A slide into opulence, well almost
Andrea Bocelli and Coldplay were all in the house, and so were we, our rented Mitsubishi Lancer perched alongside the snub-nosed Rolls Royces and BMW Limousines in the garage at the Emirates Palace Hotel.
We had gone to see Emirates Expressions, an exhibition of contemporary and traditional works by local artists and found much more. A photographic exhibition, Europeans 1929-1991, by Henri Cartier-Bresson and a huge display of the proposed development of Saadiyat Island, 500 metres off the Abu Dhabi coast being undertaken by the Tourist Development and Investment Company (TDIC), the corporation that Jade works for . Described as an upscale cultural district, Saadiyat will be linked to Abu Dhabi by two ten-laned causeways and house Guggenheim and Louvre museums, a world-class performing arts center and concert hall as well as a New York University campus and a Gary Player designed gold course and academy. All this and more for a mere $NZ50 billion.
But back to the Emirates Palace, the hotel where you can get your cappuccino sprinkled with gold flakes, and where reservations are required even for afternoon tea. It is a huge and opulent place, one kilometer from wing to wing and a reception area about the size of a rugby field, its domed height more than 72 metres. It is one of those places they say that if you have to ask about the cost of accommodation or food you cannot afford to stay there. Its advertising boasts the world’s most expensive, one million dollar (US) tailor-made suite holiday. As for us, we lingered a while, sat in a few chairs, dawdled around and failed to spot a single star. Maybe next time.
Predictions of storms throughout the Arabian Peninsula have proved accurate, the Bocelli performance was partially muted by wind, the Coldplay concert was awash and we have had a series of fantastic electrical storms resulting in lightning and thunderstorms, hail in many places and, believe it or not, snow in Ras al Khaimah, a neighbouring emirate. Warnings have been issues not to loiter around wadis, the usually dry river valleys, as downpours have resulted in flash flooding.
The effect is interesting to say the least and the media has been obsessed, the Crown Prince photographed in the paper up to his ankles in hail, houses have lost roofs and there are traffic accidents galore, or more galore than usual. The roads weren’t constructed with drainage in mind and the combination of water, oil and drivers inexperienced in wet conditions is lethal, literally so. Twelve people have been reported as having been killed in road accidents across the UAE due to the wet weather.
As for us, we thought the rain might wash clean the car after our trip to Al Wathba, but not so. Its state, covered in sand and dust inside and out, was a dead giveaway that we hadn’t altogether complied with the rental car agreement prohibiting off-road adventures.

A day at the races
It is political correctness gone mad we say, banning the trade Bangladeshi children, stolen or often sold by their parents, to ride as jockeys for the highly unusual but entertaining sport of camel racing. We hold human rights activists responsible for the now ridiculous sight of small, humanoid, remote-controled robots mounted upon camels, resplendent in racing silks and using whips like the very best horse-racing jockeys
But there we were, in our rented car, in the desert, miles from anywhere, armed only with directions from people who didn’t speak English, and with not even a compass or star to guide us. But three different approaches for assistance netted he same finger-pointing so we figured we couldn’t possibly go too far wrong, that was, until we
ran out of sealed road and onto a rutted track. Only partially deterred, we soldiered on like two intrepid Tonto’s, following wheel marks through the sand towards what looked to be a small, but shiny, pod-shaped grandstand in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dozens of four wheel drive wagons, trucks and scores of fine racing beasts. A camel track it proved to be and the race meeting was in full swing.
At first the policeman wouldn’t let our car through the narrow alleyway to what turned out to be the centre of the track. It was too dangerous he warned, but then relented and let us proceed, but only on our promise to park well away from the action. As it turned out his caution was well placed. The track is about 7 kilometers long in an almost elongated horseshoe shape (camels don’t have shoes) and each race is one circuit, finishing at the grandstand. To start, the camels are lined up behind a suspended screen and on the other side, directly in front, stable hands pull at them on ropes. Then the screen is lifted and the race is on. The stable hands that cannot get out of the way quickly, get run over and trampled (this is absolutely true), most of the camels then hurtle off down the course, while others head in other than the intended direction. It seems chaotic. The owners also take off, on both sides of the track, in their four-wheel drives, commentary blaring on radios, horns tooting and, no doubt, ensuring the robots give their charges a fair crack of the whip. It was quickly obvious why the policeman thought it was too dangerous for the only westerners on the course to be centre stage.
At the end of each race (the top ten camels are in the money), the handlers run on to the track and grab their camels, that is those ones that haven’t turned and headed off back down the track in the wrong direction. Camels, tired from the exertion, foam at the mouth making them look as though they are lathered, ready for a shave.
Marty, who had positioned himself adjacent to a TV camera at the start line intending to get action photos of the stable hands being trampled, but was ushered away by a steward, again on the basis that it was it was too dangerous. Anything can happen, he explained, clearly not wanting the maiming or possible premature death of an elderly white gentleman on his hands. By contrast, it appeared that stable boys were entirely expendable. We also learned, only after the race, that it is illegal to take photos on race tracks, and that policeman aggressively remove cameras and have miscreants hauled before the authorities. For that reason our photos should be revered.
Three times we had been to the camel track in search of racing and it was almost three times we didn’t find a single race. The Al Wathba course is about 45 kilometers out of Abu Dhabi, and it was here we were told races are held every Thursday and Friday during the season. Although still in season there was not a sign of racing on the Thursday we went out, but, on enquiring, an attendant at the Abu Dhabi Camel Racing Association office told us Saturday 28th would be the start of a big festival. That would be the day to come, so out again we went, only to find the festival didn’t start until the next day. Out once more and still no activity. We seemed destined to be cheated of this experience, but our repeated requests for help eventually netted the desired result. The racing wasn’t at Al Wathba, that day at all, but away in the back blocks, our perseverance rewarded with a dazzling display of racing at what could be described as a sort of Motukarara equivalent to Christchurch’s Riccarton racecourse. What better treat for Kaelene’s birthday?

The waiter’s friend
There was a rainstorm in Abu Dhabi today, about 48 spots in all on the bus windscreen, but plenty enough to get the wipers and the local media going. We arrived back in the Emirates on Tuesday night to reports of unsettled weather for the next five days, with rain, gales and storms predicted. Yesterday, winds of nearly 75 kilometres per hour almost caused the closure of Abu Dhabi airport, and also uprooted trees and caused widespread damage inland. While winds of that strength would barely raise an eyebrow at home, particularly at Wellington airport, New Zealand is not a country built in the desert. Sand storms reduced visibility to 50 metres at Dubai and here we were sent packing early from the beach when, suddenly whipped up by the wind, the flying sand gave us an involuntary skin peel. At the same time the temperature plummeted from the mid-thirties to the lowish twenties.
Indoors, the blown sand permeates everything, leaving a layer of coarse dust throughout. Glasses placed on the benchtop grate like fingernails down a blackboard, tiled floors are gritty moments after vacuuming and clothes hung out to dry assume a dull muddy colour. It is hell indeed; even Jade’s Porsche looks like no one loves her.
Upon our return to Abu Dhabi we realised that earlier comments about the traffic here may have been overstated. Compared to Cairo, it is positively orderly where even driving on the correct side of the road seems not a complete priority. Here, the older-style white and gold cabs are Toyota Corollas and in relatively good order, with metres that work. Not so there. While some cabs have meters, they could barely be described as even decorative; old and discoloured and none of them work. Fares are negotiated prior to the commencement of a journey, that is, if you are wise.
Earlier we had reported that the Cairo taxi fleet comprised 80,000 Ladas but, in fact, many are of Romanian and other Eastern European origin. Each and every one seems in a terrible state of disrepair, and few would be deemed roadworthy, let alone warrantable, by New Zealand standards. One cabbie scornfully told us how unreliable the Eastern European cars are, he from the comfort of his own decrepit vehicle of French origin.
Other public transport seemed equally haphazard, ranging from buses, which Westerners are recommended not to use, to commer-style vans which appear to pick up and drop off passengers at will. Some we observed drove with doors open, bits dangling off them, and with passengers hanging on, getting on and off where ever and when ever they felt like it. Bedlam.
Culture shock it may have been, but Kaelene has now tracked down and brought a trusty waiter’s friend so we can enjoy our duty-free Egyptian Omar Khayyam and Obelisk reds while we recover. No more wrestling stubborn corks for us.

I can see for miles and miles
From the Cairo Tower, 187 metres tall, you can get a good idea of the layout and size of a city that houses more than 18 million people. The drab, brown buildings spread in all directions as far as they eye can see, or at least as far as the vehicle haze and other pollution will allow. There are here 80,000 taxis alone. In the south-west the pyramids are on the horizon, standing tall on the plateau above nearby houses, in the south-east clearly visible the Citadel which overlooks Cairo and its old quarter. Running from south to north, the Nile, the lifeline of the city and along whose banks lie the flash hotels, the downtown shops and markets, and the Museum. So too the street vendors, the felucca boat operators and horse and carriage drivers, constantly touting for trade, and the floating restaurants and house-boats. Dissecting the river are the 15 May, 26 July, 6 October bridges, in the distance the Cairo Zoo and the adjacent University, and in Mohandesseen the Balloon Theatre and National Circus. On Zamalek Island are parks, gardens and sporting grounds, the Opera House and Modern Art galleries, the latter of which were closed when we tried to visit.
What was open and we discovered it only by chance was the Islamic Ceramics Museum with its collection dating from the 8th century AD. Beautiful bowls, plates, jugs and, yes, water filters from Egypt, Morocco, Persia and Iran, Turkey, and Syria. The museum is housed in an old palace (of Prince Ibrahim apparently), quite a stunning building in its own right. Unfortunately, the adjoining contemporary art gallery was closed; we seemed destined not to see local modern art.
Impressive too was the Citadel, a complex of fortified mosques and palaces, which for 800 years was the political hub of Cairo. A history purchased by Kaelene describes it as a military stronghold and elevated royal city, its fortress the stage upon which the rulers of Egypt acted out bloody dramas of power and ambition, the Citadel symbolizing the domination of slave kings, pashas and colonial governors. And, incidentally, the home of an-Nasr Muhammed with his harem of 1200 concubines. Undoubtedly the treasure for Kaelene was the Gawhara Palace with its beautiful furniture and gild-framed paintings and mirrors.
Hidden behind the ruins of the old city walls and the Magra El Eyoun aqueduct we caught sight of slums and derelict buildings, and the very, very poor. Street vendors squatting in the dirt and filth were selling anything to make a few piastas, underfed horses and donkeys pulling ramshackle old carts with their wooden trays and wobbly old car wheels, sometimes running on no more than rusted rims, and streets of nothing more than rutted dirt and rubbish. We passed the North Cemetery where thousands of poor actually live among the dead. There was nothing to recommend poverty as a lifestyle.
We have not seen all we wanted in Egypt, having but scratched the surface of Cairo. We should also have gone to Luxor with its Valleys of the Kings and Queens and Luxor and Karnack temples. It may be that, in countries like this and with limited time, independent travelling is a false economy and we should consider succumbing to the orthodoxy of an organized tour. Perhaps next time.

The origin of the boomerang and other Egyptian tales
We all know that Australians have a reputation for claiming the best of New Zealand as their own, the ubiquitous pavlova, Phar Lap and Split Enz to name but a few. What we have learned is that such cultural theft is not confined to New Zealand. The National Egyptian Museum has an outstanding collection of boomerang: wooden, ivory, ceramic and even pottery ones, all used for hunting by early Egyptian in just the way we associate with out trans-Tasman neighbours. Our guide told us of the great pleasure he derives in telling Australian tourists that Egypt, not Australia, is the original home of the boomerang. The Australians do not believe it of course, but it transpires that the boomerang is truly international with origins traced to Europe, Africa, and India as well as Australia.
Depending on which source you believe, the Egyptian Museum houses as many as 250,000 artifacts dating back to the start of the country’s archaic period, around 3,100 BC. Perhaps the highlight was the galleries which hold many of the treasures uncovered from the tomb of King Tut Ankh Amon. This is gold to die for. His mummified body was placed in a solid gold inner casket, in turn that was put in a gold leaf outer casket and that, in turn, housed within a gilded one. These caskets were then contained within a series of gilded wooden containers, eight in all, each of which fitted inside the other, not in a manner dissimilar to the way Babushka dolls work. King Tut was about five foot tall, the largest box probably around the same size as a small shipping container. There was too the King’s crown and burial mask, a series of three elaborate mummification tables, a small throne, some beds and furniture, chariots, weapons and shields, jewelry and other trinkets. All of these entombed with him to assist in the afterlife.
Stone statues and carvings are an important feature of Egyptian history and there are literally tons of stonework here tracing the early history of the two lands, Upper and Lower Egypt, the development of hieroglyphics, the various dynasties, occupations and then the Roman and Greek influences. There is a replica of the Rosetta Stone which contains a Greek translation of hieroglyphic text, which allowed its modern interpretation. Like many other Egyptian treasures, the original Rosetta stone is housed in the British Museum. Dating from 196 BC, the stone was discovered by soldiers of Napoleon’s army in 1799.
Mummies too, perhaps one of the things Egypt is best known for, are here literally by the dozen: children, women and men, and people of different social standing. We learned how the mummification process takes place, the removal of the brain through the nose and the storage of the bodily organs in stone jars, wrapping of the body in bandages after a forty day salting process, and the painting of a mask depicting the person’s face on the outside of the mummy so the spirit knows which body to return to. Many paintings show the heart being weighed after death; if it is lighter than a feather then it is proof that the person has lived a worthy life.
Like many of the world’s great museums and galleries, a problem with having so much on display is that it becomes difficult to absorb so much information in a short time. Here the problem is compounded by the lack of facilities and any opportunity to simply sit down and contemplate. Even the bookshop is impossibly small to have a decent browse which was a disappointment. Given the money generated by the busloads of people constantly arriving some reinvestment in the museum would enhance the experience of visitors.

The red Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
It is not often that Kaelene is given to criminal tendencies, but she didn’t hesitate to encourage Marty to steal cutlery from the hotel dining room on Saturday night in order to force the cork on the bottle of red wine that we had smuggled into our hotel room. Smuggled that is, against the express instruction of management that food and drink are not to be brought from outside the hotel to be consumed within. Cutlery it had to be as corkscrews are a rare commodity in an Islamic country, and impossible to find by scouring the local shops. We would be reduced to having to perform the delicate procedure of forcing the cork into the bottle rather than extracting it in the usual fashion, but more of that later.
We had found a selection of wine in a small shop in the trendy suburb of Zamalek, home to Cairo’s diplomatic quarter and intellectual university types, which is why we were there of course. At 40 Egyptian pounds per bottle (around $NZ14), our Omar Khayyam Vin Rouge was considerably less expensive than the 160 pounds we paid the previous evening at the Abou El Said restaurant, just off the unusually-named 26 July Street. We had gone there at the recommendation of our hotel concierge, and clearly this was a place frequented by Cairo’s beautiful people. Situated discretely behind elegant wooden doors and almost without signage, the place was beautiful, and we quickly gained the impression that a couple of hapless New Zealanders wearing little but jandals and shorts were not their preferred clientele. But there we were and could stay, as long as we were gone by eight, the Maitre’ D informed us.
As it turned out the food was delicious; an old Egyptian recipe of chicken on rice and covered with a rich walnut sauce. Also on the menu, as in many other restaurants here, pigeon, with one offering the choice of a single pigeon or a flock. If this is third-world Cairo, then let’s have more.
One night of excess, however, requires a week of moderation and we were subsequently forced to eat in our own hotel dining room (we were the only ones there) before scuttling back to the room for our tipple of contraband wine. But it is not a simple matter, trying to force a cork into a bottle using nothing more than a stolen teaspoon. Physicists will understand: the cork resists being pushed into the bottle because of the compression of air and liquid. Overcoming this requires brute force and, with it, the risk of red wine spraying all over the room at the very point the cork overcomes the resistance and slips into the bottle. Not a good look when wine is forbidden at all.
Thus it became our battle with the bottle. As could be predicted, the cork fought all attempts to successfully dislodge it and, fearing a catastrophic accident, a tactical decision was made to continue the operation in the bathroom. As the cork became more firmly entrenched halfway down the neck of the bottle so did Kaelene’s concern over possible damage to Marty’s only pair of jeans and shirt. There was no option but for them to be removed. So there he was, stark naked but for one sock, wresting the bottle on the bathroom floor, and the teaspoon abandoned in favour of a biro. With success came the first glass, resplendent with a nib and a little ink-colouring as mementos of the valiant struggle. For those extras there was no additional charge.
The travel tip we have learned from this experience is never to leave home without our waiter’s friend.

The baksheesh blues
Concierge is rather a rather flash title given to the doorman at our hotel. More accurately he could be described as a leader of the baksheesh boys, baksheesh being the colloquial term for a form of tipping, a charge which is applied on top of any fees or taxes for goods and services, and the oil which appears to make this city work. But it is not quite that simple, baksheesh extends the boundaries of paying a gratuity to things you didn’t expect, ask for, and usually don’t want. And this can become tiresome.
For example, on our guided trip to the pyramids, we stopped for lunch and immediately we alighted the van, a band assembled and ushered us into the restaurant to a particularly hideous din. Baksheesh please! We were then ushered to watch a local woman bake the flat bread we were about to eat. Baksheesh please! You are welcome to take a photo the guide says. Baksheesh please! Then there is the tip for the waiting staff, and then the tour guide, and so on and on and on it goes. A pound for the toilet attendant, another for the toilet paper, is nothing sacred?
It is an insidious practice and infiltrates everything, like osmosis. A local will ask where you are from, engage in banter and there you go, the hand goes out for as much as fifty local pounds, and you are left feeling obliged to pay and wondering how it happened, and what it was for. It is oppressive to the extent that you become guarded and suspicious when anyone engages you in conversation, even those who may not want anything.
No one is immune and we are easy prey. A casual nod from the Tourist policeman on his camel, indicating that it is okay to take his photo, results in a subsequent demand for baksheesh. Refusal meets with an aggressive response so who would? Another ten pounds changes hands.
Getting out of the hotel each morning is like the running of the bulls. The minute you are spotted the concierge starts a relentless interrogation to learn your plans and what opportunities might exist for him to assist you, usually starting by getting a conveniently situated driver to transport you at a higher than the going rate price to get you where you want to go. And again you are powerless to resist, because you rely on these people to give instructions to drivers and assist in daily advice. Life can be miserable if you cross them. And, of course, we want to get the airport intact when we leave.

A cluster of icons
We have an idea to contribute to the New Zealand job summit; that is if the recession is still on. We learned on Wednesday that it took more than 20,000 workers to build the pyramids and carve the Sphinx on the Giza Plateau, just on the outskirts of Cairo. Such job-creation could be replicated at home, better by far than a national bike track or working a nine day fortnight.
It is hard to know quite what to expect when coming face-to-limestone-block with an icon, or in this case a cluster of icons. The famous Pyramids of Giza (Cheops, Hephren and Mycerinus) and accompanying Sphinx are magnificent. The only remaining of the original Seven Wonders of the World, they are accessible to tourists in a way that would not be imagined of such important treasures in any other country. Within minutes of arrival at Giza we joined hundreds of other tourists clambering all over some of the 2.5 million limestone blocks that comprise the Cheops (or Great) Pyramid for the “we’ve been there” photos. There are no restrictions and people roam the whole area at will.
It is difficult to imagine just how big the pyramids are and how complex the engineering feats must have been to construct them or, for that matter, simply transporting blocks of such size the 600 kilometers from places such as Luxor to Giza. Until the building of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Great Pyramid was the tallest man-made structure in the world, quite a lasting feat for an ancient civilization.
What surprised us was the number of pyramids in Egypt. There are over one hundred of them, all on the West bank of the Nile, with the ones at Giza being the best known. Those we saw included a number of small pyramids for various queens and the original stepped pyramid, for King Zoser at Sakkara.
At Memphis, a museum has been constructed to house monuments to King Ramsis II and for other relics from the ancient Egyptian capital. Again it is hard to comprehend how such huge statues and treasures could be built from single pieces of rock, let alone be transported to the sites where they lay.
But the day was not all pyramids and other precious stones; we learned how papyrus is made into paper and adorned with traditional Egyptian and Islamic painting and we visited a carpet-making school. It is described as a school because children, from the age of six, are put to work learning how to weave the most exquisite carpets but, as well as learning the craft of carpet-making, these children apparently have lessons in the more traditional academic pursuits. It is astonishing to see the accuracy of and speed at which carpet-weavers work and interesting to learn that is can take as much as three months to weave a single square metre of fine silk mat. We were of course pleased to learn that New Zealand wool is used in some of the carpets and that Marty has champagne tastes, or so the factory owner told Kaelene when he picked, as his favourite, a silk carpet on sale at the discount price of $NZ50,000.

Blondie goes shopping
Blondie could barely believe such coincidence, but it was true, or so we were assured. The friendly Egyptian man had opened his new perfume shop only that day and, by chance or in unknown anticipation of our visit, he had named his new business Kia Ora. That is what the Egyptian signage read he assured us, and we guessed we just had to take his word for it. Just as we believed the man selling Chanel sunglasses who replied, when Kaelene pointed out the label said Made in China, that the sunglasses themselves were made in Italy, it was just the label that was made in China. Consistent with her usual polite self, Kaelene refrained from pointing out that Chanel is a French brand, not Italian, and that five euro, best price, seemed a bit light for genuine designer eyewear.
This was the Khan el Khalili bazaar in old Cairo, a maze of streets and alleyways packed with stalls selling everything from tourist trinkets to jewelry, spices, clothes, carpets, material, paintings, household goods and smoking apparatus. You name it, everything aimed at separating tourists from their money, but all at a good negotiable price, and there is good stuff. Were it not that we are trying to travel light we would have brought some Ouds, beautiful guitar-like musical instruments, and Dumbek drums, and any number of old Arabic photographs.
The Khan el Khalili bazaar was the scene only weeks ago of a bomb which killed a person and injured several others. Today tourist police are there by the dozen to ensure safety, but not even they could have anticipated the greatest danger to order being Marty losing his footing and slipping down a dozen steps. In the event, the only threat was to dignity and composure rather than life and limb.
In fact security everywhere in Cairo is high. Entry to hotels and tourist venues requires passing through metal detectors, armed police roam the streets and tourist police with machine guns are highly visible, including on camels at the pyramids. But they are user-friendly, for around ten Egyptian pounds they’ll let you take their photo.
Egyptian men are known for their expressions of interest in women, Western women in particular, and we, or at least Kaelene, were not immune. Not only did a number of men call out, referring to her as Blondie, they gave Marty gestures or that knowing look indicating they thought she was a bit of alright. At our age it could be flattering, but not so for the Australian woman at the hotel who regaled us with her story of being groped by a taxi driver the previous day. The price paid apparently for sitting in the front seat.

Dear Our Guest
Due to The Instruction of The Ministry of Tourism and The Ministry of Health to Prevent or Accompany any Request for Food or Drinks From Outside The Hotel. For sake of Your Safety, The Hotel Management Demands Commitment Instructions With You.
With The Best Wishes in Good Accommodation.
Pharaoh Egypt Hotel
We knew from the outset that, in the unlikely event that we could comprehend and comply with this demand, we would have mastered Cairo, the capital city of Egypt. Earlier, our arrival into Africa’s largest city could best be described as landing at an aerodrome than international airport. Our Emirates Boeing 777 was ushered onto a rough piece of tarmac and Kaelene’s quip that we may have to clamber down rope ladders to exit proved almost true. No air bridges here, just pull-up steps, Terminal 2 resembling more the old domestic terminal at Wellington airport than a first-class arrival lounge.
If first impressions count, they were mixed. Our arrangements for a transfer from airport to city proved perfect and went without a hitch. Similarly, the Pharaoh Egypt, our hotel, while more than just a little faded, has plentiful, friendly staff, is comparatively inexpensive and not too far from the centre of town. The traffic, however, is something else. If we had thought the road rules seemed hazy in Abu Dhabi they appear nonexistent here, it is bedlam. There seems no car on the road not battered and bruised, the taxis mostly beaten up old black and white Lada’s with hand-painted signage. There are brightly painted, old trucks and rough, aged buses, donkeys and horses pulling wagons with all manner of goods, fruit, rubbish, vegetables, anything at all. Progress is made by weaving among (in and out would suggest a sense of order) the teeming traffic, confusion added to by the constantly tooting of horns and gesticulations. People cross the roads by just wandering out and applying the same skills, there are no such things as pedestrian crossings.
Brown apartment blocks, often crumbling or seemingly half-built, dominate the skyline, washing suspended from mid-air clotheslines and dust and dirt everywhere. First-world this ain’t, and a trip to Memphis (not Tennessee), the ancient capital of Egypt, illustrates that impression. Shops no more than shanties are open to the dirt and grime on rutted roads, there are butchers shops where uncovered carcasses hang outside in the sun, plastic drums on the road filled with waste. Locals get around in battered Toyota utes or on donkeys with cart loads of produce, the buildings are decrepit and rivers filthy, their banks strewn with all manner of rubbish, plastic and worn tyres both obvious culprits.
Solace had to be found, we were forced to the Hard Rock Café, nestled securely inside the Cairo Grand Hyatt Hotel on the banks of the Nile, for food and Egyptian red wine.

On the road again
It may be 35 degrees outside, but indoors at the FlySkiDubai indoor ski slope at the Mall of the Emirates it is minus 3 degrees. While that may not be as cold as a Berlin winter’s day, there is something unusual about an indoor ski field at a shopping mall in Dubai. But in a world where anything goes there can be few surprises.
We are on the road, this time getting ready to depart tomorrow for Cairo. What we have learned to day, en route aboard the Emirates Express, is that 42 million date palms have been planted in the UAE in the past ten years. Something for the Guinness Book of Records we are told.
But enough of that, Cairo awaits.

Life’s a beach
Life has slowed to a snail’s pace, almost. There is a simple routine most days, particularly as the weather gets warmer. Walk to the bus stop, take the bus to the Co-op on Zayed the First street, walk to the beach spend a couple of hours lying in the sun and swimming, followed by a Baskin Robbins ice cream (so many flavours we have not yet worked our way through them) and then home. That takes most of the day, but within that simple routine we have mastered much. We have learned to jaywalk with the best of them, crossing main roads, four lanes wide in each direction, timing each run between the relentless surges of speeding traffic.
The weather patterns are similar to Canterbury, just warmer and with no rain. The sea breeze, like the easterly at home, provides coolish relief from the heat of the sun while the hot winds off the desert, like the nor-wester, simply sap all available energy. The sandstorms, prevalent at this time of the year, produce a haze across the skyline and fill houses with dust and sand builds up on roads.
The seawater is almost clear and there are shoals of little cockabully-like fish that dart around as you enter. Marty stood on what looked like a small stingray the other day, about a foot across and barbed tail, fortunately it swam away rather than taking a swipe.
But it is not all indolence. Abu Dhabi is an island connected to the mainland by a couple of bridges and surrounded by dozens of smaller islands. We have explored most of the main island by car, heading in random directions and finding such things as the gates to the Ruler’s palace (we were dissuaded from going further by a sentry with sub machinegun) and areas where the ruling families are building mansions along the shores. After three attempts we finally located the Iranian souk, an outdoor market selling everything from plants and firewood to ceramic pots and plastic house ware. Near there, the fish market and harbour, where the dhows are lined up after a day’s fishing, nets piled on their decks and the crew’s washing out to dry.
We make friends too. Mr Noushad, the young Indian man who has lost his driving job because of the recession and wants us to hire him as a driver in New Zealand. “Don’t forget me please,” he says as we depart. A young Filipino woman tells us that this place may be rich in money, but nowhere near as rich as the natural beauty of the Philippines. She implores us to visit. Another Filipino, a man, complains about the litter in Abu Dhabi, blaming the Indians and Pakistanis. He is right that many people here have a careless attitude towards litter and it is not unusual to find plastic bags and other junk polluting the seashore and streets. And while there is an army of migrant workers to pick up afterwards there seems little to encourage people to take more care. Or perhaps Jade is right, maybe they don’t even notice.

PJ’s oasis
We have discovered a splendid little oasis right in the heart of downtown Abu Dhabi. Thursday a week ago we tracked it down, and we were so pleased with ourselves we went back this Thursday. Described as a “faux Irish” bar, P.J. O’Reilly’s serves up traditional pub grub and half price drinks until 7.00pm each evening, half price being about the same as the standard charge in New Zealand. The high cost of alcohol in the Emirates is a result of supply being restricted to western resort-style hotels to which high-earning ex-pats flock and from which, supposedly, locals stay away. A few of the resort hotels have theme-bars replicating Irish or English pubs which suit us fine, but mostly the restaurants and bars are too expensive for budget tourists like us, other than for the occasional treat.
Such economies, along with the desire to experience local food, led us downtown recently looking for the perfect shawarma: meat sliced from a spit with potato, soaked in a yoghurt or hummus sauce, seasoned with spices and herbs and wrapped in unleavened bread. Just behind the Abu Dhabi Islamic Bank we found Jabel al Noor whose shawarna Time Out rated six out of seven stars, describing them as wonderful critters. “Chunky meat, a rich tahini taste, the tantalising hint of spice and just the right amount of pickle. We agreed, they were mouth-wateringly delicious, and with salad and fries cost 10 dirham (about $NZ6) apiece.
From our seats at Jabel al Noor we could see in the distance the evening lights of the Khadilia Sheraton Hotel. It advertises lunches and evening meals starting at 120 dirham per head (drinks extra) and, while the ambience may be more sophisticated, it is hard to imagine their food tasting anywhere near as good as that served at this humble, back-street eatery. Such is the difference between the West and Middle East.
When waiting for the bus each day, we usually see little clusters of cylindrical metal food containers with provisions for the migrants workers employed on nearby road construction or building sites. Each container has a coloured sticker on the top, but beyond that we had paid little attention. That is until reading Slumdog Millionaire which identified these little containers as tiffins. Derived from the Indian word for snack, a tiffin is a series of stacking containers secured by a tension clip on the side, each container able to be filled with separate food or liquid. The stickers denote the content of each. No beef for Hindus, no pork for Muslims and no flesh at all for vegetarians, and woe betide any tiffin boy who gets it wrong. It makes the lunch requirements for a meeting of macrobiotic, gluten-free, vegan, vegetarian, and allergy-prone unionists look simple.

I’d walk a mile for a camel
We were almost the proud owners of a million dirham racing camel. It had outstanding pedigree, proven form and was a bargain at the price, or so the young man told us. But the clue that the camel wasn’t his to sell was the realisation that the genuine dealers in the yards were not distracted by the only white tourists in the place and got on with the business of trading with locals. Undeterred, the young man then demanded 50 dirham for showing us a two-day old camel he had guided us too beforehand. Fat chance, we were feeling lucky. Our inbuilt GPS was working and we had found our way without incident to the Al Ain camel and livestock market, the location of which had recently moved from the centre of town to a new purpose-built place in the middle of nowhere and which, according to Google maps, didn’t exist.
The market was a camel-fanciers heaven, dozens of pens of these much revered creatures: big ones, small ones, camel-coloured ones, believe it or not, and black ones too, some for racing, others for breeding and, for unlucky ones, the adjacent abattoir. Also for sale, goats and sheep, the former with long lanky mottled ears and the latter, fluffy little hoggets. They all seemed quite cute.
About an hour and a half drive inland from the coast, Al Ain is an oasis city sitting on the border between Oman and the UAE, unkindly compared to Ashburton in terms of excitement value by our friends the Nicholls who were stationed at the local university for three years. These days it is now very much an historical centre. The find of our day undoubtedly the Al Jahili Fort which has a permanent exhibition of photographs by Wilfred Thesiger, an explorer who wandered what is known as the empty quarter of Arabia for five years, from 1945 to 1950. With the assistance and friendship of the Bedu people, Thesiger traveled and dressed as they did, refusing all modern assistance and, for his efforts, has produced quite exquisite records, both photographic and written. “Only in the desert could a man find freedom,” he wrote. “I would rather be here starving, as I was, than sitting in a chair, replete with food, listening to the wireless and dependent on cars to take me through Arabia.”
Al Ain itself is something of a city of forts and watchtowers originally built mainly to provide protection to the village communities around the oasis. Jahili Fort is the largest mud-brick fort in the area, which has been restored and is currently set up to host the ninth Al Aim classics festival, including outdoor concerts by the Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra, the Vienna Philharmonic and an original adaptation of Shakespeare’s Richard III, in Arabic.
On a roll, we took in the Sheik Zayed Palace Museum, the Al Ain National Museum and then a quick trip through the lush palm plantations of the Oasis. We learned too that, between six and eight million years ago, Abu Dhabi had a climate and vegetation similar to the lush pastures of eastern Africa, Kenya in particular. Fossilised remains have been discovered of elephants, hippopotamus, crocodiles and hyena. Incredible but true.

We are the smart travelers
Kaelene predicted an erosion of the social order in Abu Dhabi, so this is not a situation which could be put down to the benefit of hindsight. It was plain that the introduction of charging for previously free transport on city buses would alter dynamics for the worse, and so it has been. Just yesterday a man refused to relinquish a priority seat, leaving several ladies standing for an entire journey. Such would never have happened before. Neither too the Somali teenager who aggressively demanded to be let off while the bus was stationary at traffic lights. So aggressive that he tried to seize the controls and open the doors himself, only dissuaded when the driver grabbed his arm and forcibly restrained him.
There are now several options to pay for travel. A monthly Ojra (Arabic for fare) pass at a cost of 40 dirham ($21.52) allows unlimited journeys while a daily pass costs 3 dirham. Failing that, a passenger is required to put a one dirham coin in a collection box. Drivers steadfastly refuse to give change, so if a passenger doesn’t have a dirham coin they get kicked off. Simple, and it happens regularly, but for one recent passenger who remonstrated with the driver, demanding change for a note and refusing to get off the bus when told. What then developed was the Abu Dhabi standoff. The driver brought the bus to a standstill between stops, got out of his seat, went halfway down the bus and the two continued what had by then become a shouting match. A number of passengers tried to intervene, offering change and then the dirham to both driver and passenger, but to no avail. By then it was a matter of pride and neither would accept the money or back down, the stalemate eventually broken in three-way phone discussions with a transport company manager.
Passengers regularly get dressed down for some infraction or another, today a man wasn’t waiting at the right part of the bus stop and he copped an earful, the other day a woman got in the wrong door. An Englishman regaled Kaelene with a story that on one trip he experienced, the driver stopped the bus in the middle of the road, got out of his seat, walked down the aisle and closed a window towards the rear of the bus. He then gave the passengers a lengthy lecture about having the window open while the air conditioning was on, it did not matter one iota that traffic built up behind, car drivers blaring horns in a chorus of frustration.
As for us, we are the smart travelers and have our monthly Ojra pass, and dare not put a foot wrong.
Disclaimer: The photo is of the most laid-back driver on the number 32 route. He exhibits none of the bad characteristics described above.

The eyes have it
Eyeball scanning, perhaps a modern day truth serum? A probe through the eyes (and into the brain?) is now standard procedure applied to those attempting to enter the UAE at the Al Ain border. Was this, we wondered, an attempt to extract any seditious thoughts or indecent proposals lying within the deepest, darkest cavities of our minds?
Whatever, they must have through something was up. A camera posed one set of digitally-voiced instructions while the operator gave a contradictory set. If the talking camera directed us to move closer to the lens, the man demanded we move back. We, unlike others being processed, seemed incapable of following either set of commands. Perhaps exasperated at our lack of comprehension or having found no evidence of a brain, the border officials eventually let us go, stamped our passports and we were on our way.
This was our fourth crossing between Oman and the UAE, each time was different. Previously we had found the wrong border exit from Al Aim, at Al Buraymi, a crossing used by locals who inhabit an approximately 40 kilometers stretch of no-man’s land between UAE and Oman. Residents come and go at will, just using some sort of local identity card. So, unused to western tourists, an official told us we’d have to go to a hut to sort out exit arrangements. There, alone, in the corner of what looked to be a disused hangar, a man took our money and sent us next door to have our passports stamped. We found the room, a door with a sign, Visas, scrawled in handwriting above it, but locked and with no-one in sight. Looking helpless we somehow managed to attract attention, the necessary stamps and depart.
Similarly, each time we crossed there were different requirements with the rental car. Earlier, the focus had been on showing that the car was adequately insured for Oman, later just to prove we were in legitimate control was sufficient. Who cares about insurance anyway?
We have been unable as yet to solve the puzzle of why New Zealanders are not required to pay an entry visa charge into Oman and are allowed to stay for three months as opposed to the thirty days for nationals of all other countries. Each time, we have crossed the border Omani officials have told us, proudly so, of this special arrangement with New Zealand. While there are vague references to this on government websites, there is no real explanation. Perhaps it is because we are nicer.

Bloomin’ algae

A mystery has been solved. On February 26 we reported a carpet of dead fish on the coastline of Sohar in Oman, but could provide no explanation aside from some speculation that there has been an explosion associated with nearby construction. Not so, we have learned. Algal bloom is to blame, the red tide. Our minds are at ease.

A golden oasis, where the hospitality lives
We thought of changing into fresh clothes before going for dinner at the hotel restaurant, but thought again, realising of course that we would have to change immediately afterwards. As in Dusseldorf, there was not the remotest chance that the restaurant would be smokefree, and so it turned out to be.
The Hotel Golden Oasis in Muscat boasts several bars and restaurants with exotic names such as Mer-Maid, the Captain’s Cafe (“a place where you can relax and spread good cheer by shooting your tired mind by playing pool table and darts along with your favourite beverage”) and Cleopatra’s, but most were closed. We found the Ubar Restaurant, through a covered walkway, up a flight of dingy stairs and through two doorways. Here it was, full of Omani men drinking and smoking, their gazes fixed on a TV broadcasting live Saudi Arabian soccer at high-volume, and the staff, Philipino women and a young Indian male waiter, keeping the men replenished with a steady flow of imported canned beer.
The menu was reasonable, quite cheaply priced and featuring mainly Indian with some Arabic food. We chose well, a beer (Fosters) each to start, a couple of Indian dishes to share, breads and rice, and a carafe of house wine, the red. The latter proved to be the challenge. Apparently the house red was unavailable, so they brought out a wine menu which had another, slightly more expensive one. We ordered that, but it too was not on hand, red apparently only able to be provided by the glass. It came out, chilled, in mismatching champagne flutes and, by the look, measured by nip rather than glass.
As the soccer progressed and spectators became more boisterous, we noticed by chance the food arriving, delivered in plastic bags presumably from a nearby takeaway, each dish sealed in gladwrap. An interesting process indeed for a restaurant to order in food to serve its guests. Then, inexplicably, a jug of red wine arrived, chilled and with a lid to keep it cold.
This might read like a bad review but it certainly isn’t the case. The food was delicious, the wine more than drinkable, and the staff went out of their way to ensure that their not-so-usual clientele had an enjoyable evening. The waiter was attentive and eager, and seemed so pleased that he was able to serve wine in flutes. The bill later revealed that the initial “nips” of red may just have been a sample to see if we liked it. But most of all, the evening was one of life’s little vignette’s, allowing us to enjoy a few hours totally immersed in someone else’s world but without intruding. So good, we went back the next night, and the red wine was waiting.

On culture and respect
On an earlier visit to Dubai we visited the Jumeriah Mosque in Dubai, at that stage it was the only mosque in the United Arab Emirates accessible to non-Muslims, open as a way of building understanding of Islam. All of the pre-visit instructions outlined the dress codes and prior to entry into the mosque the instructions were repeated and clothing made available to those who had arrived in unsuitable garb. In essence, all that is asked is that knees and shoulders are covered and, in the mosque, a woman’s head. A simple instruction, but inside there were a number of people who had failed to heed what had been at least three requests. Such failure can only be put down to ignorance.
Modesty also dictates that, in public, knees and shoulders are covered and that people do not generally touch in embrace, but as an accommodation to modern tourism, such convention is relaxed in resorts and on public beaches to allow skimpy swimsuits, including bikinis for women and, we suppose, men with ample moobs. Aside from a strict ban on nudity, these are not hard and fast rules, but westerners are asked to be mindful that they are in a country where men and women are very modest and devout in their adherence to the Muslim faith.
It is curious, therefore, that fondling and what could be termed on a family blog as an advanced level of foreplay seems to have become a quite common sight with Westerners on the beach. Particularly curious, since two British people were jailed and recently deported after being caught on the Dubai foreshore engaged in a form of intimate engagement.
Trust us; these are not the ramblings of a couple of born-again prudes (in fact, the opposite would be the case), but a comment on the lack of respect shown by some ex-pats and tourists to Middle-Eastern culture. The old saying, “When in Rome” springs to mind.
Locals do not generally like to be photographed without permission, so it seems invasive and, to an extent, voyeuristic to ask them to pose for the digital contentment of strangers. But what shots there would be: the old Afghani men with often badly henna-dyed beards, the dishdashahs and differing styles of headgear worn by men, the abeyas and burquas of the women, the weather beaten faces of fisherman, the groups of men that sit around in the evening outside shops or on the sides of roads, talking and smoking, and the migrant workers who sit on the grass waiting to be picked up after work and taken to their hostels. Off the main roads there are the old fishing villages with boats pulled up on beaches where men lay their nets out to dry, houses with goats and sheep wandering around foraging, amusingly at one place a goat standing on the roof of a car parked in a lean-to, and school children in lovely clean, bright uniforms out playing.
These are rich scenes indeed but confined to memory rather than photographic image.