Ping-Pong diplomacy
She is more of a man than you will ever be and even more of a woman, the advertising says. She being collectively the ladyboys of Simon Cabaret, and what an extravaganza. One and a quarter hours of non-stop transsexual burlesque; song, dance and humour in a tightly choreographed performance. The quick-change sets are outstanding (everything from Hollywood and Japan to Egypt) and the costumes a brilliant array of feathers and things that sparkle. It is the perfect cliché and the Japanese in the audience cheered with delight at the Oriental section of the show. What a show and not to be missed.
It would be remiss of us to spend a month in Thailand and not comment on the entertainment industry, Patong being right up there with Pattaya and Bangkok among the country’s famed red-light hotspots. Years ago, we spent a few days in Bangkok and for some reason didn’t quite anticipate the sight of love-bitten, usually ugly, white men in the streets, arm-in-arm with beautiful young Thai women or boys. It looked unpleasantly exploitative and must have sparked a latent puritanical streak; we stayed away from Patpong and had no real desire to return to that part of the world.
However, we must have toughened up because, to be blunt, we expected Patong to be much raunchier than it is. We anticipated the Wild West, the internet and guide books warn visitors to leave their prejudices at home or to stay away if offended by a town influenced by sex shows and abounding in prostitutes and ladyboys.
Reality often tempers perception, or perhaps the authorities got in first as our girls tell us that Patong has quietened down since they first visited some years ago. Then, they say, naked women danced the tables in the open-air bars, and put on other, more graphic, displays indoors. It transpires that the police have cracked down, not only on motorcyclists failing to carry their licenses, but on all manner of things including many of the organised scams to rip tourist off and the overt nature of the sex industry. And it has had an effect.
This is not to imply that the sex industry is not here. This is a party town and the Australians and Europeans want their money’s worth. The Aussie miners over for the wedding certainly found one of the legendary shows where Ping -Pong and emptying goldfish into a bowl are the order of the day, but even then they complained about the quality of the performance and price of the beer.
One young man we chatted to at a bar one night explained how the scene works. The bars employ women to lure men in and get them drinking, “hello welcome” they chant as you approach. Then there are the prostitutes who just get on with business and, lastly, there is a large contingent of women who attach themselves to male companions for the time of their visit here. From our observation, many look utterly bored, but content to keep company of foreign men and, in turn, be looked after for a period of time.
It does not look anything near as exploitative as in Bangkok, there is fun here to be had for most. We observed three young women at the Kiwi Bar one evening toying with a young English chap. Our friend, the bar owner told this man had spent 20,000 baht ($NZ1,000) on beer and women in the previous two days in Patong, and these girls were intent on ensuring he kept the spending going. There was no doubt as who was suckering who.

Beware the tout
We have learned, much to our good fortune, that we are neither psychopaths nor sociopaths, but good, honest, and mostly law abiding people. Such knowledge was acquired watching the Larry King Live show on CNN, the determining factor being that psychopaths and sociopaths have under-active sweat glands. These felons simply don’t sweat, no matter what and that’s what makes them look so claim and collected under pressure. This is not us. At first Marty thought he was having menopausal flushes, but it is just the temperature here. A short walk to the shops and our clothes are literally stained with perspiration, within minutes of lying by the pool, rivulets of sweat trickle down bodies, in Kaelene’s case collecting in the small of her back like a salty Aswan Dam. It may be uncomfortable, but we are secure in the knowledge that our souls are pure.
Between the heat of the day and occasional cloudburst we are managing a little sightseeing, but just in little bits. Kamala and Surin beaches to the north, Karon and Kata to the south and, beyond them, fabulous viewpoints looking back north. At the southernmost tip of the Island, Promthep Cape which apparently provides spectacular views of the setting sun; the pity for us was that we were there in the morning. On the West Coast, Rawai beach, Chalong Bay and the sacred Buddhist temple, Wat Chalong.
One of the pitfalls of organised tours is that the actual sightseeing is often at a bare minimum, while trips to commercial enterprises assume a greater significance. So, we hurried past the beaches, ignored the 20 metre high white Buddha under construction atop a hill somewhere along the way and dismissed Phuket town as of little interest to tourists, despite its Sino-Portugese architecture, locals’ markets and some fine restaurants. Apparently a number of movies about the Vietnam War have been filmed in Phuket because of the architectural similarity to that country, but the details were something we were not to be bothered with. What we do know lots about, however, is how cashew nuts are grown, harvested, dried, shelled, juiced, cooked, salted, dipped n honey, chocolate, chili and garlic, and then sold to tour groups at the Sri Bhurapa Orchid Cashew Factory. Same too the gem factory where, after complimentary drinks and a short film about mining jewels and stones, and an even shorter trip through the factory, there is a showroom the size of a football stadium and, it seems, a guide to escort every individual past lines of display cases, every piece a bargain and with prices discounted just for you, madame.
The tour company provides a solemn warning to beware of touts, those who take you to unexpected or unintended shopping destinations with high prices, shoddy goods and backhanders. The irony is completely lost; trust only us the tour company advises.
There remains much to be done and seen here (the cigarette-smoking monkeys are yet to be sighted and there are elephants to ride), but the lure of the pool and beach is too great at this stage. Perhaps when left with only a few days remaining, we will think of everything we should have done and plan to accomplish just some of them. That’s the beauty of unfulfilled plans; it provides a reason to return.

Crime and punishment
If it is reported in New Zealand that Kaelene has been held without charge in the custody of the Royal Thai Police, we can confirm that the story is accurate - although she might claim to be an innocent party. It was perhaps fate that Marty would end up a criminal in a foreign land, but it has happened, and it could have all ended in the Bangkok Hilton, had an early guilty plea not been entered. Against the advice of all good tourist guides we hired two wheels and an engine resembling a motorcycle and for a day we wobbled around incident-free exploring Patong and nearby places, Kaelene looking the part in blue bandanna resembling a Black Power prospect or Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. Deciding to return the bike to end the hire an unfortunate incident happened; we ran out of petrol. After walking some distance to purchase a bottle of gasoline and get the bike restarted, we circled back around the block to return the empty bottle. And that was it; the police had set up a checkpoint intended to deprive errant tourists of revenue; for Mr Martin (as the records now describe him) the indignity of being caught driving without carrying a license. This necessitated holding Kaelene at the checkpoint while Marty went off to find the police station and join a queue of other wayward tourists to be lightened of a 300 baht fine. During her time in confinement Kaelene observed that police courtesy reciprocated the attitude of the apprehended felon. One who argued had his bike immobilized and made to walk in the heat to the police station some four kilometers away. As for us, lesson learned; drivers’ licenses will be packed in future.
The rainy season has arrived early and Phuket is emptying of tourists. We have moved from the salubrious Merlin Beach Resort to the more modest Duangjitt Resort and Spa, a 400 room complex set in expansive grounds in Patong. It is an odd experience as hotels empty and wings are closed, as if in preparation for a recreation of Stephen King’s horror story The Shining, set in an isolated and inescapable North American hotel locked up for the winter. The tattooed Australian bogans and English soccer yobs have almost all gone, those who remain predominantly Eastern European, gay men and us. Last night, there were more geckos in the dining room than people.
Our room is on the second level of a remote wing of the hotel, with floor to ceiling windows and French doors out onto a balcony overlooking lawns and gardens. Such is the privacy that we don’t pull the curtains at night and wake each morning to a view of coconut palms and, beyond them, jungle covered hills. The grounds are beautifully kept, with lily ponds and border gardens; there are three big swimming pools, massage and beauty treatment areas and a fitness centre for the keen.
Rainy season means that the days are indispersed with tropical storms. In cyclical fashion, the searing sun succumbs to billowing clouds which empty their contents in torrential downpours, following which the sun returns, sweltering and humid. The rain is often accompanied by gusts of wind which create havoc for market-stall holders and open air restaurants alike. Such was the case on the Monday night after the wedding when all remaining guests gathered for a final meal together. Late in the evening the wind and rain came with such intensity that almost the whole restaurant was drenched and we had to huddle in a small corner for shelter, and another nightcap while we waited for the rain to subside sufficiently for the dash home.
Being in Patong means we are closer to the shops, and our bartering meets with mixed results. The Prada and Rayban sunglasses we haggled down from 500 Baht to 250 ($NZ12) a pair at the markets turned out to be on sale for the fixed price of 200 baht at the shopping mall, and a hat bartered down from 600 Baht to 220 was on sale at the Chalong Temple market for 120 Baht. Nevertheless, these purchases are still inexpensive; Kaelene brought sarongs for 150 Baht apiece, Marty LaCoste shirts for 250 each and Kaelene, new release movies for 60 Baht. Copy goods are everywhere and, after a pair of Marty’s shorts went missing in the laundry, we expect to see the markets full of Kathmandu three-quarter shorts before the week is out. Maybe we will even be able to buy the missing trousers back.

Lost in translation
The tour brochure says of Monkey Beach: The bay where people believe that its bring good luck. Otherwise it will not stop on the beach so long under the guide consult for your attenting the wild animal.
One of the good things about Phuket is that there are no monkeys, the only one we have seen being on the arm of a man in downtown Patong one night in a square-off with another man, he with an iguana, so for some inexplicable reason we decided to seek out these repulsive, flee-ridden, small creatures with their bad manner and foul sexual proclivities. The last time we were in close quarters with monkeys, in Sri Lanka, they appeared to take delight in sitting on the table on the hotel balcony in Kandamala having sex and, if not that, masturbating as if in protest at our eating breakfast and not sharing it.
We (being Fleur, Thomas, Kaelene and Marty) took a sea cruise by ferry from Phuket to the island of Phi Phi Don, and from the main Phi Phi wharf to a beach where monkeys come to play with tourists, or at least those tourists with something to feed them. We forgot cigarettes (to see fabled cigarette-smoking moneys is among our great wishes) and food, so made do watching about twenty monkeys browsing trash left by others; swigging remnants from cans of drink and devouring the vestiges from empty food wrappers. There was no questionable behaviour, aside from Fleur posing with a discarded beer can alongside a monkey intent on unscrewing the top from on old whiskey bottle.
The ferry trip advertised an array of sightseeing delights, snorkeling on a coral reef and feeding the “fishes” on Khai Nui island, a visit to Maya Bay on Phi Phi Lae Island, the location for filming of the Leonardo Di Caprio movie, The Beach (“Where is the film happened and reputation for all tourists”), an optional one and a half hour island tour, a gourmet lunch on board, a visit to the Viking Cave, where locals come to collect Swift’s eggs to make Bird’s Nest Soup, and concluding with a short stop for shopping on Phi Phi Don Island.
As it transpired, communication with the guide was by of a cue card. As we approached Khai Nui, she came on deck with a sign indicating that we would be taken ashore by a small boat to feed the fishes, and that bread was available at 20 baht (about $1) a pop. “Explore Kai Nui island where are very exciting such as the clear water with schools of fishes and from the boat seeing many kinds of coral reefs . . .also enjoy feeding fished with our prepared bread.”
The 20 Baht bread investment was a wise one. A seething mass of iridescent green and yellow, others with the pink colouring of Galah’s, the Australian parrots, and some jet black, these fish would take the bread from your hand, and nibble on your fingers as well. What fun, even if the coral reefs were somewhat inaccessible in the time allowed and snorkels nowhere to be seen on shore; they remained firmly out of use on the boat.
From there it was perhaps an hour and a half under full throttle to what we learned in retrospect was Phi Phi Lae. The visit to Viking Cave was a quick, unannounced pass-by from about 500 metres, and Maya Bay (“The secret bay of Maya is your valued memory with less people during the afternoon go by”) unseen on the other side of the island. Certainly no Leonardo Di Caprio.
Our scheduled arrival at Phi Phi Don was achieved more than two and a half hours early, plenty of time for shopping among the handful of market stalls as there was no sign of any optional island tour. Despite the obvious, it took another full hour before it dawned on us that we wouldn’t see more of the local sights unless we took matters into our own hands. Thus it was we hired a local long-tail boat for the twenty minute dash to the monkey beach.
Homewards, on the ferry back to Phuket, it became apparent that at least one couple was unhappy that the advertised sights had not been accomplished, although remonstrating with the local crew was pointless. The one thing that was clearly spelled out in the brochure in perfect English was that the company reserved the absolute right to change the advertised sightseeing programme, any time and without notice.

Alomes’ last dance
It seemed quite appropriate, Lou Reed’s Perfect Day thumping out of the Merlin Beach Hotel’s PA system on the lawn overlooking the sea. Two signs announced that a section of the beach was closed in preparation for a wedding in the evening and, from the engineering department, a man was perched precariously on a ladder tying fabric and floral adornments to a wooden, ceremonial gazebo. In front of him, a woman was fixing off-white silk ribbons, knotted in bows, to twenty-five or so chairs and further back, small teams of hotel staff were setting up a floral archway and potted plants, tables for food and a bar, coloured lights, and a small wooden dance floor. It was, perhaps, the hottest day since our arrival and, for the first time in a week, not a sign of storm clouds on the horizon. Indeed, the perfect day.
A cool sea breeze blew in late afternoon to temper the heat of the day and, after a cue that the bride was on her way, the already gathered guests took their seats; family on each side of the aisle and the Western Australian miners in the back pews. Seath, handsome in pale grey suit, white shirt and white shoes, waited only a short time centre-stage for the bride to arrive. Escorted by her father, Nicole looked radiant in a long, flowing, strapless, ivory, raw silk gown and bouquet of cream and green. There was no turning back and certainly no objection from the crowd when the celebrant asked the traditional question of whether anyone knew of any reason why the two should not be joined in marriage. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
It could hardly have been more idyllic, against the beach backdrop and with the sun setting, in a mere twenty minutes Nicole Alomes became Nicole Churton. Then the photographs, thousands of them at a guess, and from every conceivable angle, on the lawn, on the beach and with the various blended, extended and even traditional family shots.
Entrees, Thai dishes of squid, spring rolls, fish cakes and spicy beef, were followed by entertaining speeches from Nicole’s father Peter, Seath’s father Vic and then Kaelene, the mother of the groom, who had firmly rejected the protocol of turning up, shutting up and wearing beige. She claimed naming rights for any prospective children and guardianship of their nationality. Toasts were washed down by the Moet Kaelene had brought at Sydney airport and had resisted sampling in the ten days we had already been here.
The mains comprised Thai curries, delicious seafood and rice, and then there were a few more speeches, including from Josh Cavanagh, who had a suit tailor-made for the occasion, such are the benefits of coming to Thailand. Next was the lighting of the lanterns on the beach. Like little hot air cylinders, perhaps four feet high and heated by paraffin lamps, the lanterns were lit, held until the air inside had sufficiently heated and then, to signify new beginnings, released into the night sky. Last seen, they were floating into the distance, hundreds of feet in the air.
Desert of fresh fruits and the cutting of the wedding cake preceded dancing, drinking, singing and simply settling in and yarning under, by-then, a starry sky. Lou Reed returned on the PA, by then a perfect night.
And then it was over. Next morning, at breakfast, we looked out from the hotel restaurant. Not a sign remained of the wedding, aside from the beach closed signs lying against a coconut tree. More than fifteen months of anticipation and meticulous preparation were over in just a few hours. It was as if nothing had happened, that is apart from the do not disturb sign on the newlyweds door.

Happy endings
Those who imagine Thai massage as an exotic indulgence with scantily-clad young women and happy endings need think again. It’s a tough business being kneaded like bakers’ dough by women who use their knees, elbows and legs as fulcrums to dislodge creaking body joints and inflict deep bruising to atrophied muscles. But then again it’s not all bad lying totally relaxed for an hour in a thatched roof shelter overlooking the sea and being rubbed from head to toe in camphorated oil.
As we gaze out, men fish from rocks at each end of the bay while others cast nets in the shallows, interrupted occasionally by a long boat, either fishing or ferrying passengers. In the distance fishing boats go about their work. The only sounds are those of the waves lapping onto the shore and the constant thrum of cicadas and frogs.
We have seen little lizards and bigger geckos here and there are big brown toads which colonise the sun loungers at night, we are sure to startle the morning sunbathers. Cheeky Mynah birds steal food from plates and hop from lounger to lounger, not at all perturbed by human activity, and, across the road, the street vendors and hang little cages from poles, in them canaries.
The Merlin Beach hotel itself is nestled between bush or jungle covered hills at either end, the entrance faces a quiet road, and on the other side is the beach. At each end of the beach the massage places are set into the rocks, elevated above the sea. Each appears staffed by about ten uniformed masseuses who chatter away to each other quietly as they work. Like good traders, each offers laundry services (70 Baht a kilogram), hires our snorkels and masks, and sells beer, water and soft drink. The happy ending is a complementary slice of watermelon and bottle of water at the end of each massage.

Bedraggled
It is being reported that Bangkok is in turmoil, with fierce clashes between red-shirt protesters and police leaving scores injured. A state of emergency has been declared there and perhaps it should be extended to Phuket. The place is in chaos with all manner of weaponry openly on display and being used at will on the streets.
We thought we had gained an understanding of Songkran, or the water festival to celebrate the Thai New Year, and maybe we had, but only intellectually. What we could not comprehend was the extent to which the revelry is irrepressible and refuge impossible. But we were to learn.
The shops in Patong were mostly closed, even the markets, and people of all ages thronged the streets armed with everything imaginable to dispense water; the tourists with plastic water-cannons and the locals with heavy artillery. This was no symbolic light sprinkling with water, it was mayhem. Utility wagons and motorcycles constantly circled the streets with passengers armed to the gunnels ensuring no-one went unscathed. Groups of people on the back of utes pumped water from barrels onto anyone they could, other locals perched high on fences and walls used them as vantage points to get maximum effect with hoses. Our shuttle was an easy target and came under heavy fire.
Unarmed and already soaked, we initially sought shelter with our new friends at the Kiwi bar to watch the fun. Thai children with buckets of water ambushed bar patrons, there was retaliation and it all escalated from that. The cruel, and there were plenty of them, used iced-water.
If we arrived soaked, we left sodden and must have looked a sight. Our faces white with powder, another of the rituals, clothes wet though, Kaelene’s hair flat on her head and jandals squeaking as we walked. What a sight. Marty put his money in a back pocket for protection, fearing that ink bleaching from wet notes would render them of even less value than they already were. Such was the drenching, however, that nothing escaped and the money has been laundered.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, as the saying goes, and even at the restaurant people were in various states of undress. That’s not a pretty sight, especially the big ox at the next table with home-made West Ham tattoos all over his semi-naked body.
They say that thousands of dollars worth of electronic equipment gets ruined during the festival each year, the property of unprepared and defenseless tourists wandering into town. As for us, we were just relieved to have made the decision to leave the camera at home and not try to record the festivities. It would have been hopeless.

New Year and other rites
It is New Year in Thailand and to celebrate, Songkran, or the water festival. In short, it gives people free license to douse others with water and be doused themselves, the symbolic purpose to cleanse and mark fresh beginnings. Traditionally Songkran was limited to splashing water, but in the new commercial age, shops and markets sell huge plastic water cannons and anyone at all is fair game. We are told, however, that drinkers are none too pleased at having their beer diluted and some react not too well.
Phuket itself is an island, the size of which we haven’t yet got a feel for, but it claims a population of 250,000 along with Thailand’s most popular resorts, beautiful beaches, fine hotels, mountains, lush forests, temples, coral reefs and a colourful nightlife. Unlike many such claims, this one appears to be based on fact, not that we’ve seen much beyond our hotel and nearby Patong, and even then only a fraction of the town itself. But if first impressions count, then this place has it all; scenery to die for, cigarette-smoking monkeys with good old-fashioned tea parties, trained chooks and dancing elephants. Then there are the Australians, and at night the place turns into the wild-west.
“Downtown, late at night maybe not for you”, the owner of a local bar warns Kaelene before sending one of her barmaids around to massage her shoulders. The proprietor, a Thai woman, thinks Kaelene needs relaxation treatment after negotiating the local market stalls. She also tells us her heart was broken by a Kiwi man which makes it strange, but nice, that she has named hers the New Zealand bar and adorned it with silver-fern flags and Warrior’s rugby league jerseys. It is a small oasis among literally dozens of barasti-like huts that serve as Aussie-theme bars in the market area and, by the end of our second visit, this time to introduce the family, our names join other autographed on the ceiling and the ever-sharp owner is keen to pin us down to return for a barbeque night.
Sightseeing will be on hold for a while as the clans gather for Seath and Nicole’s wedding on Saturday afternoon. Jade arrived last Friday, Seath and Nicole and Fleur and Thomas Saturday and the rest are expected to roll in between now and Thursday. Thursday night there is a meal for everyone to meet and, presumably, a trip to the wild-west for the pre-marital rituals. Bride and groom are reportedly nervous.

If paradise is half as nice
9.30 Breakfast
Fresh tropical fruit and Bircher muesli
Bacon, sausages, beans, eggs any style, hash browns, French toast
Croissants, juice, tea and coffee
10.30 Arrange sun lounger to overlook Tri Trang beach
11.30 Cool off with dip in the Andaman sea
12.15 Freshen up in pool
1.00 Siesta
3.00 Thai massage (traditional or oil)
4.00 Recline by the pool, with intermittent swims
6.00 Freshen up and house bar for pre-dinner drink
8.00 Shuttle to Patong
8.30 Dinner
Perhaps traditional Thai, or maybe fresh fish washed down with local beer
9.30 Stroll down main streets of Patong to observe markets and night-life starting up
12.00 Tuk Tuk back to hotel
12.15 Nightcap
1.00 Goodnight Kiwi

It’s been a long, hard day

This ain’t too bad, ma
This could be heaven, if not then it must be close. The Merlin Beach Resort, just south of Patong township on Phuket Island, simply oozes perfection; private beach, a pool complex that just doesn’t seem to end, poolside bars, and restaurants. Perhaps the only blemish, Australians of every shape, size and tattoo, each and every one seemingly with a beer-brand singlet and rasping voice. How ghastly.
The hotel itself, which will be home for the next two weeks, has that traditional Asian open-air style, with large, covered, foyers and restaurants but otherwise open to the elements. In this case a light, but warm, balmy, breeze. The rooms are spacious and overlook the pools, or open onto them if you can afford the best, and all have balconies with views over the gardens and palm trees.
Surrounded at each end by jungle-covered rocky hills, the beach is of pure white sand, inaccessible to all but hotel guests, and home only to a few small crabs and locals offering snorkels and masks for hire, beer and fruit to drink and eat, and massages for good health or self-indulgent pleasure. They’ll even do your laundry for 70 baht a kilogramme.
We are just so well set up; it is raining outside after a warm, sunny morning. Appropriately, the Pogues’ Summer in Siam is playing out over our little Ipod speaker system, and Kaelene is on the bed snoozing after a 60 minute body wrap and massage in the spa. How is this for a description? The Asian approach of achieving and maintaining a healthy body lies not only on the cleansing and softening of our skin, but in the drawing out of impurities from within through a ritual of application at the hands of dedicated therapists. This helps us to relax, emptying our minds and soothing our souls in an atmosphere of peace.
Funnily enough, Thailand has had a good feel about it since our arrival late last night, but it could have been otherwise. We came in on a Jetstar flight which was every bit as bad as our hotel is good, the plane was full, we were in dicky-seats in the very back row and so cold we thought we were back in mid-winter Berlin. Other passengers with clothes in their hand luggage started adding layers, even the flight attendants wrapped up and looked miserable. The only relief was from thin airline blankets, available at a cost of $A8 each, causing us to question whether the low temperature was a plot to increase on board sales targets. Despite complaints by us and others, it remained unacceptably cold for the entire nine hour journey. Entertainment consoles and pre-paid meals were available to those who were given the option by booking directly through Jetstar; others like us who used Qantas or a travel agent simply missed out or had to make do with left-overs. Even before boarding, Kaelene overheard one young woman who had been given a boarding pass for a non-existent seat telling someone on the phone her treatment by Jetstar had been the worst experience of her life and never again would use them. Maybe we should follow her example.

Getting out
Some say that those most likely to make favourable comments about themselves are usually least qualified to do so, and such may be the case with Dubai Airport’s new Terminal 3. Enthusiastically lauded by the Emirates publicity machine as flawless and capable of handling up to 60 million passengers per year us, as travelers who have passed through the new terminal five times now since December, have a slightly more jaundiced view. Those who wax lyrical about the seamlessness and ease of the new facility have obviously never needed to use the bathrooms or been in transit. Each time we have encountered queues to the toilets and wash areas and have struggled to freshen up for onward journeys. So too the main public concourses where the duty free areas are just hopelessly congested, even at 6.30 or so in t he morning. It is impossible locally, however, to level criticism of Dubai Duty Free. It is run by an Irishman by the name of Colm McLouglan, the consummate expatriate and the brother of Ray McLouglan, a front row forward for the 1956 Lions tour of New Zealand, but that’s another story. Colm is a bit like the godfather of expats and has mastered the art of publicly buttering up the rulers of this nation in sublime fashion and so the monopoly-duty-free business oozes prosperity, sponsoring such things as international tennis and horse racing. It has a god-like status
Our worst Dubai airport experience was in transit between New Zealand and Dusseldorf where it took 45 minutes just to clear security, let alone anything else. Simply not good enough for a brand spanking new terminal, particularly at 5.30 in the morning when, after 17 hours of flying, there is a real need for a good scrub. This won’t do if the airport is to reach it potential annual passenger numbers.
Having said that, the new check-in and check-out facilities are brilliant, and do run perfectly despite the fact that getting through security involves almost stripping naked which we are reasonably comfortable with given our Abu Dhabi suntans. Belts off, shoes, bangles and jewelry off, wallets out and then a feel-up, men in public and women more discreetly in a small side-room.
We are currently on board our flight to Sydney before heading to Phuket, Thailand, for Seath’s wedding. Although scheduled to travel on a new Airbus A380, the big double decker monster-plane which has showers and stand-up bar for business and first-class passengers, but to our initial disappointment the A380 has been replaced by a Boeing 777. However, this plane turns out to have plenty of legroom, Anchor butter, Kapiti cheese and the new ICE entertainment system with more than 1,000 choices of film, music and information. It has thirteen Rolling Stones albums, ten by Bob Dylan and all of the latest Academy Award films; Frost/Nixon, Australia, Slumdog Millionaire, Revolutionary Road and the Curious Case of Benjamin Button to name but a few. Our seats even have power points for laptop computers and other electronic equipment. Sublime, and we have colonized a whole row of seats for out thirteen hour flight.
Do you think that 10.15 am was too early to get stuck into the in-flight red wine? Our Irish cabin-boy didn’t, so we had several, and then several more.

The real deal
The spice souk in Diera, the old quarter of Dubai, is the real deal and the smell says it all. The fragrance of dried fruits mixed with saffron, cinnamon, frankincense and myrrh wafts through the evening air as an array of traders hawk their wares in the back streets and even narrower back alleys on the northern side of the Dubai Creek. By our standards, describing the creek as such is something of a misnomer; it is a wide stretch of water harbouring working dhows which ply their trade from India to the African coast, to dozens of Abbras which ferry locals from one side to the other for 1 dirham a pop. The Creek and its shores literally throng with people and boats and the business of a trading port.
We had a night back in Dubai before heading to the airport and there is nothing quite like being on the banks of the Creek sucking in the fumes and soaking up the atmosphere, watching the boats against the setting sun. On one side the spice and traditional gold souks, on the other the textile souk with its clothes, carpets, pashmina scarves, Arabic footwear and tourist trinkets. And the Indian with his samosas and bahjees, a good size feed of which we got for five dirham, the local Emirati who would not part with an Iraqi banknote featuring Saddam Hussein for less than ten dirham.
Two days earlier we had visited the new Dubai Mall, which is adjacent to the yet to be completed Burj Dubai, the one kilometer high tower, and a new development called the Old Town, all set around an artificial waterway. The weird thing about the Old Town is that it is a new construction of the real old town, with up-market souks and flash restaurants and accommodation to boot. This gives tourists a chance to spend their money in a sort of sanitized way; they can take abra rides in the safety of a two-foot deep artificial waterway and buy luxury goods from luxury souks at, presumably luxury prices. It is hard to imagine why, for the cost if a taxi fare, they couldn’t experience the real thing. This is, after all, the Middle East and not Rodeo Drive or Regent Street.
Although being critical of much that is new in Dubai it would be unfair not to acknowledge the magnificence of the Burj tower. While yet to be completed, it is an impressive structure reaching into the sky and dwarfing everything around. Once open, we might even take a ride to the top because, no doubt, it will have the fastest lifts in the world.

Goodbye to all that

What happens in the spring storms here is that the number of traffic accidents increases significantly. Emiratis aren’t used to driving in the rain; mix that with greasy roads and poor drainage and it’s a potent, possibly lethal formula. To illustrate this, one of Jade’s workmates counted ten damaged cars on her way home the other night during thunderstorms, in fine weather there may be only one or two.
The drill when an accident occurs is that the vehicles have to remain exactly on the spot until the police arrive and prepare an incident report. If they don’t do that and, for example, move the cars onto the side of the road and out of flow the traffic, insurance is voided. That was why Rashid Bin Saeed Al Maktoum Street (or Airport Road as we call it) was blocked the other morning when we tried to cross it to catch the bus to town. There had been a collision right where we usually jaywalk.
Indeed, we have become confident jaywalkers despite the madness of the driving here. Dodging traffic on busy main streets has become second nature, and we’ve been feeling pretty smug about it too. That was until we read that twelve pedestrians having been killed so far this year taking, like us, short-cuts. We’ve been careful since then.
Our two and a half month stint camped like Bedouin in Jade’s living room is due to come to an end today. We will miss our journeys on the bus, Kaelene in the ladies seats at the front and Marty with the Indians down the back, the eccentricity and impatience of the bus drivers, and our listening to the passengers’ chatter, none of which we can understand. So too our laundry man who folds washing as though an art form, and the Pakistani hairdresser who cuts and grooms Marty’s hair with more care and precision than it could ever warrant. We’ll miss shawarma, perhaps the most delicious local food we’ve eaten, and Baskin Robbins ice creams, even with such unlikely flavours as tea and scones.
The people, Arabic women in their abeyas, some wearing hijabs and with hennaed hands and the men in dishdashes with scarves tied around their heads in the most elaborate of ways. Indian women in their rich, vibrantly coloured outfits, festooned with sparkling gems and beads.
This is a very social society, families congregate in parks and play with children, and men gather in clusters on the footpaths or sit the grass verges talking. The call to prayer has become so much a part of our daily routine we barely notice it, but it is ever there, as are the men washing and filing into local mosques.
It will be fascinating to return at some stage. Abu Dhabi has massive plans for expansion and development, funded largely through oil money and foreign investment. But there appears to be more care and planning here and, even though Abu Dhabi is the richest of the emirates, it lacks the breathtaking excess and decadence of its northern neighbour, Dubai. It also values and cultivates the arts, and that is certainly a big part of the future development.
But for us, we have learned only in the last few days that we live not too many stones throws from the local sly-grog shop. A pity about the late advice, but perhaps it has been for the best as today it is off to Dubai and Tuesday to Thailand. We need to be in the best of health for that.

It’s a tough life
We have had an unexpected change of plan, or at least we would have a change had we had a plan. Down to only six more sleeps before boarding the big new double-decker Airbus A380 en route to Asia, we were faced with the prospect of having to decide what to do after Seath and Nicole’s wedding in Phuket. There is a requirement on entry to Thailand to have onward travel documents - so that presented an unexpected challenge. We have become accustomed to not contemplating formalities, although we vaguely thought we might head to Vietnam or India, or possibly China, or just go into hiding. But not so now.
We were spontaneously spurred into action on Tuesday night while chatting online to our friend Martin in London, and we made a snap decision to head back to the United Kingdom. After all, we only had a fortnight there in January, so tickets are now booked. We leave Singapore on 10 May, landing at Heathrow’s dreaded new Terminal 5, via Frankfurt on the 11th.. As long as we get our luggage the rest of Asia will just have to wait a while.
There remains much to be seen in Europe. One of the benefits of not doing everything you intended on previous trips is that it provides a reason to return. For example, after about ten visits to the UK, we still have never been to Ireland. Perhaps this time, or maybe we will get to Gottingen in Germany where we previously didn’t get around to taking up the offer of a staying at a friend’s home. Also, hopefully, the chance to exploit the global recession and cash in on cheap travel packages to nearby places, and to catch up with a few Kiwi friends who will be travelling to Europe in June. Perhaps also it will also be an opportunity to get down to the Caribbean to see Fleur again as she settles into her new teaching job in Barbados.
We may even get to catch up with New Zealand band, the Bats, with our acquaintance Paul Kean on bass. If not, Leonard Cohen plays in Liverpool and Neil Young London in June, BB King is at Wembly with John Mayall in July, Bruce Springsteen and others are about too. The only downsides are that the only seats left to the Eric Clapton concerts at the Royal Albert Hall in May are $NZ600 a pop and, perhaps fortunately, Michael Jackson’s fifty concerts complete with snakes, performing monkey and an elephant are all sold out
This is a tough life this, but someone has to do it.