Last night I accompanied Peggy Bundy, who has been squatting at my folks’ place the last few months, on a digs recce. A mate of hers’ former manager has a room available in his flat. Three minutes from Jumeirah beach, infinitely accessible, en-suite thunderbucket.
Invariably these occasions either feel like a) job interviews or b) blind dates. Stressful. Peggy needed a wingbitch. I was her Added Confidence.
When we hot-footed out of there 90 minutes later, who would’ve thought we’d both be grinning like ama-Lotto winning ticket holders. Housemates Merv and Mandy* are a damn hoot. Merv has done considerable time in I-raq, has a Caribbean tan and washes Mandy’s G-strings for her. Mandy is pissed off with Dubai, has a Welsh boyfriend whose accent she can’t stand, and is never home (except to collect her clean underwear). It’s a winning formula.
You can learn a lot about someone over a glass of Australian box blend.
On the way home Peg and I concurred that we felt no ill-feeling towards either Merv or Mandy. In fact we digged them. The house is P.I.M.P. too. So today she’s going to confirm that yes, she would like to ship in there.
Success.
Sometimes life throws us in with randoms. I say, variety is the spice of life. Decent living arrangements are hard to come by in Dubai, what with ridiculously rocketing rent. Not only is the package watertight (the insanely reasonable monthly fee covers bills, maid, gardener, stylish interior, great garden with rolling lawn by Dubai standards) … I foresee Peggy’s new place as a solid braai venue, a haven where I will book in on weekends to escape my folks. We can hang like bats and lie in our PJs all damn day without an ounce of guilt. We arrange cocktail parties featuring flame-throwers, dwarf-jugglers and bowls players with reckless abandon.
Regarding the age difference (OK, M & M are well into their 30’s) … we factored it in. We decided we are both pretty much over coming home to a digs of 20-year old louts where inevitably there are colonies of mould forming on the is a load of wet laundry still in the washing machine. We’re over shared environments in which your leftover pizza would have been smashed by some midnight prowler, the fridge contains a sole mayonnaise bottle and one egg, and socks, cigarettes, dried Two-Minute Noodles and half-empty beer cans cover all available surfaces. Environments in which there is no toilet paper. At any time.
We did that for six-odd years, got the T-shirt and it was great. Now, moving on.
*Bridge-burning protection. Names protected in case we become good mates in the future.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Fleeing the herd
Two fundamental questions pertaining to my current existence in the UAE and the global dispersal of my friends have been hounding me. Like carnivorous seagulls. Swooping. Pecking. Shitting everywhere.
I decided to sounding-board it with one of my trusty sounding boards, King K.
1st Burning Question
Me: Don't you wish you could FFWD a year or two just to check that everything is going to be OK? I am tired of being a grown up and being in charge of my own life. SOMEONE ELSE DO IT FOR ME PLEASE! [flashback to 1986: tantrum in Checkers. I threw a tub of chocolate yoghurt on the floor. Seconds later: got the hiding of my life].
KK: I feel like that, more often than not … I don’t think we ever truly feel equipped to deal with all the drama that comes with being an adult. I think some people just fake it well.
Me: Shit. That’s that one answered. God Dr Phil - you're good!
KK: Thanks – but I also think that sometimes we don’t realise how much we are taking on [being overseas] and then can’t understand why we feel down. Thing is human beings are averse to change so we resist it… The fact that you have been through so many changes, with relative ease – doesn’t mean it hasn’t impacted you.
Me: You could sell this.
2nd Burning Question
Me: Don't know what is up with me today, but I feel excommunicated from everyone [meaning, all my mates in Jozi and London] even though I am in touch with them all on a daily basis … do you know what I mean?
KK: I think it is totally normal… You feel like you’re out of sight out of mind; even if it is normal, it kinda feels weird when people are out and about doing stuff that you would usually be doing with them. Some days it can feel like a slap in the face if you are really missing those people – there are days I can’t even reply to mails because I feel as if I have totally missed out.
I don’t think it’s ever easy… But I also think, on the whole most of your mates have done the same; so while you might feel out of the loop now it will all return to normal when you see them, because most of them can deal with that type of thing. I think for people with few friends who haven’t done the whole travel thing – it’s more difficult.
Me: Fookmi.
You are all over it. I am keeping this email as a self-help reference manual ...
Not to sound like a martyr … but some days, being overseas is more difficult than others. Right now, 90% of my best mates are painting London red, 10% jolling in Joz-town.
Faark it. I am not an exile for life fergodsakes. I chose Dubai for now and, much like Detroit, “I love this city”.
I decided to sounding-board it with one of my trusty sounding boards, King K.
1st Burning Question
Me: Don't you wish you could FFWD a year or two just to check that everything is going to be OK? I am tired of being a grown up and being in charge of my own life. SOMEONE ELSE DO IT FOR ME PLEASE! [flashback to 1986: tantrum in Checkers. I threw a tub of chocolate yoghurt on the floor. Seconds later: got the hiding of my life].
KK: I feel like that, more often than not … I don’t think we ever truly feel equipped to deal with all the drama that comes with being an adult. I think some people just fake it well.
Me: Shit. That’s that one answered. God Dr Phil - you're good!
KK: Thanks – but I also think that sometimes we don’t realise how much we are taking on [being overseas] and then can’t understand why we feel down. Thing is human beings are averse to change so we resist it… The fact that you have been through so many changes, with relative ease – doesn’t mean it hasn’t impacted you.
Me: You could sell this.
2nd Burning Question
Me: Don't know what is up with me today, but I feel excommunicated from everyone [meaning, all my mates in Jozi and London] even though I am in touch with them all on a daily basis … do you know what I mean?
KK: I think it is totally normal… You feel like you’re out of sight out of mind; even if it is normal, it kinda feels weird when people are out and about doing stuff that you would usually be doing with them. Some days it can feel like a slap in the face if you are really missing those people – there are days I can’t even reply to mails because I feel as if I have totally missed out.
I don’t think it’s ever easy… But I also think, on the whole most of your mates have done the same; so while you might feel out of the loop now it will all return to normal when you see them, because most of them can deal with that type of thing. I think for people with few friends who haven’t done the whole travel thing – it’s more difficult.
Me: Fookmi.
You are all over it. I am keeping this email as a self-help reference manual ...
Not to sound like a martyr … but some days, being overseas is more difficult than others. Right now, 90% of my best mates are painting London red, 10% jolling in Joz-town.
Faark it. I am not an exile for life fergodsakes. I chose Dubai for now and, much like Detroit, “I love this city”.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Action in rollers
Last night’s Culcha-Club was a rip-roaring, raging success. We all emerged more enlightened free-thinkers after sampling the delights of ‘Pussy cat got wet!!’ (stir fried chicken), ‘Thai Me Any Way You Want’ (prawn salad) and ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ (deep-fried Morning Glory … yum). I will let King K fill in the blanks as he so eloquently did in this morning’s post.
In Kotters’s words, it was ‘a barrel’.
The sound of my alarm this morning stirred up latent thoughts of suicide. It has one up on the Oirishman for Irritant of the Century. Being woken up forcibly by incessant clanging has never been one of life’s pleasures. Most mornings, I am a cow.
Excuse me, I am being disgustingly rude. I am probably offending the Suffragettes … Yes, thanks girls, I am grateful for the fact that I don’t need to have a full face of makeup applied and my hair in rollers once my dear husband, the stirrings in his loins successfully seen to, has fallen asleep. Failure to look permanently hot and put out in silence: supreme neglect of one’s marriage vows. Have a gander at this 1960’s women’s guide to bedroom behaviour. It’s a gas.
According to Cosmo’s forerunner, should your man experience a particularly violent loin-stirring, (suggesting “any of the more unusual practices” perhaps), you should “be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent”. Sounds like a guest appearance by the Fun Burglar.
In Kotters’s words, it was ‘a barrel’.
The sound of my alarm this morning stirred up latent thoughts of suicide. It has one up on the Oirishman for Irritant of the Century. Being woken up forcibly by incessant clanging has never been one of life’s pleasures. Most mornings, I am a cow.
Excuse me, I am being disgustingly rude. I am probably offending the Suffragettes … Yes, thanks girls, I am grateful for the fact that I don’t need to have a full face of makeup applied and my hair in rollers once my dear husband, the stirrings in his loins successfully seen to, has fallen asleep. Failure to look permanently hot and put out in silence: supreme neglect of one’s marriage vows. Have a gander at this 1960’s women’s guide to bedroom behaviour. It’s a gas.
According to Cosmo’s forerunner, should your man experience a particularly violent loin-stirring, (suggesting “any of the more unusual practices” perhaps), you should “be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent”. Sounds like a guest appearance by the Fun Burglar.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Paddywhacking
In general, I love Oirland, and all Oirish by-products.
River Dance – go on, ‘twas grand in its day. That Michael Flately could flick a hoof with the best of them.
Give me an Irish coffee and I’ll smash the thing.
Circle of Friends: once a favourite of mine. Chris O’Donnell with the whole accent going on was off the perv charts back when we were in high school. At sleepovers we’d work ourselves into a lustful frenzy over the man.
Once I even schnacked an average-looking short-ass barman in Dublin because he asked me so nicely: “Excuse-meh, do’ya mind if-a kiss ya?” Hell no.
I even learned to appreciate the quirky humour in Father Ted after my mother subjected me to series after series of it. She gets rather misty-eyed and plays The Corrs a lot.
Unfortunately, that’s pretty much where my infatuation with the leprechaun nation ends.
The last few months at work have forced me into a situation in which I am compelled to to dispatch strongly-worded emails to a certain Irish IRRIT. Delivery of copy is undoubtedly two to four days late.
There is almost always a panic spree on a Monday. Panicked conference calls ensue with the bloke invariably ending up in an emotional breakdown and his green underwear in a tangle. I wish his manager would administer a Guinness intravenously to put him out of his woe.
The potato farmer cannot for the life of him begin to fathom the time zone phenomenon. Bad move seeing as we, the client, are operating on Dubai time, and Dubai weekends apply. It seems the learning curve is a steep and insurmountable one: “We’ll deliver it for’ya on Friday” [No, you won’t. I will be hanging like a bat. At home].
Today he’s done it again. Get off my tits won’tcha Paddy.
River Dance – go on, ‘twas grand in its day. That Michael Flately could flick a hoof with the best of them.
Give me an Irish coffee and I’ll smash the thing.
Circle of Friends: once a favourite of mine. Chris O’Donnell with the whole accent going on was off the perv charts back when we were in high school. At sleepovers we’d work ourselves into a lustful frenzy over the man.
Once I even schnacked an average-looking short-ass barman in Dublin because he asked me so nicely: “Excuse-meh, do’ya mind if-a kiss ya?” Hell no.
I even learned to appreciate the quirky humour in Father Ted after my mother subjected me to series after series of it. She gets rather misty-eyed and plays The Corrs a lot.
Unfortunately, that’s pretty much where my infatuation with the leprechaun nation ends.
The last few months at work have forced me into a situation in which I am compelled to to dispatch strongly-worded emails to a certain Irish IRRIT. Delivery of copy is undoubtedly two to four days late.
There is almost always a panic spree on a Monday. Panicked conference calls ensue with the bloke invariably ending up in an emotional breakdown and his green underwear in a tangle. I wish his manager would administer a Guinness intravenously to put him out of his woe.
The potato farmer cannot for the life of him begin to fathom the time zone phenomenon. Bad move seeing as we, the client, are operating on Dubai time, and Dubai weekends apply. It seems the learning curve is a steep and insurmountable one: “We’ll deliver it for’ya on Friday” [No, you won’t. I will be hanging like a bat. At home].
Today he’s done it again. Get off my tits won’tcha Paddy.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Being a Goon in London
Dedicated to the Goons I love and miss.
Goonhood isn’t a brand. It’s a lifestyle.
Some say it’s something you’re born with. To them I say, ‘INCORRECT’.
It takes a special kind of man to fully embrace the way of the Goon.
Before you can even think about aspiring to become one, you need to be accepted into the clan. Given the size of Mud Island, the number of chavs and the delicate socio-economic balance between native Englishmen and Saffa imports to London, there are limited positions in the Goon camps. New joiners are sought out and hand picked.
Being male, having a background in University Drinking (preferably Rhodes, although a rogue Stellenboschian has slipped through the cracks), rugby appreciation and uncouth behaviour (an ASBO is always a plus) are fundamental. Anyone too eager or ambitious will be dropped like the extraneous salad accompanying a 3am kebab. Once selected, the process of attrition begins. Slowly, the fiery furnace of collective experience moulds, hones, sculpts average, upstanding men into real Goons.
Goon Law
1.0 Rule number one of being a Goon: behave as if you are civilization’s worst nightmare. Don’t grow up. Grow down.
1.1 Demonstrate brotherliness towards fellow Goons by forcing them to get plastered within a quarter of an inch of their lives (twice a week as a bare minimum). Goon-plastered: 110% motherless / legless / speechless; wrecked to the furtherest extreme, the outermost limits. i.e. the road less travelled. At times it will be tough. People will ostracize you. But you can do it.
2.0 Crucial to the survival of the camp is the Head Boy. Our Goons call theirs The Uncle. It operates on a system not unlike that of The Godfather. After the Head Boy, there are intermediate Goons who are frightened of him. And then there are the lowest in the pecking order – these are typically your Bad Drunks. Whatever shame you may have brought upon yourself, you can guarantee that one of the Bad Drunks did worse. Their Sunday Night Bongezi’s will be twenty times worse than yours. They will have blown more cash than you. In fact, their credit cards will be in the red and their savings accounts will be in overdraught curtailing any trips to Europe in the near future. They will have gone home with someone who was not only hit with the ugly stick, but spanked with it. In the face.
2.1 Burn (mock, ridicule, humiliate) the Bad Drunks regularly by replying-to-all on group emails until burnees want to hurl themselves in front of an approaching South West train.
3.0 Hold bi-monthly meetings at restaurants serving red meat or chimmichangas, where items on the agenda range from topics as diverse and profound as sex and general smut to infinitely amusing booze consumption stories.
3.1 As a Goon, the frequency with which you are frog-marched / thrown / kicked out of pubs should increase with age. Should your track record begin to disappoint, you will be excommunicated.
3.2 Beat the shit out of fellow Goons while dressed in gorilla suits at least twice a year. Other Goons should cheer.
4.0 It is OK to still have traffic cones in your bedroom at age 27.
4.1 Like the folks over at Nike, constantly strive for innovation. Come up with new ways of being destructive. See potential in kitchen trays, pots, pans as vehicles on which to descend flights of stairs.
Don’t be afraid to abuse a vuvuzela on a quiet afternoon at a chilled out braai. Break, bend, destruct …
Goonhood isn’t a brand. It’s a lifestyle.
Some say it’s something you’re born with. To them I say, ‘INCORRECT’.
It takes a special kind of man to fully embrace the way of the Goon.
Before you can even think about aspiring to become one, you need to be accepted into the clan. Given the size of Mud Island, the number of chavs and the delicate socio-economic balance between native Englishmen and Saffa imports to London, there are limited positions in the Goon camps. New joiners are sought out and hand picked.
Being male, having a background in University Drinking (preferably Rhodes, although a rogue Stellenboschian has slipped through the cracks), rugby appreciation and uncouth behaviour (an ASBO is always a plus) are fundamental. Anyone too eager or ambitious will be dropped like the extraneous salad accompanying a 3am kebab. Once selected, the process of attrition begins. Slowly, the fiery furnace of collective experience moulds, hones, sculpts average, upstanding men into real Goons.
Goon Law
1.0 Rule number one of being a Goon: behave as if you are civilization’s worst nightmare. Don’t grow up. Grow down.
1.1 Demonstrate brotherliness towards fellow Goons by forcing them to get plastered within a quarter of an inch of their lives (twice a week as a bare minimum). Goon-plastered: 110% motherless / legless / speechless; wrecked to the furtherest extreme, the outermost limits. i.e. the road less travelled. At times it will be tough. People will ostracize you. But you can do it.
2.0 Crucial to the survival of the camp is the Head Boy. Our Goons call theirs The Uncle. It operates on a system not unlike that of The Godfather. After the Head Boy, there are intermediate Goons who are frightened of him. And then there are the lowest in the pecking order – these are typically your Bad Drunks. Whatever shame you may have brought upon yourself, you can guarantee that one of the Bad Drunks did worse. Their Sunday Night Bongezi’s will be twenty times worse than yours. They will have blown more cash than you. In fact, their credit cards will be in the red and their savings accounts will be in overdraught curtailing any trips to Europe in the near future. They will have gone home with someone who was not only hit with the ugly stick, but spanked with it. In the face.
2.1 Burn (mock, ridicule, humiliate) the Bad Drunks regularly by replying-to-all on group emails until burnees want to hurl themselves in front of an approaching South West train.
3.0 Hold bi-monthly meetings at restaurants serving red meat or chimmichangas, where items on the agenda range from topics as diverse and profound as sex and general smut to infinitely amusing booze consumption stories.
3.1 As a Goon, the frequency with which you are frog-marched / thrown / kicked out of pubs should increase with age. Should your track record begin to disappoint, you will be excommunicated.
3.2 Beat the shit out of fellow Goons while dressed in gorilla suits at least twice a year. Other Goons should cheer.
4.0 It is OK to still have traffic cones in your bedroom at age 27.
4.1 Like the folks over at Nike, constantly strive for innovation. Come up with new ways of being destructive. See potential in kitchen trays, pots, pans as vehicles on which to descend flights of stairs.
Don’t be afraid to abuse a vuvuzela on a quiet afternoon at a chilled out braai. Break, bend, destruct …
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Double-decker fun bus
Spent a large portion of last night wrestling with a few bongezi’s. No, not literally. Another disgustingly enormous weekend, double-pronged attack of epic, varsity-like proportions, predictably trails off into a cesspit of psychological restlessness. Some call it Sunday Night Demons - except in Dubai, Saturday is Sunday so you don’t have the soothing voice of David Attenborough to make it all better.
In Jozi, some call it the Ponies. The Goons in London call it bongezi’s because we once thought it was hell-uva funny when someone suggested putting bricks under your bed as a one-time cure. Anyway, last night, that frikken Rihanna/Umbrella song was ricocheting around in my skull until the early hours.
Flashback to Thursday. Korn’s Night of Sleaze was cancelled. So Peggy, King K, the Paki and I headed to Trader Vic’s for a quiet tikkapukka/heavy-handed daiquiri/unnamed drink out of a porcelain vase or four, and watched some salsa dancing. There was one Swayze impersonator throwing women across that floor like human ragdolls. We were loving it. Sexy mover, face like an Alcatraz escapee.
Next thing I knew we had a phone call summoning us to Zinc and were off like robber’s dogs. Now fully out of my starting blocks, I announced that I was going to crack open the dancefloor ‘like an egg’(?!). As you do.
Somehow we smeegled our way in to the VIP lounge and were throwing free Jack Daniels into our faces. It then got gory. Trance music. A live demonstration of how to use a giant pair of hedge clippers. Peggy clutching a bottle of wine on the dancefloor. There may have been some lunging of minors. The VIP Viper-lounge setup had those schnacky-coated spotty peanut things resembling quail’s eggs – boet, HELL-uva funny … Bum-dancing to trance music (?!). As Peggy lay comatose on my lap in the cab home, King K and the Paki yapped like abandoned SPCA specials over the driver’s tunes.
Unsurprisingly, Friday’s recovery was pretty miraculous. Hangovers are halved when you have a significant build-up. That night the Faithless concert, as King K repeatedly bellowed, was almost “a religious expeeerience!”. Hell’s teeth. They are that good. Skinny-ass Maxi Jazz, you king. The craziness was epic. Admittedly, I want to be Sister Bliss. Some random chap dancing like a wild tumbleweed in front of us asked me whether I would give him my “real” phone number so he could take me on his 40,000 dirham boat (but later confessed it may have been a jetski). Bless him – clearly used to getting fake numbers. Armin van Buuren, although a little heavy-handed with the trance-button, is one hot DJ. As in, good-looking. Ridiculously. Not hit with the ugly stick. Shame.
Weekend drew to a pleasing close with the Springboks plasteration of England in the rugby. Victory, to quote a well respected Dubai journalist, was “simpler than Paris Hilton, and twice as satisfying as her prison sentence”.
In Jozi, some call it the Ponies. The Goons in London call it bongezi’s because we once thought it was hell-uva funny when someone suggested putting bricks under your bed as a one-time cure. Anyway, last night, that frikken Rihanna/Umbrella song was ricocheting around in my skull until the early hours.
Flashback to Thursday. Korn’s Night of Sleaze was cancelled. So Peggy, King K, the Paki and I headed to Trader Vic’s for a quiet tikkapukka/heavy-handed daiquiri/unnamed drink out of a porcelain vase or four, and watched some salsa dancing. There was one Swayze impersonator throwing women across that floor like human ragdolls. We were loving it. Sexy mover, face like an Alcatraz escapee.
Next thing I knew we had a phone call summoning us to Zinc and were off like robber’s dogs. Now fully out of my starting blocks, I announced that I was going to crack open the dancefloor ‘like an egg’(?!). As you do.
Somehow we smeegled our way in to the VIP lounge and were throwing free Jack Daniels into our faces. It then got gory. Trance music. A live demonstration of how to use a giant pair of hedge clippers. Peggy clutching a bottle of wine on the dancefloor. There may have been some lunging of minors. The VIP Viper-lounge setup had those schnacky-coated spotty peanut things resembling quail’s eggs – boet, HELL-uva funny … Bum-dancing to trance music (?!). As Peggy lay comatose on my lap in the cab home, King K and the Paki yapped like abandoned SPCA specials over the driver’s tunes.
Unsurprisingly, Friday’s recovery was pretty miraculous. Hangovers are halved when you have a significant build-up. That night the Faithless concert, as King K repeatedly bellowed, was almost “a religious expeeerience!”. Hell’s teeth. They are that good. Skinny-ass Maxi Jazz, you king. The craziness was epic. Admittedly, I want to be Sister Bliss. Some random chap dancing like a wild tumbleweed in front of us asked me whether I would give him my “real” phone number so he could take me on his 40,000 dirham boat (but later confessed it may have been a jetski). Bless him – clearly used to getting fake numbers. Armin van Buuren, although a little heavy-handed with the trance-button, is one hot DJ. As in, good-looking. Ridiculously. Not hit with the ugly stick. Shame.
Weekend drew to a pleasing close with the Springboks plasteration of England in the rugby. Victory, to quote a well respected Dubai journalist, was “simpler than Paris Hilton, and twice as satisfying as her prison sentence”.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Phuza Thursday
TGIT.
It’s the Weeeeeekend, BABY. It’s times like this that the UAE is ahead of the rest of the world (by a whole day).
Tonight’s Sleaze Party (or ‘Night of Sleeze’ as Korn so endearingly put it in his appropriately tasteless PowerPoint invite) will be a messy one. What it essentially involves is everyone dressing like slags and getting absolutely trousered around his bar. Too early to say whether it will culminate in anyone wrestling in a blow-up pool filled with KY, but if we all get out alive I’ll be shocked. We’ll tell filthy stories and I might throw in the bum-dance.
The theory behind it all is that we’re deprived of smut because of the apparent lack thereof in the UAE. It wasn’t so long ago that the bioscope censors here pounced on smooching scenes in movies, extracting them like they were erupting goiters.
The Fun Bus is simply refusing to stop thereafter. On Friday, Faithless, fun suppliers to people everywhere, will be playing in Dubai. The last time I saw Maxi Jazz and Sister Bliss dropping the pressure like it was illegal, was at V Fest in the UK last year. I was wearing a black bin bag. 100,000 pissed poms in a downpour and I was on the Boxman’s shoulders. My mates The Goons were dancing like praying mantises that had been sprayed with Doom. It was crazy.
Anyway, I’m more excited than an SA health minister in a garlic field at the thought of flicking a hoof with those bad boys on the decks.
It’s the Weeeeeekend, BABY. It’s times like this that the UAE is ahead of the rest of the world (by a whole day).
Tonight’s Sleaze Party (or ‘Night of Sleeze’ as Korn so endearingly put it in his appropriately tasteless PowerPoint invite) will be a messy one. What it essentially involves is everyone dressing like slags and getting absolutely trousered around his bar. Too early to say whether it will culminate in anyone wrestling in a blow-up pool filled with KY, but if we all get out alive I’ll be shocked. We’ll tell filthy stories and I might throw in the bum-dance.
The theory behind it all is that we’re deprived of smut because of the apparent lack thereof in the UAE. It wasn’t so long ago that the bioscope censors here pounced on smooching scenes in movies, extracting them like they were erupting goiters.
The Fun Bus is simply refusing to stop thereafter. On Friday, Faithless, fun suppliers to people everywhere, will be playing in Dubai. The last time I saw Maxi Jazz and Sister Bliss dropping the pressure like it was illegal, was at V Fest in the UK last year. I was wearing a black bin bag. 100,000 pissed poms in a downpour and I was on the Boxman’s shoulders. My mates The Goons were dancing like praying mantises that had been sprayed with Doom. It was crazy.
Anyway, I’m more excited than an SA health minister in a garlic field at the thought of flicking a hoof with those bad boys on the decks.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
VW 1, Heddles 0.
Yesterday things weren’t looking so hot for mine and David’s future relationship.
The 3-year warrantee is about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. Yip, looking back on those crucial pre-purchase visits where I enquired about the full service history of the vehicle, I now distinctively recall the salesman (let’s call him Shabir Shaik for their shared truth-manufacturing abilities) doing the Dubai Head-Wobble [impersonating of one of those annoying ornament dogs accountants or admin personnel have perching on their desks, which if tapped or bumped, will wildly begin bobbing/nodding their heads. When people do this, it usually means they’re lying].
Anyway when Shabir’s head started dipping and bobbling around on his neck, I should have seen the writing on the wall. ‘Yes it has a full service history’ should have translated as ‘you clueless chump, I’m taking you for a ride and this yarn I’ve been spinning you is TEXT-BOOK stuff’. The fact that he could only deliver me the service book weeks after I’d purchased the car … inexcusable schoolgirl error on my part.
On the phone with Shabs yesterday, he assured me that VW’s repairs would be covered by Warrantee and that he was straightening the whole thing out with them over the phone. ER, WRONG. Man alive did I look like a tool when I arrived, indignant, at the workshop, confident in the knowledge that Shabir had sorted it all out for me. Truth is, he did a runner and bolted for Sharjah yesterday.
So I fumbled for the next grand in my wallet (freshly drawn for long-awaited purchase of Faithless concert tickets) and, through the tears (yes, I pushed out a good few salties in front of the service manager, service assistant and new arrival, the head of Customer Services). All my emotional breakdown got me was a 10% discount.
Tears and feelings associated with martyrdom morphed into white-knuckled anger as I sped down Sheikh Zayed, driving like I owned the fast lane, and no BMW with tinted windows and flashing headlights was going to stop me.
Next errand-call was Mall of the Emirates, for Faithless tickets and Sheikh al Snake (dad)’s birthday present. After a Jumeirah Jane behind the wheel of an SUV with her cellphone grafted to her ear almost ripped off the side of David’s face, I finally got a parking after circling ground-floor car park for a solid 20 minutes.
Now here’s the amazing thing. On entering the air-conditioned, marble-floored sanctum of MOE, my tension headache began to diminish. Walking past Mango, D&G, Louis Vitton was like a balm to my anxiety. In fact as bling levels in the window displays increased, so the debilitating effects of my strangulating vile mood lessened incrementally. Like a horse-whisperer, the Mall was calming me, with the same effect as 30 minutes of meditation, or an hour of deep breathing whilst listening to pan pipes.
It wasn’t an illusion. In fact I was in such a good mood by the time I reached the Virgin Megastore that I smiled at the ticket man. And then bought the Madonna Dancefloor Confessions CD.
The 3-year warrantee is about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. Yip, looking back on those crucial pre-purchase visits where I enquired about the full service history of the vehicle, I now distinctively recall the salesman (let’s call him Shabir Shaik for their shared truth-manufacturing abilities) doing the Dubai Head-Wobble [impersonating of one of those annoying ornament dogs accountants or admin personnel have perching on their desks, which if tapped or bumped, will wildly begin bobbing/nodding their heads. When people do this, it usually means they’re lying].
Anyway when Shabir’s head started dipping and bobbling around on his neck, I should have seen the writing on the wall. ‘Yes it has a full service history’ should have translated as ‘you clueless chump, I’m taking you for a ride and this yarn I’ve been spinning you is TEXT-BOOK stuff’. The fact that he could only deliver me the service book weeks after I’d purchased the car … inexcusable schoolgirl error on my part.
On the phone with Shabs yesterday, he assured me that VW’s repairs would be covered by Warrantee and that he was straightening the whole thing out with them over the phone. ER, WRONG. Man alive did I look like a tool when I arrived, indignant, at the workshop, confident in the knowledge that Shabir had sorted it all out for me. Truth is, he did a runner and bolted for Sharjah yesterday.
So I fumbled for the next grand in my wallet (freshly drawn for long-awaited purchase of Faithless concert tickets) and, through the tears (yes, I pushed out a good few salties in front of the service manager, service assistant and new arrival, the head of Customer Services). All my emotional breakdown got me was a 10% discount.
Tears and feelings associated with martyrdom morphed into white-knuckled anger as I sped down Sheikh Zayed, driving like I owned the fast lane, and no BMW with tinted windows and flashing headlights was going to stop me.
Next errand-call was Mall of the Emirates, for Faithless tickets and Sheikh al Snake (dad)’s birthday present. After a Jumeirah Jane behind the wheel of an SUV with her cellphone grafted to her ear almost ripped off the side of David’s face, I finally got a parking after circling ground-floor car park for a solid 20 minutes.
Now here’s the amazing thing. On entering the air-conditioned, marble-floored sanctum of MOE, my tension headache began to diminish. Walking past Mango, D&G, Louis Vitton was like a balm to my anxiety. In fact as bling levels in the window displays increased, so the debilitating effects of my strangulating vile mood lessened incrementally. Like a horse-whisperer, the Mall was calming me, with the same effect as 30 minutes of meditation, or an hour of deep breathing whilst listening to pan pipes.
It wasn’t an illusion. In fact I was in such a good mood by the time I reached the Virgin Megastore that I smiled at the ticket man. And then bought the Madonna Dancefloor Confessions CD.
Kulcha Club
There’s this knock you’re supposed to take on the chin after your first 6 months in Dubai. Expats here talk about it. It’s called Kulcha Shock.
The whole thing is well documented in leading expat literature (of the variety that is humbly minus-the-pith-helmet). Jeremy Williams wrote this handy manual, Don’t They Know It’s Friday: Cross-Cultural Considerations for Business and Life in the Gulf, basically giving practical advice on how to deal with it. A lot of folks hit this psychological wall as they battle to come to terms with living in an alien social matrix with a very different set of codes and understandings than they are used to.
The weird thing is, Dubai is quite like SA in terms of lifestyle. There’s the whole sun, sea and sand vibe (OK, more sand). Supersport and Carte Blanche are on tap: Saffas living here have their satellites hooked up to DSTV via Zambia (oops). Spinneys, the Spar equivalent, is better stocked up with Mrs Balls, boerie, and a myriad of rusk varieties, than Makro. We get on with our lives here as we would at home with almost no interruption: work, gym, beach, and on the weekends, we like to booze-it booze-it.
Same-same, but different. We’re living in a Muslim country, ruled by a Sheikh after all.
I discussed this with Jeanpant. While the majority of your time is a cruise, there can be this uneasy, queasy, inexplicable feeling the other 10% of the time. Which, given the situation here, is hardly surprising. “There are men walking past you in dish dashes and women in abayas everywhere you look fergodsake!”. We’re just not used to it.
Against this back-drop, we become the ‘uncovered’ women. I can’t really say that driving behind a bus bursting at the seams with exploited construction workers is always a comfortable experience.
There’s always the one watcher in the back row, craning his helmeted head for signs of a pair of mammary glands on the roads. With his heat-seeker smut-gaze successfully on lock, his compadres immediately sense it, and within seconds another 27 heads have swiveled. Some get out of their seats and blatantly turn around to face the back. Seriously, uncool.
That said, I’m aware of the risk taken and that in some contexts I may have just sounded like an ignorant, culturally intolerant tosser. Throw me a bone. It happened to me yesterday and so I am still freshly pissed off. Yet it is a reality, that 10% of the time.
My daily interactions with such a diverse spectrum of people is something I wouldn’t swop for anything right now. What is so amazing about Dubai and the UAE is that Arabic culture has fully embraced foreign influences, without losing any of its core beliefs and traditions.
The explosive expansion of the place demands skills and labour from abroad. For the most part, the needs of the imports are not only accommodated, but are of interest to most UAE nationals. Speak to a national and when they hear your accent it’s all about “how do you find Dubai?”
I haven’t hit my official 6-month wobbly yet but if and when it comes, I’m all over it.
The whole thing is well documented in leading expat literature (of the variety that is humbly minus-the-pith-helmet). Jeremy Williams wrote this handy manual, Don’t They Know It’s Friday: Cross-Cultural Considerations for Business and Life in the Gulf, basically giving practical advice on how to deal with it. A lot of folks hit this psychological wall as they battle to come to terms with living in an alien social matrix with a very different set of codes and understandings than they are used to.
The weird thing is, Dubai is quite like SA in terms of lifestyle. There’s the whole sun, sea and sand vibe (OK, more sand). Supersport and Carte Blanche are on tap: Saffas living here have their satellites hooked up to DSTV via Zambia (oops). Spinneys, the Spar equivalent, is better stocked up with Mrs Balls, boerie, and a myriad of rusk varieties, than Makro. We get on with our lives here as we would at home with almost no interruption: work, gym, beach, and on the weekends, we like to booze-it booze-it.
Same-same, but different. We’re living in a Muslim country, ruled by a Sheikh after all.
I discussed this with Jeanpant. While the majority of your time is a cruise, there can be this uneasy, queasy, inexplicable feeling the other 10% of the time. Which, given the situation here, is hardly surprising. “There are men walking past you in dish dashes and women in abayas everywhere you look fergodsake!”. We’re just not used to it.
Against this back-drop, we become the ‘uncovered’ women. I can’t really say that driving behind a bus bursting at the seams with exploited construction workers is always a comfortable experience.
There’s always the one watcher in the back row, craning his helmeted head for signs of a pair of mammary glands on the roads. With his heat-seeker smut-gaze successfully on lock, his compadres immediately sense it, and within seconds another 27 heads have swiveled. Some get out of their seats and blatantly turn around to face the back. Seriously, uncool.
That said, I’m aware of the risk taken and that in some contexts I may have just sounded like an ignorant, culturally intolerant tosser. Throw me a bone. It happened to me yesterday and so I am still freshly pissed off. Yet it is a reality, that 10% of the time.
My daily interactions with such a diverse spectrum of people is something I wouldn’t swop for anything right now. What is so amazing about Dubai and the UAE is that Arabic culture has fully embraced foreign influences, without losing any of its core beliefs and traditions.
The explosive expansion of the place demands skills and labour from abroad. For the most part, the needs of the imports are not only accommodated, but are of interest to most UAE nationals. Speak to a national and when they hear your accent it’s all about “how do you find Dubai?”
I haven’t hit my official 6-month wobbly yet but if and when it comes, I’m all over it.
Monday, May 21, 2007
The allure of public transport
Just took 90 min out of my day to take David to the doctor. It is well known that Admin has always been a preferred pastime of mine (it’s listed as a hobby on my Facebook profile). But car issues in particular have got to rank up there among my top three favourite types.
1. Red Tape / Relocation Admin (sorting out visas / cancelling Barclays accounts via Royal Mail because that is how it’s been done in England since Jack the Ripper)
2. Mate Admin (not pitching up where one should have / not emailing / not calling / not answering calls)
3. Car admin (all types: buying / services / maintenance / changing tyres / filling up).
Putting it mildly, today’s instance of Admin was pretty fantastic as far as admin goes. It ticked all the usual irritancy boxes, and more. I’ll start from the beginning:
Apparently whilst I was frolicking in Oman this weekend - snorkeling, day tripping in a wooden dhow alongside dolphins, making friends with a local tour guide who introduced himself as Malala, but changed it to Mandela when it clicked that we were Saffas (biscuit!) – David’s left-hand passenger window simply slid down of its own accord.
As luck would have it, there was a well-orchestrated mini sand-storm in Dubai. There David sat in our driveway, ingesting gust after gust of sandy wind, while his mother was sunning herself at a poolside resort 3 hours’ drive away.
Upon arriving back home in time for the Sharks game, I tried to patch things up with the little guy. Literally. “I’m sorry I neglected you” [wrestling with a rubbish bin liner and a piece of cardboard to act as a sand block, sweating, vloeking, hating life]. I’m not really good at this kind of maintenance stuff. Far better at breaking things.
Literally seconds after I had ‘fixed’ the window, locked the car (why? – SA habit), the opposite passenger window squeeled. Slid down. Could not be closed by any amount of button-pressing or tantrum-throwing.
Kiff, so, taxi it to and from work yesterday for a small fortune, to avoid leaving car with gaping holes exposed to the sandpit that is the staff car park. Book an appointment at dealership at fittingly inconvenient time – noon - for today.
While David spent the morning parked in the baking desert terrain parking lot, I prayed to Margaret Thatcher that one it wouldn’t occur to any of the worm-riddled street cats inhabiting the place to climb in between the plastic and the cardboard. I can’t really imagine much that would scare the bejesus out of me as effectively as the hiss of a slum-cat as I was accelerating out of there.
Anyway, VW ‘service assistant’ (whatever that is) Mr Robby (in Dubai you automatically get a Mrs or a Mr in front of your first name), flipping through the Warrantee I thrust at him, is not so “100% sure” whether the required operation will be covered because my service history is looking a little patchy.
Funny, considering I bought the car in Feb 2007. Even though I love David, cars aren’t my thing, and I’ll be blown if I picked up that the 15,000 km service wasn’t stamped into his book.
Now here I am waiting for the damage report like some crazed bus lady.
1. Red Tape / Relocation Admin (sorting out visas / cancelling Barclays accounts via Royal Mail because that is how it’s been done in England since Jack the Ripper)
2. Mate Admin (not pitching up where one should have / not emailing / not calling / not answering calls)
3. Car admin (all types: buying / services / maintenance / changing tyres / filling up).
Putting it mildly, today’s instance of Admin was pretty fantastic as far as admin goes. It ticked all the usual irritancy boxes, and more. I’ll start from the beginning:
Apparently whilst I was frolicking in Oman this weekend - snorkeling, day tripping in a wooden dhow alongside dolphins, making friends with a local tour guide who introduced himself as Malala, but changed it to Mandela when it clicked that we were Saffas (biscuit!) – David’s left-hand passenger window simply slid down of its own accord.
As luck would have it, there was a well-orchestrated mini sand-storm in Dubai. There David sat in our driveway, ingesting gust after gust of sandy wind, while his mother was sunning herself at a poolside resort 3 hours’ drive away.
Upon arriving back home in time for the Sharks game, I tried to patch things up with the little guy. Literally. “I’m sorry I neglected you” [wrestling with a rubbish bin liner and a piece of cardboard to act as a sand block, sweating, vloeking, hating life]. I’m not really good at this kind of maintenance stuff. Far better at breaking things.
Literally seconds after I had ‘fixed’ the window, locked the car (why? – SA habit), the opposite passenger window squeeled. Slid down. Could not be closed by any amount of button-pressing or tantrum-throwing.
Kiff, so, taxi it to and from work yesterday for a small fortune, to avoid leaving car with gaping holes exposed to the sandpit that is the staff car park. Book an appointment at dealership at fittingly inconvenient time – noon - for today.
While David spent the morning parked in the baking desert terrain parking lot, I prayed to Margaret Thatcher that one it wouldn’t occur to any of the worm-riddled street cats inhabiting the place to climb in between the plastic and the cardboard. I can’t really imagine much that would scare the bejesus out of me as effectively as the hiss of a slum-cat as I was accelerating out of there.
Anyway, VW ‘service assistant’ (whatever that is) Mr Robby (in Dubai you automatically get a Mrs or a Mr in front of your first name), flipping through the Warrantee I thrust at him, is not so “100% sure” whether the required operation will be covered because my service history is looking a little patchy.
Funny, considering I bought the car in Feb 2007. Even though I love David, cars aren’t my thing, and I’ll be blown if I picked up that the 15,000 km service wasn’t stamped into his book.
Now here I am waiting for the damage report like some crazed bus lady.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
What bugs me
Was it Plato or Socrates who enlightened the world by saying that when it comes to relationships, you’re either the bug or the windscreen?
Anyway, the source of that little nugget of wisdom is irrelevant. For all anyone cares, it may have been a Chappies wrapper. The essence of the principle lies in the knowledge that the last thing that goes through the bug’s mind as it hits the glass, is its own naught.
Like most philosophies, the law applies to anything in life. This Super 14, the Sharks were the bugs. What makes this hard to accept is the fact that in this case, the windscreen was a brandewyn & coke suiping, boep-flashing Steve Hofmeyer enthusiast with a pair of horns protruding from his cap and a ring through his nose. It’s a damn joke.
A concrete illustration of the bug/windscreen concept is available to me on a daily basis. This is in the form of the desperate, mangy pigeon (let’s call him Bruce) that makes a bee-line for my window on the 5th floor from which I can survey Dubai’s bustling city centre. Bruce, poor bugger, was born without a learning curve.
I cringe every afternoon when I hear the thud / see the feathers flying / watch him scramble again and again against the too-narrow windowsill, clawing at the impenetrable surface. It might be a bad avian Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds flashback that’s the cause this behaviour, but it’s painful to watch. In Dubai they hire falconers trained to put birds like this out of their misery. Clearly Bruce slipped through the net and there’s nothing any of us can do to prevent this cycle of self-harm.
Anyway, daily Bruce viewings are almost result in the same kind of raw anguish rendered by sight that was one horned piece of excrement lunging across the try-line in the 79th minute. One day, the Proteas, the Springboks and the Sharks will all harden the hell up and become the windscreens they have the potential to be. Til then I don’t think I can stomach hearing ‘Rooi Rokkie Bokkie’ blaring victoriously from the speakers at King’s Park again.
Speaking of glass, David Banda is giving me shit. No sooner has my 3-month old vehicle been for a service than the rear passenger window refuses to close.
Anyway, the source of that little nugget of wisdom is irrelevant. For all anyone cares, it may have been a Chappies wrapper. The essence of the principle lies in the knowledge that the last thing that goes through the bug’s mind as it hits the glass, is its own naught.
Like most philosophies, the law applies to anything in life. This Super 14, the Sharks were the bugs. What makes this hard to accept is the fact that in this case, the windscreen was a brandewyn & coke suiping, boep-flashing Steve Hofmeyer enthusiast with a pair of horns protruding from his cap and a ring through his nose. It’s a damn joke.
A concrete illustration of the bug/windscreen concept is available to me on a daily basis. This is in the form of the desperate, mangy pigeon (let’s call him Bruce) that makes a bee-line for my window on the 5th floor from which I can survey Dubai’s bustling city centre. Bruce, poor bugger, was born without a learning curve.
I cringe every afternoon when I hear the thud / see the feathers flying / watch him scramble again and again against the too-narrow windowsill, clawing at the impenetrable surface. It might be a bad avian Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds flashback that’s the cause this behaviour, but it’s painful to watch. In Dubai they hire falconers trained to put birds like this out of their misery. Clearly Bruce slipped through the net and there’s nothing any of us can do to prevent this cycle of self-harm.
Anyway, daily Bruce viewings are almost result in the same kind of raw anguish rendered by sight that was one horned piece of excrement lunging across the try-line in the 79th minute. One day, the Proteas, the Springboks and the Sharks will all harden the hell up and become the windscreens they have the potential to be. Til then I don’t think I can stomach hearing ‘Rooi Rokkie Bokkie’ blaring victoriously from the speakers at King’s Park again.
Speaking of glass, David Banda is giving me shit. No sooner has my 3-month old vehicle been for a service than the rear passenger window refuses to close.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Keeping up foreign relations
I have landed myself a platonic A-rab sugar daddy.
Bear with me through the details. To cut a long, tedious story short, 2 months back I found myself having to do what I hate most in life – Admin – albeit for one of my best mates, Peggy Bundy.
The deal with Green Mambas (SA passports - useful only for jamming under a table leg to stop it wobbling) is that visitors to Dubai require the sponsorship of a resident. I soon discovered that my ability to sponsor Pegs (due to arrive on an under-cover work-seeking ‘visit’ and inhabit our long empty kennel in our back yard) was not doable as I am classified as a dependent on my biological Daddio’s resident’s visa.
Anyway, in stepped a knight in shining dish-dash. Let’s call him The Dish. I made a desperate call to the Immigration Office, and instead of issuing advice/instruction, he said he’d come and me on my work premises (warning bell?). Lengthy banter and a wink (unprompted by any hair-flicking, eye-lash fluttering or tears from my side) ensued. Before I could say “Sweet Kebab”, I was being introduced to a former colleague of Dishdash’s, Lieutenant Special K. In full army regalia.
I was frog-marched to the front of the queue at Immigration where the average length of a wait is equivalent to SA Home Affairs. In two shakes of a camel’s tail, I was being handed a double mocha choccachino and a glass of Evian followed by stamped Visit Visa. Double-take: Peggy’s new sponsor is one times A-rab trading company. Ghalas [done and dusted, paid for by Dish].
Apparently it is an embarrassing Western reaction to refuse a gift, or to bubble over with effusive thank-you’s. Both of which I did of course. My dear old mother’s eyes nearly bungeed out of their sockets. Visas ain’t cheap. Who were we to this guy anyway?
We have subsequently met the Dish for coffee and presented him with a coffee-table book of SA trivia to prepare him for his visit to Viva World Cup 2010. He wants to give us a tour of the desert and organize us a free pass into the Burj al Arab hotel to check out the marble work.
I have also in the interim received countless phone calls at ungodly hours from Special K. (Dodgy?) Now, feeling kind of guilty at the thought of using these guys for admin purposes, I had to pay a friendly visit to the guy. The two were comparing notes and K felt dissed.
A few weeks after the Dish / Special K Act of Magnanimity, I popped down for a mandatory cup of tea and a catch-up and the next thing I knew, a banquet was foisted upon me. Traditional pastries, tea and coffee – unfortunately, no shisha. Accompanying the snacks was unbridled flattery. “Oh my Cinderella, why do you never visit?” Blonde hair is the best asset a gal can have in this place.
Yesterday I had to suck it up and return to Immigration (with Peggy in tow) to renew her expiring visa. K launches into an account of our first meeting with Peggy: “My gaaaaad, the first time I saw your friend I thought, she must be cabin crew. I’m getting sick of her, visiting me three times a day, bothering me at my house, security is beginning to become an issue” / “I’m going to Hong Kong next week, what can I get you Cinderella?” He sped us to the Arabic typing office to get our extension form filled out (usually a ball-ache – but he made a call to a friend beforehand), and got us a discount.
The amazing thing about the whole scenario – and Pegs and my mother can confirm – is that not once did this all feel sleazy. In all seriousness. They are genuinely cool human beings with wives and kids and they are dying to know what us expats think of Dubai. K is cool with gooi-ing me a fast-track visa every once in a while. And that translates into me being cool with having the occasional cuppa and a bulldust with the man.
Bear with me through the details. To cut a long, tedious story short, 2 months back I found myself having to do what I hate most in life – Admin – albeit for one of my best mates, Peggy Bundy.
The deal with Green Mambas (SA passports - useful only for jamming under a table leg to stop it wobbling) is that visitors to Dubai require the sponsorship of a resident. I soon discovered that my ability to sponsor Pegs (due to arrive on an under-cover work-seeking ‘visit’ and inhabit our long empty kennel in our back yard) was not doable as I am classified as a dependent on my biological Daddio’s resident’s visa.
Anyway, in stepped a knight in shining dish-dash. Let’s call him The Dish. I made a desperate call to the Immigration Office, and instead of issuing advice/instruction, he said he’d come and me on my work premises (warning bell?). Lengthy banter and a wink (unprompted by any hair-flicking, eye-lash fluttering or tears from my side) ensued. Before I could say “Sweet Kebab”, I was being introduced to a former colleague of Dishdash’s, Lieutenant Special K. In full army regalia.
I was frog-marched to the front of the queue at Immigration where the average length of a wait is equivalent to SA Home Affairs. In two shakes of a camel’s tail, I was being handed a double mocha choccachino and a glass of Evian followed by stamped Visit Visa. Double-take: Peggy’s new sponsor is one times A-rab trading company. Ghalas [done and dusted, paid for by Dish].
Apparently it is an embarrassing Western reaction to refuse a gift, or to bubble over with effusive thank-you’s. Both of which I did of course. My dear old mother’s eyes nearly bungeed out of their sockets. Visas ain’t cheap. Who were we to this guy anyway?
We have subsequently met the Dish for coffee and presented him with a coffee-table book of SA trivia to prepare him for his visit to Viva World Cup 2010. He wants to give us a tour of the desert and organize us a free pass into the Burj al Arab hotel to check out the marble work.
I have also in the interim received countless phone calls at ungodly hours from Special K. (Dodgy?) Now, feeling kind of guilty at the thought of using these guys for admin purposes, I had to pay a friendly visit to the guy. The two were comparing notes and K felt dissed.
A few weeks after the Dish / Special K Act of Magnanimity, I popped down for a mandatory cup of tea and a catch-up and the next thing I knew, a banquet was foisted upon me. Traditional pastries, tea and coffee – unfortunately, no shisha. Accompanying the snacks was unbridled flattery. “Oh my Cinderella, why do you never visit?” Blonde hair is the best asset a gal can have in this place.
Yesterday I had to suck it up and return to Immigration (with Peggy in tow) to renew her expiring visa. K launches into an account of our first meeting with Peggy: “My gaaaaad, the first time I saw your friend I thought, she must be cabin crew. I’m getting sick of her, visiting me three times a day, bothering me at my house, security is beginning to become an issue” / “I’m going to Hong Kong next week, what can I get you Cinderella?” He sped us to the Arabic typing office to get our extension form filled out (usually a ball-ache – but he made a call to a friend beforehand), and got us a discount.
The amazing thing about the whole scenario – and Pegs and my mother can confirm – is that not once did this all feel sleazy. In all seriousness. They are genuinely cool human beings with wives and kids and they are dying to know what us expats think of Dubai. K is cool with gooi-ing me a fast-track visa every once in a while. And that translates into me being cool with having the occasional cuppa and a bulldust with the man.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The sweet reek of Europe
Last month my employers decreed that I had to work in close quarters with two Poles. From Poland.
Put simply, they HONE. Not only do they HONE, but they boggy me (to boggy – verb: act like a bogfly, hovering close by, clinging like a dingleberry to a grizzly-bear’s arse) to within an inch of my tolerance for the stench.
Unprepared for the Dubai climate, and certainly not friends of the Laundromat, these two special gecko-like things were each prone to whipping on the same collared work shirt and waistcoat 5 days a week.
These men, whose identities I will protect (although their roll-on didn’t), technically fall under my jurisdiction. This means their every move depends on what I tell them to do (in a strictly professional sense).
• I caan’t mek this wurrrk. Vy? [I have no idea. Why don’t you buy yourself some LifeBoy?]
• Please. Ve are hevink theez prrroblims. Vy? [Have a shower with some Jik and a power-hose and I will get back to you].
There is nothing like the stench of a ripe armpit accompanying an inane query.
Their emails are the best. Now that they are thankfully back in Poland (Bydgoszscz to be exact, where, hopefully, they will stay), the correspondence continues. I am grateful that email only engages the sense of sight. And what a sight it is:
• I don’t understand this. Please make it work.
Call me intolerant. Then try have one of them lean over you and highlight a coding error on your PC while their sodden armpit touches your shoulder.
Put simply, they HONE. Not only do they HONE, but they boggy me (to boggy – verb: act like a bogfly, hovering close by, clinging like a dingleberry to a grizzly-bear’s arse) to within an inch of my tolerance for the stench.
Unprepared for the Dubai climate, and certainly not friends of the Laundromat, these two special gecko-like things were each prone to whipping on the same collared work shirt and waistcoat 5 days a week.
These men, whose identities I will protect (although their roll-on didn’t), technically fall under my jurisdiction. This means their every move depends on what I tell them to do (in a strictly professional sense).
• I caan’t mek this wurrrk. Vy? [I have no idea. Why don’t you buy yourself some LifeBoy?]
• Please. Ve are hevink theez prrroblims. Vy? [Have a shower with some Jik and a power-hose and I will get back to you].
There is nothing like the stench of a ripe armpit accompanying an inane query.
Their emails are the best. Now that they are thankfully back in Poland (Bydgoszscz to be exact, where, hopefully, they will stay), the correspondence continues. I am grateful that email only engages the sense of sight. And what a sight it is:
• I don’t understand this. Please make it work.
Call me intolerant. Then try have one of them lean over you and highlight a coding error on your PC while their sodden armpit touches your shoulder.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Souped up
So I have blinged up this blog and it is screaming SO 2007 in the Middle East right now.
What next? I may even fling some links into this formerly desolate right-hand margin. Yes, you like a bit of that ... Firstly, H in Dubizzle. King K. Just for shits and giggles. It's like the old saying: If you can read about the embarrassing bum-dance move you pulled in a club full of sweating Lebanese businessmen, you should share it with others. Hell it's Christmas here already.
And now for the CD hanging from my rear-view: Twisted Koekie ... because it will save your inbox an immense amount of spam if you just cut out the middle man and click here.
Someone stop me before this funbus starts to look like a Johnny's Rotti delivery vehicle in Durbs.
What next? I may even fling some links into this formerly desolate right-hand margin. Yes, you like a bit of that ... Firstly, H in Dubizzle. King K. Just for shits and giggles. It's like the old saying: If you can read about the embarrassing bum-dance move you pulled in a club full of sweating Lebanese businessmen, you should share it with others. Hell it's Christmas here already.
And now for the CD hanging from my rear-view: Twisted Koekie ... because it will save your inbox an immense amount of spam if you just cut out the middle man and click here.
Someone stop me before this funbus starts to look like a Johnny's Rotti delivery vehicle in Durbs.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Refueling
After becoming the modest recipient of the Dubai Lonely Planet Tour Guide - May 2007, all hostessed-out, throat sore from days of shisha-abuse, suburnt from trips up Dubai creek and the spice souk, what do you do to cool the jets?
Recovery itinerary
Firstly, DENY invites to Jebel Ali cheap booze club, and watch The Departed (“Enjoy your clams, caak-suckers”) instead. To round off the evening on a low note, watch a bland Diane Lane movie right through to the end so you can rest assured that the desperate woman actually quits whining when she bags herself a boat-builder. You may or may not partake of the Instant Winners (elation, euphoria) the implied viewer experiences when she springs from a moving rowing vessel into the river to reach the lucky bastard.
When it is 46 degrees outside and you could cook a well-done rump steak on your bonnet, watch more movies. Blades of Glory … it’s far too much to handle. There is nothing quite like a sex addict in Garth Brookes gear lunging across the ice. I almost had a seizure.
Have a Pink Pong mocktail (pienk leechee juice) instead of wine with your supper, and plan your next insanely large night with your mates. This will make you all feel more at ease for not having BOOZED like potato farmers on St Paddy’s Day this weekend.
Then have an obscenely fabulous Saturday in a delirium of plastic-swiping as you rack up a whopping 12 or so new outfits. Take someone who encourages you, egging you on as you rip another dress from the rails, drunk on Top Shop, tripping on River Island. Like spaniels in duck season, you should quiver with excitement as you justify each purchase to each other. You’ve done well if you feel as though you should be charged some sort of excess baggage tariff as you walk out of that mall.
Here I am going to add the mandatory SJP point for ponderation: Is shopping the new tequila?
Conclude the weekend by making your parents/digsmates a welcome home supper for their return from a week in paradise/Sri Lanka. Don’t be alarmed when your phone rings and its them, only they’re not back in Dubai, they’ve been diverted by Sri Lankan Airlines to KUWAIT instead.
Recovery itinerary
Firstly, DENY invites to Jebel Ali cheap booze club, and watch The Departed (“Enjoy your clams, caak-suckers”) instead. To round off the evening on a low note, watch a bland Diane Lane movie right through to the end so you can rest assured that the desperate woman actually quits whining when she bags herself a boat-builder. You may or may not partake of the Instant Winners (elation, euphoria) the implied viewer experiences when she springs from a moving rowing vessel into the river to reach the lucky bastard.
When it is 46 degrees outside and you could cook a well-done rump steak on your bonnet, watch more movies. Blades of Glory … it’s far too much to handle. There is nothing quite like a sex addict in Garth Brookes gear lunging across the ice. I almost had a seizure.
Have a Pink Pong mocktail (pienk leechee juice) instead of wine with your supper, and plan your next insanely large night with your mates. This will make you all feel more at ease for not having BOOZED like potato farmers on St Paddy’s Day this weekend.
Then have an obscenely fabulous Saturday in a delirium of plastic-swiping as you rack up a whopping 12 or so new outfits. Take someone who encourages you, egging you on as you rip another dress from the rails, drunk on Top Shop, tripping on River Island. Like spaniels in duck season, you should quiver with excitement as you justify each purchase to each other. You’ve done well if you feel as though you should be charged some sort of excess baggage tariff as you walk out of that mall.
Here I am going to add the mandatory SJP point for ponderation: Is shopping the new tequila?
Conclude the weekend by making your parents/digsmates a welcome home supper for their return from a week in paradise/Sri Lanka. Don’t be alarmed when your phone rings and its them, only they’re not back in Dubai, they’ve been diverted by Sri Lankan Airlines to KUWAIT instead.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
The Hello! Effect
I’ve named my car after Madonna’s Malawian adoptee. My sporty, sexy little black number is called David Banda.
At around the same time that Mr and Mrs Richie got their mitts on their latest African novelty, I adjusted my aircon to full-throttle and ironically, with ‘Hung Up’ as my soundtrack, glided onto Sheikh Zayed highway for the first time.
There is a disturbing undercurrent to the flippant naming of my child after The Queen of the World’s new bundle of joy. While fortunately I wouldn’t go as far as wearing leotards and beige tights to a night-club, the fact that I bought in to the tons of coverage that were fork-lifted onto the front pages of the tabloids masquerading as newspapers frankly appalls me.
‘News’ of this caliber is delivered with unashamedly alongside war headlines and we lap it up like chavs at a trough of free snakebite mix. Hugh Grant lobbing a tub of baked beans at a photographer? Heaven. Richard Gere’s shameful lunge at Shilpa Chetty? The stuff of dreams fergodsake!
Tell me there is a dividing line between the average mild (to growing) interest in the Brangelina-beast and the maniacal hoards foaming at the mouth, frantically feuding on eBay over the last strand of Britney’s hair?
Today’s news: Paris begs Arnie for a pardon on her prison sentence. Hundreds of thousands of demented fans have started up a ‘Free Paris’ petition because she ‘brings beauty and excitement’ to ‘most of [their] mundane lives’. They actually say that. Someone harpoon them all and put them out of their grief!
Closer to home, there are certain people - mates even - whom I have been known to mock (OK … abuse) for their tendencies to ‘name drop’ and casually flick a celebrity on first name basis into random, otherwise unrelated conversation. This … tendency … can after all only become a natural reflex when untold portions of monthly salaries have been spent on Heat, OK!, and You (if sold out, Huisgenoot will do as a last resort because of all the pictures).
Here I should apologise, and admit I am prey to the same wretched obsession with CELEBDOM.
Yet to you I say: “How about …“NO”.
To those people: I won’t back down. You’ll still be mocked ‘til the damn cows come home.
At around the same time that Mr and Mrs Richie got their mitts on their latest African novelty, I adjusted my aircon to full-throttle and ironically, with ‘Hung Up’ as my soundtrack, glided onto Sheikh Zayed highway for the first time.
There is a disturbing undercurrent to the flippant naming of my child after The Queen of the World’s new bundle of joy. While fortunately I wouldn’t go as far as wearing leotards and beige tights to a night-club, the fact that I bought in to the tons of coverage that were fork-lifted onto the front pages of the tabloids masquerading as newspapers frankly appalls me.
‘News’ of this caliber is delivered with unashamedly alongside war headlines and we lap it up like chavs at a trough of free snakebite mix. Hugh Grant lobbing a tub of baked beans at a photographer? Heaven. Richard Gere’s shameful lunge at Shilpa Chetty? The stuff of dreams fergodsake!
Tell me there is a dividing line between the average mild (to growing) interest in the Brangelina-beast and the maniacal hoards foaming at the mouth, frantically feuding on eBay over the last strand of Britney’s hair?
Today’s news: Paris begs Arnie for a pardon on her prison sentence. Hundreds of thousands of demented fans have started up a ‘Free Paris’ petition because she ‘brings beauty and excitement’ to ‘most of [their] mundane lives’. They actually say that. Someone harpoon them all and put them out of their grief!
Closer to home, there are certain people - mates even - whom I have been known to mock (OK … abuse) for their tendencies to ‘name drop’ and casually flick a celebrity on first name basis into random, otherwise unrelated conversation. This … tendency … can after all only become a natural reflex when untold portions of monthly salaries have been spent on Heat, OK!, and You (if sold out, Huisgenoot will do as a last resort because of all the pictures).
Here I should apologise, and admit I am prey to the same wretched obsession with CELEBDOM.
Yet to you I say: “How about …“NO”.
To those people: I won’t back down. You’ll still be mocked ‘til the damn cows come home.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Voetsek!
From my warped grey vantage point in the land of perpetual drizzle and obnoxious pubescent gang members, Dubai shone like a beacon of bling and opportunity.
I had realized that the cloud hovering over Mud Island (the semi-affectionate term used by South Africans living and working in the UK) was not purely a meteorological phenomenon. It had in fact begun to envelop my brain. Mediocrity had grown tentacles and wrapped them around my now pasty ankles.
Two years ago I headed off to London to pursue my dreams of travel and career. The reality of things was that the funding required for the aspired life of a rock star, flitting to Europe on frequent mini-breaks, was sadly absent. I began to grow irrationally resentful of all those aspects of London life you hear South Africans living there muttering about: delays on public transport; those Vitamin D-thieving overcast skies; the cost of living; the unacceptably high rate of obesity among pigeon community.
Thankfully a wafer-thin sliver of optimism, unlike my dented bank account, had survived, unscathed. Amidst my growing disgust at my existence as an underpaid legal alien, the memory of those few trips began to itch like a mosquito bite on a humid Durban night. The Middle East, to my mind, London’s polar opposite, seemed the Only Option.
At this point it had not occurred to me to go straight back home to Joburg. I admit that at face value I’m a statistic. A drop in the ocean of the million white South Africans who have left the country in the past ten years.
Like those wildebeests on a Sunday night David Attenborough special, more and more of us uproot and head for the hills. There are an astounding number of us living and breeding in Wimbledon, South West London, alone: a staggering 45,000. However, like those migratory herds of snorting mammals arriving at a new stamping ground, a significant number of us find that the grass is often not as green as we expected it to be.
Now, as tempting as it is, I will not turn this into a rant about how overrated that UK grass in particular is. The point is that my instinct tells me that even the lawns of Honolulu would have their share of divots and mole-hills and could do with some weed killer.
Living abroad and experiencing different cultures is a mind-broadening, exciting opportunity. Being able to engage in life overseas is indeed a privilege. Doors are opened and people change, emerging, hopefully, more rounded and enlightened people on the other end.
The single most important thing of which I have become aware, is this incredible new appreciation for the place I came from. Home. South Africa. There is nowhere quite like it. And for all its problems, it’s still where I am headed one of these days.
‘Til then, Dubai is my stop-over and it is going to be one hell of a ride.
I had realized that the cloud hovering over Mud Island (the semi-affectionate term used by South Africans living and working in the UK) was not purely a meteorological phenomenon. It had in fact begun to envelop my brain. Mediocrity had grown tentacles and wrapped them around my now pasty ankles.
Two years ago I headed off to London to pursue my dreams of travel and career. The reality of things was that the funding required for the aspired life of a rock star, flitting to Europe on frequent mini-breaks, was sadly absent. I began to grow irrationally resentful of all those aspects of London life you hear South Africans living there muttering about: delays on public transport; those Vitamin D-thieving overcast skies; the cost of living; the unacceptably high rate of obesity among pigeon community.
Thankfully a wafer-thin sliver of optimism, unlike my dented bank account, had survived, unscathed. Amidst my growing disgust at my existence as an underpaid legal alien, the memory of those few trips began to itch like a mosquito bite on a humid Durban night. The Middle East, to my mind, London’s polar opposite, seemed the Only Option.
At this point it had not occurred to me to go straight back home to Joburg. I admit that at face value I’m a statistic. A drop in the ocean of the million white South Africans who have left the country in the past ten years.
Like those wildebeests on a Sunday night David Attenborough special, more and more of us uproot and head for the hills. There are an astounding number of us living and breeding in Wimbledon, South West London, alone: a staggering 45,000. However, like those migratory herds of snorting mammals arriving at a new stamping ground, a significant number of us find that the grass is often not as green as we expected it to be.
Now, as tempting as it is, I will not turn this into a rant about how overrated that UK grass in particular is. The point is that my instinct tells me that even the lawns of Honolulu would have their share of divots and mole-hills and could do with some weed killer.
Living abroad and experiencing different cultures is a mind-broadening, exciting opportunity. Being able to engage in life overseas is indeed a privilege. Doors are opened and people change, emerging, hopefully, more rounded and enlightened people on the other end.
The single most important thing of which I have become aware, is this incredible new appreciation for the place I came from. Home. South Africa. There is nowhere quite like it. And for all its problems, it’s still where I am headed one of these days.
‘Til then, Dubai is my stop-over and it is going to be one hell of a ride.
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