Abudhabilist

Essential resources, books and links.

2011-09-13T11:55:00.001+04:00

There are literally thousands of different books, blogs, and 'helpful' sites on the big circuit board of info that is the internet.

Some are really helpful, in that they actually hand over information that is relevant to the experience of living here in the great sandy climes.

SOME are really helpful in that they can be used to stabilise a coffee table, or in the case of blogs and sites, printed then used to stabilise a coffee table.

This is no random list. ALL of the stuff here has been read/used/plundered by us at some point over our stay.

SO, without further bother, and so I can diminish the chance of offending said 'helpful' sites, here's my list of all things helpful and interesting and most importantly pertinent to the UAE.

Books

We were initially a bit sceptical about such a commercial grade looking book. But it's actually great. I call this a first year book. GREAT help for the first year, not sure that I need to update to the new one each year after though.

Truly handy,

We got this really early on in the preparation period prior before coming here. It got some pretty average reviews, but I can't see why. Gave us a good grounding in at least saying hello and giving taxi driver's directions.

I coupled this book (Wasn't available with the CD when I purchased it) with the Gulf Arabic website. The Gulf Arabic website is quite in depth for a free site, and although not in any way related to this book, seemed to work very well with it.

You can get these little beasties here, so handy. The road system is really straight forward here in AD (unlike Dubai, which is a nightmare) but like all new places it just takes a little bit of time to work out.

This map can do help with that. There's also one that is made out of cloth and just floats around in my wife's handbag like a handkerchief.

Also handy, and washable (I prefer the paper one that is linked to here, I just do)

An EXCELLENT read, describing the story of how this place came to be. It's hard to believe that I am posting this via high speed fibre optic internet, when 40 years ago, it would have needed to be a high speed camel to get the message out.

This is an officially sanctioned book on the birth of the Abu Dhabi.

A very interesting read. Written by an expat-brat who grew up here in the 70s and 80's, then left only to return 20 years later.

At times a sad indictment on what happens when so much money appears almost over night.

Discusses the duality of lifestyle of Locals vs Expats, and difficulties met on both sides stunned by massive cultural shock.

Pulls no punches, am stunned it is available here.

Websites

www.abudhabiwoman.com - The go to place for all things Abu Dhabi ish. Excellent info on parenting and schools etc. Discussions can occasionally get a bit edgy, but the site is well moderated. Be patient with some of the folk on the board. Remember, the question you are about to ask has probably been asked a thousand times before - occasional huffiness ensues.

www.gulfarabic.com Mentioned above. Handy resource for learning some language basics.

www.linguisthouse.com mentioned in the 'loose nothing to translation' post, can't speak more highly of a translation company here. Friendly and helpful.

http://www.abudhabi.ae - sometimes a little hit and miss, but gets better by the day. Government based information available, fines (booooo) can be paid here etc.

This list is tweaked all the time, and if you have anything to add that has really helped you in your adventure, please just let us know the site/book and reason, and if suitable we'll add it.

Enjoy!

Go somewhere, get drunk and dance.

2011-09-07T11:51:00.001+04:00

Arrival at Tribhuvan airport, with 3 glasses of wine under my belt was great.

I also benefited from the opposing side to my wife’s behaviour which is this – she is rubbish at actually leaving, but extraordinarily good at organising paperwork, so while others were humphing and complaining about having to have passport photos and a visa filled out, WE had it all, gently nestled in a plastic folder marked ‘Nepal’.

This meant that without lengthy discussion and without appearing like deer stuck in headlights looking for the best place to get a last minute passport photo, we sailed through immigration.

My pre-flight seething diminished to sub intrusional levels as I gladly handed over the 50 bucks for both our visas and then ventured into the arrivals hall.

Well, arrivals corridor – happily devoid of anything that could be considered duty free.

Heavily populated by taxi/trek/taxi touts.

Mrs Now-back-in-the-good-books had sent a late email to the owner of the guest house we were to stay at, asking whether he could organise a ride, unfortunately we missed his return email, so paid what turns out to be extortionate money to travel from the airport to the Thamel district of Katmandu.

Tip for young players… if you haven’t organised with your accommodation to pick you up DO NOT use the official looking taxi booking bars in the exit corridor (first one on the left, the other further on the right), you’ll get fiscally raped.

I nodded at the cheerful guy who was so happy to help, and he led us from the taxi bar, out of the airport, and then started touting for a cab to take us to Thamel.

Essentially we paid double just so he could escort us out of the terminal.

If you have no prior arrangements, just say no politely, and walk out the front, and into a sea of cabs, who will take you to wherever the hell you wish to go (within Kathmandu) for about 300 Rupee. Just make sure you secure the price first, and don’t hand your bags to anyone before you have fixed that price.

They’ll take you to other places too, just talk about price before you get in.

I tried to blank out the constant stream of offers my new taxi-bar-tout friend was offering, thus consolidating my concern that we had paid waaay too much, as after the taxi dropped us off, it would be driving taxi-rapist back to the airport, where he would again accost someone without concern for lubrication.

Gladly out of the cab, and holding my mirth in check as taxi guy asked us for a tip, we walked up the stairs to the fabulous Elbrus Home hostel.

It’s a simple place, no fuss, and not 5 star (nor does it claim to be), but the rooms lock, the rain doesn’t get in (it can rain a lot in Nepal) and most importantly the staff are super friendly.

Khem (the host) allowed us to get comfortable AFTER making sure that we had been fed some fine Kathmandu beer that we gratefully guzzled on the terrace.

He then took us to a bar around the corner where we proceeded to imbibe in MORE local beer and, while inebriated, dance with a bunch of local folk.

I knew we were in for a significant bill when, late in the evening a waiter came over and (as Khem later translated) showed concern that we would not be able to pay the bill.

We had imbibed in about 1000 beers at this point, and much nodding ensued to calm the guy and then persuading him into getting us another beer.

Fun night – cost us a (comparative) packet, primarily because I think we paid for a song, and some company along the way… but fun nonetheless.

Just let Khem know what your perceived expenditure limit is for getting trolleyed before you stride down the stairs, also be prepared to have fun.

In true Australian fashion we stayed until closing, and were really grateful that the hostel was just around the corner. Mrs-now-a-tad-trashed and yours very drunkenly staggered up the flights of stairs and fell face first into our bed.

One of us (I’ll give you a clue: NOT the one typing this) had to put her foot on the floor in an attempt to stop the room spinning (a tried and true method, try it sometime if you have need) and as a result had to endure much rubbishing from the glassy eyed one next to her.

Neither of us had any humour the following morning as we grumbled out to the terrace for breakfast.

Sunglasses firmly clamped to our heads.

Breakfast on this terrace - pretty, but brutal with a hangover...

Breakfast was simple, but cooked fresh and really tasty, I highly recommend the porridge with banana.

Just what the hangover gods ordered, so that we could steel ourselves for the day ahead.

We had nothing planned, other than our favourite pastime – get lost in a new city.

The fight to Nepal.

2011-09-04T14:18:00.004+04:00

All went to the usual schedule for our departure to the airport.

In that, I was ready. My bride working on her standard theory that as she had banked time by checking in on line, she had no need to hurry at all.

Her perfect world theory that cabs will arrive at our doorstep within 5 nanoseconds of calling had also been part of her play, even though this has yet to be the case, in any of our travels. The final piece in her optimism puzzle revolved around information from a well-meaning colleague who stated that even though Ms Optimist’s Visa is in transition, she would be perfectly fine at the airport.

Information that was only shared with me as she was again walking around the apartment, checking power switches and tidying up the paper pile.

“What are you doing Honey?” I said at 11.46am. The snowball was already rolling, slowly, and it was coming my way.

“Just making sure everything is off” she replied.
“You ARE all packed aren’t you” I asked.
“Almost, just have to grab a couple of things and then I’m done” she said cheerily.
“What things? Are those ‘things’ connected to the light switches you are flicking?” my jaw was tightening.
“It’ll be fine” she replied, even though we go through this every time, and EVEN THOUGH she knows that I hate being late, here we were 1 minute after check in had opened, and she was sharing with me that she was ‘almost’ packed.

Things weren’t fine.

We travel a bit, so as a result we have access to the flight lounges involved with Etihad. Unfortunately the powers that be changed the rules on us recently which meant that the lounge we were going to have access to was no longer the fabulous Business lounge in terminal 3. Instead we were going to have to use a lounge in terminal 1. A fifteen minute walk away from where most of the flights we take depart from.

MOST of the flights being the operative term.

This was the first time we had to fly out of T1 in ages.

The gate we were leaving from was a 25 second walk from the front of the lounge. My goal in minor protest to Etihad reneging on the original agreement for frequent flyers was to saunter in to the new lounge, and cost the company some money.

Not damage, or graffiti or anything that could have any criminal connotation, surely not.

No, my protest was based on repaying their lack of recognition of our loyalty (we haven’t flown any other airline in years) by inhaling the food buffet, and bathing in beer – just to get some of our money’s worth back for the THOUSANDS we have spent over the last couple of years.

So that was my plan.

Mrs AbuDhabilist had another idea about our schedule.

She brought her pack out and placed it next to mine and I sighed – soon, just me, beer in one hand, plate of carefully selected (based on expense) snacks in the other.

“Right then, let’s call a cab….”
“I haven’t done my makeup yet”
“……”
“What? Why are you looking like that, do you have wind?”
“….fng… make… checkin open….”
“FINE” she huffed, implying that this was my fault, even though we go through some hybridised version of this conversation EVERY time we are to travel.

With some flouncing she left.

Then after what seemed to be 56 hours she returned, looking exactly the same as she had BEFORE informing me that she had to do her makeup.

The cab was called, and promised to be at our door in 5 minutes.

In 15 it wasn’t, even though there had been much calling between the parties with much assuring going on that the cab was “2 minutes away”.

We arrived at check-in to drop our bags 45 minutes before boarding.

Then waited.

Then went to passport control where Ms Perfect World was taken away by immigration for overstaying her visa.

Once clear of that (and after paying a fine) we were free to go and exact our revenge on the Guest Lounge.

Or we would have been if we weren’t already 10 minutes late for boarding.

I stormed, my jaw clenching and unclenching, into the departure lounge area looking for anything that would approximate sustenance (my plan had involved not eating breakfast) and settled for a muffin and coffee from a handily placed Costa coffee bar.

Karma maintained silence, except for a couple of attempts at suggesting that none of anything can be helped.

I burned my tongue on the coffee.

After arriving in the departure lounge we ran into an ex workmate of Ms Sheepish’s. He and his new bride had been at the bar, drinking free beer for 2 hours.

Stammering erupted from my wife as I looked to her for explanation. It seems TT (Karma’s friend) had had a similar approach to the situation as I had planned.

Thankfully we had purchased (by mistake) business class tickets in the rush to secure a place on a plane after the holiday had been announced – so we had access to Etihad’s excellent inflight food and great wine selection.

I enjoyed 3 glorious glasses of Australian Shiraz – still felt like I had paid for it though.

Check your tyres, but be nice about it.

2011-08-23T11:22:00.002+04:00

“Honey?” I said to Mrs Ad-ist, “How long has the car been shuddering like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know, a couple of weeks?” she replied.
“Think it needs a wheel balance. Let’s swap cars next week and I’ll get it done”

So it was without much thought that I headed over to my favourite garage to get it sorted.

Armed with a book, a data friendly phone and a deep sadness due to it being Ramadan so I couldn’t indulge in a coffee from the petrol station’s coffee machine, I strode in to the reception area.

The guys there know me (kind of) because they were instrumental in keeping the OLD Jeepster alive, in all its sunroof-leaking/horn blowing/radiator hissing glory.

As recently as last week I was there with the current Jeep, with a failed battery. I rolled in, told them the problem, they checked it confirming my assertions that the battery was trashed and then phoned the battery supply place to check availability of the battery.

“So what?” I hear you yawn at your computer screens.

The so what bit comes when they jump started my car, and gave me a map to the supplier and informed me of the price that they had quoted should the battery folk try and nuke the price into the heavens upon seeing large dumb-looking white guy stroll through their door.

As it happens they didn’t jack the price by anything I thought worth haggling over, and had someone fit it for me in the street, who in spite of the scalding engine heat ,coupled with that of an outside temperature approaching 50 degrees Celsius, was happy as a pig in chiffon when I handed him the 20dhs that he had quoted for fitting the acid filled box, happier when I gave him an extra 100 for all his trouble.

SO… that’s "so what". The garage at the ADNOC on 32nd street near 11th is THAT kind of garage.

That’s why I really didn’t have any concerns as I settled in to wait.

“Sir?”
“Ooooh sombody’s doing something on facebook” I was staring at my phone.
“Sir.”
“Ooooh it’s stuff, with stuff ON stuff”
“SIR!”

I was woken from my all encompassing facebook stupor by a nervous looking guy, who thought that I “had better come and see, your tyres – very damaged Sir”

Awesome.

I went and surveyed the damage. Both passenger side tyres had damage to them, damage so bad that I was stunned that they could actually hold air.

“Oh they’re fine” I said to the tyre guy. He looked at me in absolute bafflement.
“Sir they are damaged…” he replied.
“No.. they’re fine, no problem…”
“Sir, I .. um, they”

I Started to laugh, and at once he recognised my lame attempt at humour.

“Four tyres do you think, boss?” I asked

He nodded in agreement, then went to get the supervisor to tell me how much fun my wallet was going to be having in about 45 minutes time.

Just a scuff really, plenty of miles left in it...

The downside to my wife’s 260kph Golf is that high performance power needs high performance rubber in order to make sure that going around a corner involves actually going around a corner.

As a result V rated tyres are the only ones that were going to do the job.

My credit card winced at the news, then rubbed its numbers together with glee when it realised the frequent flyer points it would amass.

I retreated to the office to recover (I was not as enthusiastic as the card was) while the tyres were being removed from their racks fitted to the car.

That should be the end of the story…

…but it’s not.

While sitting in the glass office/waiting room that shows a panorama of the workshop, a car pulled up. Which is not unusual, it is a service station after all.

The guy who got out was obviously uncomfortable, but not so uncomfortable that he couldn’t walk in to the area that the workshop guys were working and clicking his fingers at them.

Given that he was covered in sweat, the clicking was obviously used to convey the message: “excuse me my air-conditioner isn’t working, please could someone come and take a look at it.”

Surprisingly someone did actually walk over to his car, had a quick poke about, and then said something that obviously disgusted AC guy. Our workshop hero pointed at the manager (sitting about 4 feet from me in our glass, air-conditioned sanctuary).

AC guy strode towards us in a sweating, muttering mess.

The glass door swung open, and he was inside, standing in front of Ed, the manager.

“Hello sir” said Ed.
“I need you to fix my AC” replied AC guy, not burdening himself with the trouble of niceties.
“Your Air-conditioner is broken?” said Ed
“Can you do it, yes or no?”
“There are 2 kinds of..” Ed began.
“Yes or NO.” interrupted AC guy, obviously not used to people being nice to him.
“Provided there is no other damage to…” Ed tried again, no change in his friendly manner.
“YES. OR. NO” AC Guy went on. Perhaps utilising the 3 words in the English language that are his favourite. He seemed to like them a lot.
“Yes” Said Ed.
“How long will it take?” Said AC guy.
“When we can start it it will take an hour, we are busy..”
“How LONG.”
“An hour” Said Ed, demonstrating that even though he was conversing with AC guy in a language that was Ed’s third or fourth language, in spite of that Ed had not trouble understanding the sweating white mess standing in front of him.
“Your guys will start it now?” While phrased as a question, it was obviously a statement.

Ed replied that they would start it as soon as they possibly could, but that it would likely be an hour before they could start.

“You can’t do it right now” asked AC guy, his tone suggesting that Ed was busy on purpose.
“In an hour we can”
“Is there anywhere else that can do it, if you don’t want to..” AC guy, still swinging .
“There are places around, but …”
“Forget it” said AC guy and stormed out, got in his steaming hot car and left with a small screech of tyre.

“It’s your fault you know” I said to Ed, my sarcasm NOT lost this time.
“I don’t know why, I told him we would fix it…”

I paid my bill, waved at the guys who had been working on the car and left.

They’re a nice bunch over there at ADNOC 32nd Street, screaming shame the customers aren’t always so pleasant.

AC Guy - if you are reading this. Bad lack re: the Tri-nations, John Smit's boys did their best.

Kiss me like you mean it.

2011-07-13T11:11:00.001+04:00

I’m a hugger.

I’ve always been a hugger.

I’ll hug anything: cats, dogs, people of any gender, trees, Triumph motorcycles.

Haven’t ever been much of a kisser, and not due to some weird aversion to intimacy, but primarily due to the awkwardness of it all.

The whole issue about who is kissing who’s cheek can begin a pleasant reunion with a head bobbling clash.

OR

What if one of your friends turns out to be a lip kisser, when you were certain (in the .5 of a second of running through your kiss-memory-bank), that they were a cheek kisser?

OR

The double cheek kiss, (I find the ‘double cheek’ alone affectatious at the best of times) that all of a sudden turns in to a TRIPLE cheek kiss… it creates a weird pause as you return to the middle to say hello to the person ONLY to have them sliding hungrily toward you for third peck.

I just don’t get it. I’ve tried, but I don’t.

Interestingly (for me at least) I find the whole process completely impersonal, and find it generally akin to ripping a bandaid off, or leaping into a potentially cold pool.

“Hi, we’ve met a couple of times, but we’re not, like, BFFs or anything, but we’re not, like, complete strangers, so I’m like a little uncomfortable right now, let’s air kiss and get it over and done with, like mwah…MWAH”

Drives me nuts.

It’s not the action, it’s the intent. Most of the time I would prefer to be greeted with a warm handshake, a double hander is particularly nice, so, given that at larger gatherings the time spent in greeting might be ALL the time you spend with that person, that contact can be made more meaningful by having the opportunity to look at each other and smile… rather than mwah MWAH-ing in each other’s ear, sharing no meaningful time, and then moving on to the next victim.

There is enough non-personal contact in the virtual world as it is with Facebook, twitter and now Google taking a bite into how we all interact, so for the love of all things connected why reduce our limited contact time to such meaningless gunge as double kissing?

“But, what about the Lebanese? They triple kiss.” asked Mrs Ad-ist, an inveterate double-lipper…

No problem, because they are LEBANESE.

A key factor.

They (Lebanese folk) generally perform the triple with a warmth and drawing in of the body, a lingering that suggests that they care about this coming together... the opportunity to spend a moment. Not the ridiculous bum out lean in mwah-daaahling fest we seem to indulge in, like merging skeins of geese, all flapping and kissing and trying to land somewhere.

In fact perhaps I am also railing against the bum-out ridiculousness that is the multi-kiss flapping frenzy. People end up looking like they are bobbing for cheek apples, bent over some imaginary barrel that has materialised between the two parties, both of whom set about trying to avoid touching, lest the rim of said barrel leaves something nasty on the crotch area of one’s party clothes.

What is the motivation? Have we seen so many caricatures of “society living” that we have inadvertently perpetuated the very behaviour that we have previously derided as being annoying and worse - false?

Nope I’m done, I’ve been lured into this abhorrent behaviour over the last couple of years, NO-one I know at home behaves in such a manner, and I’m not doing anymore.

As I mentioned from the start, I’m actually a hugger, but am aware that people have space issues that preclude the return of same, so I don’t pursue or instigate hugging as a rule.

No, in lieu of a good and proper hug, I’m sticking to handshakes, double handshakes OR if the person I am making the acquaintance is desperate to bob for cheek apples, I’ll stop at one.

I’ll reserve the saved time for actually saying hello.

Hubbly Bubbly - mind the smoke...

2011-07-06T11:08:00.001+04:00

It would be fair to say that over the last couple of years this fair blog has been, well, critical of many businesses here in the sandpit that I call home.

My defence is this – if businesses didn’t make it so easy for bloggers (me and those far more talented than me) to make humorous observations, there would be about a 10,000 words a day NOT sent streaming out into the mists the interwebs.

How can I not pass comment on unnecessarily protracted service response OR buy in bulk shopping deals that work out to be more expensive than simply purchasing the same amount of items individually?

Or road behaviour, or staff issues, or the fact that there is no postal system but I can get burgerking delivered to my door 24 hours a day?
My part time job as a blogger precludes the exclusion of such tasty morsels if they land in my lap, but please understand that the focus of this blog was never to simply beat up on folk, it’s just that there seems to be a very long line in the “beat me up” side of the velvet rope, and very few participants in the, “I’m awesome, write about me” line.

SO to address the balance just a little bit, here’s an example of GREAT service, and I hope enough people support the business, and are not so confused by being shown good service that they run screaming into the night – sure that the sky will soon fall.

Long-time readers might have made note that I am quite partial to shisha, I don’t smoke it every day, in fact I often don’t smoke shisha month to month but when I do it’s a pleasing social experience.

*cue the arrival of the justification train*

Yes.. I know it’s not the healthiest of pursuits, no need to bother yourselves with pointing that out. Thanks, no .. really I know…

For those not in the know: the process of acquiring and utilising shisha at aforementioned shisha bars is pretty simple.

Once seated, order preferred flavour of shisha (Grape with mint is the weapon of choice for team Abudhabilist)
Wait an undetermined time for your bubbly piece of smoking joy to arrive.
Watch transfixed as the shisha guy stokes the pipe by adding hot coal to the top of the tobacco bowl.
Puff contentedly, until coal burns out.
Watch transfixed as shisha guy notices your lack of coal and zooms over with a flourish and a wave of a pot full of new coal to rectify lack of coal issue.

Try to catch the eye of shisha guy as he darts about trying to keep everyone happy, lamenting his choice of vocation and/or the miserable bar owner who refuses to hire enough staff and/or the large bald bloke (me) waving furiously at him to come and attend to coal situation.

Shisha bars vary in both quality of the product AND quality of the service. It seems that some places take great pride in their shisha, others would catapult the cheapest petro-chemical red hot faux-charcoal at their customers if they could.

Except that would mean taking the time to make a catapult, and exposing the operators to the potential of shooting themselves in the eye. Which is not so much a statement on workplace health and safety but more about the additional issue of driving them to an airport to send them home with their eye in a bag.

Some venues are like this (almost) then there are others, like the main subject of this post.

I had been nagging the Holiday Inn about when their shisha bar was going to be finished for MONTHS. Working on the theory that if I nagged enough, it would open sooner.

Not a great theory I am aware, but when in search of shisha close to one’s home, one has to pull out all one’s stops – so to speak.

When the opening finally happened, I sped hungrily to their door.
Okay that’s not entirely true either BUT we were there within 2 weeks of opening.

It was so worth the wait. I tend to walk into any new venue here with hope and faith that it will be good, then set about writing notes on why it’s not.

Not at the mighty ‘Hubbly Bubbly’ though…

Greeted by the fantastic and uber-friendly Karim we were shown to a table and waited for friends to arrive but not wanting to hold festivities up Mrs AD-ist and I ordered shisha immediately, and we were graced with a smoking pipe of goodness in short order.

Being a shisha buff of some renown I can confidently say that whatever Hubbly Bubbly are serving in those pipes is excellent… if they keep it up (and I believe they will) they’ll have to extend the shisha area into the car-park to fit people in.

Upon arrival our shisha-hound buddies ordered up their flavours of choice, and settled back to enjoy.

Then an amazing thing happened: One of our number had chosen a flavour he wasn’t familiar with, and after a minute proclaimed that he really didn’t like it…

…Karim solved our guy’s problem by simply asking him what he usually puffed on and then immediately replacing the pipe with that flavour.

No arguments, no discussion, just excellent service.

We were gob-smacked. Customer focussed service, by staff who were genuinely enthusiastic?

Had we somehow found ourselves in a time shift created by the shape of the building and it’s interaction with the passing traffic?

Nope, just a team that know what they are doing.

We’ve been back, several times since, and they are constantly improving the area.

New couches have been added for a more informal feel (rather than all sitting around outdoor settings), more plans for more space are being actioned, AND they have outdoor air-conditioners for those who find the concept of being outside and away from arctic like air-con an inconvenience.

There are prettier places to imbibe in this local vice, but none offer the welcome or the level of service that is on offer at Hubbly Bubbly.
Oh… and the food is good (great pizza or Arabic standards) AND it’s all well priced.

So go, and say ‘hi’ to the Karim and the gang from us here at Abudhabilist.com … just leave room for us will you?

Hubble Bubbly
Outside at the Holiday Inn
Corner 31st and 2nd Streets

So, we have a dog now.

2011-07-06T11:03:00.002+04:00

Yup, a dog.

I guess it was inevitable really; we had dogs before we came here. Even so I would like to say that it was not my idea.

Let’s back track a little.

*cue whimsical harp music*
*maybe add a washout effect to transition between the scenes*

“Honey, I know he’s cute. I know he needs love, but we have 2 cats. What I am saying is that we have enough animal already.” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

“But he looks like a cross between Iggy and Abe” (our previous dogs) My wife, unfairly playing the emotional card, thereby insinuating that by not adopting this guy we were abandoning the memory of our long lost buddies.

“But we have two cats and live in a 2 bedroom apartment”

“We lived in a two bedroom town house with Ig, Abe and Max (our cat)” she replied, cunningly reminding me that we have had more than 2 animals before.

“Yes, but if ever we move back to Australia it is going to cost us a fortune to get them back there. I am talking PACKETS of cash” fighting a rear-guard action, it was all I had.

“Yes, but if we had children it would be way more expensive than a couple of cages and a plane ticket” replied my bride, which I took to be ‘We adopt this dog, or we are having babies’.

With that veiled threat I retreated.

And then we went to Sri Lanka.

Sri Lanka was ace, and will be coming along in another post – it’s full of happy folk, awesome curries, mountains, Buddhas and… dogs.

Everywhere.

It seemed that each house had a happy looking mutt in front of it. I mentioned this to George, our driver extraordinaire and he said “Oh no, they are not pet dogs, they are stray dogs”

Confused I asked from the back seat of the van: “but they look fat and happy, not like stray dogs at all”

“Yes” said George “because they are usually fed by the house they are sitting in front of, the house owners also look after them if they get injured”

“So, they aren’t really stray, people own them” I pressed on, George looked at in the rear view mirror (and somehow deftly missed 5 tuk-tuks and a bus) “No, they are stray dogs, no-one owns them”

The point of this diversion? Every other dog we saw looked like the dog that had popped up on facebook via a local animal advocacy group ‘Animal Action – Abu Dhabi’.

All of a sudden everywhere we looked a rusty coloured dog leered back at us, tongue lolling and whispering “Take me home”.

At least I think they were whispering, although might have been the delicious Sri Lankan beer.

On returning to the UAE, we both checked the Animal Action site, albeit independently, and without knowledge of what each of us were furtively doing.

Each day Rusty (the name that was ultimately chosen by a friend, although we didn’t know it at the time) would stare back at us from depths of cyber space.

The breaking point came one day via the animal channel.

I work from home and while I don’t often have the TV on, I thought I’d have a lunch and telly break.
“Oh Animal ER… that’ll be interesting and uplifting” said I, as I settled down to eat my omelette.

WRONG!.

It was an episode that had one animal that had eaten rat poison, the footage was rounded out by extensive filming of the distraught and grieving owner begging the Doc to do everything that could be done.

With my food half eaten I, misguidedly, thought I’d hang in there for the following show - ‘Last chance highway’- A lovely show about beaten and unwanted animals being loaded on to a large air conditioned trailer then driven across the states to their new loving homes.

I endured the show, and seeing all those lovely animals find a home, to not be thrown out as rubbish brought up a whole bunch of stuff regarding our own animals back in Australia.

I am NOT going to get all melodramatic here.

After such self imposed flagellation I moved to the computer and send an email to the most divisive person in the world, recommending that if she found herself at home it would be wise NOT to watch such shows if she intended to continue having a good day.

My wife is divisive (not just because of this incident, but it adds to my ongoing case) because she responded with this photo, that a third party had put up on a local auction web-site.

The perpetrator of such emotional violence had added an entire spiel to the Auction site about how Rusty had been abused and abandoned, and that even though his guardians had treated him badly, he missed them anyway. The reader was then asked, in desperate fashion, with that photo staring balefully at them - “Who will look after me?”.

What chance did I have?

Whoever wrote it should consider writing propaganda leaflets for any organisation that required such a service.

Straw.

Camel’s back.

Broken.

After sending a ‘Thanks for that’ email to my cruel and victorious wife, I contacted the kind folk that had been looking after him up until that time, to arrange a meeting with the skinny guy.

The rest is history, as 2 days later we had a new addition to our family.

He is still coming to terms with the fact that there is nothing he can do in the entire world that is ‘wrong’. There’s plenty that he can do to get extra scratches behind the ear, and belly rubs, but nothing that will have him kicked or beaten ever again.

When we answer the oft asked question “Why is he so skinny?” with all the reasons why it is amazing the dog is alive at all let alone skinny, people’s first response is usually along the lines of how lucky Rusty is.

It’s been 2 weeks now, and I can say without reserve that we, by any measure, are the lucky ones. So very lucky. He is a good dog now, in spite of the way he has been treated in the past (he is still getting used to the idea that human feet aren’t for kicking) and with some gentle care will become a great dog.

We’d forgotten the joy of a dog. Our cats are fine. They seem to have larger personalities than the cats we have had in the past, and my Cat “moose” behaves like he is part dog, but both of the cats still retain that that aloof attitude reserved for our feline friends.

Rusty (the dog) on the other hand is so besotted by us, he is obviously happy to see us when we come in from being out of the house, and simply wants to be allowed to be by our side.

It’s the fundamental difference between dogs and cats.

Dogs want us around, cats want to be fed – loosely speaking.

I’ve often commented that the main difference between domestic cats and dogs can be summed up in a simple analogy – in this instance I’ll use our animals for the example.

If, I was living alone, and dropped dead in my living room - preferably with a Shakespearean flourish, and additional dramatization. Maybe knocking some stuff off the coffee table, hopefully even dragging the TV off the wall before unfurling my mortal coil .

Regardless of the manner of my demise, let’s just assume I’ve croaked and in the middle of the lounge room floor – if that were to happen (and I sincerely hope it doesn’t for many years yet) but IF it were to happen…

…Rusty would probably sit quietly next to me. Guarding my lifeless body, until he himself succumbed and followed me to the after world, where we could play ball and he could roll in whatever he wanted to.

… the cats on the other hand would have started eating me by noon the second day. Probably lamenting that I hadn’t been thoughtful enough to peg out in the shower, because then there would be no clothes to work around.

So, welcome Rusty-dog to the Abudhabilist fold – I am sure he’s going to be the source of a stack of writing material.

If you live in Abu Dhabi or the UAE there are plenty of facebook animal groups and websites you can join, but I suggest the following.

Animal Action - Abu Dhabi (facebook group)
BVC - British Veterinary Clinic Abu Dhabi (facebook group)
SAD - Strays of Abu Dhabi (facebook group)
Feline Friends - Abu Dhabi (facebook group)

Anyone who wants me to add their animal based group or website to this list, just let me know and I'll add it immediately.

Etisalat, you've done it again - only, not to me this time.

2011-05-25T20:48:00.002+04:00

I (surprisingly) have a couple of posts coming up that involve AWESOME service, here in the UAE.

I’ve been pretty fair in my past posts and actively avoid being too gushy about places I like... but a couple of things have happened over the last week or so that have left me gobsmacked.

Seriously good service by companies that obviously take looking after their customers very seriously indeed.

I was about to post said somethings when I was contacted with another Etisalat horror story that was simply too good to miss out on.

A gentleman by the name of Scott (but for anonymity’s sake we’ll call him, Mr S... err.. wait... never mind) sent me an email, obviously having seen the joy that was the internet saga that The Bayt Al Abudhabilist had experienced recently (see posts Waiting for Etisalat - 13 days and counting and Etisalat - the epilogue) he thought he’d contact me with his current experience... here’s the truncated email:

“We now have a fourth complaint number after they failed to show for the second time yesterday. This dates back to the 9th May although we haven’t had the internet for over a month now – I thought this was on the basis of not paying the bill but apparently not

Prior to this I made numerous calls to their IT helpdesk to try and fix the fact that the wireless element of their service didn’t work

Current compliant number is xxxxxx – this was raised cob yesterday and I await a call

Previous compliant number was xxxxxx2 – after speaking to the engineer personally on Monday afternoon we agreed that he would meet me at my house at 4pm yesterday to fix the problem – he didn’t show and Etisalat claim that complaint number was cancelled on account that they couldn’t contact me

Prior complaint number to that xxxxx3 – again after speaking to the Engineer personally they were supposed to visit my house at 9.30am on Saturday morning and guess what – he didn’t show and Etisalat claim that the complaint number was cancelled on account they couldn’t contact me

Previous complaint number xxxxx4– don’t ask

Apparently they claim they send me messages in English although everything I get from them is in Arabic including complaint number cancellations!

They don’t start work until 10.30am making any form of early morning appointment impossible

They seem incapable of understanding my specific instructions in respect to their wasting their OWN time turning up unannounced as we both work, so there will unless arranged there will be nobody there- we both work.

With this in mind I made two appointments which theyfailed to keep

Apart from this complaints number procedure that doesn’t appear to work there is no other process to escalate a complaint

Amateurs – the conversation with them yesterday end with me threatening to rip the estisalat equipment off the wall coming to their offices and inserting it somewhere that might do some good... or better than it is doing me at least.
So - you see? How can I NOT post it.?..

Etisalat’s system works fine if every single cog in the machine falls in to place - but like all things ONE cog decides it isn’t going to perform its duty and it all falls in a frustrating, blood pressure raising, force-one-to-hard-liquor mess.

It also sounds like the people at the front line of the system are beaten down so much by the immense onslaught of customer complaints that they simply take the path of least resistance, they actively try to resolve THEIR problem - that of getting an irate customer off the phone so that they can get on with their next call - rather than the CUSTOMER’S problem - paying for a service that cannot be reliably supplied and are feeling no support from...

...AND if they really hate their job (who can blame them?) the ‘customer service’ folk have the potential to make things very difficult indeed.

Like not changing a customer’s file to information that might assist the customer - like “Customer must receive texts in English” for instance.

I’ve said it before, and will continue to say it: I completely understand that the management of data infrastructure and hardware and assets must be a huge job, one that I am sure would be beyond me.

Beyond me because it isn’t my job.

It IS however Etisalat’s job, they are a company that is paid to service this small country’s data and telephony requirements.

Sometimes they get it right, unfortunately (as you’d see from comments in the other posts) they get it horribly wrong too.

There has to be a better way. Or better people. Or better companies - should they ever be allowed in.

I am certain that lack of competition and accountability makes some companies complacent, this is one of those instances.

Have issues with your phone or data? Please feel free to shoot an email to me if you feel the need to vent OR simply leave a comment …

More complaints - this time with added bitchiness.

2011-04-15T10:24:00.001+04:00

Right, back in to the fray... about complaints, again.

FIRST: If you're a newish visitor to the site, before we get on to the meat of this argument it might be worth taking a look at an older post to get some background on the subject of complaints and who makes them the most. To do that you might like to catch up by reading Complaints and the people who make them. A post from back in 2009 that caused a certain expat group some... discomfort.

So read that if you like, then pop back here - or not - either way we can now move on...

SECOND: Peruse the image below if you will...

We get to run/cycle on this for nothing? - Photo courtesy of www.yasmarinacircuit.com

It's the fantastic Yas Marina circuit.

"So what?" I hear you all ask. (if you didn't, for the purposes of blogging-license just humour me would you)

SO WHAT? Here's so what. Every Tuesday for months Yas Marina Circuit has seen fit to open its gates to allow runners and cyclists the opportunity to utilise its 5.6km (long course) or 2.something km (short course) ribbon of sweet tarmac-ed beauty for the purposes of running (some), staggering (me), walking (tourists), or pedalling (lycra fetishists).

No sparing the light either - every one of it's lights is turned on and blazing, allowing all participants clear views and sure footing. Not an 'every other light' thing, ALL of them.

Free water is handed out for participants on the way in, AND on their exit as they sweatily crawl toward their cars.

How much does this cost?
HOW MUCH for the use of the facility, bottled water, and the ability to safely train in an environment that is clear of cars or marauding tricycle riders?
A facility that in order to make this weekly event happen has to pay for a stack of staff - reception/water stackers/marshals/ and security to direct in the car park.

How much?

Nothing.

That's how much.

Not. A. Dime.

To the point...

On arriving at the car gate for the parking area the supplied-at-no-cost-to-my-good-person security guard smiled and explained that as the right hand park was full, I'd have to park at the other end of the compound.

"Sure!" I said turned left and went on my way.

On my way I noticed that 2 cars had parked up in what looked to be a reasonable spot close to the gate I'd have to walk through, so, like a lemming I parked there as well.

I faffed about, retrieving my water pack from the passenger side floor, marvelling that it had managed to NOT leak its sports-drink goodness on to the carpet in my wife's car, stowed wallet and phone, and got out...

...walking straight into a harpy shrill voice being directed at a newly arrived security dude.

...who had walked up to the area in which we had parked, at no cost to me.
...who had NO power in his job other than to do what he was told to do.

Apparently we had all misunderstood the gate guy, and had not parked in the correct spot. (I blame those parked before me, I am after all, even on a good day, lemming like)

He was polite, and quietly spoken.

My 'muse' for this blog, a cyclist dressed in yellow lycra top with black lycra pants, and looking for all the world like a shelled Cadbury creme-egg, was lighting in to the guard.

She was obviously dismayed that she couldn't park 3 feet from the gate and had to move her car 40 metres away, thus creating an arduous additional 10 seconds of travel time, 20 if you include the return trip (although it WAS slightly uphill, so perhaps 21 seconds, to be fair).

I stopped to work out what the problem was, initially I thought that the guard, out of pure social conscience, had come to comment on appropriate dress...

...once I had worked out what was going on I simply began moving back to my car to move it.

I did this without being told, or at least I am sure the guard was on his way to let me know, but had been waylaid and was at that point being screamed at -

Creme-egg :"YOU need to sort yourself out"
Yes of course, given the guy's position on the board of the Yas Marin...wait, no.. not his position.In his roll of director of operations.. wait, no, he's not director of anything. He's just a guard. Some dude, to be yelled at. Apparently.
Guard: "Ma'am you can't park here"
In hindsight, pretty obvious that we couldn't (see lemming clause)
Creme-egg: "It's too late"
Guard: "What is too late?"
Creme-egg: "It's too late"
Guard: "What is too la.."
Creme-egg: "It's too late"
Guard: "What is t.."
Creme-egg: "IT'S TOO LATE" (harpy level screeching now)

The guard was understandably confused. Too late for what?

I broke solidarity with my western sister by moving my car. The moment she saw me opening the driver's door, while another person (newly arrived) moved to do the same, she knew she was beaten.

Creme-egg parked next to me in the far flung reaches of the new parking spot.

We made eye contact as we exited our respective vehicles.

"This is just not good enough!" said the Egg-ster, heatedly
"It's a free service you know" I replied quietly, but in a tone that suggested that I thought she had behaved, and was still behaving, like a tool. A big, yellow and black, tool.

As we walked back along the spinifex strewn 100 odd foot trek, in order to somehow justify her anger AND suggest the fight was based around a conspiracy, she slid into this little gem :

"It's only free because they are terrified we will DIE on the roads OUT THERE"
"Maybe" realising for the first time in a while I wasn't the craziest person in a conversation.
"No maybe about it" raged Creme-ey "I KNOW it for a FACT"

She stopped then and turned back, having forgotten to grab something she could beat the guard with I suspect.

Seriously. On what planet could this be considered reasonable behaviour. Whatever inconvenience that might have ensued surely didn't warrant screaming at some poor carpark-dude.

A disgusting display? Yes.
Was I embarrassed to have the same skin colour as the Harpy-come-creme-egg? Yes.

Sad, sad individual.
And cowardly.
And needs to not wear lycra.

On returning to the gate I waved and grinned at the guard, then went on to enjoy the facility.

Wasn't asked for a cent.

La Brioche - Into the wilds of KCA, by bus.

2011-02-25T11:17:00.001+04:00

Over a cup of tea, the day before the project:

“Do we have to go by bus?”
“Yes, that’s the plan”

“But it’s just another Brioche, they’re everywhere, it’s not like there is some super special place out there”
“Bus Kim, we said we’d go by bus, YOU said you liked buses, we are going to go by bus”
“Not taxi”
“Not a taxi”
“Okay, fine” *pouting* “but we don’t have to go there AND back by bus do we”
“It kind of defeats the purpose if we don’t, don’t you think?”
“Not really, our goal is the coffee shop, getting there by bus means we have completed our goal”
“Kim…”
“FINE… whatever” *much pouting*
“Right, I have to get going to see some clients – would you be able to check the Bus company’s web-portal for which bus we are going to take?”
“Fine”
“I can do it if it’s a problem”
“I’LL do it”
“Ooookay… cool then”

Kim: “We can go from Al Wahda bus station to Khalifa City A ADNOC on bus number 160. Guess we have to walk from there. Is ADNOC close to Brioche?”
Me: “You are kidding…it’s miles from there…There’s not one that goes to the pink shops?”
Kim:“I don’t think so, unless there are internal buses? I looked on the bus schedule and only the one bus goes to Khalifa A”

*cue my spidey senses poking me that there might be an untruth going on here*

Me: “Then we have a problem…miles I tell you”
Kim : “LoL. Oh dear…”
Me: “Hmmm…”

Text morning of the project:

Me, after going to the bus web-portal to validate my offsider’s claims:
“AWESOME news. There are 2 buses that go to the pink shops at KCA”

Kim, obviously aware that she has been busted trying to wheedle out of a bus trip:
“LoL. Ok! Awesome, what time do you want to head out?”

We walked to the bus station, passing the taxi area and it’s cabbies who either gazed or shouted what we hope were taxi offers in our direction.

For a bus station there didn’t seem to be many buses about, this prompted Kim to lean toward the nearby taxi rank, many of its cabbies gazing in our (more likely HER) direction.

“There’s lots of cabs”
“No, a bus will come you’ll see”
“……”
“It will”
“What if one doesn’t?” a glimmer of hope was forming, Kim was trying to stay cool lest the tiny glowing ember of the potential to take a cab, even one with a dodgy driver should be blown away by her less than obvious line of questioning.
“If a bus doesn’t arrive in half an hour…. we’ll drive”

We stood on the platform for a while longer, Kim much buoyed by the prospect that the plan would fail and that she would soon be ensconced in the front seat of the Jeep, was studying our platform co-inhabitants.

Then she started to sing. Not unusual. In this instance it was her own take on “Only Girl” by Rihanna. The one that implores Rihanna’s listeners to ‘…love me like I’m a hot pie” or "guy", or "fly", or something.

“I just feel like I’m the only girl in the world, or at least the only one at this bus stoooop”

“Not true” I said “There’s a woman sitting just over there” pointing to a local woman sitting on a bench further up the platform.

She looked at the woman in question then continued:

“I just feel like I’m the only girl at the bus stop, or at least the only one not in blaaaack…”

“There’s one of the buses” I said, distracting her “except… it’s going the wrong way, that will take us to Mina, I wonder if the bus for KCA leaves from over there” indicating the other side of 8 lanes of traffic.

“We could catch a cab” making the most of every this-isn’t-working moment.
“…..”
“They’re just there” again indicating the ranks of cabs like they had just arrived.
“Kim, this was your idea”
“It was NOT my idea, this was entirely YOUR idea, shall we go and look at the written evidence? It’s on your blog”
“Yes, but the inspiration for a bus trip came from you, so, it’s your idea”
“Wait, what?…My… WHAT?”

Discussion ensued until Kim could get her own back by playing the ‘There it is’ game.

A tactic first employed to infuriate me in our visit to the Coffee Planet Roastery (post is still in the writing stage, might make it the finale of the project).

It’s a game she never seems to get tired of. The rules are simple:
Wait until I am distracted by looking for something (like a bus), then loudly say with some urgency: “There it is!” thus causing me to spin around to look in the direction she it pointing.

In this instance she was pointing at a labourer’s bus.

Then a water truck.

Then a telephone pole.

Ooooh the mirth that followed. SO much fun. For one of us.

I believe that she tortures her long suffering partner with the same ploy. I’ve discussed this with him, and he simply nods sagely in a manner that suggests that he thinks she is trying to drive him crazy BUT he is glad that he isn’t the only one soft headed enough to fall for it.

Finally our bus showed up, and Kim sighed with obvious disappointment that it had beaten the we’ll-get-a-taxi deadline.

On boarding I thought I had better make sure the bus was indeed going in our direction.

The bus driver wasn’t sure.

I asked whether the bus would be passing the Pink shops in KCA (Khalifa City A)…
“KCA, yes” he said.
“TO the shops though? The pink shops?”
“errrr… *something in Arabic* KCA”
“Shops?”
“KCA?”
“Pink Shops?”
“KCA” he said

Thankfully another passenger called out from somewhere near the back of the bus that we were on to a good thing.

The bus driver seemed as relived as I was.

Kim stomped on and sat down in the ‘Ladies only’ section. I stood stoically in the space behind her, vowing that rules were rules, and not being a ‘lady’ meant that I must stand…

…a situation that I maintained for at least 4 kilometres before collapsing in to the seat facing Kim…

…a situation that lasted another 4 kilometres before I realised the less than smooth ride was likely to make me unwell. If this was to happen, Kim’s placement and proximity meant that it could create a situation that would dramatically test our friendship, so I swapped to the seat next to my coffee-project off-sider.

It seems that we weren’t the only ones with does-this-bus-go-to-…? Issues. One poor sap after repeated questioning of the driver over multiple stops had to get off the bus, visibly upset, obviously a long way form where he needed to be.

We were okay though, sitting under an air-con duct that obviously channelled air directly from a glacier strapped somewhere on the roof of the bus, we meandered through the various neighbourhoods on our way to Khalifa City A. (often and only slightly unkindly called ‘Moonscape A’).

On arrival at the Pink shops we hit a snag.

“Soooo… I don’t actually know where the coffee shop is” I admitted
“WHAT? You drag me out here… on a BUS and you don’t know where we are actually going? Drew!”
“Well ‘don’t know’ is a bit steep, more like, 'unsure'”
“I can’t believe this!”
“Alright, alright, it’s here somewhere I seem to remember it mentioned as being across the road” I checked online via my Blackberry “Lets head toward those banks over there, I think I see an awning…”
“It’s probably just like THAT awning” said Kim. Her finger pointing at a beige tarp over a bakery shop

It was the right place, and only a 5 minute stroll from the bus stop. So I was only asked twice if we could get a taxi by my pouting, stomping companion.

La Brioche KCA is nice if you can get a table outside. The food was the usual fare, but the coffee if ordered as a ‘strong’ was really pretty good and we both remarked that it was way better than the Brioche coffee we had experienced at the other franchise sites.

The service was friendly and fast, and lacked a bit of the “hello ma’am-siiiir” ness that I was expecting, so that was pleasant.

We liked it, it also (given it’s location) has the feeling of being the last frontier of coffee wonder before striding off to meet ones fate in the desert.

We discussed writing projects. Then Kim produced some photo’s of sketches she had been working on (life art course from BBC). On hearing that it was life drawing I only agreed to look provided I didn’t have to see any drawings she might have done of her partner.

I like him, I like art. I just don’t want to see the 2 combined.

Nude.

She assured me I was safe and thankfully I was.

We paid and left, Kim requesting that we consider a taxi (again), me saying it’s not in the spirit of the game (again). So we walked toward the distant bus stop.

The area we were walking through has a high taxi to person-on-the-side-of-the-road ratio, as a result every minute or so a taxi would slow and honk at us. Kim would look up, and then at me in the hope that we would be soon striding toward the silver beast in the happy knowledge that a bus would not be required for the trip home.

Each time I mentioned “not agreed” or “not far now” or “spirit of the blog”

Each time Kim’s bottom lip protruded a little more, and her stomping became more pronounced.

Clouds of sand plumed from her flip flopped feet. So much so that I was a little concerned that visibility on the nearby road would soon be affected.

Then another taxi slowed…
Kim looked at it…
The taxi put it’s hazard lights on..
Kim looked at me…

…and I raised my hand in order to let him know, yes... yes we would avail ourselves of his services.

Buses are fine…
Cabs are fine too...
Kim all but screamed in relief.

La Brioche KCA
Well worth the trip, by bus or not by bus. Just don’t try and walk from Abu Dhabi.

Etisalat - The Epilogue

2011-02-17T10:54:00.001+04:00

I know that there are alot of folk waiting for the continuation of the coffee series BUT, I have this post blocking my thinking process, so best get it out.

It's been more than a week now since our 21 day adventure ended.

First and foremost, we are grateful to be connected again. We could easily get by back in Australia with no internet at home.

Here EVERYTHING is reliant upon it, particularly with a less than usual work arrangement like mine as I spend so much time on the road and out of the office.

Even so...

...I understand that things take time.

...that the sheer enormity of funnelling giga-lumps of information all over the place is no small feat.

I get that. I really do.

What I don't understand is the lack of honest service and preponderance of scripted front of house answers. A tactic I suspect to confuse and dismay the client, and leave them so grateful for such horrendous service that we are as beggars, kneeling for the smallest hint of technological kindness... our bowls empty. Our many appliances impotent, left aside.

During the disconnection period (we were assured 3-5 days maximum)we were placed in the unfortunate position of having Australia, our home country, suffer significant flooding, then the largest cyclone to hit Australia arrived in the north, the south flooded again, the west saw some of the worst bushfires in decades...

...and Egypt had a revolution.

Rightly, ALL of the news services were covering the world shaking events happening not far from here in the land of the Nile, pyramids gleaming on the horizon.

The ONLY information we could glean re: Australia(we have friends and or family in ALL of the areas hit by each of the natural disasters) came from brief snippets on BBC World service and the very occasional sound bite amid the extraordinary news coming out of Egypt, and expensive mobile phone calls.

With internet we could have been more connected. There was nothing we could have done of course, but at least we could have stayed more abreast of things, we could have been less worried.

Are those situations all about me? No.

What is about me/us is that every time we contacted Etisalat during this period we weren't given anything that could remotely be considered reasonable customer service.

Here's the thing Etisalat:

If it was going to take 21 days. Just say so.

No big deal. We could just get on with life, and resign ourselves to the snippets of access to world information available to us.

Don't say something will happen tomorrow, when you don't have the power or the connections to guarantee such a promise. A friend once said that the easiest way to send someone crazy - nutsoid-crazy, want-to-hit-something-with-a-bat-crazy - is to offer them something, then take it away then offer again, then take it away, offer, refuse and so on.

AND don't charge us for the privilege of having to schedule 3 weeks of having to keep ourselves close to home lest we should be called upon to attend.

Don't tell us (on 6 occasions) that there would be a call made, when actually there wouldn't be.

Don't say 15 days in that "there is something wrong with your application when first processed" and then offer no explanation on what. (another stalling tactic)

Experiences mirrored by friends and strangers, not just on connection but on change of service issues, billing, handset pickups...

There is something particularly flawed with a company that people feel uncomfortable about approaching to resolve some issue or other, in case there is a screw up that leaves them disconnected (and tellingly... still debited) from their service.

The front line folk, the poor saps that have to pick up the phone at Etisalat customer servoce, were friendly, but were too obviously just 'handlers'.

"Can you put me through to the technical department"
"No, I can only send an email on your behalf"
"Give me the email address and I will contact them directly"
"No Sir"
"But you can"
"Yes I will sir, I see you have contacted us 19 times"
"you understand that we are frustrated?"
"Yes sir"

The part that we didn't bother with was ye olde "Can you put me through to your supervisor"
A request, I have heard from 5 different sources leads to the phone call being ended.

Presumably because the "manager" phone is an open line sitting in a server room somewhere, blinking quietly as it cuts off person after person...

A tactic that enrages the client, but stalls the process due to the client finding themselves for many hours curled up in a ball, moaning quietly, then going through the whole futile process again.

The person at the other end of the Twitter address @EtisalatUAE was super friendly, but again lacked alot of the power to ensure the promises that I hope they were being given, and then were passing on to me, were met.

They called after I railed against Etislag on twitter. They spoke to my wife, called again to make sure that nothing was missed out as the call had accidentally dropped, THEN they sent a text to confirm.

They were great, but the information they were being fed was spurious, 3 times they informed my wife or me that someone would call 'Later today'

3 times that promise was not met.

After we were finally connected (again by a team of grinning and friendly technicians)I contacted @EtisalatUAE to let them know. I suggested in that missive that there was a serious flaw in the system, they replied.

"Thanks for letting us know, apologies things took longer than they should have"

Indeed.

If the comments on the previous post are any indication, then this is not an isolated case.

Just apologising for bad service does nothing to improve the system. A system that is based purely on 'They'll wait, what are they going to do?' is a system that will ultimately fail.

True competition is desperately required here in the middle east. Etisfat has had it way too good thus far. A professional overseas company would scare hell out of them.

In a week.

Simply by keeping the client informed, and being realistic about what they have the capacity to offer.

Etisalat - 13 days and counting.

2011-02-02T10:33:00.001+04:00

I will admit to being a little smug as I squinted through the cloud of shisha smoke at one of my smoking companions.

James had just told me about how when he transferred his internet connection it had taken all his patience and most of his sanity to deal with the Abu Dhabi’s fibre-optic internet supplier - Etisalat.

“Oh no” I said, and then uttered the fateful words “It will be fine.” Then took another puff of grape -and-mint-bubbly-goodness and settled back in to my chair, cloud of smug wistfully swirling around me.

You see, Mrs AD-ist and I were about to move house, 2 days from that conversation in fact. I had been to Etisalat HQ and had checked that there was fibre-optic available at the front door of the house.

Had strode in with my plan and a map of where the new compound was.
Nodded sagely at the guy directing enquiry traffic.
Chatted happily with the guy who was in charge of, well, whatever he was in charge of, as he wrote down all of the details I would need for the transfer, then wished him health and happiness.
Walked, whistling a happy tune, back to my car.

The account is in Mrs AD-ist’s name, so she went, armed with my partially filled out form into the golf ball topped building, sat for TWO hours and handed over the paperwork.

The response from the hard-pressed but friendly enough guy to M.AD’s query as to how long the process will take was simple:

“Three to five working days Ma’am”
“You don’t need anything else?”
“Three to five working days”
“That’s it then?”
“Three to five…”
“…working days. Yes I see. Well thanks a lot!”

My wife has never been rude to anyone. It’s just not in her nature, so as a result of this interaction I am surmising that there was no vindictive action by our hero in the customer service desk that would suggest placing our application for transfer at the bottom of the pile.

You see, I’ve witnessed other expats screaming gouts of vitriol at the front line of customer service folk, and I hate it. I find it embarrassing, and unnecessary. Even so, for the most part I can understand their frustration, I just wish there was another way for them to express it other than what ultimately turns into an ‘education for the little people’ exercise. All done at high volume - veins popping out on their heads, opaque gobs of spittle launched from the angry curl of their mouths.

I am doing everything I can to NOT be one of those expats… along with suppressing the strong desire to stop next to any Etisalat truck I see and light into it with a nerf-bat.

Not the people in it.

Just the truck.

Day 6 arrived.

There were Etislag trucks - 2 of them- in our compound, there were guys moving along the driveway, but as I and one other resident popped out of our doors and started walking toward them ALL found a need to get on their mobile phones and move back to the car. Tucking clip boards under arms so that they could more easily open the door with their free hand and not give off any idea that they were off the phone and so therefore could be accosted.

In hindsight I suppose I, and the other compound denizen probably looked like something from a George A Romero film…

“Interneeet… we neeeeed iiinteeeeerneeeet”

…without the problem of facial sores, or the propensity to drool.

Okay, just without the facial sores.

Snapping out of my Zombie like state I got on the phone. (Du phone for the record - for overseas folk Du is the only other Telco here).

“Sweetheart, have you called Etis-lies yet? There are trucks here…wait, no, they are leaving now.. But they were here, wanted to know if you had anything to do with them”
“No” was the reply “I’ve been in meetings, I’ll call now…”

She did, and then called me back.
“They can’t put me through to the department who controls the trucks, they can only send emails..”
“They cant give you any other numbers to help?”
“Nope, apparently all enquiries go through them now, they said someone will call back soon though so that’s good”

We were still hopeful at this point, although the weight of suspicion was beginning to hang heavy upon us.

By mid afternoon she’d phoned again. Was told, by the friendly voice at the other end of the line that they could see that she had called, and had passed on the email, but would replicate the process again.

By sending another email.

Because that work so well last time.

Again she was informed that there was nothing more she could do, as there were no other direct lines available to her.

So I hit twitter, in particular drawing attention to @EtisalatUAE about the situation.

It was like throwing a rock at a hornet’s nest - in minutes, Mrs AD had been phoned, then the phone call dropped out, and she was immediately phoned again , and again so a message could be left.

Everything was going to be okay.

We had someone on our side.

We would soon have internet.

It was the end of business on the sixth day. Tomorrow would be a new dawn, full of internet, particularly email that I could respond to utilising a keyboard that wasn’t attached to my phone, and therefore wasn’t the size of a matchbox.

The 7th day dawned.

And nothing happened.

So she called (“yes I see you’ve called… I’ll send and email to the department involved“)

I tweeted.

@Abudhabilist : Any further movement on the account? Should my wife call customer service again? Thanks for the Assist.

@EtisalatUAE : Will check for you now, apologies or the delay.

@EtisalatUAE : Okay, just heard someone will call you later today.

@Abudhabilist : Thanks… We’ll keep you posted.

Hands up all those who think that we got a phone call.

For all those who didn’t raise their hand you can have a chocolate.

For those who did raise your hands I have a great admiration for you. You see, I used to be you… all full of hope and the belief that treating people with respect (even large faceless corporations) would itself return respect… you foolish people, you lovely hopeful foolish folk. Bless you. Don’t go changing.

SO, no phone call, then the weekend, then Mrs. AD was in training for 2 days. So she called yesterday…

“Your transfer has been blocked”
“What…what do you mean blocked?”
“It’s not in progress ma’am, it has been blocked”
“Why?”
“I don’t know ma’am, I will send emails to the departments involved…”

Emails.

This system (if indeed there is a system being followed) does not work.

Tweets to @EtisalatUAE over the past 24 hours have been unanswered, seems that there is a theme here.

All this is made more frustrating because I know there is internet in other places in the compound… my miserable computers, who aren’t blessed with anything remotely resembling understanding or tact tell me jauntily that there are wireless networks near by and ask whether I would like to connect to them.

Every time they do they test my resolve to beat at them.

I have to go and buy a nerf-bat…

Dome coffee - A mall somewhere

2011-01-28T10:29:00.001+04:00

“Oh NO!”
“What?”
“Oh no, oh no, oh NO!”

We were standing in an elevator at Al Wahda Mall, and on our way to review our second coffee place in as many weeks. Kim was alternately leaning to look at her reflection in the stainless steel sheen that was the interior of the elevator, and hugging her shoulders vigorously.

Her dismayed cries drawing the attention of not just me, but the one other person who shared our lift. This other person seemed nice, smiled at as when we entered, then went about the business of elevator etiquette required when one is the odd person out in a 3 person elevator ride.

“What?” I asked again.
“I’m not wearing a BRA!”

I looked toward our travelling companion, who looked back via the reflective surface of the door and raised an eyebrow. I shrugged and turned back to Kim.

“So? It’s not like you’ll ever get ‘Chesty Peaks’ as a nickname. ”
“It’s not that” she said as she swatted at her chest then reverted to hugging her shoulders again.
“Well?”
“It’s cold and this is a light jumper.” She turned and thrust her chest at me. “LOOK!” she wailed.

We had arrived at our travelling buddies floor, and at this point she was frantically pressing the open doors button. Even turned side on so that she could exit with a little more haste.

As the doors closed I looked at Kim to assess the damage, and while yes she was showing signs of being a little cool, her protuberances weren’t anything to right home about. So I dutifully replied:

“Cool, at least I’ll have somewhere to hang my car keys when we get to the café”

She wasn’t impressed.

Our floor arrived, the elevator doors slid open and we exited, Kim now firmly gripping her shoulders in order to protect her modesty.

So I did too. Grip my own shoulders that is.

“What are you doing now?” she asked.
“Solidarity, Sister” I said with a brief fist pump “I’d hate for you to draw attention to yourself by walking while obviously embracing yourself, so if I do it too you’ll one of two ungainly looking folk, rather than having to fly solo.”

We must have looked ridiculous.

Okay, I must have looked ridiculous. Kim just kind of glided along.

Me?

I looked like I was trying to wrestle my way out of a straight jacket.

The café was only a short straight-jacketed-shamble from the carpark, and we were ensconced in a table in the open sided un-partitioned it’s-only-non-smoking-because-there-is-no-ashtray-on-the-table section of the café, flat nippled and ready to drink coffee.

Orders made (again with the food, I think I’ll stop mentioning it - doesn’t seem I can fight that tide) we settled in.

Then my phone rang.

Because my work takes me all over the this little island I get a few ‘where the hell is this shop/restaurant/building?’ which, given the way my brain works very hard at forgetting things, I often surprise myself with knowing.

“Hey Virgil” I said upon seeing his number pop up on the screen

Virgil and his wife arrived here from England almost a year ago, but they’re American - long story. Anyhow - big V needed to know where the Bus station was.

“It’s the same place as the taxi stand on 11th and 4th” I replied
“Why didn’t they say that?” asked Virgil.
“Where would the fun be in that, hey? We’re in Al Wahda Mall, wave at us as you drive by” I said
“Al Wahda - I’m calling from Al Wahda, where are you?”

So our posse became three. If only for a short period of time.

Virg was on a mission.

He’d purchased a carpet while visiting the blue souq in Sharjah, and after some reportedly stellar haggling had managed to get the carpet for a really good price. So he found himself (and in the process, Kim and me) in the Taxi rank area because the guy at a marina mall carpet place had told him there was a guy nearby who could modify the carpet for him.

You see we in the middle east are a weird bunch. Anywhere else in the world one would by a carpet to throw down on the floor, perchance to place a handy coffee table, or some accidental furniture.

Maybe even to utilise such perfect knottery to protect the acres of hallway so beloved by middle eastern house designers.

But no, we don’t do that. We buy carpets and then hang them on the wall. Interestingly we don’t do it the other way around.

I’d love a piece of freshly wallpapered plaster board (drywall) to put down in the entrance alcove.

So Virgil, before the minor interruption of coming to see us was in hot pursuit of a shop that would alter the rug to make it suitable for hanging. His directions could have come straight from the pages of Abu Dhabi Week. ‘Near to Bus Station’ was all he got. Even with my information regarding the interchangability of ‘Bus Station’ and ‘Taxi Stand’ he was still up against it as from experience that kind of direction could be denoting anything in a 5 block radius.

Not the kind of thing you would want to tackle on foot, with a carpet over your shoulder. In business attire.

Probably a good thing he stopped for a coffee, he obviously needed to fortify himself.

When he arrived we all valiantly tried to squeeze onto the 2 person table, but as it was looking more and more like we would need to begin balancing stuff on our knees, the goodly staff swept in and insisted that we take another table, for which we were most grateful, then set about the serious business of coffee consumption.

Well that and dipping a fork into Kim’s delicious risotto. Seriously. Really good.

Virgil said his goodbyes, and fuelled with a coffee and a handful of French fries made his way out in to the street to continue his quest.

Conversation turned to the topic of buses, and how in the previous Abudhabilist post I had mentioned that taking a bus might add a new dynamic to the hunt for coffee primarily because Kim would hate it.

“I like the bus!” Kim exclaimed
“Really?”
“Yes” she said with a little less conviction.
“How many times have you actually been on a bus here?”
“Including the times we caught the bus at the F1?”
“No. They were shuttle buses. I mean, wait at a bus-stop, get on the bus go somewhere. Proper public transport”
“Oh”
“Well?”
“Once”

Apparently Kim’s great middle eastern bus trip wasn’t such a great experience. Upon getting on to the beast, she had asked the driver whether the bus went to Airport road. The driver replied the affirmative, so Kim paid her fare and sat down and then went on a magical mystery route that didn’t actually include Airport Rd at all.

“But I still like them” she said trying to regain some semblance of authority on all things bus like.
“Okay, great” I said “we’ll have to bus it to one of the remaining reviews. Because you LIKE buses”
“I do! But…”
“yeeees Kim?”
“What if it’s hot, or raining or…”
“So you are actually asking: What if conditions are not absolutely perfect and there is even an outside chance that you may not be stratospherically comfortable for the entire trip?”

Much pouting ensued, and loud sipping of her coffee.

“Fine!” I said “if it’s raining we’ll go by car”

Pout disappeared, cup was placed down an then an entire conversation about which would of the remaining review candidates would be easiest to get to, because, apparently we didn’t want to have to change buses.

“Or we could take a taxi, that’s like public transport” said Kim, her accent reminding me of one of the wardrobe children from The Chronicles of Narnia,

“No. A taxi is like a car, it has to be a bus”

“Fiiiine” said Kim with a sigh, and a bit of a flounce.

Next topic was the coffee: Which turned out to be pretty good. Like Second Cup, it wasn’t earth shattering, but it was okay coffee. The food on the other hand was really good, particularly the risotto.

Unfortunately for Dome, and like so many other café’s here in Abu Dhabi, it is positioned in a mall, so I recommend a seat, facing the large atrium windows or at least facing into the shop, otherwise (and particularly with no visual partitioning between café and centre), some will feel, well like they are sitting in a shopping centre, and a little in the way of people scurrying about in their quest for another sparkly thing or other.

The service is great though and all the staff are friendly.

Oh, and for those interested, Virgil found the carpet shop that had been recommended to him by another carpet shop.

They didn’t do carpet remodelling, but they knew a carpet shop that did… and they had directions.

Dome.
Level one, Al Wahda Mall

Second Cup - it's on a street somewhere.

2011-01-10T19:19:00.001+04:00

My new coffee side-kick sent me a text the day prior to our coffee-based review that read, among other things:

“When are we starting the coffee project?” along with information about what her cat was doing in an effort to clean it’s nether regions.

“Tomorrow? Pick up at 11am” I replied, choosing to ignore and therefore not encourage any more text conversation regarding feline ablution techniques.

“Perfect, I’ll see you then”

I rolled into the car-park of the compound where she and her husband live, and marvelled at the ability some people seem to have that enables them to park in a manner, so inefficient, that one small car can effectively render 3 car parking spaces useless… and that’s just in a relatively quiet compound.

A quiet compound that would seem heavenly in about 22 minutes time.

I get that parking here in the capital can at times be horrific. Primarily due to problematic town planning, but also caused by a road and residence system that works on the theory of getting EVERYONE to one place quickly, but then not offering any solution as to where to park once they are there.

Our own little slice of heaven (the one that we will be moving out of in a matter of days now) is on the eighth floor of a twelve floor building.

When we arrived to first view the place, the estate agent was more than eager to show us the place on a Friday. Unusual, as Fridays are generally accepted as a no work day.

We arrived at the scheduled meeting space, birds sang, friendly street cats made way and waved us toward one of many car spaces available at the front entrance of the building. Cherubs gently blowing any debris from the car spot with a deft but gentle flap of their wings…

We were ushered into the foyer, had a look at the apartment, then looked at each other and said “Yes, this is the place for us”. Mrs Ad-ist though did add, with no heed for Universe-will-bite-you consequences: “It’s really quiet, and the parking is fantastic”

I could hear the cherubs packing up their things, while herding the pleasant looking street cats onto buses as a fresh bus of diseased, flea ridden, mostly four legged felines arrived to take over the shift.

My wife, sensing my distress said: “I mean, it might get a little busy, but there’s still lots of space, and they can’t start building on all that vacant land around here”

Me: “…….”
Her: “Really, I don’t see what could go wrong”
Me: “Honey…”
Her: “Yes?”
Me: “Please stop talking”

As I type this post, almost 12 months to the day from that conversation, I am enjoying the gentle vibration that periodically thrums through the entire building. Sometimes extending to a more intense feeling, that can also be seen rippling in a handily poured glass of water.

I guess it’s probably coming from the building that started on ALL THE VACANT LAND around here 11 months ago. Building that in turn seconded 40% of the parking, which meant the 150 or so cars that had just enough space to park before now all fight over the remaining 70 places.

Made worse by the widely used practice of some folk who park in a manner that suggests that, because they have an awesome Camry, with black windows and cheap aftermarket wheels,and a 'Turbo' sticker, THEY should be able to take up 2 parks. This unusual technique ensures that they can protect their car, but I also allows lots of space around it so that we, the viewing public, can easily admire such tactless cosmetic upgrades from all sides.

Aaaanyway - back to the review - wouldn’t be an Abudhabilist post without a sidetrack now, would it?

I sent a text to Kim, and she arrived presently, bopping along to whatever music was currently playing in her head.

After she got into the car and we had swapped greetings I asked her to pick one of the two coffee shops I had decided on as potentials for trying out that day. Citing that we regularly go to one of the others on the list, two more were off the island and therefore a little more time committed, and the two that I had chosen were nearby…so she should pick.

One of them was in a nearby shopping centre, the other we could only guess at as Abu Dhabi week had simply listed it in “The vicinity of 6th/Najda Street”, a street that runs for through the most densely trafficked 5 blocks of Abu Dhabi and has, for it’s entire length, some of the worst parking issues on this little island.

“I don’t know, you pick” she said.
“I did, I picked these two, now you have to pick one of them, one is in AL Wahda mall…”
“The other one then” she said with what appeared to be a certainty that came from internal coin toss.
“Okay…”

We made our way. Slowly. To 6th street.

Abu Dhabi week is a pretty good read - so I don’t want for one second to be thought of as bullying a small and feeble child.

But seriously - Abu Dhabi Week, if you are reading this, for the love of everything that’s good can you please do something about your fear of offering reasonable directions.

The directions offered for Second Cup were rubbish. If a tourist or brand new resident was desperate for a cup of coffee that wasn’t made with coffee mate and stirred with a bricklayer’s pencil, and that tourist happened upon the AD Week information about Second Cup while standing near the Corniche, AND even if they were lucky enough to be near the intersection of 6th and the Corniche, then that tourist if ever they find the place, will hate wherever they got such lame information from.

HATE it. Furthermore they will be likely to immediately discount whatever it is that you are mentioning in future publications.

Why not be just a little more specific? Not a lot. Just a little. Maybe a land mark could have been mentioned, or a narrowing of the street length to within 2 intersections.

Here’s a suggestion - “6th/Najda between 9th and 7th” This, ADWeek-ers, still enables you to be inexplicably obtuse, but at least puts people within shouting distance of the place you are putting up as a coffee joint of choice…

Just a thought - it’s not the first coffee list that has had spurious directions, it took 2 goes and severe dehydration in the last coffee project to find Zyara.

We made it onto 6th, and I interrupted Kim to remind here that we didn’t actually know where exactly this place was so we needed to keep an eye out for it.

“Sure” said Kim. Then went back to her original topic that revolved around me not making fun of her on the blog.

“I don’t make fun of people on the blog”
“So you aren’t going to make fun of me then?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that”

“Humph” she said then staring at the traffic at a stand still ahead of us continued “Lets go to the other one, this traffic is awful”

It would have been easy to turn around if that request had been made BEFORE we ended up in bumper-to-bumper-nowhere-to-turn-around traffic.

On my explanation of this no-turning back situation, Kim replied that the traffic was awful and kind of intimated that it was, at least, mostly my fault.

I mentioned something about her acting little a princess like, which wasn’t received very well.

“Instead of yelling at me perhaps you could have noticed that we are about to pass Second Cup, which is on YOUR side of the road” I said pointing over her shoulder at our coffee grail of the day.

“You’re going to put that in the blog too aren’t you?” she said.
“Yup.”I replied.

Sullen pouting ensued.

We pulled into a side street close to the shop, and found ourselves absorbed into the parking vortex that is this area of 6th street. I had visions of my cherubs leaning against the corner of a building, playing dice and filing their nails, giving no care whatsoever to our parking predicament.

Even with all this stacked against us, in pretty short order we found a space. Well, we found a space AFTER someone tried, actually tried, not to look in the direction that they were driving, while leaving a section of the carpark to turn the wrong way up a one way street. Screams from both of us along with some heavy acceleration left us unscathed, and a little bewildered. Perhaps the parking cherubs witnessed it and pulled a few strings. For old time’s sake.

A park had materialised not more than 50 metres from Second Cup.

It would be fair to say that, judging by the last coffee project, it would be easy to label me as hyper-critical when it comes to coffee here in the desert. So it was with some surprise that our first impressions of Second Cup were really positive.

The ground floor is cosy … tiny to be exact, but works supremely well as a take-away coffee bar. There’s no seating to get in the way of office workers who just want to get in - get coffee - get out. The seating area is upstairs, and it too is cosy, but really appealing with a view over the street and comfy enough chairs.

We ordered downstairs, and as happens whenever I review with a sidekick, food got ordered. We were then told to go up to the seating area and that our order would follow shortly.

We selected a seat in the corner flanked by glass windows, which offered an excellent view of the industrial water pump shop across the road.

I suggested that we could go and get a new dam pump on our way back to the car if Kim so required. Kim looked at me like I was, in fact, an idiot (which I often am) and proceeded to talk about something else. Try as I might I couldn’t steer the conversation back to that of water pumps… Kim deftly flicked such moronic deviations aside while we waited for our stuff…

…which arrived in no time.

More surprises.

The coffee was okay, not awe inspiring, but okay in a “this would be better if I had asked for a double shot of espresso” kind of way.

Kim had ordered some ridiculous “Gingerbread man latte” which she affirmed was quite good if somewhat thin on coffee flavour.

“Might be the ginger bread bit” I said, smugly.

She ignored my barb and we got back to conversation.

Coffee and sandwich done, we left and trotted back to the car, Kim deciding to take the lead with respect to directions that would lead us, not just out of the carpark, but would also place us in the optimum route out of the district, thereby shortening our travel time, and covering her in adulation for being a super-cool navigator.

One dead end and 2 parking lot snarls later, we were heading the wrong way past the very spot we had departed from 10 minutes prior.

The parking Cherubs were at this point probably rolling in unbridled mirth.

One down and 4 to go… Thus far I am less fearful of the coffee I might be served over the next few weeks. Kim has also expressed an interest in naming our current favourite coffee shop, and putting together a list of what we feel to be the better cups around.

If the coffee is going to be reasonable all around, I am going to have to think of other ways of generating something interesting…

…I think I’ll instigate a “we have to get there by bus” rule.

Kim will hate that.

Kim's new blog can be found at www.thepaperbackreview.com

It's been a while

2011-01-05T19:14:00.001+04:00

Right.

So.

This spectacularly (and somewhat surprisingly) successful blog has been languishing for the past 10 months. Rejected by it's author, it has still steadfastly held its place in the cyber world.

Every time I would sit at the computer, I could sense it staring back at me, its virtual nose against the screen. Forlorn. Forsaken. Sobbing little pixelated tears.

Why?

Well, I got a job that's why, a job that for the first part of the year took up waaay too much time to even consider blogging anything. I could not have blogged the not so adventurous activity of the 5 steps from the front door of my apartment to the elevator.

My work load has changed now.

Apart from having the time to blog regularly, I'm also 16,000 words into a novel - don't get excited, it's not funny, and I'm not sure if I like where the story is going. I'm calling it my practice novel.

At 16k it doesn't yet qualify as BEING a novel, I think it's still in the realms of short story, once we pass 20,000 it'll be a novella - apparently. All sounds a little ummm.. well... unnecessarily complicated, doesn't it?

Back to the matter at hand though.

Long time readers (if there are any of you left) will remember the coffee project undertaken in 2009. A local magazine published the top 5 best coffees in Abu Dhabi, and I, as a coffee lover, was excited...

Coffee here in the middle east at that time pretty grim, so I took it upon myself to try out the best that Abu Dhabi has to offer, and in a very short time found that the person that had created the list had all but phoned it in, just getting to the places was an issue as the directions were vague or completely inaccurate.

Once the venue was found though the disappointment set in - the coffee was average at best and poisonous at worst.

I mercilessly lampooned the publication for months. They took it on the chin, and were pretty good natured about it, the editor even saw fit to respond offering an explanation of why they chose who they chose.

2 weeks ago the Same publication - Abu Dhabi Week - released a revised "Best coffee in town" list.

It was this list that reminded me I should blog again - primarily because the list is pretty vague in spots (one of the places is described as being on a street that is 5 city blocks long - that's all the direction offered.. the street) AND because apart from a couple of obvious choices, the rest of the list is... well not what you'd expect to be at the top of a pretty select heap.

SO, dear reader, we are back in the saddle.

I lost my sidekick from the last coffee project, Ms Line and her hubby have bailed on back to Ol' Blighty BUT her place will on occasion be taken but the small but mighty Kim. Kim has just started her own blog, and while it's not ready for reading (I'll tell you when it is) it will be a good one.

Strap in folks. Today is our first adventure out... stay tuned!

In the mean time please head over to the contents list on the right of this page and browse the coffee project (or anything that takes your fancy).

Might pretty the place up a little over the ensuing weeks as well. We'll see.

Happy new year!

Pick a lane - I'll guess the rest.

2010-02-04T19:05:00.001+04:00

On returning from the Vet's this morning, Moose (the cat) and I entered the roundabout at Shakbout and Delma Streets.

We (Moose and I) were in the middle lane of the three and indicating to turn left. There was a silver Camry in the inside lane also waiting but as they were to my left, I couldn't see any indicators.

In a break in the traffic, my feline companion and I (still indicating) entered the intersection and proceeded - while staying in our lane - to follow the roundabout around to the left.

The Camry decided to accelerate hard and *almost* t- boned me as I was turning, as it was trying to go straight, from the inside lane.

MY understanding of multi lane roundabouts is this.

Left lane MUST turn left
Middle lane can go straight or Left but not right.
Right lane can go straight but must be used to turn right.
The only time the inside lane would merge to the middle lane is to complete the execution of a turn. In which case they must give way or at least work with the existing traffic in the roundabout.

Now - I figured that the the driver was angling for a passing manoeuvre, and while I did follow my line I was mindful of the potential for catastrophe and eased over a little to avoid collision and went on my way.

The Camry driver hesitated then came after me.

Honking like a mad thing he slid into the inside lane at the next roundabout along Delma, so that his rear seated passengers could wind down the window and give me a spray.

It would be fair to say a larger bearded bald white guy frowning back at them as my slightly tinted window slid down was not what they expected. In fact the driver (who was following orders from the screaming harpy in the back seat) really only put a show of hand waving, and really looked like he would rather not engage in the discussion. Actually he looked like he just wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, and get a cup of tea... if that somewhere was anywhere but staring up at a guy he nearly ran into - particularly as said guy was looking at him like he was lunch.

The rear seated passenger however - and her maid - let fly.

My Arabic is limited (but coming along) so I mentioned - in Arabic - that I didn't understand, then mumbled a few words that in hindsight were the numbers 1 and maybe 15, and that I'd like a non smoking seat next to a window.

Not seeing the conversation going any further - and unable to judge her facial expression I tootled off.

I'm now just waiting for the knock at the door.

Look out for tomorrow's paper.

"Australian requests window seat. Gets Jail. Cell mate 'Bubba' a big fan."

Complaints and the people who make them.

2009-12-14T18:34:00.001+04:00

Alright alright already... the complaint post, in edited form - enjoy

It’s a funny place this, although for long time readers this is a concept I bring up often. The latest thing to catch my eye won’t make me popular (as I mentioned in yesterday’s post) but given that I often go week to week speaking only to shop attendants, it’s safe to assume the fallout won’t affect my dance card too dramatically: so… on with the show.

This post is about personal interactions… and complaints… because it seems that even if some folk found themselves in the best place in the world, they still couldn't help but bitch.

Interestingly the people I hear complain the loudest all come from one nation, or maybe I am just lucky enough to see them at a bad time of their day - Consistently.

It’s not the complaining specifically that I find so interesting, (this blog is full of observations on life here that I find funny, quaint and COULD be construed as complaining). I guess it’s the manner in which the complaint is often made. Or if not complaining directly, there is often a meanness of superior position that is injected into the transaction, thereby creating a negative and impossible situation - if only for a moment.

For instance, 3 weeks ago we were at Abu Dhabi Airport, in the new terminal - conducting our usual, if somewhat odd ritual of purchasing Airport Burger King.

Order done, we stood aside so that the person behind us could get close to the register - thereby diminishing the need for the BK person to take the order over our shoulders.

“What would you like ma’am” said the BK champion.
“Oh we’d like a cheeseburger ”.

Unusual - as there was only the one person there - unless of course the ‘we’ included some odd conjoined sibling that was hidden beneath her cardigan. I then reappraised the situation to realise that she was speaking for herself, and her dining companion - who was no doubt sitting on at a Burger King table “tut tutting” at the state of things, in lieu of having someone to complain directly to as her friend was away purchasing lunch.

And probably taking too long.

“Yes maa’am, but would you like to have a drink”
“What do you have?”
“CokeSpriteFantaDiiiieeeet”
“Oh no she won’t like thaart”

Then there was silence - during which the customer stared directly at the BK attendant, implying that it was now the attendant's problem to resolve what the elusive “she” would like to drink, as her selection of drinks was obviously sub standard.

“Just the burger then maa’am?”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have a coffee” she replied, in a huffy fashion.

She then turned to me and made a tutting noise, and a slight shake of the head as if to say that the person behind the jump was being obtuse, and had woken up this morning with no other purpose than to ruin someone’s day… a fantasy task that BK Burger Girl had apparently managed to accomplish - by midday no less.

What gives?

I am relatively sure that nowhere in the Burger King orientation manual is there a listing for:
Mind-reading - how to tell what the customer wants when there is no reply to the choices given.
1.1 Creating new menu items, and which level of hell to summon them from.

Again - if someone has a grievance, get it out - but surely there must be scope for self censoring. Knowing what is the problem of the company, VS what is the problem in the complainer’s life that all they have left is to throw rocks at some poor sap behind a fast food counter, who gets paid less per hour than the entire cost of the food-like stuff that was purchased in the transaction.

To continue on to exhibit b:
A month or so, we were fortunate enough to go to a shindig at the fabulous Village beer garden at the One to One hotel here in Abu Dhabi.

The event was marketed toward South Africans, New Zealanders and Australians. I believe that similar events overseas require passports to be presented at the door as proof of citizenship of one of these fine countries in order to get in.

Unfortunately this was not a rule adopted for this particular event. So while all 3 countries had a pretty good representation, there were those present from other countries who had a great time, and then later - to my great embarrassment, complained about it.

I only mention embarassment as a lot of the complaining was being done by people I associate with, and obviously I am concerned about the whole ‘death by association’ thing.

In my hungover haze 2 days after the event ( it WAS a great party) I was , discussing with a friend the day, and the response absolutely floored me. Well, in truth, I was already on the floor - so please just treat that last little bit as the metaphor it is supposed to be.

X’s (for the purposes on anonymity) gripes included:

Not enough umbrellas.
An issue that was quickly resolved by the AusSouNZ folk, by getting off our clacks and going to look for more. The person in question spent most of the day under the shade of an umbrella - odd that X felt the need to champion the cause for all the other people there.

Food line was too long/poorly serviced.
While true, it wasn’t a cause of concern for X of the complaint as they sailed in the exit line, filled their plate and was gone from the sun shade for no longer than 5 minutes.

I am surprised that there wasn’t a complaint made regarding there being too many South Africans, Australians, and New Zealanders at the event…

While X had some good points about how things could have been done better - and I am sure that the situations mentioned DID affect individuals, all but one of the listed complaints DIDN’T concern X, or affect X’s day. The last hazy memory I have was X, quite loaded, grinning like a fool and having a great time.

Ask any of the SANZA country attendees how the day went, and they’d probably say “Great except for the food line. Good job we found the extra seats and brollys out the back… where’s my beer?”

And that would be that.

Primarily because for 200dhs, we of the colonies don’t feel the need to be carried around in a sedan chair, waiting for the little people to ensure that we are the only ones in the room… at a BBQ..

I think the overall value of 200 dhs was well accounted for - I myself must have consumed 300dhs of primo international wines alone, so that means all the entertainment, and festive feel of the gathering was completely free of charge as far as I (and others I am sure) are concerned.

My point in all this is that some people just want to complain. For reasons that might extend from trying to get free stuff - thus recouping more bang for their buck, to trying to fill some perverse void in their lives that can only be accomplished by being Whingey McMiserable.

As an Australian, I had always thought that the propensity for folk from the particular country of complainers to whinge was probably only a way of making comparisons to their home country. With cries of “it’s not like we get back home” being the mainstay of, well ... everything that was wrong with finding themselves in the fine colony of Australia.

On a very recent trip to the ‘Land of the Complainer‘, I was astonished to find out that they not only complain at and about other people, but they actually turn the complaint gun upon each other.

Truly.

I was stunned.

There have been floods in the country in question, devastating floods that have washed away centuries old road bridges for miles (bridges that have been in dire need of repair by all reports - but that’s another issue). A fine man lost his life directing others to safety, and in one place the town was divided, as it straddled the now flooded fast rushing, death bringing, infrastructure stealing waters. It’s remaining link - a rail bridge - not suitable for cars, not safe enough to walk over.

In order for people of one side of the river to do business with the other side, without bridges, meant a commute along the river to the nearest crossable bridge. This crossing isn’t just down the road, it’s miles away… MILES. One person I saw interviewed stated that in order to get her child to school and home was taking her a total of 3.5 hours a day. That’s a lot of time. Every day.

So what happened? Where’s the complaining so far?

I’m getting to it.

With a grant and some willing and technically able hands, a temporary train station was built almost over night, that would allow a train to stop on the one side of the river, pick up passengers, then drop them off at the established train station on the other side of the river. Hourly.

How did people feel about a structure that was going to save them a considerable amount of time? About a structure that had cost a considerable amount of time, money and effort to put together?

A Broadcasting Commission morning show wanted to know as well, so they sent the obligatory roving reporter out to jam a microphone in peoples faces. The reporter’s persona was light and celebratory as she approached the first gentleman about to get on the waiting train.

“Are you happy with the new train service?” She asked cheerily - I expect because of the sheer enormity of what had been accomplished to offer such a thing in the first place.
“Don’t know… I haven’t tried it yet.” was the response as he frowned into the camera.

So she tried again with another passenger, the aforementioned parent-who-up-until-now-had-to-spend-3 ½ hours- a-day-taking-her-son-to-school person.

After establishing that a 3.5 hour daily commute is a hellish thing to have to endure, the interviewer reworded her question (I suspect due to having been stung once already).

“What do you think of the new train service?” The microphoned and still cheery personality asked.
“I’d like it if the trains were more regular.” Ms McWinger answered, frowning into the camera.

It was the first train. There hadn’t been trains before that. She was saving a couple of hours a day by not having to drive out and back.

I sat in front of the TV, and uttered - “You are KIDDING me aren’t you?” Then tried to work out a way I could text the station and suggested that perhaps the people NOT happy with the train service should consider going back to the 3+ hour commute.

I guess the reporter was too polite to point out the short fallings of NOT having the emergency train service.

The list goes on… and on, but I’ll lumber you, dear reader with one more before I go....

We went out to an Indian restaurant near one of the major squares in the capital of Complaint-land, and were enjoying our meal immensely (and somewhat surprisingly as we had found the place by accident rather than design).

A couple arrived, clutching a discount coupon handed out by the guy in the turban out front, de-coated (it was cold outside, very warm inside) and sat down.

As the waiter approached, she started waving the discount card and demanding her free pappadams, and extraneous accoutrement promised on the voucher.

“Yes, yes ma’am“ said the waiter, as he handed menus to them “but please, and what would you like to drink…”

The other member of the new arrivals piped up immediately by saying, “Well we’ve already had wine” in a manner that suggested that that should be apparent, and the imposition of being asked such a thing by a waiter is completely without reason. Of course I wondered what would have happened if the waiter had suggested that he wouldn’t SERVE him wine because he looked like he didn’t want any more.

THEN the same ‘silence’ behaviour that our old Burger King friend from the airport exhibited.
What he was waiting for I am unsure, but the waiter suggested that he look at the drinks list… and would he like a beer…

I just don‘t get it - whatever problem that they faced in life outside of a small restaurant - surely the waiter ISN‘T the appropriate person responsible for overseeing the therapy that will resolve it.

When speaking to locals about weather, they seemed unhappy that we liked the cold and rain, but seemed genuinely pleased that we found the constant heat of the Middle Eastern summer, brutal and at times crushing.

Smilingly asked us if “we’d have a home to go to now that Dubai has finally fallen”
Frowned when we said “Dubai hasn’t yet fallen, and we live in Abu Dhabi anyway so the fallout is likely to be less.”
Smiling as they commented - seeing me in my wet running gear - “It’s always raining - it’s awful”
Frowning when I replied that “… it was light and really cooling to run in”

Misery loves company it seems, and it’s a shame.

We loved England, and Wales - we loved it’s vibrancy, the politeness of the drivers and the hospitality of people. The countryside is breathtaking, the history astounding and the compact nature of the country means that everything is only a few hours away by car. If we could work out a way of living there we would.

I seriously can’t wait to get back there, for although it sounds like I am complaining, I’m not . While I’d rather people look up, rather than down all the time, I find the subtleties of their complaining, whining, not-going-to-let-you-get -one-over-me ways funny… REALLY funny. I will literally stop and listen to people talk to shopkeepers to see how many and varied their complaints can be in their 30 second face time with a captured audience.

It also means that when I look at an old chapel in the middle of a small English town, I can look at it with a warm suspicion that I am the only person appreciating it at that very moment, as while I am looking up, the locals are likely to be complaining that I am blocking the path… before scurrying back to their furnace temperature homes to read ‘hello’ for their daily dose of reality. A fine publication that allows people to actively complain about the life decisions of celebrities, while completely ignoring the fact that they will never meet them.

Is this my experience of ALL the English people I have met?

Absolutely not - I find English folk to be great fun to be around, - even the minority who complain (when they aren’t complaining). Warm, friendly, helpful, kind, funny…

I guess I’m just stunned that sometimes stereotypes can be so well portrayed.

Now if you’ll excuse me it’s time for me change out of my convict uniform, drink 30 beers and show up to Emirates Palace in thongs, cork hat and budgie smugglers with an Australian flag for a cape. Preferably to start a fight or vomit in an inappropriate place. Or be culturally insensitive - particularly to women - if only to uphold what has been suggested to me (verbally) as my own country’s stereotype… wish I had married a chick called Sheila, need a woman to go get me beer and Winnie Blues, bloody oath I do.

Feel free to leave a comment… just try not to complain.

I'm going to store it.

2009-12-10T18:28:00.001+04:00

I can't pare the the promised post down any more.

Well, I could, but what is the point of an observation when I can't poke a bit of fun at it along the way.
So I'm going to leave the post on: 'Complaints, and the nationality that makes the most' for another time. Perhaps even another blog.

A blog that would encourage vitriolic sprays, rather than the good humoured rants that go on in this fair space.
See the problem is that I can't make the post sound like I don't hate the English. Which I don't (except when they demonstrate at the end of a Rugby-Union match that they are either gracious losers or atrocious winners).

No I don't dislike them at all - oh except when the first thing that comes out of their mouth is something about my being from a prison island.

I GENUINELY like them except when it becomes obvious that their entire knowledge of Australia is based on the adventures from Ramsay Street, or Summer bay.

err... sorry, got carried away... :-p

Really though, I know too many English folk here, and I'm not concerned about my dance-card being emptied - it's never full, it is out of sheer respect for people I genuinely like that I am withholding the post.

Yup, that post is going to be pondered. Or maybe sent on privately to Australian friends for them to nod sagely over and perhaps add to.

So - I'm going to get on to another post - the mainstay of bloggers here on the little desert island:
Driving - I think I have the answer. Or at least have found the problem.

To observe without offending...

2009-12-08T18:25:00.001+04:00

It seems everyone is so touchy these days...

I often read forums, some I am actively involved in, some I simply lurk at - lurking being a term used for people who stay in the shadows to view rather than to contribute..

It seems that every week another topic will surface that begins as an innocuous subject - that quickly turns into some beat up or other.

SO having witnessed flame-fest after flame-fest I have decided to put the next significant post(on people who complain) in for yet another re-write.

Primarily because, in order to cover the concept of the archetypical whinger, there is a little bit of ...
...ummm... finger pointing at a country in particular.

First write was ace.

Then I binned it.

The second used too many personal examples.

I binned that too.

The last version is done. Now I'm going to wait for a couple of days at least.

I'm still pretty sure people are going to be angry, or at least a little miffed - but I'm not renowned for being subtle, a talent that if adopted might mean that I'd have significantly more people who'd call me for a coffee date.

Will see how it runs tomorrow.

Or maybe the next day...

In the mean time I'm endeavouring to get more done overall.

AND a new project.

A project that YOU can be directly involved in.

News as it comes to hand.

Floods and stricken Hummers.

2009-11-30T18:54:00.001+04:00

The rains came a couple of weeks ago, and flooded just about any area that could be defined as a street, or the areas next to the streets...and houses... and 2nd floor apartments apparently.

My friend, one of the folk with flooding issues in her 2nd floor abode, mentioned that it had nothing to do with some tsunami style tidal surge. Nor did rivers that had broken their banks send a crushing load of water along the streets turning them into some kind of Porsche and chicken strewn canal.
No, nothing as dramatic. (thankfully)

Even though we see rain here only a few days a year, and when we get a storm it's usually a big one, it appears that no-one gives any thought to precautionary measures that might need to be employed to... say... make sure if a balcony is utilised for an apartment block any water said balcony collects can drain somewhere outside.

As opposed to the current balcony drainage standard:
Seal all areas, so that the area in question has all the characteristics of a bath tub, wait for rain, let balcony turn quickly from nice and usable outdoor area to quaint fishpond. A fish pond, when filled above the height of the doorstep will happily empty itself into the living room.

Look, there was alot of rain, but surely it doesn't take a rocket scientist to recognise that a sealed, exposed balcony will fill up with water... and that water will always find a way out using the path of least resistance.

I have a solution though.

Leave a drain hole.

I know, innovative isn't it?

Of course I am aware of the affect on the job costing, and the ensuing budget blowout - but I am sure that the 50dhs (about $15 US) cost to add a drain hole per balcony could be recouped via an instalment plan as part of the rent agreement. I know this might cause the landlords to have to have a slightly less cash stuffed pillow to sleep on - but only temporarily.

It'd be interesting how many pillow cases of cash had to be thrown at repairing my friend's place... alot more than a few DHS I suspect.

The drainage woes continued in the streets...

The folk here aren't REALLY used to such conditions, and there is little to no drainage in the streets - and the stuff that there is, well... more of an after thought - as if the planner walked down a finished road and said

"In other countries I have seen holes in the gutters - with bars over them... I think they keep their cats in them. In order to compete with the rest of the civilised world we must have holes in the gutters..."

Unfortunately it seems that while most streets here have nicely formed drains in their curbs, I suspect that the planners didn't manage to have them drain TO anywhere. A fundamental aspect of a drain I would have thought.

So as I mentioned at the beginning, all low lying areas on the island were flooded. Of the roads that weren't, most had a sheet of water across them about 2 cm's deep.

I stepped out of the front door of our building, only to find that the rain had upgraded from 'pretty heavy' to 'WOW, that's some serious rain' in the time it had taken me to walk down 2 flights of stairs.

I then uttered potentially the DUMBEST statement one can make, while striding through heavy rain toward ones JEEP. A JEEP that cost not much more that a tank of premium fuel.

"This bargain JEEP I'm cruising about in just won't let me down - it's built for weather like this"

Indeed it is, or at least it was 167,000kms ago. As I was soon to find out, it now displays 2 interesting behaviours while driving in heavy rain.

Behaviour 1: If driven through a puddle, and that puddle is deep enough, water will spray up into the engine bay.
Behaviour? This causes the horn to come on and stay on - in the first instance I was in slow traffic, and it sounded in all it's fog horn glory for 90seconds straight.
A minute and a half is a loooong time in the sound cycle of a car horn.

I managed to entertain the drivers on my left, and those in the bus shelter to my right, by repeatedly punching the steering wheel. I knew that the problem had to be in the engine bay, but percussive maintenance visited upon the steering wheel meant that the people outside knew that it wasn't my intention to be honking the living hell out of the immediate area. Personally I also found the action to be pleasingly therapeutic.

It happened again while driving through the flooded basement carpark of the shopping centre - again with the steering wheel banging and apologetic looks at my fellow carpark users, followed by some ferreting around in the engine bay.

Behaviour 2: I was warned by the previous owner that the sunroof was not watertight enough to survive the water jets at the auto car-wash.

A claim that I tested not long after taking delivery of the car, and found to be spot on with respect accuracy. More water couldn't have got in had I actually opened the roof and fitted a funnelling device to ensure uniform water coverage of the interior.

What she had neglected to inform me was that the sunroof was prone to leaking... full stop. Not conditional in relation to high powered water, oh no. If it rains hard enough one is likely to find themselves (as did yours very damply) sitting at traffic lights - giggling uncontrollably as I was trying to arrange shopping bags on both front seats so that they might act as water buckets.

I was stuck for at least 3 rounds of traffic lights - obviously the JEEP gods had decided to punish me further for taking the beasty for granted by making my side of the traffic lights green for 3 nanoseconds at a time. The crossing traffic, however, appeared to have significantly more time to drive through the ever deepening fishpond that had been a perfectly good intersection an hour before.

MUCH more time.

I think their turn was at least 1 hour in duration.

My time judgement may have been distorted by the need to adjust the bag o' water that was leaking on my lap though.

Typically on the second round of "our turn" the car in front decided that texting was far more important than driving, and as I had by this time taken the trouble to remove the horn fuse, I couldn't let him know. So I waited. Intermittently flashing my lights at him and adjusting bucket bags. His tardiness meant that his car got through on the amber... and I was stuck again.

A situation I am eternally grateful for. The comedy that ensued was fantastic.

As I mentioned earlier - the intersection was under water, and while not impassable was probably above the door sills of your regular passenger car.

Under the bridge and into the pond drove a white H2 Hummer, the moment the mighty behemoth had reached the deepest part it stopped and put it's hazard lights on - the double black tinted window dropped, and a very distressed looking man peered out at what I guess he thought was an insurmountable obstacle.

The panic was evident on his face - as the water lapped somewhere near the middle of his wheel hubs.

In his Hummer.

A large, all capable 4wd. A vehicle that could just about drive across an ocean if it had to. A vehicle that comes from the pedigree of cars that will survive just about anything.

While struggling to contain my mirth regarding the sunroof, I was now GIFTED with the most obvious display of the "Just because you can afford it doesn't meant you should drive it; appropriate vehicle or phallic extension?" discussion concept yet seen by yours-much-leak-ily.

Just when I thought that the scene couldn't get any better, the mirth level was raised to surprisingly new heights.

An Indian guy in a Nissan Sunny (current model Pulsar *i think* for those in Australia) steadily drove up behind the apparently foundered military style vehicle. He waited for a second, then seeing no barrier that should impede his progress, proceeded to drive around the Hummer, and off along the ramp up to the street he needed.

The moment the Sunny's tail lights passed the front of the stricken vessel the Hummer driver's facial expression went, in quick succession:

Panic, confusion, embarrassed horror.

While the vehicle worth a 10th of his and with NOWHERE near the capability happily zoomed off into the distance.

Trying to regain some shred of dignity the windows slid up and the Hummer-barge tentatively moved off in the same direction as the Sunny.

I was at this point almost apoplectic... and laughing so hard that in spite of the honking behind be, and the desire to get somewhere where my sunroof wouldn't have any fluid falling upon it to let in... I STILL missed the lights...

Oh what a wonderful sight it was...

I love rain.

I love it.

Prague - it's not all about beer.

2009-11-12T20:36:00.001+04:00

The first steps in exploring any new town are exciting, and for us it was made even better by the cool air, something we were enjoying immensely. So cool in fact that I had to wear a jacket.

This all probably sounds a little mundane, but after having survived most of the summer in Abu Dhabi, and it's 46C+ heat, we couldn't get enough of it.

An aside:
We get quizzed all the time about the heat, and how we are coping with it. It seems that there is a common misconception that simply because we are Australian we automatically have nerve endings that are supposed to be quite adept at dealing with living in a sandy blast furnace.

For the record: We're not.

Yes it gets hot in Melbourne, bloody hot if you'll excuse the expression (a milder turn of phrase than I usually use), but Melbourne, even at 46 degrees, is do-able... kinda.

Sure, the airconditioning situation is laughable. I mean who really wants an evaporative cooling solution that reduces the ambient temperature by 8 degrees.. but INCREASES the humidity so much you could grow orchids in the carpet of the lounge room? Oh, and the issue of the train lines buckling because of the extreme heat, thereby ruining any chance of train travel that doesn't involve getting stranded for hours in a steel box with 200 new found friends...

What's do-able about it then? At least in Melbourne you know that in the next week there will be a cool day, not polar-ice-shelf cool.. but significantly cooler than 46. Unlike Abu Dhabi, where summer was 4 months of 40+ degrees with at least 2 of those months 44+.

Every day. With 80-90% humidity.

Brutal.

So finding ourselves on a beautiful old street below the castle in the cool afternoon air was almost worth the price of the plane ticket alone - and we were literally only 4 hours out of the plane.

Staying on the Castle side of the river had a few unexpected benefits, one of which was the need to cross the magnificent Charles bridge any time we needed to go anywhere other than the castle itself. A need I am grateful for, as just visiting it once wouldn't do it justice. We probably crossed it a couple of times a day during our stay - each visit bringing something new.

A new art vendor, or another busker or a different view across the Vltava River. Maybe something missed on one of the famous statues on previous crossings picked up.

We saw a water colour we liked at one of the stalls, and rather purchasing it right then and carting it around on our adventures, we vowed to take a closer look on our return.

On we wandered, with and through the throng of tourists meandering through the streets. The entire time marvelling at the beauty and the architecture of the place while adopting the Billy Connelly attitude of hyper vigilence against pickpockets.

Mr Connelly once did a stand up show about travelling in Australia. Before arriving he had been told that everything would kill you, snakes spiders, bugs, hookers, whatever - it's all deadly. On arrival he was heading to the beach when he saw a warning sign informing the reader to "Beware of Stingers". He spent the rest of the day concerned about where the stingers would come from, expecting them to be so prolific that they would drop from trees.

Billy's stingers were my pickpockets - expecting that they would hunt in packs and fall upon us like semi-homeless piranha. The way the guide books make it out, you can't walk to the front door from the bedroom in your own apartment without losing your watch, your passport and at least one kidney.

So in honour of the bearded funny-man, I too was being ware.

All roads seemed to lead toward to the old town square, so that's where we headed... and in the town square we got the first of many glimpses of the clock, or more importantly the astronomical clock, I'll get into more detail on this beasty later - it's at once a super cool object, and pretty lame overall.

Most of the lameness is derived from the hourly stand and wait show that goes on, on the hour, 12 hours a day.
This is also the hourly event on which our friends the pickpockets work the most of their trade - a bread and butter gig for them if you will. For when the hourly thing happens, the crowd as one raises both their arms in order to get the photo of the clock doing it's thing, thus rendering them as vulnerable to pickpockets as a seal to a fur trader's club.

I was so obsessed by the potential for a sea of street thieves getting about that I missed the entire thing - well you do have to be quick, it only lasts a minute or two.

We peeled off from the crowd afterward, and in the opposite direction to where the 500 or so clockers were headed, with a desire to find a beer in a back street somewhere rather than paying the extortionate fees for a beer, simply because it is on the town square AND right next door to a Starbucks.

A plan that worked swimmingly.

Maybe 150 metres away from the old town centre, with it's clock, alleged pick-pockety denizens and over priced American chain 'coffee', there was a sign for beer at a cheap price. A sign that pointed toward a small street and past a jaunty collection of reeking wheely bins all milling around a small dumpster.

While it looked a little a little sinister, it didn't have the stink of dread or dead cat - so we followed it's suggestion. It was late afternoon after all, and we hadn't had a beer yet.

Not far along the alley we found the establishment we were looking for, suitably lit (dim) and having only 3 patrons, 2 of whom were chatting and 1 quietly nursing beer.

We picked one of the chatters as soon as we entered, his broad accent immediately a smile to our faces.

It turns out that Mitch was nearing the end of his world trip, at this point taking in the sights and sounds of Europe before he headed back to Western Australia, and his life as a farmer. His farm stocks wheat and sheep, is 400 kilometres from Perth, and an entire world away from a back street bar in Prague.

Mitch's family has farmed the same piece of land for generations - and while he didn't say as much, simply by the way his shoulders squared along with the smile that played on his face while he told us about it leads me to think that he is quite proud of continuing the work of his forebears. He said "It can be a hard life, but also a good one, and I wouldn't swap it for anything". Then turned and ordered another round.

His only spot of regret on the 'Mitch World Odyssey' was that his local football team, the team he plays for, picked up a premiership a couple of weeks prior to our impromptu meeting. He summed it up though by saying "I'm happy for the boys, they deserve it, ther'll be other finals.... and just look where I am, and what I've seen".

There was more talk, and we managed to cram a couple of beers in with Mitch before it was time for him to head off and find the tour group he was supposed to be part of - (he'd left them to it because he was thirsty), and it was time for us to waddle homeward as we hadn't eaten for hours (and were a tad drunk).

We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways, he striding purposefully toward the road to the town square, we staggering pie eyed back past the wheely bin...

... toward and across the bridge - taking care to stop at the art vendor on the way through.

I jovially told him that I was too drunk AND too tired to make a purchase. He responded with a demeanour that suggested that I was probably too drunk/tired to even speak to him.

He was probably right.

On we pushed and began the assault on our hill. Half way up we agreed that food might be in order.

I'd like to say our choice of restaurant was at least some kind of process of elimination, that we weighed up the pro's and con's of the establishments on offer.

Nope.

Our choice was based purely on the fact that it was about as far up our hill as we felt like walking a that point, and it's door was open.

We launched ourselves at the food of choice of most travellers in our delicate state - "the mixed grill" (and another beer)

Ate our fill of delicious meat and related dishes, drank another fine beer, and staggered out onto the hill again.

We found our place, and its house sign (a bird perched over the doorway) in short order - but not before stopping at the convenience store for yet more beer.

Now, I don't want to come off as some kind of lush here, but the beer in Prague is so damn cheap it's almost offensive NOT to drink it. It's half the price of coca-cola and cheaper than water...

What were we to do?

Don't want to offend the locals by not partaking of their local product...

Customer service - the devil is in the lack of detail.

2009-10-30T17:17:00.001+04:00

Some may think that I set out to lampoon businesses here on this desert island of Abu Dhabi.

I can assure you that I don’t, it’s just that most of the time they appear to TRY to get poked at.

I have always said, if you want good press, give good service, or at least start by delivering 10% of what you offer, then work your way up from there.

The source of my ire?

UAE companies that have a website, WITH a ‘contact us’ component that offers electronic contact via email. Email that is obviously being directed to mail server which if were to be sketched as a real life postbox would look like it were overstuffed, unattended and had its messages being blown down the street in the breeze.

No wait, having messages blowing down the street implies that at some point someone would pick them up. Sure that someone might be the wrong person, but at least in that instance a human interaction might be made with the fruits of ones “email-query” loins.

First in line:
A company that sells 4x4's with (cryptic clue here) Just Enough Essential Parts.

We of the Bayt Al Abudhabilist were recently fortunate enough to pick up a 4wd - cheap.

Obviously there are a few odds and ends to do to improve it’s existence, but those odds and ends are reflected by the initial low cost of purchasing the thing.

To the manufacturers website I go. Well, via Google I found the local site. It had a phone number and an address but best of all it had a section that allowed me to contact the parts department direct with my list of demands.

These weren’t great demands, but ones that I wanted met..
Did they stock oil filters?
I might need headlights
And a fan belt
And a viscous fan clutch coupling (don't ask, just know that it's an important doo-dad)
Not a big list of not uncommon parts I’ve since found out.

No response was forthcoming, but then I guess it might be that I am impatient, seven days isn’t that long… it’s only a week after all. Even though I didn’t want to appear too pushy, after 14 days I sent them another one.

And waited for another week.

Then I grabbed the toll free number from the website and phoned. Twice. Neither time was my call answered as I sat grinding my teeth in frustration.

Was there another number to call? Well yes of course there was, but that is entirely beside the point. Why OFFER a toll free number if it’s not going to be answered?

Similarly - why have a space on the web page where prospective clients can lodge their request if there is absolutely no intent to respond?

I resolved the issue not by calling, but by leaping in the mighty truckster and taking the scenic drive off the island to the industrial area where the service and parts HQ was situated. More expensive than a phone call, sure, but I was working on principle now.

I swaggered in and was met by a smiling face at the reception who directed me to the parts department, (10 metres away and to her left), of course I should have picked it out myself if I had have bothered to look, given that it had a sign in 6 foot letters denoting it as the place for all things part-ish. I blame the receptionist for my dunderheadedness, smiling and being friendly and asking how she could help - clearly I must have looked lost, and she was obviously far too good at her job.

Sitting at each of the 3 desks was a parts guy. I sat down in front of the one waving most frantically and asked him about the viscous fan thingy. At least I think he was waving, and to be fair the others were speaking loudly into their phones and so didn’t get their hips into the arm flailing.

Yes he had one, yes he could get it for me and yes it was 3 times the price I had been lead to believe it was going to be. Unfortunately the fan thingy is an important ummm.. thing so I had to get it or risk the big V8 exploding, or simply melting into the road.

When he returned with my disconcertingly small box for such an important thing, I asked him regarding the phone internet drama I had experienced.

Either he didn’t understand the question in the 4 different ways I put it to him, I wasn’t explaining myself well enough, there WAS no email/toll free service, or all of a sudden we had a language barrier rendering the terms:
"Email doesn't work" and "Phone not answered" entirely incomprehensible.

I suspect that the email thing has never worked, but surely - and I am aware that I am utilising ‘free and innovative thought’ here - something like the road-to-nowhere email does nothing to strengthen a business relationship?

Solution.

Easy.

Take the link off the page.

OR

(This is directed at the company by JEEPers, but come along for the ride) - Hire me to keep an eye on the parts/service department emails. I don’t need an office, I can do it from here, and I’m never far from a computer.

Perfect I would have thought - it would take me 5 minutes a day to service.

And I’m cheap.

Of course this arangement is unlikely to happen - except in the service utopia that exists only in my head - because the first rule of customer service here is a simple one -

“Do not help a captive audience”

The interpretation of the rule is this:
Don’t fix the email thingy, because they’ll call.
Don’t fix the toll free thingy because when it doesn’t work they’ll use the pay number.
Charge them what you like, It’s not like they can go anywhere else”

I left the showroom and walked back to the car, glad at least that my look of shock, light sweating and grasping at my chest seemed to get the price down a little for the small box of steel and thermostat I was currently nursing in my arms.

Must try that when ordering coffee, only the grasping will be an indication of the affect the beverage might be having on my oesophagus…

…I’ll let you know how it goes if I decide to deploy such tactics for caffeine

Prague - At last.

2009-10-20T20:30:00.004+04:00

Look, this is not going to be all about planes.. I promise.

The trip from Istanbul to Prague was uneventful - well, it was fun actually, Turkish Air pilots LOVE a banking manoeuvre - they really do, in spite of this there’s just one more thing I want to bring up. Not about Turkish air in particular, but air- travellers in general.

Why do most people stand or at least try to the second it becomes apparent that the plane isn’t actually going to skid haphazardly along the runway OR shoot of into oblivion? EVERY plane I get on seems to have a team of travellers on it that actually quite enjoy standing, getting their gear out of the upper lockers THEN continuing to stand for what may be up to 10 minutes before the doors open.

They’re obviously uncomfortable, given the strained and strangely put out look on their face. What’s more they aren’t saving themselves any time, in fact given some of the positions they get themselves into may COST them time. Most likely with Chiropractors and remedial therapists trying to sort their backs out while those that elected to sit for the arduous 7 minute taxi in to the arrivals gate, are out frolicking in whatever the town has to offer.

Can anyone enlighten me why?

It’s not as if they can get their cases any faster - I am usually last off the plane, and I have yet to walk to a baggage carousel that has even started disgorging the load of bags from my flight onto the belt.

The same people who 10 minutes earlier were doing their best to gain a part in the next stage play centred around Notre Dame and a bell tower, are of course all there before me, but just standing around, and rubbing their necks where they had been in close and solid contact with the overhead lockers.

Really people.

Breathe a little.

We sauntered up to the baggage carousel, last to arrive and waited with everyone else as our bags appeared from the dark reaches of the baggage bay.

From there it was a short wander to the front door, after first securing public transport tickets for ourselves, and half fare tickets for our packs.

As Karma was sorting herself out I unwrapped the hiking packs and inspected them for damage - there wasn’t any - and while praising the qualities of sandwich wrap (the substance I had tied the straps up with) I eased my pack on to my shoulders for the first time in what seemed like forever.

I love my pack, I like the feeling as it eases its weight on to my shoulders. The feeling as I carefully but forcefully pull the load straps tighter, making sure the tension is just right. Moving the hip supports so most of the weight is taken low down rather than dragging on my upper body.

I love it, truly. It’s a marvellous feeling.

Apart from the demonstrative aspect of the pack letting you know that it’s comfortable because you spent time getting it fitted to you, and the money it cost is paying dividends now. A full pack is a sure sign of going somewhere, of an impending adventure.

Karma lifted hers on, but didn’t fuss with load distribution. In fact she was about to head off toward our destination with barely any strap pulling at all. I expressed my concerns and that she was only asking for trouble by not performing the required adjustments.

She looked at me and sighed.

“The bus-stop we need is at the end of that parking zone across the road - it’s a 45 metre walk.”

She looked at me as if that was supposed to mean something.

We summit-ed the bus-stop about a minute after that conversation, and while she won’t admit it, I was far more comfortable in my pack that she in hers. A minute is a long time if you’re uncomfortable.

Our bus was waiting, and empty, which was handy as it meant that we could be the first to stuff our packs in the bag area next to where we would be standing.

I wanted to place my pack’s travel ticket in the pack in the hope that if challenged by a ticket inspector I could direct the attention to the pack itself. While the idea of a ticket inspector questioning a backpack filled me with some kind of warmth, the reality that I may just be asking for a fine and potentially a night in a Czech watch house meant that both tickets remained on my person. I don’t need a cell mate called Bubba if it can be avoided.

The bus was quite full by the time it set off, and I stared with interest at the signs over the pneumatic doors, and on the inside of the windows. There is familiarity about signs on public transport - even if not in English, and looking at them knowing what they mean tends to make one feel as if they can indeed read the local language. A talent that immediately disappears the moment you need to read anything important, like a hamburger menu - or clause 1 on the “you’re about to do something dangerous - if you agree to this and die it’s not our problem” form.

A sign I didn’t need to interpret as it was in straight up English, stated “Beware of pickpockets - Better safe than sorry” So I stood over our baggage like a mother lion over it’s blue canvassed strap riddled cub, while trying to maintain my footing.

First battle - pickpockets (0), Large bald Lioness-man (1)

After 20 minutes it was time to change modes of transport, which meant packs put back on, although this time I noticed that my travelling buddy spent some time doing the adjusting dance. On this leg we were to step into the Prague underground for a few stops.

Easy enough to work out and 300 metres plus 2 escalators later we were on our train. Still wearing our packs, as much to demonstrate that we were hard core pioneering travellers as any real need.

Hardcore travellers who were forced to stand in the disabled section due to the space pack wearers take up in trains. All hard core-ness would be DOOMED if someone needed to use the same space for more legitimate reasons…

LEG 3 off the train and onto the tram, for a really pleasant ride to our get off point which was in Prague proper.

I’d like to say at this juncture that the directions that our lodgings gave us were great. Couldn’t have been easier to follow up to this point. We staggered around a bit looking for the correct road to follow to our final destination, but ultimately found our way to the reception.

That was part way up an Everest steep hill.

Okay, ‘Everest steep’ is a fabrication, but as we powered up the hill, I got the feeling my pack had interests at the bottom of the hill, while my own interests were definitely further up.

‘The Castle Steps’ is a group of apartments on the castle side of the river (hence it’s name) and we found the reception for this fabulous place about half way up the hill, we stood at the door, pushed the perfectly polished brass door bell button and waited.

A perky voice spoke back through the speaker to let us know that she was on her way down.

The perky voice turned out to be Rosie, from the UK. Once it was established that we were indeed who we said we were Rosie pointed up the hill and said follow me.

Up the hill.

UP.

I put on a show of pioneering spirit up until Rosie admitted that she wasn’t particularly enamoured by the whole ‘up’ thing either. So, taking the slow and persistent attitude we made it to our room, which was just perfect.

Our lodgings for the first 2 nights were to be in a room on the 2nd floor of the park side of the building, while the rest of our time was to be an additional floor or two up and on the street side.

The room was beautiful, had a little balcony, and what was listed as a park was actually a valley of parkland on the other side of a convent. Gorgeous. Truly wonderful and more than we could have hoped for.

We "oooed" and "ahhhed" about the room, and began to unpack, then noises were made by my snoozy bride that suggested that she was making inroads to sleeping the afternoon away.

Apparently it’s a trait of the women in my wife’s family to desire to snooze wherever they end up.

Statements like “Oh, this place is wonderful” and “OOOh look at how lovely the town is” are often followed by murmurings of “Might lay down for half an hour” which invariable turns into an hour, and leaves us too late to do anything before having to think about dinner.

I stepped into the breach this time, and offering an excuse about my desire to find running tracks I managed to peel her off the bed, and out the door, not without Karma shooting some longing looks at the still made bed through the crack of the closing door...

…back out into the street.. We were off to the bridge and the old town…

Jones the grocer - maybe timing is the answer

2009-10-13T17:04:00.001+04:00

Right, given that the last post was sooo well received (there’s only a hint of sarcasm in that comment, the email was divided between me being bias - both for and against) AND because I dearly want this place to succeed, as becoming a full time tea drinker is becoming more and more a reality, I decided to head back to Jones the Grocer.

This time opting for a time that was away from the crazy lunch hour fest that was on during the last visit.

As my mate Line was talking to me again (we had some tense times due to my assertions in previous posts that she is, at heart, a great big liar), and was herself significantly under-whelmed by the coffee in Abu Dhabi, we agreed on a time to grab a beverage (and maybe a cake).

Then Line cancelled.

SO, we arranged a new time - which she managed to not cancel and I picked her up at the standard spot.
Line got in the truckster, said “Hello” then backed up with:
“You DO know where we are going, don’t you?” Smirking as she secured her seat belt.
“That’s how it’s going to be is it?”
“What?” said Line, affecting a look of innocence.

Now to say that we did in fact get lost on the way to Jones would be an over statement. To say that some incorrect turns were taken may be a little closer to the truth. In defence though, I knew where it was, and how to get there - from MY apartment. Not Line’s.

I’d also like to point out at this juncture that while less than perfect directional choices MAY have been made, each resulting street was still familiar, thus creating a more scenic path to our afternoon’s activity.
In only slightly longer time than was originally expected we arrived, and I managed to maintain my 2 from 2 ‘rock-star’ parking record.

For those not in the know, to park like a rock star one must drive to one’s destination, and without having to wait for someone to leave, park immediately out front of said establishment. Thus far, 2 visits, and with a combined walking distance of less than 30 metres from car to front door, I’m strutting to the tune of Stayin’ Alive just thinking about it.

On the inside.

Fair to say that I was a little scathing in the previous post about this great establishment. Not without reason I might add. The solution for those wishing to miss all the havoc (as funny as it was) is to simply go later in the afternoon.

Line and I strolled in to a much quieter café than on the last trip. Strangely though we elected to sit in at the very same table that my hardworking wife and I sat at… perhaps subconsciously drawn to the same table to make sure that all the variables could be accounted for by making the experience as similar as possible.
OR - perhaps it’s just because Line unknowingly suggested we sit at that table, and I couldn’t find a reason not to.

The service (due to lack of customer numbers I suspect) was great. Fast, efficient, friendly (not that they weren’t friendly before… they just lacked the flustered ‘chasing tail’ look this time).
The coffee however was superb. Extraordinarily good. So were the cakes that arrived at just the right time.
I decided to throw caution to the wind and order what has been even more elusive than a latte here in this pile o’ sand.

A macchiato.

To refresh your memories as to how wrong a coffee shop can get a macchiato here - feel free to go to the contents page (over there in the categories list) and select ‘Idioms’ from the section marked ‘The coffee project’ - or don‘t, it‘s your dime…

…I ordered then distractedly went on with the conversation, I think we had moved on to the topic of cheese, or Norwegian moonshine, while waiting for my macchiato.

It arrived, again in good time.

I rarely say this about coffee anywhere BUT - it was perfect, well nearly - but any criticism that I could level would only be appreciated by the true geeks among you (for those really interested in the level of my coffee/macchiato affliction who may have similar interests themselves, I’m simply going to say ‘foam’ and ‘a weeny bit too much’). For those who have lives and more interesting things to consider like, well, ANYTHING else, please strike the information in parenthesis from the record.

With me savouring the first real macchiato I have had in a long time, Line spied bottles of water in the large display cabinet behind me, and was immediately up and on her way over to inspect. Turns out that it’s Norwegian water - (Line is from Norway) .

I began to wax lyrical about the connection to her homeland via the fluid in bottles stacked 4 deep on a shelf in an Abu Dhabi coffee shop, and how nice it must be etc.

She indulged me as I banged on about distance, and hands of her kin folk etc.

Once she figured I had got it out of my system, she said “Yes, very nice. It’s actually made by hill billies you know”.

Then went on in a manner that I took to mean that it’s a good thing they do, because if the folk living in the region this stuff was coming from weren’t bottling water, they wouldn’t have much else to do, (bar chowing down on whale of course).

Product of a hillbilly or not, she still grabbed 2 large bottles of the stuff to take with her after we had done our lap of the shelves…

What I haven’t mentioned thus far is that JtG ain’t just a coffee/breaky/lunch spot. It sells all manner of stuff - homemade ice-cream, nougat, coffee machines, preserves, and a whole bunch of other gear, worth a visit just for that.

What is also worth visiting is the cheese room.

Yes.

ROOM.

Line and I went and inspected the room o’ cheese during our walk of the perimeter, and were met inside it’s refrigerated wonderment by someone I am just going to have to call ‘The Cheese Guy‘.

This guardian of the cheese safe proceeded to make a couple of jokes about cheese, asked us where we were from and was just generally funny - a nice change to the stern/forced politeness of other venues - not that any other venues have a cheese room of course, but maybe it was the spores from the blue cheese that helped make him so happy. Maybe we looked like 6 foot Wookies and he was passing the time in order to stop himself from freaking out… whatever the case, it was good, and the selection is ace.

Nothing else to say, other than I hope that Jones the Grocer Abu Dhabi is able to rock that sort of service, or at least similar during the busy times.

The quality of the product though is 1st class.

Give it a try, and order a macchiato - it’s great.

Escape from AD - part II

2009-10-08T20:24:00.007+04:00

Karma and I have a talent.

One that we haven’t seen fit too cultivate, it just seems to be hard wired to deploy any time we get into an airline check-in queue.

If there is ONE person within the terminal that will have some kind of problem, they will invariably find themselves situated in front of us.

Usually immediately in front.

So that even if the line is a long is one, and even if that line is moving with relative efficiency, the guy in front of us will have a problem. It’s never a small problem either.

Not a problem that will involve a couple of key strokes and a bit of smiling, oh no.

It will be a problem that can only be solved by calling a supervisor in. The supervisor will of course be attending to something else, and because our man in front only mentions such a problem part way into the booking procedure, the check-in-counter-person is usually reluctant to want to close the transaction.

So we all wait.

While line B zooms by, no doubt grabbing at all the really good seats in cattle class.. Yes I am aware that this is a fine example of ‘grass is always greener’ but cattle class is so cramped that I, being of a larger frame (that term includes anyone over 5’10”), spend most trips with a niggling feeling that the seat I missed out on is in fact the MOST comfortable seat on the plane.

And someone else is sitting in it. Someone who is inexplicably less deserving than yours most upstandingly.

I hear our hero mutter “This has happened before and it really wasn’t that much of a problem…”

Check-in-dude - “I have to wait for the manager”

Which we do… for what seems like an hour (and 30 seat allocations that are soooo going to be better than our own). Really though, it was maybe 5 minutes.. tops.

The manager arrived, looked at the screen, didn’t say anything more than “hello” to him-who-needs-to-sort-his-crap-out-before-fronting-at-checkin, had what appeared to be a short but brief interaction with the keyboard, and that was that.

Thankfully our check-in process was far less complicated:

Front up,
show passport,
show ticket,
throw packs onto weighing-belt-thing…

… and that’s it.

We were on our way… adventures don’t feel like they begin until your bags are checked.

I guess if there is an upside to our “get stuck behind doofus” talent it’s that the time between check-in and boarding is diminished. We really only had time for a couple of laps of the departure/duty free terminal, primarily to stare at a couple of grotesque but highly priced baubles, before being called to the boarding lounge.

We wait in line again for the additional security check into the lounge to find a place to… ‘lounge’ and wait for the call to actually get on the plane.

Question time:
The whole point of checking in, apart from foisting your bag over to be shipped into the luggage compartment, is to have your seats allocated, right?

Why is it then that whenever an airline staff member even leans in the direction of the door, people take that as a cue to get up and move tentatively toward the door?

Many have already shown the good sense to have not been in my line at the check-in counter, so they already have great seats (I know, I should let it go.. But I can’t). Is it because, deep down they know that they have AWESOME seats and are just ensuring that they get on the plane first, before me or anyone else can usurp them. Throwing ourselves dramatically at their allotted place then pleading with the flight staff to let us stay there, while the rightful owners are sent to the luggage compartment to travel in dog cages?

NO.

That is not going to be the case.

If there is a boarding card issued, I would suggest your place on the aircraft is pretty much secure.

Why then, the rush to get on? Why add to the sitting time on what is already a cramped and fun-free zone.

As I pondered this along with willing the screaming child to be seated as far away from me as possible, the door opened, and what had begun as a zombie like shuffle turned into a flailing stampede.

Well, at least until the door, where everything slows down again for boarding pass checking.

On the plane, 2 of my worst case scenarios were realised.

The screaming child I was using my not inconsiderable Jedi mind powers on in the transit lounge, was drawn to my dark power rather than repelled by it, and had found a place with his slightly frazzled parents 2 rows behind us.

Second? No individual in-flight entertainment.

Shared… sure, and fine if I wanted to stare directly up at a screen thereby feeling like I was inadvertently looking up the actors’ trouser legs. An experience that reduces the ‘entertainment’ factor somewhat.

I turned to look at Karma, half pointing at the screen, with a look that was punctuated with the screech of a child followed by muttered ‘shushing’ from his parents.

Karma responded with a sigh and intimated that it was going to be a long flight, and there was no sense making it harder on my self by forcing her to have to poke me in the eye.

For the record, the kid behaved like a little trooper from that point on, didn’t hear a peep until landing - in spite of the Turkish Airways announcements in multiple languages that seemed to only have a volume that was conducive to rupturing ear drums.

Resigned to sleep, I settled in, as best I could, and was just dozing off a few minutes from take off, one of those dozes that is the precursor to an excellent batch of sleep, when Karma nudged me…

“Are you ASLEEP”

I think she was getting me back for the car hire/airport debacle.

On my insistence that yes indeed I was almost asleep, and then thanking her for waking me lest I should miss a little of the blackness that was viewable from our wing seat, she smiled smugly and went back to her magazine.

I didn’t drop off for the rest of that flight.

The food on Turkish Airlines is really good, tasty, and I threw myself at the feast placed in front of me even though my body knew it was 5 in the morning. I don’t know whether it is Turkish Airlines policy to feed folk no matter what… but surely there could be a more opportune time for food than 2 hours before landing.

Food eaten, and warm percolated coffee consumed we waited to land…

I like pilots who take an experimental approach to their job, and this one was no exception - employing what appeared to be sheer down force in order to slow the plane at Istanbul. Air brakes are for the weak hearted it would seem, and the bumping ride along the tarmac was a great way to make sure our stuff was indeed securely stowed in the overhead locker or placed under the seat in front of us.

Meh. We landed. Walked down the stairs of the aircraft in the first cool breeze we’d felt for months and boarded on the tarmac to terminal bus, then shuffled into the transit terminal for a spectacular 5 hour wait.

I don’t know why, but whenever I enter an airport, I get a hankering for Burger King. Not McDonalds. Not sandwiches. Burger King. I seriously have no clue why it happens, I’ve even been known to drop people off at Melbourne airport, where I park, and then go in for some double cheeseburger goodness.

I feared though that a trip to the burger shop may be curtailed by the fact that we were in the middle of Ramadan, and the sun was well and truly up. The possibility that we may be entering a burger free zone made the thought of 5 hours wait even worse.

I need not have worried, Burger King was not just open, it was swamped.

Burgers secured and eaten, we opted then for a Chai latte from Gloria Jeans (a delicacy that has inexplicably been taken off the GJ menu here in Abu Dhabi). By this point we were both so tired that I couldn’t tell you whether the price we paid was extortionate or cheap… but the product was tasty, and held us up until it was time to board for the next leg of the Journey.

Istanbul to Prague in Czech Republic.