplane, we decided to head into the town centre and get something to eat. We passed more trees and greenery as we drove through pleasent suburbs, and noticed that there wasn't one skyscraper on the horizon, with no building higher than 3 or 4 storeys, and not one tower crane to be seen. After finding that the town's eponymous Mall was basically shut (and getting lost in the car park thanks to misleading signs), we found another Mall in an area called Al Jimi, and had lunch in the food court. With our light lunch in our stomachs, we had a wander and a window shop. Marvellous. We came all the way to Al Ain for a change of scenery, and ended up in a bloody Mall.   I decided to end this abject silliness and we headed out again to see if we could find the airport. We did, and were greeted by the sight of thousands of cars parked in every conceivable location on the approach to and around the airport, and about 3 aeroplanes parked on the airport apron. A short drive around the airport roads lead us into a long queue for the main parking area, which was full. As we waited, we watched a yellow bi-plane performing a startling array of aerial stunts, swooping, rolling and diving towards earth. I wondered if the pilot was sending SMS messages whilst flying, then remembered why I didn't have much time for Air shows. I had lived in Germany near a US base where there had been an awful disaster after a mid-air collision at an Air show in the late 1980s. If we hadn't been away on holiday at the time, we may well have been there when it happened, and ever since then, I just haven't felt comfortable watching planes doing tricks. It's bad enough when they fly in a straight line, thank you very much. The Red Arrows fill me with dread.   As it was, the whole spectacle looked decidedly underwhelming, and with it getting on in the day, and with parking options looking limited, we decided to head back to Dubai. On the way back, as we left Al Ain's green plains behind, I spotted a sign for the East Coast, and realised it would have been the better option. Yes, Al Ain is different to Dubai, but ultimately it was a bit bland, and didn't seem to offer much to the family. You live and learn, I suppose.   The kids were good. They spent a long time in the car without causing too much of a scene, so we went to a Wild West-themed family-friendly (i.e. full of screaming brats) restaurant for tea when we got back as a treat (and I fancied some pork ribs as well). They enjoyed it, even if the ribs weren't very good.   Now we are focused on next weekend, and the imminent arrival of the MOTHER and SISTER-IN-LAW. The WIFE and kids are really excited, and so am I. Seeing some familiar faces after so long will be good. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2346/ Someone's nicked all my comments!   I had about 50 comments yesterday, then noticed that the last one (quite a good one about my last post) had disappeared. It seems any comments by non-subscribers have been deleted, and non-subscribers weren't allowed to comment when I checked my settings. So, sorry to all those whose comments have vanished. It wasn't me! I've re-enabled them now.   But there we go. It's been a while - again. Time seems to be squeezing together like some mad accordian played by Buster Bloodvessel, and all the daily occurences are just falling on the floor and flowing down the drain. We are nearly in February 2007. Yesterday it was June 1996, I'm sure it was. I've already been in Dubai for 6 months, and it's been a veritable BLEEEUURRRGH. It's good to be occupied, rather than bored. Boredom depresses me and makes me want to eat bad, bad things that will make me fat again. With all the time in the gym and with the WIFE becoming a cyber-addict (she's been playing a particularly annoying and addictive game called Zookeeper pretty much every waking hour...she didn't notice what I did to her the other week while she was sat playing...maybe she'll notice when the bump gets between her and the table...) I've had less time to go on the computer. But that's probably a good thing. I spend all day on the bloody things at work.   But yeah, that good old gymnasium. I've been going for a 2 full weeks now after joining up at the local place, and the weight is dropping off. I'm trying a programme I found on a Men's lifestyle website which only takes 35 minutes, 3 times a week, but which leaves you feeling really quite tired, as if you've done an hour and a half of hard work. There is little cardio work, just 5 minutes warm-up and cool-down, and the rest of it is resistance training, on the basis that muscle burns more calories and is denser and more compact than fat. The trick is the slow cadence, and doing a low number of reps till failure (listen to me, I sound like a gym rat). 4 seconds to lift, then 4 seconds to put down. Try it and see - you get a proper burn. So far I've managed to double pretty much every weight that I'm lifting. The only area I'm struggling with is my shoulders, but I'll keep working on it.   The best bit is going to a gym that is quiet. I rarely, if ever, have to wait to go on a machine. And that's 15kg (33lbs) down, 23 (51lbs) to go to reach my target. I like the metric system. It sounds much less. At 1 kilo a week, I should be down to target by July or August. I went to see the heart doctor again last week and he seems to be happy with what I'm doing. Getting drug-free 6 months down the line would be brilliant.   In other news, we finally got the two cars we've been waiting for so long to get our hands on. The actual buying process was smooth and trouble-free. Once the car dealer had the money, they arranged the insurance and registration, and I picked them up the next day. At the same time, the WIFE and kids' residence visas came through, so we got the WIFE her driving licence and got rid of the 2 hire cars. Now, in a weird kind of juxtaposition, I (the large man) drive a little sporty coupe car and she (the little lady) drives a 7-seater MPV.   Worryingly, I'm now driving something like a local. I flash my lights and beep my horn and occassionally weave between lanes when I get frustrated at the chap in the ageing white Nissan Sunny bumbling along at 80kph in the middle lane without a care in the world. But I'm getting to thinking that it's the only way to be, because hesitancy here can get you into bother. Of course, I draw the line at some things. I always strap the children into their seats nice and safely. I never drive on the hard shoulder. I don't send SMS messages whilst driving at 180kph (140 is the limit), and I'll never, ever plaster pictures of my country's leaders on my car's back window. Can you imagine seeing that in the UK? I reckon anyone who put Tony BLEEEUURRGH's insincere grin on the back window would probably get a brick through it. And rightly so.   As I drive around this place and get used to the anarchy on the highways, I'm starting to realise that a lot of the people in this part of the world live in little sealed-off bubbles. It's not malicious, they just don't think about consequences, particularly when other people are involved. The oft-used phrase "Insha'allah" is starting to make a little bit of sense. It's the culture, the upbringing to just carry on regardless, and leave the worrying about it all to God. It was similar in Taiwan. The people were lovely and friendly and hospitable, as they are here, but when they get in a car (or sometimes just in public), they just throw a switch and the bubble surrounds them. They must wonder what these flashing orange light things and shiny appendages attached to the doors are, because they don't bloody use them. Queues? They have a Barbie in front, don't they?   And then, there was the incident with the drill, which completely threw me out of kilter the other night. I think it was Thursday. I was sat at my laptop at home, minding my own business. It was late. The WIFE had gone to bed. From nowhere, the incredibly loud and wall-juddering sound of an electric drill burst into life. I looked at my watch. It was 11.25pm. Someone next door (in the adjoining villa that's been empty for 3 months) was obviously moving in, and had decided that this was the right time to start auditioning for DIY SOS. I can't remember the exact thoughts that were going through my mind, but I think the words "what", "the" and "fuck" were in there somewhere, amongst others.   I let it go. I ignored it. It couldn't go on all night. Could it? The WIFE, the BOY and the GIRL didn't seem to be overly upset by it upstairs. The kids could sleep on the runway at DXB International Airport (or the suburb of Mirdiff, as it is known round here). It kept going for another half an hour, on and off, and finally ceased just before midnight. It's a good job they stopped, because I was getting more and more annoyed, and was even thinking about going to bed in a bad mood. Again, I put this behaviour down those cultural quirks I was talking about before, you know - that unwitting, unintended selfishness. It was like my first few weeks in Dubai which I spent in that flea-pit hotel that the fleas had moved out of, and the banging doors and shouting and general hoo-hah that occured every night after midnight. It's not malicious. These people have just been brought up that way, and don't know any different.   The next day, as we pulled out of our car port and set off for Al Ain, we saw the culprit getting out of his own car with some curtain poles.   It was a Westerner. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2345/ FINALLY. I got my car loan. I've been trying for about a month to get one, and yesterday the money was credited to my account. Now I can get the two cars I need. The relief! Nearly as good as coming out of Atrail Fibrillation. I have made myself ill over it all - and in hindsight I shouldn't have, but when you come up against the incompetence, intransigence and sheer bloody-minded beauracracy that I've encountered over the last month, I defy anyone to remain calm. Today, as something of a celebration, we went for brunch at Mina A'Salam, a hotel at the Madinat Jumeirah. It has had a lot of good write-ups, and it was fantastic, and I'm still stuffed 5 hours after eating. The kids were well catered for as well, and even though it was quite pricey, the free-flowing booze and really high-quality food made it all worthwhile. The ambience there is really special, and the Madinat is probably one of my favourite places in Dubai. I can't wait to take some of our guests there when they come to visit. My doctors probably won't be happy that I've had a few glasses of wine, but I've not had any for at least 3 weeks, and probably won't have any more for a good while now. A little of what you fancy, and all that. Anyway, the bank episode is in the past now. Let's move on. Another week has zipped by in the blink of an eye. We are busy again, and it shows. The morale in the office is dipping badly again, so much so that the newest of the staff have noticed it. It doesn't help that the BOSS has been on the rampage this week. Before Christmas he delivered a fatwa on people not wearing ties, and this week he has been cracking down on early lunch leavers and anyone with the notion of having a life outside of work. A couple of his  comments this week have left me bamboozled. He suggested (half-jokingly, I think) that my family were dispensable when there were important clients to be placated, and then when someone had to cancel some leave, he said he didn't have ANY sympathy, because holidays were more of a privelege than a right, especially as he has worked years with only 2 days of leave. That's all fair and well, but for some of us, work is a means to an end. I work to live, not vice-versa. I will give my all and put my best in at the office, and have no qualms about doing a bit of work outside my allloted hours and travelling to places like Doha for a few days, but when the implication is that work comes first, second and third, with family life a poor fourth, I start to get worried. There are people in this world who like to come to work at 7am and leave at 8pm, and they make it out to be some kind of macho honour thing, but to me that's bullshit. You can only be effective for so long during a day, and 9 hours is about right. I will take a lunch break, and I will leave work at 6pm, unless there is a really urgent job that NEEDS to be done. If we feel obliged to stay long hours or are made to feel guilty for not doing so, I honestly think it makes for bad morale. But there we are, and there we go. It pays the bills, and the work is quite interesting. I've learned loads since I came here, and the CV will not suffer with the scale and type of project I'm working on now. One thing I've started to notice at work and in general is the behaviour of some people here, in particular Western Expats. I've noticed the way some of these people talk to and behave towards people of other nationalities here, especially South-Asians or Eastern-Asians. So not to beat about the Dubya, they treat them like dirt. They shout at and berate them for the slightest lapse in standards of service, they show no gratitude or even basic manners towards them, and seem to think they are perfectly entitled to lord it over these people. They wouldn't get away with it at home, because they'd get told where to go forth and procreate, I have not a shred of doubt. The thing is, it's a double-edged sword, because the people on the receiving end just take it, say, "Yes, sir/madam," in their whiny American accent and scurry away sheepishly when they've been reprimanded by another highly-strung, self-important expat. Some of them look petrified when you talk to them, and then they look genuinely astonished when you say Please and Thank You to them, before breaking into a broad smile. I often wonder how much these people resent us moneyed westerners, especially when we act like complete and utter twats towards them. I want to be there when one of them finally cracks, and tells some jumped-up, betroot-faced, flip-flop-wearing fool that they added their own special ingredient to their drink. I just hope it isn't me. Yes, I have witnessed poor service in the past here (the bank!), and yes, I've admitted that I get annoyed and wound up, but when I talk to people I'm doing business with I always try to remain calm and composed and respectful without raising my voice. I usually rant and rave about it to myself afterwards, because rude, arrogant behaviour and trying to humiliate some poor sod when it's probably not even his fault just breeds resentment and contempt and is unlikely to achieve any improvement in service. It seems to be a pattern here. People change when they come here, and do stuff they wouldn't dream of doing back home. Of course, it's a different country, and a different lifestyle, and as the old saying goes - When in Rome - but people here don't do what Romans do, they act like frigging Cybermen. On acid. I've witnessed expats who don't secure their young children in car seats before driving on the third deadliest roads in the world. I've seen people who seem to think it's perfectly fine to drink drive on a regular basis, and when I say drink - I mean drink. This is despite the fact that the punishments here are more severe than back home. It's as if coming to this place makes them take leave of their senses. Is the almost-permanent sunshine melting their brain cells? Hard to say, really, but as with most things, it's probably a combination of things. As long as they can get away with it, they'll do it. And no amount of tutting and writing letters to 7 Days will change that. But the funniest thing about it all is when I hear some expat say to me that they came here to get away from all the immigrants who don't respect the British Way Of Life, and the so-called PC brigade pandering to their every whim. So they came to a county which is 80% immigrant and bends over backwards to accomodate Westerners and their love of excess. On the other hand, they can come here and lord it over the non-white immigrants who don't earn as much money, because it makes them feel big and clever. I'd really love to see them talk to an Emirati like that.And still - I'm happier than I've been for a long, long time. Life here is pretty good in the main. Nothing will ever be perfect, but you have to make the best of it, and I think that's what we are doing. I've spent too much time in my life sweating the small stuff. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2287/ Well, since then I've had a bit of a week, I can tell you.   My health problems continue to annoy and frustrate me (along with the frustration of dealing with banks in this country - maybe the two are related) and I have been in hospital again for various tests and something-oscopies galore.   I think they are all probably all linked, actually. I'm not the most easy-going of folk, as I might sometimes allude to with my rambling rants, and I tend to let things wind me up a tad. The last month has seen some really frustrating times trying to get car loans and finalising visas and various other things. So, it's probably no coincidence that my gastric reflux has been playing hell with me and that in turn plays hell with my arrhytmia, triggering ectopic beats and short runs of AF. The cycle of worry spirals downwards in ever-decreasing circles.   I finally managed to badger my cardiologist into referring me to see another doctor about the reflux, and the new doctor was only too keen to stick cameras into every orifice available. Fortunately the insurance company only authorised the gastroscopy, which is the one down the top end.   I've had the colonoscopy before, and believe me when I say that it ain't pleasant. Not only did I have to starve myself for a day, I also had to take industrial-strength laxatives that rapidly compelled me to sit on the porcelain throne for hours with a roll of chilled toilet roll within easy reach. Then at the hospital, I had to have an enema using cold water, before losing what was left of my dignity as I laid on my side in an ill-fitting hospital gown and had a long black tube forced up my arse. The only blessing was the sedative, which wasn't that strong last time, because I felt a considerable amount of discomfort. I was half-expecting Lloyd Grossman to appear on the screen and say, "Hooow liyuvs in an Arse like thus..?"   As it was, I only had to do the endoscopy this time, and they must have used some good shit on me, because I was out like a light only a minute or so after they injected the sedative. I have a fuzzy, vague memory of the nurse putting some kind of guard in my mouth and strapping it round my head, then there was a little bit of gagging as they put the endoscope in, but then nothing. When the doctor said, "Bring out the Gimp", I may well have been dreaming.   I woke up after an hour of dreamless, blissful sleep to see the WIFE, the BOY and the GIRL sat next to me, and I wondered what they had been saying about me. I had a chicken sandwich and a few more minutes sleep, then after a quick chat with the doctor they gave me a DVD showing what they had done and let me go. I had an ever-so-slightly sore throat, but nothing untoward, and before long we were on our way home.   At home I watched the DVD, and was treated to the sight of my insides being explored. It was quiet interesting, and not too scary until this little metal pincer device appeared from under the camera to take biopsies of my acid-scarred digestive tract. I say little, but on a large TV it looked massive, and reminded my of Ridley Scott's Alien taking chunks out of people's heads and chests with its extendable mandibles. When the pincers withdrew there was blood where it had taken the sample from, and the sight of this made me shudder somewhat. I'm glad that I was asleep when it actually happened.   It turns out that I have something called Barrett's esophagus, which has absolutely nothing to do with cheap shoes or poorly-built houses. The doctor casually told me that it is a pre-cancerous condition where the lining of the esophagus has been eroded and is changing in cellular structure. It has to be managed and monitored very carefully, which involved more drugs, more gastroscopies at regular intervals, and aviodance of certain types of food, and naturally the nice ones like chocolate, caffeine and red wine. So if I want to live a long, healthy life I have to live it like a monk. A monk that doesn't attend mass or communion, that is. Losing more weight will help matters too. Oh well, I did want to lose weight, and I still am, despite having a slight break from the diet over Christmas.   *Crap Joke Interval*   Two Trappist monks were walking along the street. One turned to the other and said absolutely nothing.   *End of Crap Joke Interval*   Drugs, drugs, drugs. The esophagus doc gave me two more types to take, and I happily added them to the list. I have had to create a plethora of reminders on my mobile phone's calendar, which now bloops at me at certain points in the day to remind me to take the tablets for my blood pressure, my arrhythmia, my cholesterol, my nightly happy pill and now for my bad belly.   All was well until Sunday. I felt rotten, and really tired. More so than is usual for me. I thought it was probably the after-effects of the sedative, so took the day off. But on Monday I felt even worse, and was starting to wonder what was going on. I was actually physically shaking by this point, and aching all over. I wanted to sleep all the time, but when I laid down, I just couldn't get comfortable.   So I went back to the hospital to see my doctors. They did the usual tests - blood pressure, bloods, ECG and so on. They found nothing. Then I happened to bump into the doctor who had done the endoscopy and when I showed him the bag of drugs I had with me, he took a disconcertingly sharp intake of breath and told me to stop taking a particular drug straight away. Then I saw the heart doctor and he halved the dosage of a couple of the other meds.   Well it worked. I'm now back to just feeling crappy, rather than utterly rotten. The whole episode has been a little disturbing if I'm honest. I have said before that the medical facilities here have been impressive so far, and you can't fault the level of attention that you get. You can see a doctor any time of night or day, and at weekends, and you don't have to wait weeks and months for an appointment with a specialist. But then you would expect that with private health care which is paid for with insurance, I suppose.   The down-side is that you are seen maybe too quickly, and with profit margins being involved in the private sector, however much you try and dress it up, the bottom line is what ultimately matters, so there is always the potential for these kind of medication mistakes (not to mention others) to be made. The liaison between the different doctors seemed to be limited to an initial referral, then it was up to me to keep each doctor informed of what the other was up to. That isn't my job. A good mate of mine has said that this is par for the course in these parts, and advised me to get second opinions on any major diagnoses that I get. I'm starting to wonder if he might be right. I'm just thankful that my level of awareness (some might call it paranoia) on these matters brought about a swift end to the problem.   By Tuesday I was feeling right again. And then the unthinkable started to happen. The fates have started shifting, and I might just get my finances sorted and get the car loan I've been trying to get for a month now. Thanks to certain people at my company I should now be able to sort out the payment cycle problems and remedy the knock-on effects of the late salary payment in November and December. I can start to enjoy living here instead of banging my head against the wall.   It's a bloody good job as well, because in little more than three weeks we have our first visitors coming from the UK. The WIFE's mother and sister are coming to stay with us for three weeks in February. I want everything to be in place for their arrival, and Insha'allah, it's starting to fall into place.   Of course, there will be more glitches and hitches and hiccups. When I got home last night after a good day, the GIRL was in the process of vomiting copiously. It seems she has a touch of gastroenteritis, bless her. The WIFE slept in her room with her last night after taking her to the doctors and getting a pile of medication for her, and I checked it thoroughly for anything dodgy-looking. She's never been sick like this in her short life, never had anything worse than a cough and cold, so I imagine it's as confusing and scary for her as it is worrying for us. In the UK it was the BOY who was always getting sickness bugs - almost every month he would start throwing up, usually in the car on the way to Middlesbrough (easy now, M). What with her cut finger and now this, she's had a hard time since arriving in Dubai. Fingers crossed it'll get better for her.   Is it me, or are these posts getting longer? I'm posting less frequently, I think, so have to get more info into each one. I hope whoever's reading is still with us.   TTFN.   http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2244/ On New Year's Day, or so the song goes.     New Year in Dubai was different. We treated the kids to a trip to Ski Dubai at the Mall of the Emirates on New Year's Eve. Well, it was as much a treat for us, actually. The chance to see real snow and feel cold was too enticing for us after being in a permanent summer - at best autumn - since August.   So we paid our money, bought gloves and hats, then went to the clothing counters to be issued with snow boots, socks, trousers and jackets to wear in the snow park. We went quite early and it wasn't too busy, and before long we were all kitted out like Eskimos. We ventured through the entry gate to the snow park, then through the first set of sliding doors, which act like an airlock, then through the next set of sliding doors and a blast of arctic air hit us full in the face, making us shiver. "It's bloody freezing!" was the only thing I could say at this point,  stating the bleeding obvious, as always.   And the fun began. We charged around the snow park with its ice mazes, igloos, sledging hills and toboggan runs.  We spotted crowds of people watching us from behind the glass in the main mall, like people watching animals in the zoo. I fought the urge to pee my name in the snow We climed up to a small wooden tower and looked up at the incredible sight of people skiing down an enormous 400m long, 60m high slope that dog-legged and disappeared into the distance. I went down the tobaggan run without gloves on and managed to scrape my left hand on the hard ice on the wall of the run. I think I left at least half an inch of skin there. Then I had a shot on the rubber ring run and ended up with two blocks of ice for hands after having to shove them in snow at the bottom of the run to prevent myself sliding through a queue of waiting people. It was at that point when I remembered that snow is nice in small doses. It was nice to be able to leave the cold behind whenever we wanted.   The kids enjoyed it all though, which was the main aim. After we left and got changed back into "normal" clothes, we headed to the Alpine-themed St. Moritz café, situated just next to the exit and had lunch. As we sat there next to a roaring fire (on a TV screen embedded into a fireplace), eating hearty food and drinking hot drinks, we looked through the windows back into the snow park, and it all felt slightly surreal. The mind boggles when you think about how much energy they must use to keep the place cooled to freezing point and even lower when the whole thing closes at night and the snow blowers come on. It sums up what Dubai is about: Surreal excess. New Year's Eve night was a quiet affair in the main. We let the BOY stay up till midnight, and we played Junior Monopoly about half a dozen times. At 11pm a party started in a house to the back of ours, and loud Middle-Eastern-influenced dance music filled the night air with its enchanting, hypnotic rhythm. The time came - midnight passed - and it was eerily quiet for just a moment, and I suddenly pined for the sound of Big Ben's chimes to tell us it was here. But there was nothing except a bit of cheering from the party at the back and the sound of distant fireworks at the Burj Al Arab. I bet they looked good. So we had a mini Auld Lang Syne session, hugged and kissed, put the tired BOY to bed and started sending text messages and e-mails and message-board messages to friends and family back in the UK. And then we went to bed, and the music from the back didn't really keep us awake. I think it stopped at about 2am or something.On New Year's Day we decided to have a big roast chicken dinner with stuffing and Yorkshire puddings and gravy and all that other stuff that we would have at home. But before that we went to Safa park for a little stroll and some fresh air. I wasn't sure what to expect, and was surprised by the size and scale of the place. There are little gardens, statues, water features and play-parks scattered all over. There is a central area with a boating lake and a fairground and barbeque areas. At first I was impressed. The green spaces were large and pleasant and mostly clean. Then we came across the artificial river that runs from the boating lake to a small pond and waterfall and I noticed that the water there was chock-full of plastic carrier bags and other trash. A couple of pissed-off looking ducks sat forlonly in the murky, stagnant water nearby. I wondered how it could have got so bad, and why it hadn't been cleaned up, but I soon got my answer.We eventually came to a sand-covered play-park and settled down on a wooden bench while the kids had a play. As I sat there, my attention was caught by a child who came up to the edge of the park, holding a packet of mini-Pringles. I watched in disbelief as the child took the crisps in one hand and dropped the packet with the other, without the slightest compunction, before wandering off. The child's mother, who was sat on the grasss behind her, didn't bat an eyelid. Not surprisingly, she was surrounded by half-empty carrier bags. I turned and shook my head and watched another child in the play-park drop an empty drink carton on the sand as he climbed a ladder. I looked round some more and saw pieces of litter everywhere. In the middle of the play-ground there was a bin, so I stood up, picked up the discarded Pringles packet and made a point of placing it in the bin. People around me watched me impassively, unimpressed by my actions. Cultural differences aside, I find myself wondering about the mentality of some people. They just don't seem to care a jot about litter. Doesn't the sight of rubbish all over the place sadden them? Do they think that someone else will just come along and sweep it up? The rubbish in the pond was a real shocker for me. I'd always thought that we had a bad attitude to litter in the UK, and that other places were invariably cleaner. It might be true of some parts of continental Europe, but it seems that it's actually even worse here. I've been in plenty of parks back home, but I've never seen a sight like I saw in that pond. A bit of litter, yes, but this was really, really bad, and the whole blasé attitude to the dropping of rubbish on the floor amazed me as well.Different places have different value and different attitudes, and I understand that this is the case, but sometimes I find myself being surprised by how utterly alien some people's values are to me. How do you reconcile this? Do you just let them get on with it, or do you say something? Is it our right to impose our value system on others, or is it their right to live as they see fit, and how they have lived all their lives, without our interference? When does the line get crossed? When others get hurt or offended? We all know that some people are more easily offended than others, and that different things offend different people, and that right and wrong are not black and white. Oh, it's a moral minefield. And I'm rabbling. And preaching. Again. I should have written a letter to 7 Days. Anyway, after the park we went on a boat ride on the lake, and hired a little replica ferry for the four of us, which I took charge of, naturally. I didn't think it was going to take my bulk as it pitched and wobbled precariously as I boarded it, but we managed to stay afloat and spent a dizzying 20 minutes going round in circles, chasing seagulls and avoiding the locals who sped round in circular hovercraft-style vessels. They drive boats like they drive cars, is all I will say.On the way out of the park, I remembered hearing Chris Evans talking about the pleasures of walking barefoot on grass on Radio 2 some time ago, so I took my shoes and socks off, before strolling across the cool, lush grass. It was marvellous. I was just glad that they don't allow dogs in the park. The BOY challenged me to a race, and I found myself sprinting across the grass after him, and actually catching him. This was a new experience for me, because I haven't ran that fast for a long, long time. I haven't been able to keep up with the BOY for a while, but on New Year's Day, I was running, maybe not like the wind, more like a stiff breeze, and it felt good. The weight loss and exercise HAS made a difference. It's a shame my leg won't tolerate much real running, because I could get myself fit in no time at all. Ah well, maybe when I get my bionic leg, eh?Oh, yeah. The roast chicken dinner was fabulous. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2202/ From a place without Big Ben and without first footers and all that kind of thing. Anyway, cheers all! http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2188/ Found this quote on a message-board I frequent. I think it's superb. "To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise, you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea... cruising, it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about. "'I've always wanted to sail to the south seas, but I can't afford it.' What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of security. And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine - and before we know it our lives are gone. "What does a man need - really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in - and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all - in the material sense, and we know it. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention for the sheer idiocy of the charade. "The years thunder by, the dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. "Where, then, lies the answer? In choice. Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?" Sterling Hayden http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2179/ of the day.   Three hours left in this quiet, windowless office. The urge to stuff my face with chocolate is pretty strong. Who works on Boxing day? What a load of old bollocks. It's a real come-down after I almost - ALMOST - enjoyed yesterday.   Actually, it was good. We had a nice time. The kids loved their presents and were full of joy and brightness and all the other things that have been slowly sucked from my soul over the years. Christmas lunch was really quite enjoyable. The venue (Courtyard Marriott at Green Community) was pleasantly decorated and they looked after us terrifically. Our waiter - an Indonesian man named Yoyo (I kid you not) - was genuinely pleasant and attentive to our every need.   We were first in, arriving just before 12pm, so had the whole buffet area to ourselves for a bit, until people started filtering in. By 1.30pm the place was full and buzzing with cheerful conversation. We feasted on smoked salmon, turkey, roast ham and Christmas pudding, and it was all really tasty. The only thing missing was stuffing and brussel sprouts.   Outside, the sun shone in a warm blue sky. We could see a swimming pool out of the window and there were people sat out there drinking. Some even went for swim. It was somewhat strange to be sat eating Christmas dinner, pulling crackers and wearing silly paper hats in such a place.   By 3pm, we couldn't force any more food or drink down our gullet, and I was feeling merry enough, so we paid our bill and headed home, weaving through massive queues of lorries and trucks on the Emirates Road. It's almost like just another day here.   We spent the evening playing games and ate a small, late tea of a few sandwiches. Phone calls to relatives and friends were made, and that was the point when me and the WIFE realised what we were missing. We chatted via video-link to my parents on MSN Messenger, as they prepared to eat dinner at my uncle and aunt's house in Scotland. We spoke by phone to the WIFE's parents, and there was obvious emotion in the voices coming down the phone lines. These are the times you that miss your family.   So, this morning, I had to get up for work again, and face the commute through the blowing sand. It seems a bit pointless, as a lot of people are away, and it is soooooo quiet, and the locals are gearing up for the next Eid, which happens at the end of the week. We should get a couple of days off round New Year at least.   But there you go. Christmas is done and dusted for another 12 months. I wonder where we will be next year.     http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2167/ It's a sunny day. The kids have opened their pressies. Going for dinner in a bit.Have a good one everyone. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2165/ Falalalalalala and so on   A little song for you:   Dashing through the sand,In a blacked-out four-by-four,O'er the dunes we go, Honking all the way,Horns and flashing lights,If you get in my way,Oh what fun it is to drive at high speed here tonight...Oh, Jingle Bells, Dubai Smells,Sharjah's even worse,If you're lucky your landlord,might leave dosh in your purse,OH! Jinle Bells, Dry oil wells,At least we've got the malls,Spend and buy on creditTill they have you by the balls.   I imagine someone will find reason to be terribly offended by that. Sorry if that's the case, I just made it up in 5 minutes.   Well, what a frankly stupendous and baffling couple of days we've had. It all started on Monday morning when I woke up in AF at 5.30am. I told the WIFE and she sighed and said, "Oh God, not again..." or something along those lines. The good thing is, it went back to NSR within 3 hours, after I went back to sleep for a bit. I thought I should see the doctor, so went along to the hospital and he told me that it was probably a mixture of stress (traffic! money! banks! work! visas!) and over-doing the exercise. Well I had given it LARGE at the gym the night before and was shattered. I think that I have been doing too much too soon, so I think I might rein it in a bit.   Anyway, the doc advised me to take the rest of the day off, even though I felt that I should really go to work because work would be getting a bit peeved with all this time off. But I went home in the end and rested up. I had a bout of dodgy old belly that afternoon as well. Dunno if it was IBS or some bug, but it disappeared by the evening.   The evening...oh yeah. We ended up seeing doctors again, but this time it was the GIRL who was the patient. Somehow she managed to wedge her finger into a kitchen cupboard door hinge and got it stuck. The WIFE pulled it free and it was cut badly. There was a lot of blood, and it didn't look like a band-aid would do any good, so we clamped some kitchen towels over her finger and rushed her to the clinic round the corner at Springs Village, where they stitched her up. They needed 4 people to hold her down while an impatient doctor put the stitches in. Telling a 2-year-old to stay still when you're doing that is pretty much a waste of effort. The WIFE was in the room with her, and I waited outside with the BOY, listening to nearly 45 minutes of shreiking and wailing coming from the room. The poor WIFE didn't have that luxury and had to endure her daughter begging her to get them to stop. Both of us would have taken her place if we could.    About half-way through the poor little thing's ordeal, I decided to take the boy and go to the ATM out in the entrance area, across from the Choithrams shop. I needed to get that shreiking out of my head, if only for a moment. So, I walked out and was hit by a completely surreal moment. In the opposite entrance lobby near the shop, there was a Grotto of sorts, consisting of random, scary-looking models of animals wearing winter clothes, a a scruffy Santa sitting there looking bored. There weren't many kids around, and no-one going to talk to Santa, and the sound that reached my ears told me why.   Coming full-blast from a portable stereo was a Christmas song, but it wasn't any Christmas song, it was Kevin Bloody Wilson singing "Ho Ho, Fucking Ho, What a Crock of Shit" in his inimitable style. The Santa and his elves stood around completely oblivious to the filth spewing out and echoing around the lobby as people ushered their young children past whilst blocking their ears. After stifling a belly-laugh and remembering I had the BOY with me, I cleared my throat and asked Santa if he knew what the song was about. He didn't, but then other people started complaining as well and they eventually changed the music. Absolutely bizarre! You could not make it up.   Then last night we had our office Christmas Party at a hotel restaurant. It was seafood buffet night, so the turkey and brussel sprouts were nowhere to be seen. The wine and beer flowed, the cliques formed onto their own tables, mainly along nationalistic lines followed by seniority. I somehow managed to position myself on the Big Cheese table with a few members of the upper echelons of our company, and even had a brief chat with the MD about my work (good), my health (bad) and my future (who knows?). When he asked me to give critical feedback I did slip a mention about the administration problems in there, but I kept it reasonably polite and not too strong. He listened and made his own points, but before long the conversation moved onto penis-size and the next thing we knew there was a drinking game going on called The Boat Race, which is basically a line of people downing pints in sequence, and the first line to finish all theirs wins.   From there, it rapidly went downhill. One or two of the staff were starting to get extremely drunk, and one or two were looking to stir up fights. Apart from a few drunken threats and raised voices, nothing really nasty happened, and everyone dispersed into the night, catching taxis home or on to other venues. For some reason, I managed to get press-ganged into moving on to a night-club. I'm too easily-led for my own good. I wasn't drinking any more (I'd drunk enough, despite telling myself I should only have 2 glasses of wine) but it was getting late, and I should have called it a night there and then. But no, I ended up in a club called Rattlesnake.   Rattlesnake sounds dodgy, and it is. Entering the place was like walking into a Zombie movie. All the faces were ghostly blue-white with dark, sunken eyes in the UV lighting, and as we walked to the bar, desperate hands clawed and pawed at our arms. Instead of "Brains! Brains!", there was the call of "Luvyoolongtime. Fiedorra" or something equally spooky. Thankfully, I saw sense, and extracted myself after one drink, breaking free from the moaning, meowling masses, climbing into a taxi and speeding home to my waiting bed.   Work today has been an ordeal. Not really hungover, but really, really tired. Early night for me tonight.      http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2153/ So I got my residence visa last week. It happened quite quickly after the medical. I've also got my driving licence, after another visit to another red-tape nightmare with more multiple points of liaison and more sitting waiting for your number to be called while other people ignore the queueing system and just wander up, even when other people are being dealt with. It probably wouldn't have been half as bad if I had actually had my original passport with me. As it was, I had to drive all the way to work to collect my passport through atrocious weather (the wettest December in eleven years, so they say) and trying to get back without getting stuck in a traffic jam on SZR caused by an awful accident early that morning which claimed 9 lives. It seems that people were driving too fast for the conditions again. "Will the learn?" you may ask. I doubt it. After getting back and waiting some more, I eventually walked away with a nice new shiny gold credit-card-sized licence. I also got a parking ticket. Hurrah!Traffic, traffic, traffic. It's really starting to grate now. Almost every journey of more than ten minutes in duration will involve some kind of traffic jam or hold-up, and there are often no tangible reasons for it. I've been trying to get savvy and find short-cuts, but I always end up in another queue when I try to get back to the main route. The confusing thing for me is how it has got noticably worse since the end of Ramadan. Before Ramadan was bad enough, during it was absolutely great with everyone going home early, but since the end of it, the number of cars on the road seems to have suddenly doubled, and with all the rain recently, it has only made things worse still. I don't know if it's because quite a lot of people went away for the summer and are now back. It might be a factor. So, I think on and on about it. I feel quite lucky to live this end of Dubai, where the traffic going to town in the morning and back out on an evening isn't nearly as heavy as the traffic heading in the other direction. But for how long will this last? You only have to look up a bit as you drive around to see all the tower cranes working constantly, and you can't help notice the giant hoardings going up everywhere trumpeting some new mega-development: Sports City, Falcon City of Wonders, The Lagoons, The second Airport, Dubailand....the list goes on and grows seemingly by the day. I don't know what the projections are, but this place could well be double the size it is now in a decade's time. There are promises of new roads and there is a metro system under construction, but I can't help but wonder what it will be like to live and work here in the not-so-distant future. And the nagging question that I can't get over (aside from building all these mega-structures on sand) is...Who is going to live here, and what are they going to do? I'd say 60% or more of those living here now are working in construction, from labourers to the likes of me. What happens when it's finished? A lot of people will have to go home or find something else to do. Of course, there will be service-sector jobs, but what about those being served? Where are they coming from? Who are they? Hey, I'm sure they have a plan here, but I'll be damned if I can see what it is, knowing where they are taking this place in terms of development. There are ports and airports and hotels and theme parks to run, yeah, but that won't employ the population of a four-million-plus city, will it? Will it?As far as I'm concerned, I can't see us living here more than the originally-planned two years. I think we will have had enough by then, and may want a bit of a quieter life. I'm enjoying quite a lot about the place, really I am, but now that I've been here a while, the novelty and the sheen have worn off and I'm seeing more and more of the bad things that lie under the surface and don't get advertised. Then there's the whole hypocrisy issue. Being a liberal/left-winger/commie pinko here isn't a terribly comfortable feeling, and you end up switching part of yourself off to deal with it when you see the effects and (even benefits of) rampant, naked capitalism. See no evil, and so forth. How long one can keep it up for is an intriguing dilemma. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2140/ I got my residence visa today. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2114/ slither grain by grain, inexorably towards an unknown future. With every second that passes, another life is made, another life ends. Somewhere around this rock floating in infinite, inky darkness, someone falls in love. Somewhere in Dubai, my puny skills are no match for the DARK SIDE OF THE FORCE.Random picture.Er...Ahem. Sorry about that. Where were we? Well, I'm still waiting for the visa. I found out today that I haven't got HIV. Which is nice. Now I only worry about black holes and comets. I never worry about curries, unless they're really hot.But work has been interesting. I've been working like a dawg. In an office at a computer, which isn't really what dogs do, to be honest, but I don't care. And yet, my company, who shall remain nameless, still haven't paid me for the month of November. They keep putting me off and saying the equivalent of "the cheque's in the post". I also found out I have to fork out a load of money to sponsor my family. Which isn't nice, especially with Christmas just round the corner, approaching it like a white Land Cruiser with the obligatory blacked-out windows on the SZR, lights flashing manically. So I'm slightly peeved, if truth be told. The administration in my company is somewhat erratic. I don't understand why we can't be paid by automatic electronic transfer on a set date every month instead of relying on the vagaries of senior management's movements in order to get the requisite 2 signatures on every pigging cheque. The atmosphere has gone downhill of late. We've all been told that we MUST wear ties at all times. Mine gets wet in the shower, but it doesn't wash... (groan) Everyone's up to their eyeballs and panicking and snappy and grumpy and when a few of us sit together for lunch, we invariably moan about work, particularly the management and the administration. They haven't even announced a Christmas Party. Maybe it's been cancelled this year. Maybe I'll turn into Tiny Tim. The sad thing is, a happy ship is a productive ship. An unhappy ship loses its deck-swabbers and its cabin boys like that (clicks fingers). I've lost count of the number of times people have said that they're going to quit. It's not as if there's a shortage of work round here.Anyway......I'd better be careful. The ears have walls and the eyes have hills, etc. At least I ain't writing this at work. Waiver: The opinions stated in this blog are a load of old bollox. Names have been changed (and not even mentioned) to protect the guilty. The writer is a highly-strung muppet with a penchant for self-pity and self-righteous bluster. Please send cash now.So, I'm still doing the gym thing. I'm going every night of the week, and the WIFE and the BOY are not really happy, because it means I don't get home till after 8.30 or 9.00pm. The thing is, the hotel where the gym is located is just of the SZR, which means it is best to go straight there from work, rather than going home first then driving back the wrong way (with all the traffic heading back to Deira/Sharjah, etc.) because even at 8 or 9pm, the traffic is still a complete bleeding nightmare. I have tried it once or twice, and a 15-minute journey can take up to an hour going that way. I've decided that when my free membership is finished, I'll join the gym here in Springs. Then I can come home, see the kiddies and then go to the gym to get all sweaty.I had a good session tonight, as it happens. I wasn't keen on going all afternoon, especially after walking around the Cityscape Exhibition at lunchtime (it was HUGE, and some of the buildings and developments looked amazing and staggering - they had an 8-foot high model of the buidling that is meant to emerge from the Big Hole in the Ground), but in the end, after getting annoyed at work, I decided to have a quick blast. The quick blast ended up as a long work-out, with cross-training (yeah, I was cross) and lots of upper-body resistance work. I feel somewhat puny struggling with really light weights, but I'm getting better and stronger and my stamina is increasing. My waistline is shrinking rapidly, but I seem to have stopped losing weight at the fast rate I was before. I suppose that's a good thing, because if it's too fast, it's unsustainable, and as everyone likes to say - muscle weighs more than fat, and I'm definitely putting muscle on with the exercise. I am sort over wavering at about 8 or 9 kg less than I was when I started, which is pretty good going for just over one month. Crikey, it was a month ago that I went into hospital with my last AF episode! It's flown by, and with the new drugs and eating regime and the exercise I am feeling so much better, and my heart flutters (which used to be frequent) have quietened right down. Long may it continue. My goal is to be drug free, healthy and my ideal weight in a year's time. Oh, and rich and famous would be nice, too. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2086/ It's been pissing it down all day. Hasn't stopped. It rained quite a bit yesterday and last night as well. Driving along the roads here is now even more interesting, with huge puddles, nay rivers, where the inadequate drainage is failing. In the puddes there are soapy bubbles. Apparently, they put detergent on the road before it rains to prevent the many oil slicks from becoming like ice rinks.So we've been stuck indoors all weekend. We went to the cinema at Ibn Battuta yesterday, taking the GIRL for her first ever time. She didn't watch much of the film, and wouldn't sit on her seat, but she was fine. It wasn't too bad. Then we had tea at Tony Roma's. They have a branch in Taiwan which I had a few incredibly calorific meals in, mainly due to the amazing pork ribs they serve, especially the baby back variety. However, here in Arabia, as you may have gathered, pork is only available in certain places, and Tony Roma, who are famous for ribs, only do one type of rib - beef. That's by the by. I still had a half portion - no fries, and they were OK, but the service was terrible. They got most of the orders wrong and the food was lukewarm. Never mind. Today we went to the Mall of the Emirates and had a spot of lunch in Apres, a sort of alpine-style, apres-ski place with fondues on the menu, and a view of people falling over on the ski slopes of Ski Dubai. It was very pleasant, of course, but then the GIRL managed to spill not one, but two of my glasses of wine, so I only drank one in the end. On the way home, in the continuing rain, I saw a sight I have seen too much of since coming here. I saw a car going along the road with young kids in the back, jumping around, completely unrestrained. It was a western family as well. Just what the HELL are these morons thinking? Is it really such a pain in the arse to strap your kids in safely? Would they do it in the UK? No, I bet, so why do it here, where the chances of an accident are much higher? The sheer selfish stupidity of it just amazes me. Have they become so spoilt and lazy by living a luxury lifestyle that they can't be bothered to do anything that takes the slightest effort? Do they not know what can happen to a loose child in a crash? I know locals and eastern expats do it as well, but they can claim ignorance and cultural something or other...well, they probably can't, but it still shocks me to see people who should know better doing it.Rant over. http://britishexpats.com/blogs/beerandbloatingindubai/2069/