The other day I passed the Emirates Macaroni Factory. It’s located somewhere between the glassy towers of Business Bay and the dusty chaos of Al Quoz industrial estate and nobody seems too sure as to why it’s there. As far as I’m aware the UAE is not famed for its production of macaroni. I’ve filed it as an odd quirk in a city laden with quirkiness.
Take taxis. Taxis are a relatively cheap and fast way to get around Dubai but it is a well-known fact that most taxi drivers have only been here two weeks, speak limited English and have absolutely no idea where they are going. A sweeping and unjust generalisation you may say, but I have first-hand experience of the hysteria into which taxi drivers can descend if you ask them to take you somewhere other than the Burj Al Arab. Granted they are not helped by the government’s propensity for removing signposts and re-routing roundabouts overnight, but London cabs they ain’t.
I managed to reduce a taxi driver to the brink of tears the other day by asking him to take me a gallery in Al Quoz. ‘I thought you knew where you were going!’ he wailed, increasing his speed with every fresh wave of panic, rendering it virtually impossible for me to work out where we were, let alone where we needed to get to. He eventually ejected me onto the side of the road, begged me not to come anywhere near him and tore off in a cloud of dust. When I finally tracked down the gallery I asked the manager why they don’t have any signposts outside. Apparently the Municipality has a problem with them advertising their existence. Curiouser and curiouser.
Sticking with the theme of transport, let us turn our attention to the road to Abu Dhabi. Dubai is just one of seven Emirate states in the UAE and there comes a time in every Dubai resident’s life when a trip to Abu Dhabi becomes unavoidable. But how to get there? I stopped briefly to consider all the public transport options there are for travel around the UK: train, bus, plane, ferry even. Well, despite the vast acres of open desert available there is no train; the bus takes nearly to a day to travel in each direction and it’s too close to fly. No, there is just one road to Abu Dhabi and embarking on the journey means putting yourself at the mercy of all the madmen on the road, chatting away on their mobile phones, feet on the dashboard, roaring down Sheik Zayed Road at 180 Km an hour with only a finger on the wheel. You suddenly become very aware of your own mortality and, after two trips to Abu Dhabi last week, I have vowed not to go again for a really long time.
On a different note, whose grand idea was it to install revolving doors at the entrance of every building? There must be a higher concentration of revolving doors in central Dubai than anywhere else in the world. The smarter the building, the more likely the doors are to have their very own set of pot plants or antique urns. Unfortunately your correspondent has something of a phobia of revolving doors. I can’t help the suspicion that one day I am either going to be crushed or disrobed by them and it is a real effort of will to maintain my composure.
Then there are the encounters with maintenance staff. Our fridge freezer has been performing under par from the day we moved in to our flat. I promptly informed the maintenance manager of the problem and a series of visits commenced. The men come in threes: one in charge, one to carry the spanner and one to watch. Sometimes there’s a fourth but he usually waits outside... There is much standing around and sucking of teeth. They open the freezer door, they close the freezer door. Then the one in charge commands the one with the spanner to make a tiny adjustment. He closes the freezer door once more with the utmost delicacy and care. ‘No problem!’ he says, the door is fixed. Please sign the maintenance papers. ‘No, no!’ I cry and demonstrate what happens when door is handled a little less delicately. We appear to have reached an impasse: I refuse to admit defeat (and suffer several years of melted ice cream) and they refuse to admit there’s a problem.
I suppose that’s what happens when a multitude of different cultures converge upon a dusty spot in the desert and set about trying to develop it at a rate of knots. There are bound to be some quirks and points of tension. You end up living an odd existence in which it is entirely possible for your bank to send you a text within seconds of buying a pint of milk, to inform you that you’ve made a transaction, but you have to present yourself in person, with a ream of supporting documents if you want to pay your water bill.
Certainly some of the frustrations westerners face in Dubai are a result of the British colonial bureaucracy imported from India, presenting us with hoops which we find both irritating and unnecessary to jump through. But then, as my dad observed the other day, matters could be worse. We could be living in Kuwait. The Kuwaitis, it seems, have imported the French Napoleonic legal system from Egypt, so they’re really screwed.
And so another day draws to a close in the desert.
Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx
Take taxis. Taxis are a relatively cheap and fast way to get around Dubai but it is a well-known fact that most taxi drivers have only been here two weeks, speak limited English and have absolutely no idea where they are going. A sweeping and unjust generalisation you may say, but I have first-hand experience of the hysteria into which taxi drivers can descend if you ask them to take you somewhere other than the Burj Al Arab. Granted they are not helped by the government’s propensity for removing signposts and re-routing roundabouts overnight, but London cabs they ain’t.
I managed to reduce a taxi driver to the brink of tears the other day by asking him to take me a gallery in Al Quoz. ‘I thought you knew where you were going!’ he wailed, increasing his speed with every fresh wave of panic, rendering it virtually impossible for me to work out where we were, let alone where we needed to get to. He eventually ejected me onto the side of the road, begged me not to come anywhere near him and tore off in a cloud of dust. When I finally tracked down the gallery I asked the manager why they don’t have any signposts outside. Apparently the Municipality has a problem with them advertising their existence. Curiouser and curiouser.
Sticking with the theme of transport, let us turn our attention to the road to Abu Dhabi. Dubai is just one of seven Emirate states in the UAE and there comes a time in every Dubai resident’s life when a trip to Abu Dhabi becomes unavoidable. But how to get there? I stopped briefly to consider all the public transport options there are for travel around the UK: train, bus, plane, ferry even. Well, despite the vast acres of open desert available there is no train; the bus takes nearly to a day to travel in each direction and it’s too close to fly. No, there is just one road to Abu Dhabi and embarking on the journey means putting yourself at the mercy of all the madmen on the road, chatting away on their mobile phones, feet on the dashboard, roaring down Sheik Zayed Road at 180 Km an hour with only a finger on the wheel. You suddenly become very aware of your own mortality and, after two trips to Abu Dhabi last week, I have vowed not to go again for a really long time.
On a different note, whose grand idea was it to install revolving doors at the entrance of every building? There must be a higher concentration of revolving doors in central Dubai than anywhere else in the world. The smarter the building, the more likely the doors are to have their very own set of pot plants or antique urns. Unfortunately your correspondent has something of a phobia of revolving doors. I can’t help the suspicion that one day I am either going to be crushed or disrobed by them and it is a real effort of will to maintain my composure.
Then there are the encounters with maintenance staff. Our fridge freezer has been performing under par from the day we moved in to our flat. I promptly informed the maintenance manager of the problem and a series of visits commenced. The men come in threes: one in charge, one to carry the spanner and one to watch. Sometimes there’s a fourth but he usually waits outside... There is much standing around and sucking of teeth. They open the freezer door, they close the freezer door. Then the one in charge commands the one with the spanner to make a tiny adjustment. He closes the freezer door once more with the utmost delicacy and care. ‘No problem!’ he says, the door is fixed. Please sign the maintenance papers. ‘No, no!’ I cry and demonstrate what happens when door is handled a little less delicately. We appear to have reached an impasse: I refuse to admit defeat (and suffer several years of melted ice cream) and they refuse to admit there’s a problem.
I suppose that’s what happens when a multitude of different cultures converge upon a dusty spot in the desert and set about trying to develop it at a rate of knots. There are bound to be some quirks and points of tension. You end up living an odd existence in which it is entirely possible for your bank to send you a text within seconds of buying a pint of milk, to inform you that you’ve made a transaction, but you have to present yourself in person, with a ream of supporting documents if you want to pay your water bill.
Certainly some of the frustrations westerners face in Dubai are a result of the British colonial bureaucracy imported from India, presenting us with hoops which we find both irritating and unnecessary to jump through. But then, as my dad observed the other day, matters could be worse. We could be living in Kuwait. The Kuwaitis, it seems, have imported the French Napoleonic legal system from Egypt, so they’re really screwed.
And so another day draws to a close in the desert.
Until next time dear readers, TTFN xxx
