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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.