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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.